Woak Hill

When sycamore leaves wer a-spreadèn Green-ruddy in hedges, Bezide the red doust o' the ridges, A-dried at Woak Hill; I packed up my goods all a sheenèn Wi' long years o' handlèn, On dousty red wheel ov a waggon, To ride at Woak Hill. The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellèn, I then wer a-le{'a}vèn, Had shelter'd the sleek head o' Me{'a}ry, My bride at Woak Hill. But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall 'S a-lost vrom the vloorèn. Too soon vor my ja{'y} an' my childern, She died at Woak Hill. But still I do think that, in soul, She do hover about us; To ho vor her motherless childern, Her pride at Woak Hill. Zoo--lest she should tell me hereafter I stole off 'ithout her, An' left her, uncall'd at house-riddèn, To bide at Woak Hill-- I call'd her so fondly, wi' lippèns All soundless to others, An' took her wi' a{'i}r-reachèn hand, To my zide at Woak Hill. On the road I did look round, a-talkèn To light at my shoulder, An' then led her in at the doorway, Miles wide vrom Woak Hill. An' that's why vo'k thought, vor a season, My mind wer a-wandrèn Wi' sorrow, when I wer so sorely A-tried at Woak Hill. But no; that my Me{'a}ry mid never Behold herzelf slighted, I wanted to think that I guided My guide vrom Woak Hill.