Out at Plough

Though cool avore the sheenen skyDo vall the sheaedes below the copse,The timber-trees, a-reachen high,Ha' zunsheen on their lofty tops,Where yonder land's a-lyen plow'd,An' red, below the snow-white cloud,An' vlocks o' pitchen rooks do vwoldTheir wings to walk upon the mwold.While floods be low,An' buds do grow,An' air do blow, a-broad, O.

But though the air is cwold belowThe creaken copses' darksome screen,The truest sheaede do only showHow strong the warmer zun do sheen;An' even times o' grief an' pain,Ha' good a-comen in their train,An' 'tis but happiness do markThe sheaedes o' sorrow out so dark.As tweils be sad,Or smiles be glad,Or times be bad, at hwome, O

An' there the zunny land do lieBelow the hangen, in the lew,Wi' vurrows now a-crumblen dry,Below the plowman's dousty shoe;An' there the bwoy do whissel sh'ill,Below the skylark's merry bill,Where primrwose beds do deck the zidesO' banks below the meaeple wrides.As trees be brightWi' bees in flight,An' weather's bright, abroad, O.

An' there, as sheenen wheels do spinVull speed along the dousty rwoad,He can but stan', an' wish 'ithinHis mind to be their happy lwoad,That he mid gaily ride, an' gooTo towns the rwoad mid teaeke en drough,An' zee, for woonce, the zights behindThe bluest hills his eyes can vind,O' towns, an' tow'rs,An' downs, an' flow'rs,In zunny hours, abroad, O.

But still, vor all the weather's feaeir,Below a cloudless sky o' blue,The bwoy at plough do little ceaereHow vast the brightest day mid goo;Vor he'd be glad to zee the zunA-zetten, wi' his work a-done,That he, at hwome, mid still injayHis happy bit ov evenen play,So light's a larkTill night is dark,While dogs do bark, at hwome, O.