Though ice do hang upon the willows
Out bezide the vrozen brook,
An' storms do roar above our pillows,
Drough the night, 'ithin our nook;
Our evenèn he'th's a-glowèn warm,
Drough wringèn vrost, an' roarèn storm,
Though winds mid meäke the wold beams sheäke,
In our abode in Arby Wood.
An' there, though we mid hear the timber
Creake avore the windy raïn;
An' climèn ivy quiver, limber,
Up ageän the window peäne;
Our merry vaïces then do sound,
In rollèn glee, or dree-vaïce round;
Though wind mid roar, 'ithout the door,
Ov our abode in Arby Wood.
