Classic Poem

As along by the wood o' rustlen beech
An' whisperen pine, without a breach,
I went, where the gravel road did reach
Vor vo'k on their way, a-riden
Abroad vrom their pleäce o' biden,

A squire that rode a meäre milk-white
Come on wi' a leädy feäir to zight,
A-glitt'ren wi' goold, in blue bedight,
On a mettlesome baÿ a-riden,
Come vrom their pleäce o' biden.

Vor all I could tell, the woody ground,
That then wi' their hosses' hoofs did sound,
Wer all their own land to ramble round
A half o' the day, a-riden
Still near to their pleäce o' biden.

But then, on a poney's trippen peäce,
There come on a maïd wi' sweetest feäce,
In brown, wi' a hood o' grey, to treäce
The roadway, so gaÿ a-riden;
But where wer her pleäce o' biden?

Below at the mill, the brook's low shore?
Or else at the wheelwright's païnt-streäk'd door?
Or else at the deäiry's well-scour'd vloor,
To finish her day o' riden,
A-come to her pleäce o' biden?

I never would ceäre vor goold or land,
But only, if I'd her heart an' hand,
To have a small steäble, where mid stand
Her poney, wi' haÿ, vor riden,
If mine wer her pleäce o' biden.