A-swaÿèn slow, the poplar's head,
Above the slopèn thatch did ply,
The while the midnight moon did shed
His light below the spangled sky.
An' there the road did reach avore
The hatch, all vootless down the hill;
An' hands, a-tired by day, wer still,
Wi' moonlight on the door.
A-boomèn deep, did slowly sound
The bell, a-tellèn middle night;
The while the quiv'rèn ivy, round
The tree, did sheäke in softest light.
But vootless wer the stwone avore
The house where I, the maïdens guest,
At evenèn, woonce did zit at rest
By moonlight on the door.
Though till the dawn, where night's a-meäde
The day, the laughèn crowds be gaÿ,
Let evenèn zink wi' quiet sheäde,
Where I do hold my little swaÿ.
An' childern dear to my heart's core,
A-sleep wi' little heavèn breast,
That pank'd by day in plaÿ, do rest
Wi' moonlight on the door.
But still 'tis good, woonce now an' then
To rove where moonlight on the land
Do show in vaïn, vor heedless men,
The road, the vield, the work in hand.
When curtains be a-hung avore
The glitt'rèn windows, snowy white,
An' vine-leaf sheädes do sheäke in light
O' moonlight on the door.
