Classic Poem

When high-flown larks wer on the wing,
A warm-air'd holiday in Spring,
We stroll'd, 'ithout a ceäre or frown,
Up roun' the down at Meldonley;
An' where the hawthorn-tree did stand
Alwone, but still wi' mwore at hand,
We zot wi' sheädes o' clouds on high
A-flittèn by, at Meldonley.

An' there, the while the tree did sheäde
Their gigglèn heads, my knife's keen bleäde
Carved out, in turf avore my knee,
J. L., T. D., at Meldonley.
'Twer Jessie Lee J. L. did meän,
T. D. did stan' vor Thomas Deäne;
The “L” I scratch'd but slight, vor he
Mid soon be D, at Meldonley.

An' when the vields o' wheat did spread
Vrom hedge to hedge in sheets o' red,
An' bennets wer a-sheäkèn brown,
Upon the down at Meldonley,
We stroll'd ageän along the hill,
An' at the hawthorn-tree stood still,
To zee J. L. vor Jessie Lee,
An' my T. D., at Meldonley.

The grey-poll'd bennet-stems did hem
Each half-hid letter's zunken rim,
By leädy's-vingers that did spread
In yollow red, at Meldonley.
An' heärebells there wi' light blue bell
Shook soundless on the letter L,
To ment the bells when L vor Lee
Become a D at Meldonley.

Vor Jessie, now my wife, do strive
Wi' me in life, an' we do thrive;
Two sleek-heäired meäres do sprackly pull
My waggon vull, at Meldonley;
An' small-hoof'd sheep, in vleeces white,
Wi' quickly-pankèn zides, do bite
My thymy grass, a-mark'd vor me
In black, T.D., at Meldonley.