The Turn O' The Days

O the wings o' the rook wer a-glitterèn bright,
As he wheel'd on above, in the zun's evenèn light,
An' noo snow wer a-left, but in patches o' white,
On the hill at the turn o' the days.
An' along on the slope wer the beäre-timber'd copse,
Wi' the dry wood a-sheäkèn, wi' red-twiggèd tops.
Vor the dry-flowèn wind, had a-blow'd off the drops
O' the raïn, at the turn o' the days.
There the stream did run on, in the sheäde o' the hill,
So smooth in his flowèn, as if he stood still,
An' bright wi' the skylight, did slide to the mill,
By the meäds, at the turn o' the days.
An' up by the copse, down along the hill brow,
Wer vurrows a-cut down, by men out at plough,
So straïght as the zunbeams, a-shot drough the bough
O' the tree at the turn o' the days.
Then the boomèn wold clock in the tower did mark
His vive hours, avore the cool evenèn wer dark,
An' ivy did glitter a-clung round the bark
O' the tree, at the turn o' the days.
An' womèn a-fraïd o' the road in the night,
Wer a-heästenèn on to reach hwome by the light,
A-castèn long sheädes on the road, a-dried white,
Down the hill, at the turn o' the days.
The father an' mother did walk out to view
The moss-bedded snow-drop, a-sprung in the lew,
An' hear if the birds wer a-zingèn anew,
In the boughs, at the turn o' the days.
An' young vo'k a-laughèn wi' smooth glossy feäce,
Did hie over vields, wi' a light-vooted peäce,
To friends where the tow'r did betoken a pleäce
Among trees, at the turn o' the days.