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,