The windless copse ha' sheädy boughs,
Wi' blackbirds' evenèn whistles;
The hills ha' sheep upon their brows,
The zummerleäze ha' thistles:
The meäds be gaÿ in grassy Maÿ,
But, oh! vrom hill to hollow,
Let me look down upon a groun'
O' corn a-turnèn yollow.
An' pease do grow in tangled beds,
An' beäns be sweet to snuff, O;
The teäper woats do bend their heads,
The barley's beard is rough, O.
The turnip green is fresh between
The corn in hill or hollow,
But I'd look down upon a groun'
O' wheat a-turnèn yollow.
'Tis merry when the brawny men
Do come to reap it down, O,
Where glossy red the poppy head
'S among the stalks so brown, O.
'Tis merry while the wheat's in hile,
Or when, by hill or hollow,
The leäzers thick do stoop to pick
The ears so ripe an' yollow.
