Picken o' Scroff

Oh! the wood wer a-vell'd in the copse,An' the moss-bedded primrwose did blow;An' vrom tall-stemmed trees' leafless tops,There did lie but slight sheaedes down below.An' the sky wer a-showen, in droughBy the tree-stems, the deepest o' blue,Wi' a light that did vall on an' offThe dry ground, a-strew'd over wi' scroff.

There the hedge that wer leaetely so high,Wer a-plush'd, an' along by the zide,Where the waggon 'd a-haul'd the wood by,There did reach the deep wheelrouts, a-dried.An' the groun' wi' the sticks wer bespread,Zome a-cut off alive, an' zome dead.An' vor burnen, well wo'th reaeken off,By the childern a-picken o' scroff.

In the tree-studded leaeze, where the woakWer a-spreaden his head out around,There the scrags that the wind had a-broke,Wer a-lyen about on the groundOr the childern, wi' little red hands,Wer a-tyen em up in their bands;Vor noo squier or farmer turn'd offLittle childern a-picken o' scroff.

There wer woone bloomen child wi' a cloakOn her shoulders, as green as the ground;An' another, as gray as the woak,Wi' a bwoy in a brown frock, a-brown'd.An' woone got up, in play, vor to tait,On a woak-limb, a-growen out straight.But she soon wer a-taited down off,By her meaetes out a-picken o' scroff.

When they childern do grow to staid vo'k,An' goo out in the worold, all wideVrom the copse, an' the zummerleaeze woak,Where at last all their elders ha' died,They wull then vind it touchen to bring,To their minds, the sweet springs o' their spring,Back avore the new vo'k did turn offThe poor childern a-picken o' scroff.