MY days, wi’ wold vo'k all but gone,

An’ childern now a-comèn on,

Do bring me still my mother's smiles

In light that now do show my chile's;

An’ I've a-sheär'd the wold vo'ks’ me'th, shared, mirth

Avore the burnèn Chris'mas he'th, hearth

At friendly bwoards, where feäce by feäce, tables

Did, year by year, gi'e up its pleäce, give

An’ leäve me here, behind, to tread

The ground a-trod by wold vo'k dead.

But wold things be a-lost vor new,

An’ zome do come, while zome do goo:

As wither'd beech-tree leaves do cling

Among the nesh young buds o’ Spring; soft

An’ frettèn worms ha’ slowly wound, gnawing

Droo beams the wold vo'k lifted sound, through

An’ trees they planted little slips

Ha’ stems that noo two eärms can clips; trunks, arms, encircle

An’ grey an’ yollow moss do spread

On buildèns new to wold vo'k dead.

The backs of all our zilv'ry hills,

The brook that still do dreve our mills, drive

The roads a-climèn up the brows

O’ knaps, a-screen'd by meäple boughs, hillocks

Wer all a-mark'd in sheäde an’ light

Avore our wolder fathers’ zight,

In zunny days, a-gied their hands gave

For happy work, a-tillèn lands,

That now do yield their childern bread

Till they do rest wi’ wold vo'k dead.

But livèn vo'k, a-grievèn on,

Wi’ lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone,

Do zee their goodness, but do vind

All else a-stealèn out o’ mind;

As aïr do meäke the vurthest land

Look feäirer than the vield at hand,

An’ zoo, as time do slowly pass, so

So still's a sheäde upon the grass, quietly, shadow

Its wid'nèn speäce do slowly shed

A glory roun’ the wold vo'k dead.

An’ what if good vo'ks’ life o’ breath

Is zoo a-hallow'd after death,

That they mid only know above, may

Their times o’ faïth, an’ jaÿ, an’ love,

While all the evil time ha’ brought

's a-lost vor ever out o’ thought;

As all the moon that idden bright, isn't

's a-lost in darkness out o’ zight;

And all the godly life they led

Is glory to the wold vo'k dead.