OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Gammony Gaÿ

GAMMONY GAŸ.
Oh! thik Gammony Gaÿ is so droll, That if he’s at hwome by the he’th, Or wi’ vo’k out o’ door, he’s the soul O’ the meetèn vor antics an’ me’th; He do cast off the thoughts ov ill luck As the water’s a-shot vrom a duck; He do zing where his naïghbours would cry— He do laugh where the rest o’s would sigh: Noo other’s so merry o’ feäce, In the pleäce, as Gammony Gaÿ.
An’ o’ workèn days, Oh! he do wear Such a funny roun’ hat,—you mid know’t— Wi’ a brim all a-strout roun’ his heäir, An’ his glissenèn eyes down below’t; An’ a cwoat wi’ broad skirts that do vlee In the wind ov his walk, round his knee; An’ a peäir o’ girt pockets lik’ bags, That do swing an’ do bob at his lags: While me’th do walk out drough the pleäce, In the feäce o’ Gammony Gaÿ.
​An’ if he do goo over groun’ Wi’ noo soul vor to greet wi’ his words, The feäce o’n do look up an’ down, An’ round en so quick as a bird’s; An’ if he do vall in wi’ vo’k, Why, tidden vor want ov a joke, If he don’t zend em on vrom the pleäce Wi’ a smile or a grin on their feäce: An’ the young wi’ the wold have a-heärd A kind word vrom Gammony Gaÿ.
An’ when he do whissel or hum, ’Ithout thinkèn o’ what he’s a-doèn, He’ll beät his own lags vor a drum, An’ bob his gaÿ head to the tuèn; An’ then you mid zee, ’etween whiles, His feäce all alive wi’ his smiles, An’ his gaÿ-breathèn bozom do rise, An’ his me’th do sheen out ov his eyes: An’ at last to have praïse or have bleäme, Is the seäme to Gammony Gaÿ.
When he drove his wold cart out, an’ broke The nut o’ the wheel at a butt, There war “woo’se things,” he cried, wi’ a joke, “To grieve at than crackèn a nut.” An’ when he tipp’d over a lwoad Ov his reed-sheaves woone day on the rwoad, Then he spet in his han’s, out o’ sleeves,
An’ whissel’d, an’ flung up his sheaves, As very vew others can wag, Eärm or lag, but Gammony Gaÿ.
He wer wi’ us woone night when the band Wer a-come vor to gi’e us a hop, An’ he pull’d Grammer out by the hand All down drough the dance vrom the top; ​An’ Grammer did hobble an’ squall, Wi’ Gammon a-leädèn the ball; While Gammon did sheäke up his knee An’ his voot, an’ zing “Diddle-ee-dee!” An’ we laugh’d ourzelves all out o’ breath At the me’th o’ Gammony Gaÿ.
When our tun wer’ o’ vier he rod Out to help us, an’ meäde us sich fun, Vor he clomb up to dreve in a wad O’ wet thorns, to the he’th, vrom the tun; An’ there he did stamp wi’ his voot, To push down the thorns an’ the zoot, Till at last down the chimney’s black wall Went the wad, an’ poor Gammon an’ all: An’ seäfe on the he’th, wi’ a grin On his chin pitch’d Gammony Gaÿ.
All the house-dogs do waggle their taïls, If they do but catch zight ov his feäce; An’ the ho’ses do look over raïls, An’ do whicker to zee’n at the pleäce; An’ he’ll always bestow a good word On a cat or a whisselèn bird; An’ even if culvers do coo, Or an owl is a-cryèn “Hoo, hoo,” Where he is, there’s always a joke To be spoke, by Gammony Gaÿ.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Grenley Water

GRENLEY WATER.
The sheädeless darkness o’ the night Can never blind my mem’ry’s zight; An’ in the storm, my fancy’s eyes Can look upon their own blue skies. The laggèn moon mid faïl to rise,  But when the daylight’s blue an’ green  Be gone, my fancy’s zun do sheen  At hwome at Grenley Water.
As when the work-vo’k us’d to ride In waggon, by the hedge’s zide, ​Drough evenèn sheädes that trees cast down Vrom lofty stems athirt the groun’: An’ in at house the mug went roun’,  While ev’ry merry man praïs’d up  The pretty maïd that vill’d his cup,  The maïd o’ Grenley Water.
There I do seem ageän to ride The hosses to the water-zide, An’ zee the visher fling his hook Below the withies by the brook; Or Fanny, wi’ her blushèn look,  Car on her païl, or come to dip  Wi’ ceäreful step, her pitcher’s lip  Down into Grenley Water.
If I’d a farm wi’ vower ploughs, An’ vor my deäiry fifty cows; If Grenley Water winded down Drough two good miles o’ my own groun’; If half ov Ashknowle Hill wer brown  Wi’ my own corn,—noo growèn pride  Should ever meäke me cast azide  The maïd o’ Grenley Water.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Grief an' Gladness

GRIEF AN’ GLADNESS.
“Can all be still, when win’s do blow?  Look down the grove an’ zee  The boughs a-swingèn on the tree, An’ beäten weäves below. Zee how the tweilèn vo’k do bend  Upon their windward track, Wi’ ev’ry string, an’ garment’s end,  A-flutt’rèn at their back.” ​I cried, wi’ sotow sore a-tried, An’ hung, wi’ Jenny at my zide,  My head upon my breast. Wi’ strokes o’ grief so hard to bear,  ’Tis hard vor souls to rest.
Can all be dull, when zuns do glow?  Oh! no; look down the grove,  Where zides o’ trees be bright above; An’ weäves do sheen below; An’ neäked stems o’ wood in hedge  Do gleäm in streäks o’ light, An’ rocks do gleäre upon the ledge  O’ yonder zunny height, “No, Jeäne, wi’ trials now withdrawn, Lik’ darkness at a happy dawn.”  I cried, “Noo mwore despair; Wi’ our lost peace ageän a-vound,  ’Tis wrong to harbour ceäre.”
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Good Meäster Collins

GOOD MEÄSTER COLLINS.
Aye, Meäster Collins wer a-blest Wi’ greäce, an’ now’s a-gone to rest; An’ though his heart did beät so meek ’S a little child’s, when he did speak, The godly wisdom ov his tongue Wer dew o’ greäce to wold an’ young.
’Twer woonce, upon a zummer’s tide, I zot at Brookwell by his zide, Avore the leäke, upon the rocks, Above the water’s idle shocks, As little plaÿsome weäves did zwim Ageän the water’s windy brim. Out where the lofty tower o’ stwone Did stan’ to years o’ wind an’ zun; An’ where the zwellèn pillars bore A pworch above the heavy door, Wi’ sister sheädes a-reachèn cool Athirt the stwones an’ sparklèn pool. ​I spoke zome word that meäde en smile, O’ girt vo’k’s wealth an’ poor vo’k’s tweil, As if I pin’d, vor want ov greäce, To have a lord’s or squier’s pleäce. “No, no,” he zaid, “what God do zend Is best vor all o’s in the end, An’ all that we do need the mwost Do come to us wi’ leäst o’ cost;—
Why, who could live upon the e’th ’Ithout God’s gïft ov aïr vor breath? Or who could bide below the zun If water didden rise an’ run? An’ who could work below the skies If zun an’ moon did never rise? Zoo aïr an’ water, an’ the light, Be higher gifts, a-reckon’d right, Than all the goold the darksome claÿ Can ever yield to zunny daÿ: But then the aïr is roun’ our heads, Abroad by day, or on our beds; Where land do gi’e us room to bide, Or seas do spread vor ships to ride; An’ He do zend his waters free, Vrom clouds to lands, vrom lands to sea; An’ mornèn light do blush an’ glow, ’Ithout our tweil—’ithout our ho.
“Zoo let us never pine, in sin, Vor gifts that ben’t the best to win; The heaps o’ goold that zome mid pile, Wi’ sleepless nights an’ peaceless tweil; Or manor that mid reach so wide As Blackmwore is vrom zide to zide, Or kingly swaÿ, wi’ life or death, Vor helpless childern ov the e’th: ​Vor theäse ben’t gifts, as He do know, That He in love should vu’st bestow; Or else we should have had our sheäre O’m all wi’ little tweil or ceäre.
“Ov all His choicest gifts, His cry Is, ‘Come, ye moneyless, and buy.’ Zoo blest is he that can but lift His praÿer vor a happy gift.”
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Grammer's Shoes

GRAMMER’S SHOES.
I do seem to zee Grammer as she did use Vor to show us, at Chris’mas, her weddèn shoes, An’ her flat spreadèn bonnet so big an’ roun’ As a girt pewter dish a-turn’d upside down;  When we all did draw near  In a cluster to hear O’ the merry wold soul how she did use To walk an’ to dance wi’ her high-heel shoes.
She’d a gown wi’ girt flowers lik’ hollyhocks, An’ zome stockèns o’ gramfer’s a-knit wì’ clocks, An’ a token she kept under lock an’ key,— A small lock ov his heäir off avore ’t wer grey.  An’ her eyes wer red,  An’ she shook her head, When we’d all a-look’d at it, an’ she did use To lock it away wi’ her weddèn shoes.
She could tell us such teäles about heavy snows, An’ o’ rains an’ o’ floods when the waters rose All up into the housen, an’ carr’d awoy All the bridge wi’ a man an’ his little bwoy;  An’ o’ vog an’ vrost,  An’ o’ vo’k a-lost, An’ o’ peärties at Chris’mas, when she did use Vor to walk hwome wi’ gramfer in high-heel shoes.
Ev’ry Chris’mas she lik’d vor the bells to ring, An’ to have in the zingers to heär em zing The wold carols she heärd many years a-gone, While she warm’d em zome cider avore the bron’;  An’ she’d look an’ smile  At our dancèn, while She did tell how her friends now a-gone did use To reely wi’ her in their high-heel shoes.
​Ah! an’ how she did like vor to deck wi’ red Holly-berries the window an’ wold clock’s head, An’ the clavy wi’ boughs o’ some bright green leaves, An’ to meäke twoast an’ eäle upon Chris’mas eves;  But she’s now, drough greäce,  In a better pleäce, Though we’ll never vorget her, poor soul, nor lose Gramfer’s token ov heäir, nor her weddèn shoes.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Grammer a-crippled

GRAMMER A-CRIPPLED.
“The zunny copse ha’ birds to zing,  The leäze ha’ cows to low, The elem trees ha’ rooks on wing,  The meäds a brook to flow, But I can walk noo mwore, to pass  The drashel out abrode, To wear a path in theäse year’s grass  Or tread the wheelworn road,” Cried Grammer, “then adieu,  O runnèn brooks,  An’ vleèn rooks, I can’t come out to you. If ’tis God’s will, why then ’tis well, That I should bide ’ithin a wall.”
​An’ then the childern, wild wi’ fun,  An’ loud wi’ jaÿvul sounds, Sprung in an’ cried, “We had a run,  A-plaÿèn heäre an’ hounds; But oh! the cowslips where we stopt  In Maÿcreech, on the knap!” An’ vrom their little han’s each dropt  Some cowslips in her lap. Cried Grammer, “Only zee!  I can’t teäke strolls,  An’ little souls Would bring the vields to me. Since ’tis God’s will, an’ mus’ be well That I should bide ’ithin a wall.”
“Oh! there be prison walls to hold  The han’s o’ lawless crimes, An’ there be walls arear’d vor wold  An’ zick in tryèn times; But oh! though low mid slant my ruf,  Though hard my lot mid be, Though dry mid come my daily lwoaf,  Mid mercy leäve me free!” Cried Grammer, “Or adieu  To jaÿ; O grounds,  An’ bird’s gaÿ sounds If I mus’ gi’e up you, Although ’tis well, in God’s good will, That I should bide ’ithin a wall.”
“Oh! then,” we answer’d, “never fret,  If we shall be a-blest, We’ll work vull hard drough het an’ wet  To keep your heart at rest: To woaken chair’s vor you to vill,  For you shall glow the coal, ​An’ when the win’ do whissle sh’ill  We’ll screen it vrom your poll.” Cried Grammer, “God is true.  I can’t but feel  He smote to heal My wounded heart in you; An’ zoo ’tis well, if ’tis His will, That I be here ’ithin a wall.”
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/Hope

CHAPTER V.
A POET'S MIDNIGHT.
Is not the lark companion of the spring?
And should not Hope—that sky-lark of the heart— Bear, with her sunny song, youth company?
Still is its sweetest music poured for love;
And that is not for me: yet will I love,
And hope, though only for her praise and tears;
And they will make the laurel's cold bright leaves
Sweet as the tender myrtle.
Blanchard’s title is:
HOPE
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/Fate

CHAPTER XXXV.
AN EVENING ALONE.
The steps of Fate are dark and terrible; And not here may we trace them to the goal.  If I could doubt the heaven in which I hope, The doubt would vanish, gazing upon life, And seeing what it needs of peace and rest.  Life is but like a journey during night. We toil through gloomy paths of the unknown; Heavy the footsteps are with pitfalls round; And few and faint the stars that guide our way: But, at the last, comes morning; glorious Shines forth the light of day, and so will shine The heaven which is our future and our home.
Blanchard’s title is:
FATE
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/Gentleness Pictured

CHAPTER XXII.
THE JEWELS GIVEN.
A gentle creature was that girl,  Meek, humble, and subdued; Like some lone flower that has grown up  In woodland solitude.
Its soil has had but little care,  Its growth but little praise; And down it droops the timid head  It has not strength to raise.
For other brighter blooms are round,  And they attract the eye; They seem the sunny favourites  Of summer, earth, and sky.
The human and the woodland flower  Hath yet a dearer part,— The perfume of the hidden depths,  The sweetness at the heart.
Blanchard’s title is:
GENTLENESS PICTURED
Also published as ‘The Woodland Flower’ in ‘Flowers; their moral, language and poetry’, ed. by H.G. Adams, 1844
In the Bouquet (1846), under (Violet) Viola as Modesty
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/Confidence

CHAPTER XXIV.
CONFIDENCE.
Fear not to trust her destiny with me: I can remember, in my early youth, Wandering amid our old ancestral woods, I found an unfledged dove upon the ground. I took the callow creature to my care, And fain had given it to its nest again: That could not be, and so I made its home In my affection, and my constant care. I made its cage of osier-boughs, and hung A wreath of early leaves and woodland flowers: I hung it in the sun; and, when the wind Blew from the cold and bitter east, 'twas screened With care that never knew forgetfulness. I loved it, for I pitied it, and knew Its sole dependence was upon my love.
In Blanchard
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/Dangers Faced

CHAPTER XX.
THE MARRIAGE MORNING.
My heart is filled with bitter thought,
 My eyes would fain shed tears;
I have been thinking upon past,
 And upon future years.
Years past—why should I stir the depths
 Beneath their troubled stream?
And years that are as yet to come,
 Of them I dread to dream.
Yet wherefore pause upon our way?
 'Tis best to hurry on;
For half the dangers that we fear,
 We face them, and they're gone.
Blanchard’s title is:
DANGERS FACED
In The New York Mirror (10th March 1838), as The Past and Future
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/Dear Gifts

CHAPTER XXVIII.
LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER MEREDITH.
Life's best gifts are bought dearly. Wealth is won By years of toil, and often comes too late: With pleasure comes satiety; and pomp Is compassed round with vexing vanities: And genius, earth's most glorious gift, that lasts When all beside is perished in the dust— How bitter is the suffering it endures! How dark the penalty that it exacts!
Blanchard’s title is:
DEAR GIFTS
In The New York Mirror (24th February 1838), as Life’s Gifts
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/Doubt

CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE END OF DOUBT.
I tell thee death were far more merciful Than such a blow. It is death to the heart; Death to its first affections, its sweet hopes; The young religion of its guileless faith. Henceforth the well is troubled at the spring; The waves run clear no longer; there is doubt To shut out happiness—perpetual shade; Which, if the sunshine penetrate, 'tis dim, And broken ere it reach the stream below.
Blanchard’s title is:
DOUBT
(In The New York Mirror (10th March 1838), as The End of Doubt)
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/Bridal Flowers

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE MARRIAGE.
Bind the white orange-flowers in her hair,  Soft be their shadow, soft and somewhat pale— For they are omens. Many anxious years  Are on the wreath that bends the bridal veil.
The maiden leaves her childhood and her home,  All that the past has known of happy hours— Perhaps her happiest ones. Well may there be  A faint wan colour on those orange-flowers:
For they are pale as hope, and hope is pale  With earnest watching over future years; With all the promise of their loveliness,  The bride and morning bathe their wreath with tears.
Blanchard’s title is:
BRIDAL FLOWERS
In The New York Mirror (10th March 1838), as A Bride
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/Experience Too Late

CHAPTER XV.
THE CONSENT.
It is the past that maketh my despair;
The dark, the sad, the irrevocable past.
Alas! why should our lot in life be made,
Before we know that life? Experience comes,
But comes too late. If I could now recall
All that I now regret, how different
Would be my choice! at best a choice of ill;
But better than my miserable past.
Loathed, yet despised, why must I think of it?
Blanchard’s title is:
EXPERIENCE TOO LATE
In The New York Mirror (3rd March 1838), as Remorse
In the Bouquet (1846), under (Lupine) Lupinus hirsutus as Dejection, Sorrow
The first two lines appear as a quotation (signed L. E. L.) at the beginning of Francesca Carrara, Volume 3. However, I cannot find any trace of it earlier than that.
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/Faith Ill Requited

CHAPTER XXXIV.
CONFIDENCE.
I feel the presence of my own despair; It darkens round me palpable and vast. I gave my heart unconsciously; it filled With love as flowers are filled with early dew, And with the light of morning. ***** If he be false, he who appeared so true, Can there be any further truth in life, When falsehood wears such seeming?
Blanchard’s title is:
FAITH ILL REQUITED
# Poems (Jenkins)

​Poems by Elinor Jenkins
POEMS By ELINOR JENKINS
GARDEN CITYNEW YORK DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1916
Copyright, 1916, Doubleday, Page & Company ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
DEDICATION
To
H. S. T.
15·viii·15
​Poems by Elinor Jenkins
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N . Y.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems (Jackson)/Œnone

["Paris, the son of Priam, was wounded by one of the poisoned arrows of Hercules that Philoctetes bore to the siege of Troy, whereupon he had himself borne up into Ida, that he might see the nymph Œnone, whom he once had loved, because she who knew many secret things alone could heal him; but when he had seen her and spoken with her, she would deal with the matter in no wise, whereupon Pans died of that hurt."]
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Slow to come, quick agone

SLOW TO COME, QUICK AGONE.
Ah! there’s a house that I do know Besouth o’ yonder trees, Where northern winds can hardly blow But in a softest breeze. An’ there woonce sounded zongs an’ teäles Vrom vaïce o’ maïd or youth, An’ sweeter than the nightèngeäle’s Above the copses lewth.
How swiftly there did run the brooks, How swift war winds in flight, How swiftly to their roost the rooks Did vlee o’er head at night. Though slow did seem to us the peäce O’ comèn days a-head, That now do seem as in a reäce Wi’ aïr-birds to ha’ vled.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Sound o' Water

SOUND O’ WATER.
I born in town! oh no, my dawn O’ life broke here beside theäse lawn; Not where pent aïr do roll along, In darkness drough the wall-bound drong, An’ never bring the goo-coo’s zong, Nor sweets o’ blossoms in the hedge, Or bendèn rush, or sheenèn zedge,  Or sounds o’ flowèn water.
The aïr that I’ve a-breath’d did sheäke The draps o’ rain upon the breäke, An’ bear aloft the swingèn lark, An’ huffle roun’ the elem’s bark, In boughy grove, an’ woody park, An’ brought us down the dewy dells, The high-wound zongs o’ nightingeäles,  An’ sounds o’ flowèn water.
An’ when the zun, wi’ vi’ry rim, ’S a-zinkèn low, an’ wearèn dim, Here I, a-most too tired to stand, Do leäve my work that’s under hand In pathless wood or oben land, To rest ’ithin my thatchèn oves, Wi’ ruslèn win’s in leafy groves,  An’ sounds o’ flowèn water.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Sweet Music in the Wind

SWEET MUSIC IN THE WIND.
When evenèn is a-drawèn in, I’ll steal vrom others’ naïsy din; An’ where the whirlèn brook do roll Below the walnut-tree, I’ll stroll An’ think o’ thee wi’ all my soul, Dear Jenny; while the sound o’ bells Do vlee along wi’ mwoansome zwells,  Sweet music in the wind!
​I’ll think how in the rushy leäze O’ zunny evenèns jis’ lik’ theäse, In happy times I us’d to zee Thy comely sheäpe about the tree, Wi’ païl a-held avore thy knee; An’ lissen’d to thy merry zong That at a distance come along,  Sweet music in the wind!
An’ when wi’ me you walk’d about O’ Zundays, after church wer out. Wi’ hangèn eärm an’ modest look; Or zittèn in some woody nook We lissen’d to the leaves that shook Upon the poplars straïght an’ tall, Or rottle o’ the watervall,  Sweet music in the wind!
An’ when the plaÿvul aïr do vlee, O’ moonlight nights, vrom tree to tree, Or whirl upon the sheäkèn grass, Or rottle at my window glass: Do seem,—as I do hear it pass,— As if thy vaïce did come to tell Me where thy happy soul do dwell,  Sweet music in the wind!
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Bachelor

THE BACHELOR.
No! I don’t begrudge en his life,  Nor his goold, nor his housen, nor lands; Teäke all o’t, an’ gi’e me my wife,  A wife’s be the cheapest ov hands. ​ Lie alwone! sigh alwone! die alwone!  Then be vorgot.  No! I be content wi’ my lot.
Ah! where be the vingers so feäir,  Vor to pat en so soft on the feäce, To mend ev’ry stitch that do tear,  An’ keep ev’ry button in pleäce?  Crack a-tore! brack a-tore! back a-tore!  Buttons a-vled!  Vor want ov a wife wi’ her thread.
Ah! where is the sweet-perty head  That do nod till he’s gone out o’ zight? An’ where be the two eärms a-spread,  To show en he’s welcome at night?  Dine alwone! pine alwone! whine alwone!  Oh! what a life!  I’ll have a friend in a wife.
An’ when vrom a meetèn o’ me’th  Each husban’ do leäd hwome his bride, Then he do slink hwome to his he’th,  Wi’ his eärm a-hung down his cwold zide.  Slinkèn on! blinkèn on! thinkèn on!  Gloomy an’ glum;  Nothèn but dullness to come.
An’ when he do onlock his door,  Do rumble as hollow’s a drum, An’ the veäries a-hid roun’ the vloor,  Do grin vor to see en so glum.  Keep alwone! sleep alwone! weep alwone!  There let en bide,  I’ll have a wife at my zide.
​But when he’s a-laid on his bed  In a zickness, O, what wull he do! Vor the hands that would lift up his head,  An’ sheäke up his pillor anew.  Ills to come! pills to come! bills to come!  Noo soul to sheäre  The trials the poor wratch must bear.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Bells ov Alderburnham

THE BELLS OV ALDERBURNHAM.
While now upon the win’ do zwell  The church-bells’ evenèn peal, O, Along the bottom, who can tell  How touch’d my heart do veel, O. To hear ageän, as woonce they rung In holidays when I wer young,  Wi’ merry sound  A-ringèn round,  The bells ov Alderburnham.
Vor when they rung their gaÿest peals  O’ zome sweet day o’ rest, O, We all did ramble drough the viels,  A-dress’d in all our best, O; An’ at the bridge or roarèn weir, Or in the wood, or in the gleäre  Ov open ground,  Did hear ring round  The bells ov Alderburnham.
They bells, that now do ring above  The young brides at church-door, O, Woonce rung to bless their mother’s love,  When they were brides avore, O. ​An’ sons in tow’r do still ring on The merry peals o’ fathers gone,  Noo mwore to sound,  Or hear ring round,  The bells ov Alderburnham.
Ov happy peäirs, how soon be zome  A-wedded an’ a-peärted! Vor woone ov jaÿ, what peals mid come  To zome o’s broken-hearted! The stronger mid the sooner die, The gaÿer mid the sooner sigh;  An’ who do know  What grief’s below  The bells ov Alderburnham!
But still ’tis happiness to know  That there’s a God above us; An’ he, by day an’ night, do ho  Vor all ov us, an’ love us, An’ call us to His house, to heal Our hearts, by his own Zunday peal  Ov bells a-rung  Vor wold an’ young.  The bells ov Alderburnham.