The grass-bleädes wi' her tiny shoes,
That pass'd each other, left an' right.
In steps a'most too quick vor zight.
But she'd a-left her mother's door
A-bearèn vrom her little store
Her father's welcome bit o' food,
Where he wer out at work in wood;
An' she wer bless'd wi' mwore than zwome—
A father out, an' mother hwome.
An' there, a-vell'd 'ithin the copse,