Vor I've a-vound 'ithin her door,
Feäir Ellen Dare o' Lindenore.
ME'TH BELOW THE TREE.
O when theäse elems' crooked boughs,
A'most too thin to sheäde the cows,
Did slowly swing above the grass
As winds o' Spring did softly pass,
An' zunlight show'd the shiftèn sheäde,
While youthful me'th wi' laughter loud,