Classic Poem

No! Nwone to measure days an' hours
Would teäke uneven winds an' showers,
Nor brook, that down a pinched bed
Is swift, an' slow wi' room to spread,
But by the aïrlightnen zun,
That ever evenly do run
The sky, his zeven times a week.

At Woodcombe, down the woody mile
O' slopen paths, vrom stile to stile,
There come at times to Jenny's geäte
Zome smart young man, her brother's meäte.
But Robert, true's the zun above,
Come evenly wi' steadvast love
His chosen evenens, twice a week.

An' zome mid mark their days by hounds
In cry drough timber-studded grounds,
When vo'k wi' hand avore their eyes,
Or hand-back'd ears, do watch em rise,
Wi' men, in lessnen specks o' red,
As swift as cloud-sheädes on ahead,
At hunten meetens week by week.

An' zome by reäces, or by shows
O' riflemen in longsome rows,
Wi' smoke o' volleys, thunder-loud,
A-floaten off, a long grey cloud;
An' zome by balls o' dancen peäirs,
Or market days, or thronged feäirs:
But Jeäne by evenens twice a week.

An' zome do vind the year too soon
A-weänen vrom em, moon by moon,
An' sigh to zee the zummer blooth
A-feäden wi' their bloom o' youth.
But Jeäne, poor maïd, did little heed
How vast her moons o' youth did speed
Wi' Henry's evenens twice a week.

But jaÿs do seem a-gone too vast
When time do bring us on our last;
An' Robert come his last sweet time,
An' died o' zickness in his prime,
An' now do sleep below the tow'r
Wi' bells a-sounded out his hour
O' meeten, zeven times a week.