O, AYE! they had woone child bezide, one

An’ a finer your eyes never met,

‘Twer a dear little fellow that died

In the zummer that come wi’ such het; heat

By the mowers, too thoughtless in fun,

He wer then a-zent off vrom our eyes,

Vrom the light ov the dew-dryèn zun,—

Aye! vrom days under blue-hollow'd skies.

He went out to the mowers in meäd,

When the zun wer a-rose to his height,

An’ the men wer a-swingèn the sneäd, scythe handle

Wi’ their eärms in white sleeves, left an’ right; arms

An’ out there, as they rested at noon,

O! they drench'd en vrom eäle-horns too deep, gave him drink

Till his thoughts wer a-drown'd in a swoon; [ale-horns

Aye! his life wer a-smother'd in sleep.

Then they laid en there-right on the ground, him

On a grass-heap, a-zweltrèn wi’ het,

Wi’ his heäir all a-wetted around

His young feäce, wi’ the big drops o’ zweat;

In his little left palm he'd a-zet,

Wi’ his right hand, his vore-vinger's tip,

As for zome'hat he woulden vorget,—

Aye! zome thought that he woulden let slip.

Then they took en in hwome to his bed,

An’ he rose vrom his pillow noo mwore,

Vor the curls on his sleek little head

To be blown by the wind out o’ door.

Vor he died while the häy russled grey

On the staddle so leätely begun: haystack-base

Lik’ the mown-grass a-dried by the day,—

Aye! the zwath-flow'r's a-killed by the zun.