When mornèn winds, a-blowèn high,
Do zweep the clouds vrom all the sky,
An' laurel-leaves do glitter bright,
The while the newly broken light
Do brighten up, avore our view,
The vields wi' green, an' hills wi' blue;
What then can highten to my eyes
The cheerful feäce ov e'th an' skies,
But Meäry's smile, o' Morey's Mill,
My rwose o' Mowy Lea.
An' when, at last, the evenèn dews
Do now begin to wet our shoes;
An' night's a-ridèn to the west,
To stop our work, an' gi'e us rest,
Oh! let the candle's ruddy gleäre
But brighten up her sheenèn heäir;
Or else, as she do walk abroad,
Let moonlight show, upon the road,
My Meäry's smile, o' Morey's Mill,
My rwose o' Mowy Lea.
An' O! mid never tears come on,
To wash her feäce's blushes wan,
Nor kill her smiles that now do plaÿ
Like sparklèn weäves in zunny Maÿ;
But mid she still, vor all she's gone
Vrom souls she now do smile upon,
Show others they can vind woone jaÿ
To turn the hardest work to plaÿ.
My Meäry's smile, o' Morey's Mill,
My rwose o' Mowy Lea.