The aïr to gi'e your cheäks a hue
O' rwosy red, so feaïr to view,
Is what do sheäke the grass-bleädes gray
At breäk o' day, in mornèn dew;
Vor vo'k that will be rathe abrode,
Will meet wi' health upon their road.
But bidèn up till dead o' night,
When han's o' clocks do stan' upright,
By candle-light, do soon consume
The feäce's bloom, an' turn it white.
An' light a-cast vrom midnight skies
Do blunt the sparklèn ov the eyes.
Vor health do weäke vrom nightly dreams
Below the mornèn's eärly beams,
An' leäve the dead-aïr'd houses' eaves,
Vor quiv'rèn leaves, an' bubblèn streams,
A-glitt'rèn brightly to the view,
Below a sky o' cloudless blue.