THE aïr to gi'e your cheäks a hue give

O’ rwosy red, so feaïr to view,

Is what do sheäke the grass-bleädes gray

At breäk o’ day, in mornèn dew;

Vor vo'k that will be rathe abrode, folk, outside early

Will meet wi’ health upon their road.

But bidèn up till dead o’ night,

When han's o’ clocks do stan’ upright,

By candle-light, do soon consume

The feäce's bloom, an’ turn it white.

An’ light a-cast vrom midnight skies

Do blunt the sparklèn ov the eyes.

Vor health do weäke vrom nightly dreams

Below the mornèn's eärly beams,

An’ leäve the dead-aïr'd houses’ eaves,

Vor quiv'rèn leaves, an’ bubblèn streams,

A-glitt'rèn brightly to the view,

Below a sky o’ cloudless blue.