Wer vurrows a-cut down, by men out at plough,
So straïght as the zunbeams, a-shot drough the bough
O' the tree at the turn o' the days.
Then the boomèn wold clock in the tower did mark
His vive hours, avore the cool evenèn wer dark,
An' ivy did glitter a-clung round the bark
O' the tree, at the turn o' the days.
An' womèn a-fraïd o' the road in the night,
Wer a-heästenèn on to reach hwome by the light,
A-castèn long sheädes on the road, a-dried white,