The brook that still do dreve our mills,
The roads a-climèn up the brows
O' knaps, a-screen'd by meäple boughs,
Wer all a-mark'd in sheäde an' light
Avore our wolder fathers' zight,
In zunny days, a-gied their hands
For happy work, a-tillèn lands,
That now do yield their childern bread
Till they do rest wi' wold vo'k dead.
But livèn vo'k, a-grievèn on,