Well, aye, last evenen, as I shook
My locks ov hay by Leecombe brook.
The yollow zun did weakly glance
Upon the winter meaed askance,
A-casten out my narrow sheaede
Athirt the brook, an' on the meaed.
The while ageaen my lwonesome ears
Did russle weatherbeaeten spears,
Below the withy's leafless head
That overhung the river's bed;
I there did think o' days that dried
The new-mow'd grass o' zummer-tide,
When white-sleev'd mowers' whetted bleaedes
Rung sh'ill along the green-bough'd gleaedes,
An' maidens gay, wi' playsome chaps,
A-zot wi' dinners in their laps,
Did talk wi' merry words that rung
Around the ring, vrom tongue to tongue;
An' welcome, when the leaves ha' died,
Be zummer thoughts in winter-tide.