Classic Poem

The sky wer clear, the zunsheen glow'd
On droopen flowers drough the day,
As I did beät the dousty road
Vrom hinder hills, a-feäden gray;
Drough hollows up the hills,
Vrom knaps along by mills,
Vrom mills by churches tow'rs, wi' bells
That twold the hours to woody dells.

An' when the winden road do guide
The thirsty vootman where mid flow
The water vrom a rock bezide
His vootsteps, in a sheenen bow;
The hand a-hollow'd up
Do beät a goolden cup,
To catch an' drink it, bright an' cool,
A-vallen light 'ithin the pool.

Zoo when, at last, I hung my head
Wi' thirsty lips a-burnen dry,
I come bezide a river-bed
Where water flow'd so blue's the sky;
An' there I meäde me up
O' coltsvoot leaf a cup,
Where water vrom his lip o' gray,
Wer sweet to sip thik burnen day.

But when our work is right, a jaÿè
Do come to bless us in its train,
An' hardships ha' zome good to paÿè
The thoughtvul soul vor all their päin:
The het do sweeten sheäde,
An' weary lim's ha' meäde
A bed o' slumber, still an' sound,
By woody hill or grassy mound.

An' while I zot in sweet delaÿè
Below an elem on a hill,
Where boughs a-halfwaÿè up did swaÿè
In sheädes o' lim's above em still,
An' blue sky show'd between
The flutt'ren leäves o' green;
I woulden gi'e that gloom an' sheäde
Vor any room that weälth ha' meäde.

But oh! that vo'k that have the roads
Where weary-vooted souls do pass,
Would leäve bezide the stwone vor lwoads,
A little strip vor zummer grass;
That when the stwones do bruise
An' burn an' gall our tooes,
We then mid cool our veet on beds
O' wild-thyme sweet, or deäisy-heads.