Wi' lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone,
Do zee their goodness, but do vind
All else a-stealèn out o' mind;
As air do meäke the vurthest land
Look feäirer than the vield at hand,
An' zoo, as time do slowly pass,
So still's a sheäde upon the grass,
Its wid'nèn speäce do slowly shed
A glory roun' the wold vo'k dead.
An' what if good vo'ks' life o' breath