Classic Poem

I zot a little while bezide
A greystwon'd rock—the rugged brow
Ov our clear stream, that there do glide
By leänen tree an' hangen bough—
In Fall, when open aïr wer cool,
An' zwallows had a-left the pool,
An' gleädes in long-cast sheädes did lie
Below the yet clear sky.

There leaves, that in the spring wer gaÿ,
Wer now by heästy winds a-took,
A-wither'd, off their sheäkèn spraÿ,
An' bore away along the brook,
Without a day o' rest a-vound
Upon their own trees' quiet ground;
But cast away, by blast an' weäve,
To lie in zome chance greäve.

When zickness smote poor Meäry low,
They took her vrom her life's wold ground
To poorhouse, where sad days could show
Her bread, but not her friends all round.
She vell, though not to lie at rest,
At theäse wold pleäce she liked the best,
A-zent away, as went on weäves
The leaves to distant greäves.