Classic Poem

The gather'd clouds, a-hangen low,
Do meäke the woody ridge look dim;
An' rain-vill'd streams do brisker flow,
Arisen higher to their brim.
In the tree, vrom lim' to lim',
Leaves do drop
Vrom the top, all slowly down,
Yollow, to the gloomy groun'.

The rick's a-tipp'd an' weather-brown'd,
An' thatch'd wi' zedge a-dried an' dead;
An' orcha'd apples, red half round,
Have all a-happer'd down, a-shed
Underneath the trees' wide head.
Ladders long,
Rong by rong, to clim' the tall
Trees, be hung upon the wall.

The crumpled leaves be now a-shed
In mornen winds a-blowen keen;
When they wer green the moss wer dead,
Now they be dead the moss is green.
Low the evenen zun do sheen
By the boughs,
Where the cows do swing their tails
Over the merry milkers' pails.