An' win' do come vrom copse wi' smells
O' grægles wi' their hangèn bells!
Though time do dreve me on, my mind
Do turn in love to thee behind,
The seäme's a bulrush that's a-shook
By wind a-blowèn up the brook:
The curlèn stream would dreve en down,
But plaÿsome aïr do turn en roun',
An' meäke en seem to bend wi' love
To zunny hollows up above.