Tha rawzes, tha lillies, that blaw in tha borders--
The gilawfers, too, that I us'd ta behawld--
Tha trees, wi' tha honeyzucks ranglin Acll awver,
I Aclways sholl think o' nif I shood be awld.
Tha tutties that oten I pick'd on a zunday,
And stickt in my qut--thAc war thawted za fine:
Aw how sholl I tell o'm--vor Acll pirty maidens
When I pass'd 'em look'd back--ther smill rawze on tha wine.
Good bwye ta thee Ash! which my Father beforne me,
A planted, wi' pleasure, tha dAc I was born;
ZAc, oolt thou drap a tear when I cease to behawld thee,
An wander awAc droo tha wordle vorlorn.
Good bwye ta thee Tree! an thy cawld shade in zummer;
Thy apples, aw who ool be lotted ta shake?
When tha wine, mangst thy boughs sifes at Milemas in sorrow,
ZAc oolt thou sife for me, or one wild wish awake?
Good bwye ye dun Elves! who, on whings made o'leather,
Still roun my poorch whiver an' whiver at night;
Aw mAc naw hord-horted, unveelin disturber,
DestrAcy your snug nests, an your plAc by moonlight.
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