'TWER when the vo'k wer out to hawl folk

A vield o’ haÿ a day in June,

An’ when the zun begun to vall

Toward the west in afternoon,

Woone only wer a-left behind one

To bide indoors, at hwome, an’ mind

The house, an’ answer vo'k avore

The geäte or door,—young Fanny Deäne.

The aïr 'ithin the geärden wall

Wer deadly still, unless the bee

Did hummy by, or in the hall

The clock did ring a-hettèn dree, striking three

An’ there, wi’ busy hands, inside

The iron ceäsement, oben'd wide,

Did zit an’ pull wi’ nimble twitch

Her tiny stitch, young Fanny Deäne.

As there she zot she heärd two blows sat

A-knock'd upon the rumblèn door,

An’ laid azide her work, an’ rose,

An’ walk'd out feäir, athirt the vloor; across

An’ there, a-holdèn in his hand

His bridled meäre, a youth did stand, horse

An’ mildly twold his neäme and pleäce

Avore the feäce o’ Fanny Deäne.

He twold her that he had on hand

Zome business on his father's zide,

But what she didden understand; didn't

An’ zoo she ax'd en if he'd ride so, asked him

Out where her father mid be vound, might

Bezide the plow, in Cowslip Ground; wagon

An’ there he went, but left his mind

Back there behind, wi’ Fanny Deäne.

An’ oh! his hwomeward road wer gaÿ

In aïr a-blowèn, whiff by whiff,

While sheenèn water-weäves did plaÿ shining

An’ boughs did swaÿ above the cliff;

Vor Time had now a-show'd en dim him

The jaÿ it had in store vor him; joy

An’ when he went thik road ageän that

His errand then wer Fanny Deäne.

How strangely things be brought about

By Providence, noo tongue can tell,

She minded house, when vo'k wer out, folk

An’ zoo mus’ bid the house farewell; so

The bees mid hum, the clock mid call may

The lwonesome hours 'ithin the hall,

But in behind the woaken door, oak

There's now noo mwore a Fanny Deäne.