The Pleäce Our Own Ageän

Well! thanks to you, my faïthful Jeäne,
So worksome wi' your head an' hand,
We seäved enough to get ageän
My poor vorefather's plot o' land.
'Twer folly lost, an' cunnèn got,
What should ha' come to me by lot.
But let that goo; 'tis well the land
Is come to hand, by be'th or not.
An' there the brook, a-windèn round
The parrick zide, do run below
The grey-stwon'd bridge wi' gurglèn sound,
A-sheäded by the arches' bow;
Where former days the wold brown meäre,
Wi' father on her back, did wear
Wi' heavy shoes the grav'ly leäne,
An' sheäke her meäne o' yollor heäir.
An' many zummers there ha' glow'd,
To shrink the brook in bubblèn shoals,
An' warm the doust upon the road,
Below the trav'ller's burnèn zoles.
An' zome ha' zent us to our bed
In grief, an' zome in jaÿ ha' vled;
But vew ha' come wi' happier light
Than what's now bright, above our head.
The brook did peärt, zome years agoo,
Our Grenley meäds vrom Knapton's Ridge
But now you know, between the two,
A-road's a-meäde by Grenley Bridge.
Zoo why should we shrink back at zight
Ov hindrances we ought to slight?
A hearty will, wi' God our friend,
Will gaïn its end, if 'tis but right.