Third Collection. I’m out o’ Door I’m out, when, in the Winter’s blast, The zun, a-runnèn lowly round, Do mark the sheädes the hedge do cast At noon, in hoarvrost, on the ground. I’m out when snow’s a-lyèn white In keen-aïr’d vields that I do pass, An’ moonbeams, vrom above, do smite On ice an’ sleeper’s window-glass. I’m out o’ door, When win’ do zweep, By hangèn steep, Or hollow deep, At Lindenore. O welcome is the lewth a-vound By rustlèn copse, or ivied bank, Or by the haÿ-rick, weather-brown’d By barken-grass, a-springèn rank; Or where the waggon, vrom the team A-freed, is well a-housed vrom wet, An’ on the dousty cart-house beam Do hang the cobweb’s white-lin’d net. While storms do roar, An’ win’ do zweep, By hangèn steep, Or hollow deep, At Lindenore. An’ when a good day’s work ’s a-done An’ I do rest, the while a squall Do rumble in the hollow tun, An’ ivy-stems do whip the wall. Then in the house do sound about My ears, dear vaïces vull or thin, A praÿèn vor the souls vur out At sea, an’ cry wi’ bibb’rèn chin— Oh! shut the door. What soul can sleep, Upon the deep, When storms do zweep At Lindenore. |
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