The child‘s greäve

AVORE the time when zuns went downOn zummer's green a-turn'd to brown,When sheädes o’ swaÿèn wheat-eärs vell shadowsUpon the scarlet pimpernel;The while you still mid goo, an’ vind might'Ithin the geärden's mossy wall,Sweet blossoms, low or risèn tall,To meäke a tutty to your mind, nosegayIn churchyard heav'd, wi’ grassy breast,The greäve-mound ov a beäby's rest.An’ when a high day broke, to callA throng 'ithin the churchyard wall,The mother brought, wi’ thoughtvul mind,The feäirest buds her eyes could vind,To trim the little greäve, an’ showTo other souls her love an’ loss,An’ meäde a Seävior's little crossO’ brightest flow'rs that then did blow, bloomA-droppèn tears a-sheenèn bright, shiningAmong the dew, in mornèn light.An’ woone sweet bud her han’ did pleäce oneUp where did droop the Seävior's feäce;An’ two she zet a-bloomèn bright,Where reach'd His hands o’ left an’ right;Two mwore feäir blossoms, crimson dyed,Did mark the pleäces ov his veet,An’ woone did lie, a-smellèn sweet,Up where the spear did wound the zideOv Him that is the life ov allGreäve sleepers, whether big or small.The mother that in faïth could zeeThe Seävior on the high cross treeMid be a-vound a-grievèn sore, mightBut not to grieve vor evermwore,Vor He shall show her faïthvul mind,His chaïce is all that she should choose,An’ love that here do grieve to lose,Shall be, above, a jaÿ to vind, joyWi’ Him that evermwore shall keepThe souls that He do lay asleep.