Since I noo mwore do zee your feace,
Up steairs or down below,
I'll zit me in the lwonesome pleace,
Where flat-bough'd beech do grow:
Below the beeches' bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't look to meet ye now,
As I do look at hwome.

Since you noo mwore be at my zide,
In walks in zummer het,
I'll goo alwone where mist do ride
Drough trees a-drippen wet:
Below the rain-wet bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I do grieve at home.

Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard
Your vaice do never sound,
I'll eat the bit I can avword
A-vield upon the ground:
Below the darksome bow, my love,
Where you did never dine,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I at hwome do pine.

Since I do miss your vaice an' feace
In prayer at eventide,
I'll pray wi' woone sad vaice vor greace
To goo where you do bide:
Above the tree an' bough, my love,
Where you be gone avore,
An' be a-waiten vor me now
To come vor evermwore. 

Blackmwore Maidens The primwrose in the sheade do blow, The cowslip in the zuin, The rhyme upon the down do grow, The clote where streams do run; An' where do pretty maidens grow An' blow, but where the tow'r Do rise among the bricken tuns, In Blackmwore by the Stour. If you vrom Wimborne took your road, To Stower or Paladore, An' all the farmers' housen show'd Their daughters at the door; You'd cry to bachelors at hwome- "Here, come: 'ithin an hour You'll vind ten maidens to your mind, In Blackmwore by the Stour." An' if you look'd 'ithin their door, To zee em in their pleace, A-doen housework up avore Their smilen mother's feace; You'd cry-"Why, if a man would wive An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r, Then let en look en out a wife, In Blackmwore by the Stour."

Linden Lea 'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded, By the woak tree's mossy moot, The sheenen grass-bleades, timber sheaded, Now do quiver under voot: An' birds do whissle auver head, An' water's bubblen in its bed, An' there vor me the apple tree Do lean down low in Linden Lea. When leaves that leatley wer-a-springen Now do feade 'ithin the copse, An' painted birds do hush their zingen Up upon the timber's tops: An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red, In cloudless zunsheen, auver head, Wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree Do lean down low in Linden Lea. Let other vo'k meake money vaster In the air o'dark-room'd towns, I don't dread a peevish measter: Though noo man do heed my frowns. I be free to goo abrode Or teake agean my hwomeward road To where, vor me, the apple tree Do lean down low in Linden Lea.