Woak Hill

When sycamore leaves wer a-spreaden Green-ruddy in hedges, Bezide the red doust o' the ridges, A-dried at Woak Hill; I packed up my goods, all a-sheenen Wi' long years o' handlen, On dousty red wheels ov a waggon, To ride at Woak Hill. The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellen I then wer a-leaven, Had sheltered the sleek head o' Meary, My bride at Woak Hill. But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall 'S a-lost vrom the vlooren. To soon vor my jay 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, uncalled at house-ridden, To bide at Woak Hill - I called her so fondly, wi' lippens All soundless to others, An' took her wi' air-reachen hand To my zide at Woak Hill. On the road I did look round, a-talken 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-wandren Wi' sorrow, when I wer so sorely A-tried at Woak Hill. But no; that my Meary mid never Behold herzelf slighted, I wanted to think that I guided My guide vrom Woak Hill.