Week's End In Zummer, In The Wold Vo'k's Time

His aunt an' uncle,--ah! the kind
Wold souls be often in my mind:
A better couple never stood
In shoes, an' vew be voun' so good.
_She_ cheer'd the work-vo'k in theïr tweils
Wi' timely bits an' draps, an' smiles;
An' _he_ païd all o'm at week's end,
Their money down to goo an' spend.
In zummer, when week's end come roun'
The haÿ-meäkers did come vrom groun',
An' all zit down, wi' weary bwones,
Within the yard a-peäved wi' stwones,
Along avore the peäles, between
The yard a-steän'd an' open green.
There women zot wi' bare-neck'd chaps,
An' maïdens wi' their sleeves an' flaps
To screen vrom het their eärms an' polls.
An' men wi' beards so black as coals:
Girt stocky Jim, an' lanky John,
An' poor wold Betty dead an' gone;
An' cleän-grown Tom so spry an' strong,
An' Liz the best to pitch a zong,
That now ha' nearly half a score
O' childern zwarmèn at her door;
An' whindlen Ann, that cried wi' fear
To hear the thunder when 'twer near,--
A zickly maïd, so peäle's the moon,
That voun' her zun goo down at noon;
An' blushèn Jeäne so shy an' meek,
That seldom let us hear her speak,
That wer a-coorted an' undone
By Farmer Woodley's woldest son;
An' after she'd a-been vorzook,
Wer voun' a-drown'd in Longmeäd brook.
An' zoo, when _he_'d a-been all roun',
An' païd em all their wages down,
_She_ us'd to bring vor all, by teäle
A cup o' cider or ov eäle,
An' then a tutty meäde o' lots
O' blossoms vrom her flower-nots,
To wear in bands an' button-holes
At church, an' in their evenèn strolls.
The pea that rangled to the oves,
An' columbines an' pinks an' cloves,
Sweet rwosen vrom the prickly tree,
An' jilliflow'rs, an' jessamy;
An' short-liv'd pinies, that do shed
Their leaves upon a eärly bed.
She didden put in honeyzuck:
She'd nwone, she zaïd, that she could pluck
Avore wild honeyzucks, a-vound
In ev'ry hedge ov ev'ry ground.
Zoo maïd an' woman, bwoy an' man,
Went off, while zunzet aïr did fan
Their merry zunburnt feäzen; zome
Down leäne, an' zome drough parrocks hwome.
Ah! who can tell, that ha'nt a-vound,
The sweets o' week's-end comèn round!
When Zadurday do bring woone's mind
Sweet thoughts o' Zunday clwose behind;
The day that's all our own to spend
Wi' God an' wi' an e'thly friend.
The worold's girt vo'k, wi' the best
O' worldly goods mid be a-blest;
But Zunday is the poor man's peärt,
To seäve his soul an' cheer his heart.