THE gather'd clouds, a-hangèn low,

Do meäke the woody ridge look dim;

An’ raïn-vill'd streams do brisker flow,

Arisèn higher to their brim.

In the tree, vrom lim’ to lim’,

Leaves do drop

Vrom the top, all slowly down,

Yollow, to the gloomy groun’.

The rick's a-tipp'd an’ weather-brown'd, rain-proofed

An’ thatch'd wi’ zedge a-dried an’ dead;

An’ orcha'd apples, red half round,

Have all a-happer'd down, a-shed dropped heavily

Underneath the trees’ wide head.

Ladders long,

Rong by rong, to clim’ the tall rung, climb

Trees, be hung upon the wall.

The crumpled leaves be now a-shed

In mornèn winds a-blowèn keen;

When they wer green the moss wer dead,

Now they be dead the moss is green.

Low the evenèn zun do sheen shine

By the boughs,

Where the cows do swing their taïls

Over the merry milkers’ païls.