THE woaken tree, so hollow now, oak

To souls ov other times wer sound,

An’ reach'd on ev'ry zide a bough

Above their heads, a-gather'd round,

But zome light veet

That here did meet

In friendship sweet, vor rest or jaÿ, joy

Shall be a-miss'd another Maÿ.

My childern here, in plaÿvul pride

Did zit ‘ithin his wooden walls, its

A-mentèn steätely vo'k inside imitating, folk

O’ castle towers an’ lofty halls.

But now the vloor

An’ mossy door

That woonce they wore would be too small once

To teäke em in, so big an’ tall.

Theäse year do show, wi’ snow-white cloud, this

An’ deäsies in a sprinkled bed,

An’ green-bough birds a-whislèn loud,

The looks o’ zummer days a-vled; flown by

An’ grass do grow,

An’ men do mow,

An’ all do show the wold times’ feäce old

Wi’ new things in the wold things’ pleäce.