Down to Coomb, I should zee a wold friend,

Vor a plaÿmeäte o' mine wer at hwome,

An' would staÿ till another week's end.

At the dear pworchèd door, could I dare

To zee Meäry a-married awaÿ!

On the flower-not, now all a-trod

Stwony hard, the green grass wer a-spread,

An' the long-slighted woodbine did nod

Vrom the wall, wi' a loose-hangèn head.

An' the martin's clay nest wer a-hung