When sheädes do vall into ev'ry hollow,
An' reach vrom trees half athirt the groun';
An' banks an' walls be a-lookèn yollow,
That be a-turn'd to the zun gwaïn down;
Drough haÿ in cock, O,
We all do vlock, O,
Along our road vrom the meäd a-mow'd.
An' when the last swaÿèn lwoad's a-started
Up hill so slow to the lofty rick,
Then we so weary but merry-hearted,
Do shoulder each 's a reäke an' pick,
Wi' empty flagon,
Behind the waggon,
To teäke our road vrom the meäd a-mow'd.
When church is out, an' we all so slowly
About the knap be a-spreadèn wide,
How gaÿ the paths be where we do strolly
Along the leäne an' the hedge's zide;
But nwone's a voun', O,
Up hill or down, O,
So gaÿ's the road drough the meäd a-mow'd.
An' when the visher do come, a-drowèn
His flutt'ren line over bleädy zedge,
Drough groun's wi' red thissle-heads a-blowèn,
An' watchèn o't by the water's edge;
Then he do love, O,
The best to rove, O,
Along his road drough the meäd a-mow'd.
