Among the dew, in mornèn light
An' woone sweet bud her han' did pleäce
Up where did droop the Seävior's feäce;
An' two she zet a-bloomèn bright,
Where reach'd His hands o' left an' right;
Two mwore feäir blossoms, crimson dyed,
Did mark the pleäces ov his veet,
An' woone did lie, a-smellèn sweet,
Up where the spear did wound the zide
Ov Him that is the life ov all