Classic Poem

Ah! what did Meäster Collins cry,
A-zee-en zome young vo'k so spry?
‘What loven vorethought God do teäke
Avore-hand vor the body's seäke!
Vor life's ten thousand deeds a-lenden
Comely lim's wi' ease a-benden,
Letten naught that's harmvul linger
On a spot, but where the vinger
There mid reach it off, allaÿen
All the evil ov its staÿen:
All vrom Providence above,
Must ever show
To souls below,
That God is wisdom, and is love.’

‘Aye, aye,’ I cried, ‘'tis true;’ an' then
The goodman answer'd me ageän.
‘Vor though our own fond souls do teäke
Such leäbour vor the lims' dear seäke,
A-casten roun' the shoulders' whiteness
Comely robes o' warmth an' brightness,
Clothen vrom the cwold their beäreness,
Moven what mid dim their feäirness,
An' keepen o' the veet vrom ruen
Wound an' bruise, by comely shooen,
Still the good our minds ha' wrought
Vrom God's a-gaïn'd,
Vor He ordain'd
By His good thought our own good thought.’