AYE, at that time our days wer but vew, few

An’ our lim's wer but small, an’ a-growèn;

An’ then the feäir worold wer new,

An’ life wer all hopevul an’ gaÿ;

An’ the times o’ the sproutèn o’ leaves,

An’ the cheäk-burnèn seasons o’ mowèn,

An’ bindèn o’ red-headed sheaves,

Wer all welcome seasons o’ jaÿ.

Then the housen seem'd high, that be low,

An’ the brook did seem wide that is narrow,

An’ time, that do vlee, did goo slow, fly

An’ veelèns now feeble wer strong, feelings

An’ our worold did end wi’ the neämes

Ov the Sha'sbury Hill or Bulbarrow;

An’ life did seem only the geämes

That we plaÿ'd as the days rolled along.

Then the rivers, an’ high-timber'd lands,

An’ the zilvery hills, 'ithout buyèn,

Did seem to come into our hands

Vrom others that own'd em avore;

An’ all zickness, an’ sorrow, an’ need,

Seem'd to die wi’ the wold vo'k a-dyèn, old folk

An’ leäve us vor ever a-freed

Vrom evils our vorefathers bore.

But happy be childern the while

They have elders a-livèn to love em,

An’ teäke all the wearisome tweil toil

That zome hands or others mus’ do;

Like the low-headed shrubs that be warm,

In the lewth o’ the trees up above em, shelter

A-screen'd vrom the cwold blowèn storm

That the timber avore em must rue.