NOW the light o’ the west is a-turned’d to gloom,
    An’  the men be at hwome vrom ground;
An’ the bells be a-zenden all down the Coombe
    From tower their mwoansome sound.
		        An’ the wind is still,
				An’ the house-dogs do bark,
An’ the rooks be a-vied to the elems high an’ dark,
    An’ the water do roar at mill.
An’ the flickeren light drough the window-peäne
    Vrome the candle’s dull fleäme do shoot,
An’ young Jemmy the smith is a-gone down leäne,
    A-plaÿen his shrill-vaïced flute.
		    An’ the miller’s man
		  Do zit down at his ease
On the seat that is under the cluster o’ trees,
    Wi’ his pipe an’ his cider can.
William Barnes [1801-1886]