Below the woak-trees in the lew,
In merry geämes an' fun
That meäde us skip an' run,
Wi' burnèn zun, an' sky o' blue.
But still there come a scud that drove
The titt'rèn maïdens vrom the grove;
An' there a-left wer flow'ry mound,
'Ithout a vaïce, 'ithout a sound,
Unless the aïr did blow,
Drough ruslèn leaves, an' drow,