WELL, I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while worth one's

To beät the doust a good six mile dust

To zee the pleäce the squier plann'd

At Brookwell, now a-meäde by hand;

Wi’ oben lawn, an’ grove, an’ pon’, pond

An’ gravel-walks as cleän as bron; bran

An’ grass a'most so soft to tread

As velvet-pile o’ silken thread;

An’ mounds wi’ mæsh, an’ rocks wi’ flow'rs, moss

An’ ivy-sheäded zummer bow'rs,

An’ dribblèn water down below

The stwonen arch's lofty bow. stone, arc

An’ there do sound the watervall

Below a cavern's mæshy wall, mossy

Where peäle-green light do struggle down

A leafy crevice at the crown.

An’ there do gush the foamy bow

O’ water, white as driven snow;

An’ there, a zittèn all alwone,

A little maïd o’ marble stwone

Do leän her little cheäk azide

Upon her lily han’, an’ bide

Bezide the vallèn stream to zee falling

Her pitcher vill'd avore her knee.

An’ then the brook, a-rollèn dark

Below a leänèn yew-tree's bark,

Wi’ plaÿsome ripples that do run

A-flashèn to the western zun,

Do shoot, at last, wi’ foamy shocks,

Athirt a ledge o’ craggy rocks, across

A-castèn in his heästy flight,

Upon the stwones a robe o’ white;

An’ then ageän do goo an’ vall

Below a bridge's archèd wall,

Where vo'k agwaïn athirt do pass folk going across

Vow'r little bwoys a-cast in brass; four

An’ woone do hold an angler's wand, one

Wi’ steady hand, above the pond;

An’ woone, a-pweïntèn to the stream pointing

His little vinger-tip, do seem

A-showèn to his playmeätes’ eyes,

Where he do zee the vishes rise;

An’ woone ageän, wi’ smilèn lips,

Do put a vish his han’ do clips encircle

'Ithin a basket, loosely tied

About his shoulder at his zide:

An’ after that the fourth do stand

A-holdèn back his pretty hand

Behind his little ear, to drow throw

A stwone upon the stream below.