Classic Poem

At John's, up on Zand-hill, 'tis healthy an' dry,
Though I midden like it, i'-may-be, not I.
Where vir-trees do spindle, wi' teäperen tops,
Vrom leafy-leav'd vern, in the cwold-stunted copse,
An' under sharp vuzzen, all yollow in blooth,
The sky-lark's brown nest is a-hid in the lewth;
An' high on the cliff, where noo voot ever wore
A path to the drashold, 's the zandmartin's door,
On waterless heights, where thewind do stream by,
A-sighen by ivy, avore the blue sky.

I do think I could teäke vor the best o' the two
My timber-screen'd hwome, here below in the lew;
Where rooks be a-builden in high elem boughs
An' broadheaded woaks be a sheäde vor the cows;
Where greyheaded withies do leän by the feäce
O' greylighted waters, a-slackenen their peäce,
An' only the maïdens an' swans be in white,
Like snow on grey moss in the mid-winter's light,
An' wind do dreve on, wi' a low-russlen sound,
By weäves on the water, an' grass on the ground.