Classic Poem

“T HE zunny copse ha' birds to zing,
The leäze ha' cows to low,
The elem trees ha' rooks on wing,
The meäds a brook to flow,
But I can walk noo mwore, to pass
The drashel out abrode,
To wear a path in theäse year's grass
Or tread the wheelworn road,”
Cried Grammer, “then adieu,
O runnèn brooks,
An' vleèn rooks,
I can't come out to you.
If 'tis God's will, why then 'tis well,
That I should bide 'ithin a wall.”

An' then the childern, wild wi' fun,
An' loud wi' jaÿvul sounds,
Sprung in an' cried, “We had a run,
A-plaÿèn heäre an' hounds;
But oh! the cowslips where we stopt
In Maÿcreech, on the knap!”
An' vrom their little han's each dropt
Some cowslips in her lap.
Cried Grammer, “Only zee!
I can't teäke strolls,
An' little souls
Would bring the vields to me
Since 'tis God's will, an' mus' be well
That I should bide 'ithin a wall.”

“Oh! there be prison walls to hold
The han's o' lawless crimes,
An' there be walls arear'd vor wold
An' zick in tryèn times;
But oh! though low mid slant my ruf,
Though hard my lot mid be,
Though dry mid come my daily lwoaf,
Mid mercy leäve me free!”
Cried Grammer, “Or adieu
To jaÿ; O grounds,
An' bird's gaÿ sounds
If I mus' gi'e up you,
Although 'tis well, in God's good will,
That I should bide 'ithin a wall.”

“Oh! then,” we answer'd, “never fret,
If we shall be a-blest,
We'll work vull hard drough het an' wet
To keep your heart at rest:
To woaken chair's vor you to vill,
For you shall glow the coal,
An' when the win' do whissle sh'ill
We'll screen it vrom your poll.”
Cried Grammer, “God is true.
I can't but feel
He smote to heal
My wounded heart in you;
An' zoo 'tis well, if 'tis His will,
That I be here 'ithin a wall.”