Wi' flowèn heäir, an' frocks o' white.
"An' here," good Meäster Collins cried,
"You'll zee a creädle at her zide,
An' there's her child, a-lyèn deep
'Ithin it, an' a-gone to sleep,
Wi' little eyelashes a-met
In fellow streäks, as black as jet;
The while her needle, over head,
Do nimbly leäd the snow-white thread,
To zew a robe her love do meäke