OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Hwomestead a-vell into Hand

THE HWOMESTEAD A-VELL INTO HAND.
The house where I wer born an’ bred,  Did own his woaken door, John, When vu’st he shelter’d father’s head,
 An’ gramfer’s long avore, John. An’ many a ramblèn happy chile,  An’ chap so strong an’ bwold, An’ bloomèn maïd wi’ plaÿsome smile,  Did call their hwome o’ wold  Thik ruf so warm,  A kept vrom harm By elem trees that broke the storm.
An’ in the orcha’d out behind,  The apple-trees in row, John, Did swaÿ wi’ moss about their rind  Their heads a-noddèn low, John. An’ there, bezide zome groun’ vor corn,  Two strips did skirt the road; In woone the cow did toss her horn,  While tother wer a-mow’d,  In June, below  The lofty row Ov trees that in the hedge did grow.
A-workèn in our little patch  O’ parrock, rathe or leäte, John, We little ho’d how vur mid stratch  The squier’s wide esteäte, John. Our hearts, so honest an’ so true,  Had little vor to fear; Vor we could paÿ up all their due,  An’ gi’e a friend good cheer  At hwome, below  The lofty row O’ trees a-swaÿèn to an’ fro.
​An’ there in het, an’ there in wet,  We tweil’d wi’ busy hands, John; Vor ev’ry stroke o’ work we het,  Did better our own lands, John. But after me, ov all my kin,  Not woone can hold em on; Vor we can’t get a life put in  Vor mine, when I’m a-gone  Vrom thik wold brown  Thatch ruf, a-boun’ By elem trees a-growèn roun’.
Ov eight good hwomes, where, I can mind  Vo’k liv’d upon their land, John, But dree be now a-left behind;  The rest ha’ vell in hand, John, An’ all the happy souls they ved  Be scatter’d vur an’ wide. An’ zome o’m be a-wantèn bread,  Zome, better off, ha’ died,  Noo mwore to ho,  Vor homes below The trees a-swaÿen to an’ fro.
An’ I could leäd ye now all round  The parish, if I would, John, An’ show ye still the very ground  Where vive good housen stood, John, In broken orcha’ds near the spot,  A vew wold trees do stand; But dew do vall where vo’k woonce zot  About the burnèn brand  In housen warm,  A-kept vrom harm By elems that did break the storm.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Lew o’ the Rick

THE LEW O’ THE RICK.
At eventide the wind wer loud  By trees an’ tuns above woone’s head, An’ all the sky wer woone dark cloud,  Vor all it had noo raïn to shed; An’ as the darkness gather’d thick, I zot me down below a rick, Where straws upon the win’ did ride Wi’ giddy flights, along my zide, Though unmolestèn me a-restèn,  Where I laÿ ’ithin the lew.
My wife’s bright vier indoors did cast  Its fleäme upon the window peänes That screen’d her teäble, while the blast  Vied on in music down the leänes; An’ as I zot in vaïceless thought Ov other zummer-tides, that brought The sheenèn grass below the lark, Or left their ricks a-wearèn dark, My childern voun’ me, an’ come roun’ me,  Where I laÿ ’ithin the lew.
The rick that then did keep me lew  Would be a-gone another Fall, An’ I, in zome years, in a vew,  Mid leäve the childern, big or small; ​But He that meäde the wind, an’ meäde The lewth, an’ zent wi’ het the sheäde, Can keep my childern, all alwone O’ under me, an’ though vull grown Or little lispers, wi’ their whispers,  There a-lyèn in the lew.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Lilac

THE LILAC.
Dear lilac-tree, a-spreadèn wide Thy purple blooth on ev’ry zide, As if the hollow sky did shed Its blue upon thy flow’ry head; Oh! whether I mid sheäre wi’ thee Thy open aïr, my bloomèn tree, Or zee thy blossoms vrom the gloom, ’Ithin my zunless workèn-room, My heart do leäp, but leäp wi’ sighs, At zight o’ thee avore my eyes, For when thy grey-blue head do swaÿ In cloudless light, ’tis Spring, ’tis Maÿ.
’Tis Spring, ’tis Maÿ, as Maÿ woonce shed His glowèn light above thy head— When thy green boughs, wi’ bloomy tips, Did sheäde my childern’s laughèn lips; A-screenèn vrom the noonday gleäre Their rwosy cheäks an’ glossy heäir; ​The while their mother’s needle sped, Too quick vor zight, the snow-white thread, Unless her han’, wi’ lovèn ceäre, Did smooth their little heads o’ heäir;
Or wi’ a sheäke, tie up anew Vor zome wild voot, a slippèn shoe; An’ I did leän bezide thy mound Ageän the deäsy-dappled ground, The while the weaken clock did tick My hour o’ rest away too quick. An’ call me off to work anew, Wi’ slowly-ringèn strokes, woone, two.
Zoo let me zee noo darksome cloud Bedim to-day thy flow’ry sh’oud, But let en bloom on ev’ry spraÿ, Drough all the days o’ zunny Maÿ.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Linden on the Lawn

THE LINDEN ON THE LAWN.
No! Jenny, there’s noo pleäce to charm My mind lik’ yours at Woakland farm, A-peärted vrom the busy town, By longsome miles ov aïry down, Where woonce the meshy wall did gird Your flow’ry geärden, an’ the bird ​Did zing in zummer wind that stirr’d The spreädèn linden on the lawn.
An’ now ov all the trees wi’ sheädes A-wheelèn round in Blackmwore gleädes, There’s noo tall poplar by the brook, Nor elem that do rock the rook, Nor ash upon the shelvèn ledge, Nor low-bough’d woak bezide the hedge, Nor withy up above the zedge, So dear’s thik linden on the lawn.
Vor there, o’ zummer nights, below The wall, we zot when aïr did blow, An’ sheäke the dewy rwose a-tied Up roun’ the window’s stwonèn zide. An’ while the carter rod’ along A-zingèn, down the dusky drong, There you did zing a sweeter zong Below the linden on the lawn.
An’ while your warbled ditty wound Drough plaÿsome flights o’ mellow sound, The nightèngeäle’s sh’ill zong, that broke The stillness ov the dewy woak, Rung clear along the grove, an’ smote To sudden stillness ev’ry droat; As we did zit, an’ hear it float Below the linden on the lawn.
Where dusky light did softly vall ’Ithin the stwonèn-window’d hall, Avore your father’s blinkèn eyes, His evenèn whiff o’ smoke did rise, ​An’ vrom the bedroom window’s height Your little John, a-cloth’d in white, An’ gwaïn to bed, did cry “good night” Towards the linden on the lawn.
But now, as Dobbin, wi’ a nod Vor ev’ry heavy step he trod, Did bring me on, to-night, avore The geäbled house’s pworchèd door, Noo laughèn child a-cloth’d in white, Look’d drough the stwonèn window’s light, An’ noo vaïce zung, in dusky night, Below the linden on the lawn.
An’ zoo, if you should ever vind My kindness seem to grow less kind, An’ if upon my clouded feäce My smile should yield a frown its pleäce, Then, Jenny, only laugh an’ call My mind ’ithin the geärden wall, Where we did plaÿ at even-fall, Below the linden on the lawn.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Humstrum

THE HUMSTRUM.
Why woonce, at Chris’mas-tide, avore The wold year wer a-reckon’d out, The humstrums here did come about, A-soundèn up at ev’ry door. But now a bow do never screäpe  A humstrum, any where all round, An’ zome can’t tell a humstrum’s sheäpe,  An’ never heärd his jinglèn sound. As ing-an-ing did ring the string, As ang-an-ang the wires did clang.
The strings a-tighten’d lik’ to crack Athirt the canister’s tin zide, Did reach, a glitt’rèn, zide by zide, Above the humstrum’s hollow back. An’ there the bwoy, wi’ bended stick,  A-strung wi’ heäir, to meäke a bow, Did dreve his elbow, light’nèn quick,  Athirt the strings from high to low. As ing-an-ing did ring the string, As ang-an-ang the wires did clang.
The mother there did stan’ an’ hush Her child, to hear the jinglèn sound, The merry maïd, a-scrubbèn round Her white-steäv’d païl, did stop her brush. The mis’ess there, vor wold time’s seäke,  Had gifts to gi’e, and smiles to show, An’ meäster, too, did stan’ an’ sheäke  His two broad zides, a-chucklèn low, While ing-an-ing did ring the string, While ang-an-ang the wires did clang.
​The players’ pockets wer a-strout, Wi’ wold brown pence, a-rottlèn in, Their zwangèn bags did soon begin, Wi’ brocks an’ scraps, to plim well out. The childern all did run an’ poke  Their heads vrom hatch or door, an’ shout A-runnèn back to wolder vo’k.  Why, here! the humstrums be about! As ing-an-ing did ring the string, As ang-an-ang the wires did clang.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Lark

THE LARK.
As I, below the mornèn sky,  Wer out a workèn in the lew O’ black-stemm’d thorns, a-springèn high,  Avore the worold-boundèn blue, A-reäkèn, under woak tree boughs, The orts a-left behin’ by cows.
Above the grey-grow’d thistle rings,  An’ deäisy-buds, the lark, in flight, Did zing a-loft, wi’ flappèn wings,  Tho’ mwore in heärèn than in zight; The while my bwoys, in plaÿvul me’th. Did run till they wer out o’ breath.
Then woone, wi’ han’-besheäded eyes,  A-stoppèn still, as he did run, Look’d up to zee the lark arise  A-zingèn to the high-gone zun; The while his brother look’d below Vor what the groun’ mid have to show.
Zoo woone did watch above his head  The bird his hands could never teäke; An’ woone, below, where he did tread,  Vound out the nest within the breäke; But, aggs be only woonce a-vound, An’ uncaught larks ageän mid sound.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Leäne

THE LEANE.
They do zay that a travellèn chap  Have a-put in the newspeäper now, That the bit o’ green ground on the knap  Should be all a-took in vor the plough. He do fancy ’tis easy to show  That we can be but stunpolls at best, Vor to leave a green spot where a flower can grow,  Or a voot-weary walker mid rest. ’Tis hedge-grubbèn, Thomas, an’ ledge-grubbèn,  Never a-done While a sov’rèn mwore’s to be won.
The road, he do zay, is so wide  As ’tis wanted vor travellers’ wheels, As if all that did travel did ride  An’ did never get galls on their heels. He would leäve sich a thin strip o’ groun’,  That, if a man’s veet in his shoes Wer a-burnèn an’ zore, why he coulden zit down  But the wheels would run over his tooes. Vor ’tis meäke money, Thomas, an’ teäke money,  What’s zwold an’ bought Is all that is worthy o’ thought.
Years agoo the leäne-zides did bear grass,  Vor to pull wi’ the geeses’ red bills, That did hiss at the vo’k that did pass,  Or the bwoys that pick’d up their white quills. But shortly, if vower or vive  Ov our goslèns do creep vrom the agg. They must mwope in the geärden, mwore dead than alive,  In a coop, or a-tied by the lag. ​Vor to catch at land, Thomas, an’ snatch at land,  Now is the plan; Meäke money wherever you can.
The childern wull soon have noo pleäce  Vor to plaÿ in, an’ if they do grow, They wull have a thin musheroom feäce,  Wi’ their bodies so sumple as dough. But a man is a-meäde ov a child,  An’ his limbs do grow worksome by plaÿ; An’ if the young child’s little body’s a-spweil’d,
 Why, the man’s wull the sooner decaÿ. But wealth is wo’th now mwore than health is wo’th;  Let it all goo, If’t ’ull bring but a sov’rèn or two.
Vor to breed the young fox or the heäre,  We can gi’e up whole eäcres o’ ground, But the greens be a-grudg’d, vor to rear  Our young childern up healthy an’ sound, Why, there woont be a-left the next age  A green spot where their veet can goo free; An’ the goocoo wull soon be committed to cage  Vor a trespass in zomebody’s tree. Vor ’tis lockèn up, Thomas, an’ blockèn up,  Stranger or brother, Men mussen come nigh woone another.
Woone day I went in at a geäte,  Wi’ my child, where an echo did sound. An’ the owner come up, an’ did reäte  Me as if I would car off his ground. But his vield an’ the grass wer-a-let,  An’ the damage that he could a-took Wer at mwost that the while I did open the geäte  I did rub roun’ the eye on the hook. ​But ’tis drevèn out, Thomas, an’ hevèn out.  Trample noo grounds, Unless you be after the hounds.
Ah! the Squiër o’ Culver-dell Hall  Wer as diff’rent as light is vrom dark, Wi’ zome vo’k that, as evenèn did vall,  Had a-broke drough long grass in his park; Vor he went, wi’ a smile, vor to meet  Wi’ the trespassers while they did pass, An’ he zaid, “I do fear you’ll catch cwold in your veet,  You’ve a-walk’d drough so much o’ my grass.” His mild words, Thomas, cut em like swords, Thomas,  Newly a-whet, An’ went vurder wi’ them than a dreat.
# Poems (Tynan)/The Tree-lover

COUNTRY AIRS
# Poems of Giacomo Leopardi/Poem 5

TO A VICTOR IN THE GAME OF PALLONE.
 The face of glory and her pleasant voice,  O fortunate youth, now recognize,  And how much nobler than effeminate sloth  Are manhood's tested energies.  Take heed, O generous champion, take heed,  If thou thy name by worthy thought or deed,  From Time's all-sweeping current couldst redeem;  Take heed, and lift thy heart to high desires!  The amphitheatre's applause, the public voice,  Now summon thee to deeds illustrious;  Exulting in thy lusty youth.  In thee, to-day, thy country dear  Beholds her heroes old again appear.
 _His_ hand was ne'er with blood barbaric stained,  At Marathon,  Who on the plain of Elis could behold  The naked athletes, and the wrestlers bold,  And feel no glow of emulous zeal within,  The laurel wreath of victory to win.  And he, who in Alpheus stream did wash  The dusty manes and foaming flanks  Of his victorious mares, _he_ best could lead  The Grecian banners and the Grecian swords  Against the flying, panic-stricken ranks  Of Medes, who, dying, Asia's shore  And great Euphrates will behold no more.
 And will you call that vain, which seeks  The latent sparks of virtue to evolve,  Or animate anew to high resolve,  The drooping fervor of our weary souls?  What but a game have mortal works e'er been,  Since Phoebus first his weary wheels did urge?  And is not truth, no less than falsehood, vain?  And yet, with pleasing phantoms, fleeting shows,  Nature herself to our relief has come;  And custom, aiding nature, still must strive  These strong illusions to revive;  Or else all thirst for noble deeds is gone,  Is lost in sloth, and blind oblivion.
 The time may come, perchance, when midst  The ruins of Italian palaces,  Will herds of cattle graze,  And all the seven hills the plough will feel;  Not many years will have elapsed, perchance,  E'er all the towns of Italy  Will the abode of foxes be,  And dark groves murmur 'mid the lofty walls;  Unless the Fates from our perverted minds  Remove this sad oblivion of the Past;  And heaven by grateful memories appeased,  Relenting, in the hour of our despair,  The abject nations, ripe for slaughter, spare.
 But thou, O worthy youth, wouldst grieve,  Thy wretched country to survive.  Thou once through her mightst have acquired renown,  When on her brow she wore the glittering crown,  Now lost! Our fault, and Fate's! That time is o'er;  Ah, such a mother who could honor, more?  But for thyself, O lift thy thoughts on high!  What is our life? A thing to be despised:  Least wretched, when with perils so beset,  It must, perforce, its wretched self forget,  Nor heed the flight of slow-paced, worthless hours;  Or, when, to Lethe's dismal shore impelled,  It hath once more the light of day beheld.
# Poems of Home and Country

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POEMS OF HOME AND COUNTRY. ALSO, Sacred and Miscellaneous Verse.
BY REV. SAMUEL FRANCIS SMITH, D.D.
EDITED BY GEN. HENRY B. CARRINGTON, LL.D.
"My Country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of Liberty, Of thee I sing."
SILVER, BURDETT AND COMPANY, Boston … NEW YORK … Chicago. 1895.
Copyright, 1895, By Silver, Burdett and Company.
University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.
TO
My Dear Wife,
WHOSE LOVE HAS BEEN THE INSPIRATION OF MY VERSE AND HER APPROVAL ITS BEST REWARD,
THIS BOOK
IS AFFECTIONALTELY DEDICATED.
CONTENTS.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems of Giacomo Leopardi/Poem 33

THE SETTING OF THE MOON
As in the lonely night
O'er lakes and mountains bathed in silver light,
When zephyr gaily plays,
And visions meet our gaze,
Strange forms that weave a power
In the nocturnal hour,
By distant shadows wrought
O'er hill and dale and gently flowing streams:
The Moon descends unto the sky's last verge
Behind the ridge of Alp or Appenine,
Or in the Tyrrhene sea her rays doth merge;
And as she falls, no radiance more doth shine,
The shadows fade, and all
The world lies wrapped in one funereal pall;
Bereaved the night remains;
And singing in impassioned, mournful strains,
The wanderer salutes the last, faint ray
Of her who lit his way
With argent crescent in the spheres divine:
Even thus youth wanes and flies,
And every joyaunce dies,
And Hope expires, the reed whereon we leant
In happier days, ere every bliss was spent,
And ere our life obscure
And desolate became.
The weary wanderer gazes on the scene
Of sable hue that now doth intervene,
And vainly asketh why
So dire a path before him yet should lie;
And as unto his eye
The world appeareth changed,
He finds himself no more what he hath been,
But to the world and all its ways estranged.
Too happy and too gay
Our span of mortal life
Would seem unto the powers that rule above,
If youthfulness were to endure for aye,
Wherein a thousand sorrows yield one joy;
Too gentle the decree
Whence all that liveth doomed to death we see,
Unless a gift were made,
When men have finished half of their long way,
Then death itself with great terrors fraught;
The worst of ills and the extreme of woe,
Old age was found by an unswerving doom,
Wherein desire doth glow,
Hope wanes and pales and dwindles down to nought,
The fountains of delight are frozen and quelled,
The sorrows greater, and all bliss withheld.
Ye mountains and ye plains,
When fall the rays that in the West adorn
With silvery trace the sable veil of night,
Ye shall not be forlorn
For many hours: the Eastern skies ere long
Ye shall perceive aglow
With break of day and early rise of morn,
Whom following, the Sun his fires doth show,
And blazing all around
In full effulgence strong,
With seas of light invades
The space above and the terrestrial glades.
But life of man, when lovely youth is spent,
No other light hath found,
Nor to existence other dawn is lent:
'Tis lonely and bereaved even to its close:
And to the night that weighs on later years,
By the decree of doom,
As goal is given the silence of the tomb.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 37/October 1890/Obituary Notes

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Prof. C. H. F. Peters, Director of the Litchfield Observatory of Hamilton College, Clinton, N. Y., died July 19th, in his seventy-seventh year. He was a native of Sleswick, and had been in the observatory director-ship more than thirty years. He was the discoverer of forty-seven asteroids, his last discovery in that line being that of Nephthys, in August, 1889. He was chief of the party which observed the total eclipse of the sun at Des Moines, Iowa, August 7th, 1869; and also of the party that observed the transit of Venus in 1874 in New Zealand.
Charles Grad, an eminent Alsatian student of science, died at Logelbach, July 5th, in the forty-eighth year of his age. He was one of the earliest contributors to La Nature, and continued his active relations with that journal as long as his health permitted. His first scientific papers were in geology. Many of his contributions related to Alsatian matters of scientific interest.
William Kitchen Parker, an eminent English biologist, died suddenly in Cardiff, Wales, July 3d. He was drawn to the study of nature and to experimenting on plants and animals at a very early age; was the author of a number of valuable papers (1856-1873) on foraminifera, and made communications to the Zoölogical and Royal Societies on birds and animals, his last work, on The Duck and the Auk, having been published in the present year. He was a member of several scientific societies, British and foreign; was for many years a Hunterian Professor at the Royal College of Surgeons; and was the author of books on the Morphology of the Skull and on Mammalian Descent. Two of his sons are Professors of Biology, at Cardiff and in Otago, New Zealand.
The death is announced of Alexander von Bunge, Professor of Botany in the University of Dorpat, at the age of eighty-seven years. He made a scientific voyage to China in 1830; and was principally interested in the flora of Russia and northern Asia.
M. Alphonse Favre, formerly Professor of Geology at Geneva, has recently died, seventy-seven years old.
M. Paul Loye, who recently died in France, was the author of a memoir on the physiology of death by decapitation, and had published short notes on physiological questions.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The New House a-gettèn Wold

THE NEW HOUSE A-GETTÈN WOLD.
Ah! when our wedded life begun,  Theäse clean-wall’d house of ours wer new; Wi’ thatch as yollor as the zun  Avore the cloudless sky o’ blue; The sky o’ blue that then did bound The blue-hilled worold’s flow’ry ground.
An’ we’ve a-vound it weather-brown’d,  As Spring-tide blossoms oben’d white, Or Fall did shed, on zunburnt ground,  Red apples from their leafy height: Their leafy height, that Winter soon Left leafless to the cool-feäced moon.
An’ raïn-bred moss ha’ stain’d wi’ green  The smooth-feäced wall’s white-morter’d streaks, The while our childern zot between  Our seats avore the fleäme’s red peaks: The fleäme’s red peaks, till axan white Did quench em vor the long-sleep’d night
The bloom that woonce did overspread  Your rounded cheäk, as time went by, A-shrinkèn to a patch o’ red,  Did feäde so soft’s the evenèn sky: The evenèn sky, my faithful wife, O’ days as feäir’s our happy life.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Neäme Letters

THE NEÄME LETTERS.
When high-flown larks wer on the wing, A warm-aïr’d holiday in Spring, We stroll’d, ’ithout a ceäre or frown,  Up roun’ the down at Meldonley; An’ where the hawthorn-tree did stand Alwone, but still wi’ mwore at hand, We zot wi’ sheädes o’ clouds on high  A-flittèn by, at Meldonley.
An’ there, the while the tree did sheäde Their gigglèn heads, my knife’s keen bleäde Carved out, in turf avore my knee,  J. L., *T. D., at Meldonley. ​’Twer Jessie Lee J. L. did meän, T. D. did stan’ vor Thomas Deäne; The “L” I scratch’d but slight, vor he  Mid soon be D, at Meldonley.
An’ when the vields o’ wheat did spread Vrom hedge to hedge in sheets o’ red. An’ bennets wer a-sheäkèn brown,  Upon the down at Meldonley, We stroll’d ageän along the hill, An’ at the hawthorn-tree stood still, To zee J. L. vor Jessie Lee,  An’ my T. D., at Meldonley.
The grey-poll’d bennet-stems did hem Each half-hid letter’s zunken rim, By leädy’s-vingers that did spread  In yollow red, at Meldonley. An’ heärebells there wi’ light blue bell Shook soundless on the letter L, To ment the bells when L vor Lee  Become a D at Meldonley.
Vor Jessie, now my wife, do strive Wi’ me in life, an’ we do thrive; Two sleek-heäired meäres do sprackly pull  My waggon vull, at Meldonley; An’ small-hoof’d sheep, in vleeces white, Wi’ quickly-pankèn zides, do bite My thymy grass, a-mark’d vor me  In black, T.D., at Meldonley.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Pleäce our own ageän

THE PLEÄCE OUR OWN AGEÄN.
Well! thanks to you, my faïthful Jeäne. So worksome wi’ your head an’ hand, We seäved enough to get ageän My poor vorefather’s plot o’ land. ’Twer folly lost, an’ cunnèn 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-windèn round The parrick zide, do run below The grey-stwon’d bridge wi’ gurglèn sound, A-sheäded by the arches’ bow; Where former days the wold brown meäre. Wi’ father on her back, did wear Wi’ heavy shoes the grav’ly leäne, An’ sheäke her meäne o’ yollor heäir.
An’ many zummers there ha’ glow’d, To shrink the brook in bubblèn shoals, An’ warm the doust upon the road, Below the trav’ller’s burnèn zoles. An’ zome ha’ zent us to our bed In grief, an’ zome in jaÿ ha’ vied; But vew ha’ come wi’ happier light Than what’s now bright, above our head.
The brook did peärt, zome years agoo, Our Grenley meäds vrom Knapton’s Ridge; But now you know, between the two, A-road’s a-meäde 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 gaïn its end, if ’tis but right.