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Woak Hill

by
 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.

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