Oh! aye! the spring 'ithin the leäne,
A-leäden down to Lyddan Brook;
An' still a-nesslèn 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-blushèn in her prime;
The widow wi' her eyezight dim;
Maïdens dippèn,
Childern sippèn,
Water drippèn, at the cool
Dark wallèn ov the little pool.
Behind the spring do lie the lands
My father till'd, vrom Spring to Spring,
Awäitèn on vor time to bring
The crops to paÿ his weary hands.
Wheat a-growèn,
Beäns a-blowèn,
Grass vor mowèn, where the bridge
Do leäd to Ryall's on the ridge.
But who do know when liv'd an' died
The squier o' the mwoldrèn hall;
That lined en wi' a stwonèn 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.