Classic Poem

Oh! aye! the spring 'ithin the leäne,
A-leäden down to Lyddan Brook;
An' still a-nesslen in his nook,
As weeks do pass, an' moons do weäne.
Nwone the drier,
Nwone the higher,
Nwone the nigher to the door
Where we did live so long avore.

An' oh! what vo'k his mossy brim
Ha' gathered in the run o' time!
The wife a-blushen in her prime;
The widow wi' her eyezight dim;
Maidens dippen,
Children sippen,
Water drippen, at the cool
Dark wallen ov the little pool.

Behind the spring do lie the lands
My father till'd, vrom Spring to Spring,
A-waiten on vor time to bring
The crops to paÿè his weary hands.
Wheat a-growen,
Beäns a-blowen,
Grass vor mowen, where the bridge
Do leäd to Ryall's on the ridge.

But who do know when liv'd an' died
The squier o' the mwoldren hall;
That lined en wi' a stwonen wall,
An' steän'd so cleän his wat'ry zide?
We behind en,
Now can't vind en,
But do mind en, an' do thank
His meäker vor his little tank.