In stubble vields a-feädèn white;
Or he could zee the pheasant strut
In sheädy woods, wi' païnted cwoat;
Or long-tongued dogs did love to run
Among the leaves, bezide his gun;
We didden want vor call to dwell
At hwome in peace in Culver Dell.
But now I hope his kindly feäce
Is gone to vind a better pleäce;
But still, wi' vo'k a-left behind