When sycamore leaves wer a-spreadèn
 Green-ruddy in hedges,
 Bezide the red doust o' the ridges,
 A-dried at Woak Hill;

 I packed up my goods all a sheenèn
 Wi' long years o' handlèn,
 On dousty red wheel ov a waggon,
 To ride at Woak Hill.

 The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellèn,
 I then wer a-le{'a}vèn,
 Had shelter'd the sleek head o' Me{'a}ry,
 My bride at Woak Hill.

 But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall
 'S a-lost vrom the vloorèn.
 Too soon vor my ja{'y} 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, uncall'd at house-riddèn,
 To bide at Woak Hill--

 I call'd her so fondly, wi' lippèns
 All soundless to others,
 An' took her wi' a{'i}r-reachèn hand,
 To my zide at Woak Hill.

 On the road I did look round, a-talkèn
 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-wandrèn
 Wi' sorrow, when I wer so sorely
 A-tried at Woak Hill.

 But no; that my Me{'a}ry mid never
 Behold herzelf slighted,
 I wanted to think that I guided
 My guide vrom Woak Hill.