The Treasury Of Sacred Song

Avore the time when zuns went down

On zummer's green a-turn'd to brown,

When sheädes o' swayèn wheat-eärs vell [201]

Upon the scarlet pimpernel;

The while you still mid [202] goo, an' vind

'Ithin the geärden's mossy wall,

Sweet blossoms, low or risèn [203] tall,

To meäke a tutty [204] to your mind,

In churchyard heaved, wi' grassy breast,

The greäve-mound ov a beäby's rest.

An' when a high day broke, to call

A throng 'ithin the churchyard wall,

The mother brought, wi' thoughtvul mind,

The feärest buds her eyes could vind,

To trim the little greäve, an' show

To other souls her love an' loss,

An' meäde a Seävior's little cross

O' brightest flow'rs that then did blow,

A-droppèn tears a-sheenèn [205] bright,

Among the dew, in mornèn light.

An woone sweet bud her han' did pleäce

Up 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 zide

Ov Him that is the life ov all

Greäve sleepers, whether big or small.

The mother that in faith could zee

The Seävior on the high cross tree

Mid be a-vound [206] a-grievèn sore,

But not to grieve vor evermwore,

Vor He shall show her faithvul mind,

His chaïce is all that she should choose,

An' love that here do grieve to lose,

Shall be, above, a jay [207] to vind,

Wi' Him that evermwore shall keep

The souls that He do lay asleep.