Classic Poem

The path crossed green closes and went down the lane
Where the black snail reposes and the slime marks remain
The hook prickle bramble Arch's over the grass
And tears in her ramble The gown o' the Lass.

The Wind in her ribbons green Wantoned and played
And danced round as they'd been i' love wi' the maid
Fine straw was her bonnet her cheek was the rose
Passing bee settled on it by mistake I suppose.

Blue skippers in sunny hours open and shut
Where wormwood and grunsel flowers by the cart ruts
Where bees while birds whistle Sing all the lane down
And passes the thistle For the flowers on her gown.

The footpath all noon day We paced i' the lane
The day it was Sunday The bells rung again
The bay Mare was snorting Beside of her foal
Love from that days courting Burns my heart to a coal.