Such venom vrom thy rocky spring;
Nor could it come in zummer blights,
Or reävèn storms o' winter nights,
Or in the cloud an' viry stroke
O' thunder that do split the woak.
O valley dear! I wish that I
'D a-liv'd in former times, to die
Wi' all the happy souls that trod
Thy turf in peäce, an' died to God;
Or gone wi' them that laugh'd an' zung