Vrom night-sleep's blackness, vull o' sprackness,

Out abroad to tweil ageän.

Where the vaïce o' the winds is mildest,

In the plaïn, their stroke is keen;

Where their dreatnèn vaïce is wildest,

In the grove, the grove's our screen.

An' where the worold in their strife

Do dreatèn mwost our tweilsome life,

Why there Almighty ceäre mid cast

A better screen ageän the blast.