Classic Poem

When wintry weather's all a-done,
An' brooks do sparkle in the zun,
An' nâisy-builden rooks do vlee
Wi' sticks toward their elem tree;
When birds do zing, an' we can zee
— Upon the boughs the buds o' spring, —
— Then I'm as happy as a king,
— — A-vield wi' health an' zunsheen.

Vor then the cowslip's hangen flower
A-wetted in the zunny shower,
Do grow wi' vi'lets, sweet o' smell,
Bezide the wood-screened graegle's bell;
Where drushes' aggs, wi' sky-blue shell,
— Do lie in mossy nest among
— The thorns, while they do zing their zong
— — At evenen in the zunsheen.

An' God do meäke his win' to blow
An' rain to vall vor high an' low,
An' bid his mornen zun to rise
Vor all alike, an' groun' an' skies
Ha' colors vor the poor man's eyes:
— An' in our trials He is near,
— To hear our mwoan an' zee our tear,
— — An' turn our clouds to zunsheen.

An' many times when I do vind
Things all goo wrong, an' v'ok unkind,
To zee the happy veeden herds,
An' hear the zingen o' the birds,
Do soothe my sorrow mwore than words;
— Vor I do zee that 'tis our sin
— Do meäke woone's soul so dark 'ithin,
— — When God would gi'e woone zunsheen.

When wintry weather's all a-done,
An' brooks do sparkle in the zun,
An' nâisy-builden rooks do vlee
Wi' sticks toward their elem tree;
When birds do zing, an' we can zee
— Upon the boughs the buds o' spring, —
— Then I'm as happy as a king,
— — A-vield wi' health an' zunsheen.

Vor then the cowslip's hangen flower
A-wetted in the zunny shower,
Do grow wi' vi'lets, sweet o' smell,
Bezide the wood-screened graegle's bell;
Where drushes' aggs, wi' sky-blue shell,
— Do lie in mossy nest among
— The thorns, while they do zing their zong
— — At evenen in the zunsheen.

An' God do meäke his win' to blow
An' rain to vall vor high an' low,
An' bid his mornen zun to rise
Vor all alike, an' groun' an' skies
Ha' colors vor the poor man's eyes:
— An' in our trials He is near,
— To hear our mwoan an' zee our tear,
— — An' turn our clouds to zunsheen.

An' many times when I do vind
Things all goo wrong, an' v'ok unkind,
To zee the happy veeden herds,
An' hear the zingen o' the birds,
Do soothe my sorrow mwore than words;
— Vor I do zee that 'tis our sin
— Do meäke woone's soul so dark 'ithin,
— — When God would gi'e woone zunsheen.