William Barnes (1801–1886)

SINCE I noo mwore do zee your feäce,

Up steäirs or down below,

I’ll zit me in the lwonesome pleäce,

Where flat-bough’d beech do grow:

Below the beeches’ bough, my love,

Where you did never come,

An’ I don’t look to meet ye now,

As I do look at hwome.

Since you noo mwore be at my zide,

In walks in zummer het,

I’ll goo alwone where mist do ride,

Drough trees a-dripèn wet:

Below the raïn-wet bough, my love,

Where you did never come,

An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,

As I do grieve at hwome.

Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard

Your vaïce do never sound,

I’ll eat the bit I can avword

A-vield upon the ground;

Below the darksome bough, my love,

Where you did never dine,

An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,

As I at hwome do pine.

Since I do miss your vaïce an’ feäce

In praÿer at eventide,

I’ll pray wi’ woone sad vaïce vor greäce

To goo where you do bide;

Above the tree an’ bough, my love,

Where you be gone avore,

An’ be a waïtèn vor me now,

To come vor evermwore.