An' she press'd en ageän her warm bosom so tight,
An' she rock'd en so sorrowfully;
An' there laid a-nestlèn the poor little bwoy,
Till his struggles grew weak, an' his cries died awoy.
An' the moon wer a-sheenèn down into the pleäce,
(Under the dark elem tree),
An' his mother could zee that his lips an' his feäce
Wer so white as cleän axen could be;
An' her tongue wer a-tied an' her still heart did zwell,
Till her senses come back wi' the vu'st tear that vell.