Above the grey-grow'd thistle rings,
An' deäisy-buds, the lark, in flight,
Did zing a-loft, wi' flappèn wings,
Tho' mwore in heärèn than in zight;
The while my bwoys, in plaÿvul me'th,
Did run till they wer out o' breath.
Then woone, wi' han'-besheäded eyes,
A-stoppèn still, as he did run,
Look'd up to zee the lark arise
A-zingèn to the high-gone zun;