I'm out, when, in the Winter's blast,
The zun, a-runnèn lowly round,
Do mark the sheädes the hedge do cast
At noon, in hoarvrost, on the ground,
I'm out when snow's a-lyèn white
In keen-aïr'd vields that I do pass,
An' moonbeams, vrom above, do smite
On ice an' sleeper's window-glass.
I'm out o' door,
When win' do zweep,
By hangèn steep,
Or hollow deep,
At Lindenore.
O welcome is the lewth a-vound
By rustlèn copse, or ivied bank,
Or by the haÿ-rick, weather-brown'd
By barken-grass, a-springèn rank;
Or where the waggon, vrom the team
A-freed, is well a-housed vrom wet,
An' on the dousty cart-house beam
Do hang the cobweb's white-lin'd net.
While storms do roar,
An' win' do zweep,
By hangèn steep,
Or hollow deep,
At Lindenore.
An' when a good day's work's a-done
An' I do rest, the while a squall
Do rumble in the hollow tun,
An' ivy-stems do whip the wall.
Then in the house do sound about
My ears, dear vaïces vull or thin,
A praÿèn vor the souls vur out
At sea, an' cry wi' bibb'rèn chin--
Oh! shut the door.
What soul can sleep,
Upon the deep,
When storms do zweep
At Lindenore.
