THERE's noo pleäce I do like so well,

As Elem Knap in Culver Dell,

Where timber trees, wi’ lofty shouds, canopies

Did rise avore the western clouds;

An’ stan’ ageän, wi’ veathery tops,

A-swaÿèn up in North-Hill Copse.

An’ on the east the mornèn broke

Above a dewy grove o’ woak: oak

An’ noontide shed its burnèn light

On ashes on the southern height;

An’ I could vind zome teäles to tell,

O’ former days in Culver Dell.

An’ all the vo'k did love so well folk

The good wold squire o’ Culver Dell, old

That used to ramble drough the sheädes through

O’ timber, or the burnèn gleädes,

An’ come at evenèn up the leäze meadow

Wi’ red-eär'd dogs bezide his knees,

An’ hold his gun, a-hangèn drough

His eärmpit, out above his tooe. armpit, toe

Wi’ kindly words upon his tongue,

Vor vo'k that met en, wold an’ young, him

Vor he did know the poor so well

's the richest vo'k in Culver Dell.

An’ while the woäk, wi’ spreadèn head,

Did sheäde the foxes’ verny bed; ferny

An’ runnèn heäres, in zunny gleädes,

Did beät the grasses’ quiv'rèn’ bleädes;

An’ speckled pa'tridges took flight

In stubble vields a-feädèn white;

Or he could zee the pheasant strut

In sheädy woods, wi’ païnted cwoat;

Or long-tongued dogs did love to run

Among the leaves, bezide his gun;

We didden want vor call to dwell didn't

At hwome in peace in Culver Dell.

But now I hope his kindly feäce

Is gone to vind a better pleäce;

But still, wi’ vo'k a-left behind

He'll always be a-kept in mind,

Vor all his springy-vooted hounds

Ha’ done o’ trottèn round his grounds,

An’ we have all a-left the spot,

To teäke, a-scatter'd, each his lot;

An’ even Father, lik’ the rest,

Ha’ left our long vorseäken nest;

An’ we should vind it sad to dwell,

Ageän at hwome in Culver Dell.

The aïry mornèns still mid smite may

Our windows wi’ their rwosy light,

An’ high-zunn'd noons mid dry the dew

On growèn groun’ below our shoe;

The blushèn evenèn still mid dye,

Wi’ viry red, the western sky; fiery

The zunny spring-time's quicknèn power

Mid come to oben leaf an’ flower;

An’ days an’ tides mid bring us on

Woone pleasure when another's gone.