When music, in a heart that's true,
Do kindle up wold loves anew,
An' dim wet eyes, in feäirest lights,
Do zee but inward fancy's zights;
When creepèn years, wi' with'rèn blights,
'V a-took off them that wer so dear,
How touchèn 'tis if we do hear
The tuèns o' the dead, John.
When I, a-stannèn in the lew
O' trees a storm's a-beätèn drough,
Do zee the slantèn mist a-drove
By spitevul winds along the grove,
An' hear their hollow sounds above
My shelter'd head, do seem, as I
Do think o' zunny days gone by.
Lik' music vor the dead, John.
Last night, as I wer gwaïn along
The brook, I heärd the milk-maïd's zong
A-ringèn out so clear an' shrill
Along the meäds an' roun' the hill.
I catch'd the tuèn, an' stood still
To hear 't; 'twer woone that Jeäne did zing
A-vield a-milkèn in the spring,--
Sweet music o' the dead, John.
Don't tell o' zongs that be a-zung
By young chaps now, wi' sheämeless tongue:
Zing me wold ditties, that would start
The maïden's tears, or stir my heart
To teäke in life a manly peärt,--
The wold vo'k's zongs that twold a teäle,
An' vollow'd round their mugs o' eäle,
The music o' the dead, John.
