A-windèn roun' in knots an' wheels.
"Brisk, brisk,"—the maïdens cried;
"Frisk, frisk,"—the men replied;
"Quick, quick,—there wi' your fiddle-stick,"
Cried merry Bleäke o' Blackmwore.
An' when the morrow's zun did sheen,
John Bleäke beheld, wi' jaÿ an' pride,
His brickèn house, an' pworch, an' green,
Above the Stour's rushy zide.
The zwallows left the lwonesome groves,