Well! thanks to you, my faithful Jeaene,
So worksome wi' your head an' hand,
We seaeved enough to get ageaen
My poor vorefather's plot o' land.
'Twer folly lost, an' cunnen got,
What should ha' come to me by lot.
But let that goo; 'tis well the land
Is come to hand, by be'th or not.
An' there the brook, a-winden round
The parrick zide, do run below
The grey-stwon'd bridge wi' gurglen sound,
A-sheaeded by the arches' bow;
Where former days the wold brown meaere,
Wi' father on her back, did wear
Wi' heavy shoes the grav'ly leaene,
An' sheaeke her meaene o' yollor heaeir.
An' many zummers there ha' glow'd,
To shrink the brook in bubblen shoals,
An' warm the doust upon the road,
Below the trav'ller's burnen zoles.
An' zome ha' zent us to our bed
In grief, an' zome in jay ha' vled;
But vew ha' come wi' happier light
Than what's now bright, above our head.
The brook did peaert, zome years agoo,
Our Grenley meaeds vrom Knapton's Ridge
But now you know, between the two,
A-road's a-meaede by Grenley Bridge.
Zoo why should we shrink back at zight
Ov hindrances we ought to slight?
A hearty will, wi' God our friend,
Will gain its end, if 'tis but right.