Classic Poem

Where the zun did glow warm vrom his height,
On the vo'k, at their work, in white sleeves;
An' the goold-banded bee wer in flight,
Wi' the birds that did flit by the leaves;
There my two little childern did run,
An' did rile, an' did roll, in their fun:
An' did clips, in their hands,
Stick or stwone vor their plaÿ:
In their hands, that had little a-grown;
Vor their plaÿ, wi' a stick or a stwone.

As the zun down his high zummer bow
To the west o' the orcha'd did vall,
He did leäve the brown bee-hives, in row,
In the sheäde o' the houses grey wall;
An' the flowers, a-sheenen in bloom,
Zome a-lighted, an' zome in the gloom,
To the cool o' the aïr,
An' the damp o' the dew:
O' the aïr, vrom the apple-tree sheädes,
An' the dew, on the grasses' green bleädes.

An' there wer my orcha'd a-tined
Wi' a hedge on a steep-zided bank,
Where the ivy did twine roun' the rind
O' the wood-stems, an' trees in high rank,
Vor to keep out the wide-lipped cow,
An' the stiff-snouted pigs, that would plough
Up the nesh-bleäded grass,
By the young apple-trees:
The grass, a-grown up to good height,
By the trees, that wi' blooth wer all white.

O when is a father's good time,
That do paÿ vor his tweil wi' mwost jaÿ?
Is it when he's a-spenden his prime
Vor his childern, still young in their plaÿ?
Or when they've a-grown to their height,
An' a-gone vrom his hearen an' zight,
Wi' their mother's woone vaïce
A-left hwome at the door:
A vaïce, that noo longer do zing,
At the door, that mwore seldom do swing?