Aloft, above the keen-aïr'd vield,
While night bedimm'd the rus'lèn copse,
An' darken'd all the ridges' tops,
The hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung
Wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young.
There, on the he'th's well-hetted ground,
Hallow'd by times o' zittèn round,
The brimvul mug o' cider stood
An' hiss'd avore the bleäzèn wood;
An' zome, a-zittèn knee by knee,