An' trimm'd upon the house's zide.
The rwose mid be the maïdens' pride,
But still the ivy's wild an' free;
An' what is all that life can gi'e,
'Ithout a free light heart, John?
The creepèn sheäde mid steal too soon
Upon the rwose in afternoon;
But here the zun do drow his het
Vrom when do rise till when do zet,
To dry the leaves the raïn do wet.