When Pentridge House wer still the nest
O' souls that now ha' better rest,
Avore the viër burnt to ground
His beams an' walls, that then wer sound,
'Ithin a naïl-bestudded door,
An' passage wi' a stwonèn vloor,
There spread the hall, where zun-light shone
In drough a window freäm'd wi' stwone.
A clavy-beam o' sheenèn woak
Did span the he'th wi' twistèn smoke,
Where fleämes did shoot in yollow streaks,
Above the brands, their flashèn peaks;
An' aunt did pull, as she did stand
O'-tip-tooe, wi' her lifted hand,
A curtain feäded wi' the zun,
Avore the window freäm'd wi' stwone.
When Hwome-ground grass, below the moon,
Wer damp wi' evenèn dew in June,
An' aunt did call the maïdens in
Vrom walkèn, wi' their shoes too thin,
They zot to rest their litty veet
Upon the window's woaken seat,
An' chatted there, in light that shone
In drough the window freäm'd wi' stwone.
An' as the seasons, in a ring,
Roll'd slowly roun' vrom Spring to Spring,
An' brought em on zome holy-tide,
When they did cast their tools azide;
How glad it meäde em all to spy
In Stwonylands their friends draw nigh,
As they did know em all by neäme
Out drough the window's stwonèn freäme.
O evenèn zun, a-ridèn drough
The sky, vrom Sh'oton Hill o' blue,
To leäve the night a-broodèn dark
At Stalbridge, wi' its grey-wall'd park;
Small jaÿ to me the vields do bring,
Vor all their zummer birds do zing,
Since now thy beams noo mwore do fleäme
In drough the window's stwonèn freäme.