She blush'd bezide the yollow light

O' bleäzèn brands, while winds o' night

Do sheäke the Winter's Willow.

An' if there's readship in her smile,

She don't begrudge to speäre, O,

To zomebody, a little while,

The empty woaken chair, O;

An' if I've luck upon my zide,

Why, I do think she'll be my bride

Avore the leaves ha' twice a-died