OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Eclogue:—The Common a-took in

Eclogue.
THE COMMON A-TOOK IN.
Thomas an’ John.
THOMAS.
Good morn t’ye, John. How b’ye? how b’ye? Zoo you be gwaïn to market, I do zee. Why, you be quite a-lwoaded wi’ your geese.
JOHN.
Ees, Thomas, ees. Why, I’m a-gettèn rid ov ev’ry goose An’ goslèn I’ve a-got: an’ what is woose, I fear that I must zell my little cow.
THOMAS.
How zoo, then, John? Why, what’s the matter now? What, can’t ye get along? B’ye run a-ground? An’ can’t paÿ twenty shillèns vor a pound? What can’t ye put a lwoaf on shelf?
JOHN.
Ees, now; But I do fear I shan’t ’ithout my cow. No; they do meän to teäke the moor in, I do hear, An’ ’twill be soon begun upon; Zoo I must zell my bit o’ stock to-year. Because they woon’t have any groun’ to run upon.
THOMAS.
Why, what d’ye tell o’? I be very zorry To hear what they be gwaïn about; But yet I s’pose there ’ll be a ’lotment vor ye,
JOHN.
No; not vor me, I fear. An’ if there should, Why ’twoulden be so handy as ’tis now; Vor ’tis the common that do do me good, The run for my vew geese, or vor my cow.
THOMAS.
Ees, that’s the job; why ’tis a handy thing To have a bit o’ common, I do know, To put a little cow upon in Spring, The while woone’s bit ov orcha’d grass do grow.
JOHN.
Aye, that’s the thing, you zee. Now I do mow My bit o’ grass, an’ meäke a little rick; An’ in the zummer, while do grow, My cow do run in common vor to pick A bleäde or two o’ grass, if she can vind em, Vor tother cattle don’t leäve much behind em. Zoo in the evenèn, we do put a lock O’ nice fresh grass avore the wicket; An’ she do come at vive or zix o’clock, As constant as the zun, to pick it. An’ then, bezides the cow, why we do let Our geese run out among the emmet hills; An’ then when we do pluck em, we do get Vor zeäle zome veathers an’ zome quills; An’ in the winter we do fat em well, An’ car em to the market vor to zell To gentlevo’ks, vor we don’t oft avvword To put a goose a-top ov ouer bwoard; But we do get our feäst,—vor we be eäble To clap the giblets up a-top o’ teäble.
THOMAS.
An’ I don’t know o’ many better things,
JOHN.
An’ then, when I ha’ nothèn else to do, Why I can teäke my hook an’ gloves, an’ goo To cut a lot o’ vuzz and briars Vor hetèn ovens, or vor lightèn viers. An’ when the childern be too young to eärn A penny, they can g’out in zunny weather, An’ run about, an’ get together A bag o’ cow-dung vor to burn.
THOMAS.
’Tis handy to live near a common; But I’ve a-zeed, an’ I’ve a-zaid, That if a poor man got a bit o’ bread, They’ll try to teäke it vrom en. But I wer twold back tother day, That they be got into a way O’ lettèn bits o’ groun’ out to the poor.
JOHN.
Well, I do hope ’tis true, I’m sure; An’ I do hope that they will do it here, Or I must goo to workhouse, I do fear.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Eclogue:—Racketèn Joe

Eclogue.
RACKETÈN JOE.
Racketèn Joe; his Sister; his Cousin Fanny; and the Dog.
RACKETÈN JOE.
HIS SISTER.
Oh! lauk! Here’s Joe, a rantèn lout, A-meäkèn his wild randy-rout.
RACKETÈN JOE.
Heigh! Fanny! How d’ye do? (slaps her.)
FANNY.
Oh! fie; why all the woo’se vor you A-slappèn o’ me, black an’ blue, My back!
HIS SISTER.
A whack! you loose-eärm’d chap, To gi’e your cousin sich a slap!
FANNY.
I’ll pull the heäir o’n, I do vow;
HIS SISTER.
I’ll pull the ears o’n. There.
THE DOG.
Wowh! wow!
FANNY.
A-comèn up the drong, How he did smack his leather thong, A-zingèn, as he thought, a zong;
HIS SISTER.
An’ there the pigs did scote Azide, in fright, wi’ squeakèn droat, Wi’ geese a pitchèn up a note. Look there.
FANNY.
HIS SISTER.
He thump’d en down, As if he’d het en into ground.
RACKETÈN JOE.
Heigh! heigh! Look here! the vier is out.
HIS SISTER.
How he do knock the tongs about!
FANNY.
Now theäre’s his whip-nob, plum Upon the teäble vor a drum;
HIS SISTER.
An’ there’s a dent so big’s your thumb.
RACKETÈN JOE.
My hat’s awore so quaer.
HIS SISTER.
’Tis quaer enough, but not wi’ wear; But dabs an’ dashes he do bear.
RACKETÈN JOE.
The zow!
HIS SISTER.
What now?
RACKETÈN JOE.
She’s in the plot A-routèn up the flower knot Ho! Towzer! Here, rout out the zow, Heigh! here, hie at her. Tiss!
THE DOG.
Wowh! wow!
HIS SISTER.
How he do rant and roar, An’ stump an’ stamp about the vloor, An’ swing, an’ slap, an’ slam the door! ​He don’t put down a thing, But he do dab, an’ dash, an’ ding It down, till all the house do ring.
RACKETÈN JOE.
She’s out.
FANNY.
Noo doubt.
HIS SISTER.
Athirt the bank, Look! how the dog an’ he do pank.
FANNY.
Staÿ out, an’ heed her now an’ then, To zee she don’t come in ageän.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Eclogue:—The 'Lotments

Eclogue.
THE ’LOTMENTS.
John and Richard.
JOHN.
Zoo you be in your groun’ then, I do zee,
A-workèn and a-zingèn lik’ a bee. How do it answer? what d’ye think about it? D’ye think ’tis better wi’ it than without it? A-recknèn rent, an’ time, an’ zeed to stock it, D’ye think that you be any thing in pocket?
RICHARD.
O’, ’tis a goodish help to woone, I’m sure o’t. If I had not a-got it, my poor bwones Would now ha’ eäch’d a-crackèn stwones Upon the road; I wish I had zome mwore o’t
JOHN.
I wish the girt woones had a-got the greäce To let out land lik’ this in ouer pleäce; But I do fear there’ll never be nwone vor us, An’ I can’t tell whatever we shall do: We be a-most starvèn, an’ we’d goo To ’merica, if we’d enough to car us
RICHARD.
Why ’twer the squire, good now! a worthy man, That vu’st brought into ouer pleäce the plan, He zaid he’d let a vew odd eäcres O’ land to us poor leäb’rèn men; ​An’, faïth, he had enough o’ teäkers
Vor that, an’ twice so much ageän.
Zoo I took zome here, near my hovel,
To exercise my speäde an’ shovel;
An’ what wi’ dungèn, diggèn up, an’ zeedèn,
A-thinnèn, cleänèn, howèn up an’ weedèn,
I, an’ the biggest o’ the childern too,
Do always vind some useful jobs to do.
JOHN.
Aye, wi’ a bit o’ ground, if woone got any,
Woone’s bwoys can soon get out an’ eärn a penny;
An’ then, by workèn, they do learn the vaster
The way to do things when they have a meäster;
Vor woone must know a deäl about the land
Bevore woone’s fit to lend a useful hand,
In geärden or a-vield upon a farm.
RICHARD.
An’ then the work do keep em out o’ harm;
Vor vo’ks that don’t do nothèn wull be vound
Soon doèn woorse than nothèn, I’ll be bound.
But as vor me, d’ye zee, with theäse here bit
O’ land, why I have ev’ry thing a’mwost:
Vor I can fatten vowels for the spit,
Or zell a good fat goose or two to rwoast;
An’ have my beäns or cabbage, greens or grass,
Or bit o’ wheat, or, sich my happy feäte is,
That I can keep a little cow, or ass.
An’ a vew pigs to eat the little teäties.
JOHN.
An’ when your pig’s a-fatted pretty well Wi’ teäties, or wi’ barley an’ some bran, Why you’ve a-got zome vlitches vor to zell,
RICHARD.
Aye, that’s the thing; an’ when the pig do die, We got a lot ov offal for to fry. An’ netlèns for to bwoil; or put the blood in, An’ meäke a meal or two o’ good black-pudden.
JOHN.
I’d keep myzelf from parish, I’d be bound, If I could get a little patch o’ ground.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Eclogue:—Two Farms in Woone

Eclogue.
TWO FARMS IN WOONE.
Robert an’ Thomas.
ROBERT.
You’ll lose your meäster soon, then, I do vind; He’s gwaïn to leäve his farm, as I do larn, At Miëlmas; an’ I be zorry vor’n.
THOMAS.
O no! at Miëlmas his time is up, An’ thik there sly wold fellow, Farmer Tup, A-fearèn that he’d get a bit o’ bread, ’V a-been an’ took his farm here over’s head.
ROBERT.
How come the Squire to treat your meäster zoo?
THOMAS.
Why, he an’ meäster had a word or two.
ROBERT.
Is Farmer Tup a-gwaïn to leave his farm? He han’t a-got noo young woones vor to zwarm. Poor over-reachèn man! why to be sure He don’t want all the farms in parish, do er?
THOMAS.
Why ees, all ever he can come across, Last year, you know, he got away the eäcre Or two o’ ground a-rented by the beäker, An’ what the butcher had to keep his hoss; An’ vo’k do beänhan’ now, that meäster’s lot Will be a-drowd along wi’ what he got.
ROBERT.
That’s it. In theäse here pleäce there used to be Eight farms avore they wer a-drowd together, An’ eight farm-housen. Now how many be there? Why after this, you know there’ll be but dree.
THOMAS.
An’ now they don’t imploy so many men Upon the land as work’d upon it then, Vor all they midden crop it worse, nor stock it. The lan’lord, to be sure, is into pocket; Vor half the housen beën down, ’tis clear, Don’t cost so much to keep em up, a-near. ​But then the jobs o’ work in wood an’ morter Do come I ’spose, you know, a little shorter; An’ many that wer little farmers then, Be now a-come all down to leäb’rèn men; An’ many leäb’rèn men, wi’ empty hands, Do live lik’ drones upon the worker’s lands.
ROBERT.
Aye, if a young chap, woonce, had any wit To try an’ scrape together zome vew pound, To buy some cows an’ teäke a bit o’ ground, He mid become a farmer, bit by bit. But, hang it! now the farms be all so big, An’ bits o’ groun’ so skeä’ce, woone got no scope; If woone could seäve a poun’, woone couldden hope To keep noo live stock but a little pig.
THOMAS.
Why here wer vourteen men, zome years agoo, A-kept a-drashèn half the winter drough; An’ now, woone’s drashels be’n’t a bit o’ good. They got machines to drashy wi’, plague teäke em! An’ he that vu’st vound out the way to meäke em, I’d drash his busy zides vor’n if I could! Avore they took away our work, they ought To meäke us up the bread our leäbour bought.
ROBERT.
They hadden need meäke poor men’s leäbour less, Vor work a’ready is uncommon skeä’ce.
THOMAS.
Ah! Robert! times be badish vor the poor; An’ worse will come, I be a-fear’d, if Moore In theäse year’s almanick do tell us right.
ROBERT.
Why then we sartainly must starve. Good night!
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Evenèn, an' Maïdens out at Door

SUMMER.
——o——
EVENÈN, AN’ MAIDENS OUT AT DOOR.
Now the sheädes o’ the elems do stratch mwore an’ mwore, Vrom the low-zinkèn zun in the west o’ the sky; An’ the maïdens do stand out in clusters avore The doors, vor to chatty an’ zee vo’k goo by.
An’ their cwombs be a-zet in their bunches o’ heäir, An’ their currels do hang roun’ their necks lily-white, An’ their cheäks they be rwosy, their shoulders be beäre, Their looks they be merry, their limbs they be light.
An’ the times have a-been—but they cant be noo mwore— When I had my jaÿ under evenèn’s dim sky, When my Fanny did stan’ out wi’ others avore Her door, vor to chatty an’ zee vo’k goo by.
An’ up there, in the green, is her own honey-zuck, That her brother train’d up roun’ her window; an’ there Is the rwose an’ the jessamy, where she did pluck A flow’r vor her bosom or bud vor her heäir.
An’ zoo smile, happy maïdens! vor every feäce, As the zummers do come, an’ the years do roll by, Will soon sadden, or goo vur away vrom the pleäce, Or else, lik’ my Fanny, will wither an’ die.
​But when you be a-lost vrom the parish, zome mwore Will come on in your pleäzen to bloom an’ to die; An’ the zummer will always have maïdens avore Their doors, vor to chatty an’ zee vo’k goo by.
Vor daughters ha’ mornèn when mothers ha’ night, An’ there’s beauty alive when the feäirest is dead; As when woone sparklèn weäve do zink down vrom the light, Another do come up an’ catch it instead.
Zoo smile on, happy maïdens! but I shall noo mwore Zee the maïd I do miss under evenèn’s dim sky; An’ my heart is a-touch’d to zee you out avore The doors, vor to chatty an’ zee vo’k goo by.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Evenèn Light

EVENÈN LIGHT.
The while I took my bit o’ rest,  Below my house’s eastern sheäde,  The things that stood in vield an’ gleäde Wer bright in zunsheen vrom the west.  There bright wer east-ward mound an’ wall,  An’ bright wer trees, arisèn tall, An’ bright did break ’ithin the brook,  Down rocks, the watervall.
There deep ’ithin my pworches bow  Did hang my heavy woaken door,  An’ in beyond en, on the vloor, The evenèn dusk did gather slow;  But bright did gleäre the twinklèn spwokes  O’ runnèn carriage wheels, as vo’ks Out east did ride along the road,  Bezide the low-bough’d woaks,
An’ I’d a-lost the zun vrom view,  Until ageän his feäce mid rise,  A-sheenèn vrom the eastern skies To brighten up the rwose-borne dew;  But still his lingrèn light did gi’e  My heart a touchèn jaÿ, to zee His beams a-shed, wi’ stratchèn sheäde,  On east-ward wall an’ tree.
When jaÿ, a-zent me vrom above,  Vrom my sad heart is now agone,  An’ others be a-walkèn on, Amid the light ov Heaven’s love,  Oh! then vor lovèn-kindness seäke,  Mid I rejäice that zome do teäke My hopes a-gone, until ageän  My happy dawn do break.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 43/October 1893/Obituary Notes

Layout 4
The Rev. Charles Pritchard, D. D., Savilian Professor of Astronomy in the University of Oxford, whose death was recently announced, was in his earlier life a teacher in the English upper middle-class schools, in which he distinguished himself by his efforts to exhibit an improved method of education. After thirty years of this occupation, he retired to become an active clergyman, but in 1870 was offered and accepted the professorship at Oxford. Here he secured the establishment of the university observatory; applied photography, before the gelatin plate came into use, to the moon and other bright objects; devised and used a method of investigating the magnitude of the brighter stars through a process of extinction by means of a wedge of neutralized glass; visited Egypt to determine the amount of atmospheric absorption; studied the mutual proper motions of the stars of the Pleiades; and began the investigation of the parallax of stars of the second magnitude.
The death, on August 16th, is announced of M. Jean Martin Charcot, of the Salpêtrière, Paris, the eminent specialist in diseases of the nervous system. He was most distinguished for his researches in the field of insanity, hysteria, hypnotism, and of all those nervous phenomena which have been associated by many with magnetic influences.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Zelling woone's Honey

ZELLEN WOONE’S HONEY TO BUY ZOME’HAT SWEET.
Why, his heart’s lik’ a popple, so hard as a stwone,  Vor ’tis money, an’ money’s his ho, An’ to handle an’ reckon it up vor his own,  Is the best o’ the jaÿs he do know. Why, vor money he’d gi’e up his lags an’ be leäme,  Or would peärt wi’ his zight an’ be blind, Or would lose vo’k’s good will, vor to have a bad neäme,  Or his peace, an’ have trouble o’ mind. But wi’ ev’ry good thing that his meänness mid bring,  He’d paÿ vor his money, An’ only zell honey to buy zome’hat sweet.
He did whisper to me, “You do know that you stood  By the Squier, wi’ the vote that you had, You could ax en to help ye to zome’hat as good,  Or to vind a good pleäce vor your lad.” “Aye, aye, but if I wer beholdèn vor bread  To another,” I zaid, “I should bind All my body an’ soul to the nod of his head,  An’ gi’e up all my freedom o’ mind.” An’ then, if my païn wer a-zet wi’ my gaïn,  I should paÿ vor my money, An’ only zell honey to buy zome’hat sweet.
​Then, if my bit o’ brook that do wind so vur round,  Wer but his, why, he’d straïghten his bed, An’ the wold stunpole woak that do stan’ in my ground,  Shoudden long sheäde the grass wi’ his head. But if I do vind jaÿ where the leaves be a-shook  On the limbs, wi’ their sheädes on the grass, Or below, in the bow o’ the withy-bound nook,  That the rock-washèn water do pass, Then wi’ they jaÿs a-vled an’ zome goold in their stead,  I should paÿ vor my money, An’ only zell honey to buy zome’hat sweet.
No, be my lot good work, wi’ the lungs well in plaÿ,  An’ good rest when the body do tire, Vor the mind a good conscience, wi’ hope or wi’ jaÿ,  Vor the body, good lewth, an’ good vire, There’s noo good o’ goold, but to buy what ’ull meäke  Vor our happiness here among men; An’ who would gi’e happiness up vor the seäke  O’ zome money to buy it ageän? Vor ’twould seem to the eyes ov a man that is wise,  Lik’ money vor money, Or zellèn woone’s honey to buy zome’hat sweet.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Zummer an' Winter

ZUMMER AN’ WINTER.
When I led by zummer streams  The pride o’ Lea, as naïghbours thought her, While the zun, wi’ evenèn beams,  Did cast our sheädes athirt the water; Winds a-blowèn, Streams a-flowèn, Skies a-glowèn, Tokens ov my jaÿ zoo fleetèn, Heighten’d it, that happy meetèn.
Then, when maïd an’ man took pleäces,  Gaÿ in winter’s Chris’mas dances, Showèn in their merry feäces  Kindly smiles an’ glisnèn glances; Stars a-winkèn, Day a-shrinkèn, Sheädes a-zinkèn, Brought anew the happy meetèn, That did meäke the night too fleetèn.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Zunday

ZUNDAY.
In zummer, when the sheädes do creep  Below the Zunday steeple, round The mossy stwones, that love cut deep  Wi’ neämes that tongues noo mwore do sound, ​The leäne do lose the stalkèn team,  An’ dry-rimm’d waggon-wheels be still, An’ hills do roll their down-shot stream  Below the restèn wheel at mill. O holy day, when tweil do ceäse, Sweet day o’ rest an’ greäce an’ peäce!
The eegrass, vor a while unwrung  By hoof or shoe, ’s a sheenèn bright, An’ clover flowers be a-sprung  On new-mow’d knaps in beds o’ white, An’ sweet wild rwoses, up among  The hedge-row boughs, do yield their smells, To aïer that do bear along  The loud-rung peals o’ Zunday bells, Upon the day o’ days the best, The day o’ greäce an’ peace an’ rest.
By brightshod veet, in peäir an’ peäir,  Wi’ comely steps the road’s a-took To church, an’ work-free han’s do beär  Woone’s walkèn stick or sister’s book; An’ there the bloomèn niece do come  To zee her aunt, in all her best; Or married daughter do bring hwome  Her vu’st sweet child upon her breast, As she do seek the holy pleäce, The day o’ rest an’ peäce an’ greäce.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Zummer Evenèn Dance

ZUMMER EVENÈN DANCE.
Come out to the parrock, come out to the tree, The maïdens an’ chaps be a-waïtèn vor thee; There’s Jim wi’ his fiddle to plaÿ us some reels, Come out along wi’ us, an’ fling up thy heels.
Come, all the long grass is a-mow’d an’ a-carr’d, An’ the turf is so smooth as a bwoard an’ so hard; ​There’s a bank to zit down, when y’ave danced a reel drough, An’ a tree over head vor to keep off the dew.
There be rwoses an’ honeyzucks hangèn among The bushes, to put in thy weäst; an’ the zong O’ the nightingeäle’s heärd in the hedges all roun’; An’ I’ll get thee a glow-worm to stick in thy gown.
There’s Meäry so modest, an’ Jenny so smart, An’ Mag that do love a good rompse to her heart; There’s Joe at the mill that do zing funny zongs
An’ short-lagged Dick, too, a-waggèn his prongs.
Zoo come to the parrock, come out to the tree, The maïdens an’ chaps be a-waïtèn vor thee; There’s Jim wi’ his fiddle to plaÿ us some reels,— Come out along wi’ us, an’ fling up thy heels.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Zummer Winds

ZUMMER WINDS.
Let me work, but mid noo tie Hold me vrom the oben sky, When zummer winds, in plaÿsome flight, Do blow on vields in noon-day light, Or ruslèn trees, in twilight night.  Sweet’s a stroll, By flow’ry knowl, or blue-feäcèd pool That zummer win’s do ruffle cool.
When the moon’s broad light do vill Plaïns, a-sheenèn down the hill; A-glitterèn on window glass, O then, while zummer win’s do pass The rippled brook, an’ swaÿèn grass,  Sweet’s a walk, Where we do talk, wi’ feäces bright, In whispers in the peacevul night.
When the swaÿèn men do mow Flow’ry grass, wi’ zweepèn blow, In het a-most enough to dry The flat-spread clote-leaf that do lie Upon the stream a-stealèn by,  Sweet’s their rest, Upon the breast o’ knap or mound Out where the goocoo’s vaïce do sound.
​Where the sleek-heäir’d maïd do zit Out o’ door to zew or knit, Below the elem where the spring ’S a-runnèn, an’ the road do bring The people by to hear her zing,  On the green, Where she’s a-zeen, an’ she can zee, O gaÿ is she below the tree.
Come, O zummer wind, an’ bring Sounds o’ birds as they do zing, An’ bring the smell o’ bloomèn maÿ, An’ bring the smell o’ new-mow’d haÿ; Come fan my feäce as I do stray,  Fan the heäir O’ Jessie feäir; fan her cool, By the weäves o’ stream or pool.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Zun-zet

ZUN-ZET.
Where the western zun, unclouded,  Up above the grey hill-tops, Did sheen drough ashes, lofty sh’ouded.  On the turf bezide the copse,  In zummer weather,  We together,  Sorrow-slightèn, work-vorgettèn.  Gambol’d wi’ the zun a-zetten.
There, by flow’ry bows o’ bramble,  Under hedge, in ash-tree sheädes, ​The dun-heaïr’d ho’se did slowly ramble  On the grasses’ dewy bleädes,  Zet free o’ lwoads,  An’ stwony rwoads,  Vorgetvul o’ the lashes frettèn,  Grazèn wi’ the zun a-zettèn.
There wer rooks a-beätèn by us  Drough the aïr, in a vlock, An’ there the lively blackbird, nigh us,  On the meäple bough did rock,  Wi’ ringèn droat,  Where zunlight smote  The yollow boughs o’ zunny hedges  Over western hills’ blue edges.
Waters, drough the meäds a-purlèn,  Glissen’d in the evenèn’s light, An’ smoke, above the town a-curlèn,  Melted slowly out o’ zight;  An’ there, in glooms  Ov unzunn’d rooms,  To zome, wi’ idle sorrows frettèn,  Zuns did set avore their zettèn.
We were out in geämes and reäces,  Loud a-laughèn, wild in me’th, Wi’ windblown heäir, an’ zunbrown’d feäces,  Leäpen on the high-sky’d e’th,  Avore the lights  Wer tin’d o’ nights,  An’ while the gossamer’s light nettèn  Sparkled to the zun a-zettèn.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Woone Smile Mwore

WOONE SMILE MWORE.
O! Meäry, when the zun went down,  Woone night in Spring, wi’ vi’ry rim, Behind thik nap wi’ woody crown,  An’ left your smilèn feäce so dim; Your little sister there, inside,  Wi’ bellows on her little knee, Did blow the vier, a-glearèn wide  Drough window-peänes, that I could zee,— As you did stan’ wi’ me, avore The house, a-peärten,—woone smile mwore.
The chatt’rèn birds, a-risèn high,  An’ zinkèn low, did swiftly vlee Vrom shrinkèn moss, a-growèn dry,  Upon the leänèn apple tree. An’ there the dog, a-whippèn wide  His heäiry taïl, an’ comèn near, Did fondly lay ageän your zide  His coal-black nose an’ russet ear: To win what I’d a-won avore, Vrom your gaÿ feäce, his woone smile mwore.
An’ while your mother bustled sprack,  A-gettèn supper out in hall, An’ cast her sheäde, a-whiv’rèn black  Avore the vier, upon the wall; Your brother come, wi’ easy peäce,  In drough the slammèn geäte, along ​The path, wi’ healthy-bloomèn feäce,  A-whis’lèn shrill his last new zong; An’ when he come avore the door, He met vrom you his woone smile mwore.
Now you that war the daughter there,  Be mother on a husband’s vloor, An’ mid ye meet wi’ less o’ ceäre  Than what your hearty mother bore; An’ if abroad I have to rue  The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed, Mid I come hwome to sheäre wi’ you  What’s needvul free o’ pinchèn need: An’ vind that you ha’ still in store, My evenèn meal, an’ woone smile mwore.