“CAN all be still, when win's do blow?

Look down the grove an’ zee

The boughs a-swingèn on the tree,

An’ beäten weäves below.

Zee how the tweilèn vo'k do bend toiling folk

Upon their windward track,

Wi’ ev'ry string, an’ garment's end,

A-flutt'rèn at their back,”

I cried, wi’ sorrow sore a-tried,

An’ hung, wi’ Jenny at my zide,

My head upon my breast.

Wi’ strokes o’ grief so hard to bear,

'Tis hard vor souls to rest.

Can all be dull, when zuns do glow?

Oh! no; look down the grove,

Where zides o’ trees be bright above;

An’ weäves do sheen below; shine

An’ neäked stems o’ wood in hedge

Do gleäm in streäks o’ light,

An’ rocks do gleäre upon the ledge

O’ yonder zunny height,

“No, Jeäne, wi’ trials now withdrawn,

Lik’ darkness at a happy dawn,”

I cried, “Noo mwore despair;

Wi’ our lost peace ageän a-vound,

'Tis wrong to harbour ceäre.”