O the wings o' the rook wer a-glitteren bright,
As he wheel'd on above, in the zun's evenen light,
An' noo snow wer a-left, but in patches o' white,
On the hill at the turn o' the days.
An' along on the slope wer the beaere-timber'd copse,
Wi' the dry wood a-sheaeken, wi' red-twigged tops.
Vor the dry-flowen wind, had a-blow'd off the drops
O' the rain, at the turn o' the days.
There the stream did run on, in the sheaede o' the hill,
So smooth in his flowen, as if he stood still,
An' bright wi' the skylight, did slide to the mill,
By the meaeds, at the turn o' the days.
An' up by the copse, down along the hill brow,
Wer vurrows a-cut down, by men out at plough,
So straight as the zunbeams, a-shot drough the bough
O' the tree at the turn o' the days.
Then the boomen wold clock in the tower did mark
His vive hours, avore the cool evenen wer dark,
An' ivy did glitter a-clung round the bark
O' the tree, at the turn o' the days.
An' women a-fraid o' the road in the night,
Wer a-heaestenen on to reach hwome by the light,
A-casten long sheaedes on the road, a-dried white,
Down the hill, at the turn o' the days.
The father an' mother did walk out to view
The moss-bedded snow-drop, a-sprung in the lew,
An' hear if the birds wer a-zingen anew,
In the boughs, at the turn o' the days.
An' young vo'k a-laughen wi' smooth glossy feaece,
Did hie over vields, wi' a light-vooted peaece,
To friends where the tow'r did betoken a pleaece
Among trees, at the turn o' the days.