A warm-aïr'd holiday in Spring,
We stroll'd, 'ithout a ceäre or frown,
Up roun' the down at Meldonley;
An' where the hawthorn-tree did stand
Alwone, but still wi' mwore at hand,
We zot wi' sheädes o' clouds on high
A-flittèn by, at Meldonley.
An' there, the while the tree did sheäde
Their gigglèn heads, my knife's keen bleäde
Carved out, in turf avore my knee,