Upon the boughy hedge's zide,

We haymeäkers, in snow-white sleeves,

Do work in sheädes o' quiv'rèn leaves,

In afternoon, a-liftèn high

Our reäkes avore the viery sky,

A-reäken up the hay a-dried

By day, in lwongsome weäles, to bide

In chilly dew below the moon,

O' shorten'd nights in zultry June.

An' there the brook do softly flow