Analysis of Woak Hill

When sycamore leaves wer a-spreadèn
         Green-ruddy in hedges,
     Bezide the red doust o' the ridges,
         A-dried at Woak Hill;

I packed up my goods all a sheenèn
         Wi' long years o' handlèn,
     On dousty red wheel ov a waggon,
         To ride at Woak Hill.

The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellèn,
       I then wer a-le{'a}vèn,
   Had shelter'd the sleek head o' Me{'a}ry,
       My bride at Woak Hill.

But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall
       'S a-lost vrom the vloorèn.
   Too soon vor my ja{'y} an' my childern,
       She died at Woak Hill.

But still I do think that, in soul,
       She do hover about us;
   To ho vor her motherless childern,
       Her pride at Woak Hill.

Zoo--lest she should tell me hereafter
       I stole off 'ithout her,
   An' left her, uncall'd at house-riddèn,
       To bide at Woak Hill--

I call'd her so fondly, wi' lippèns
       All soundless to others,
  An' took her wi' a{'i}r-reachèn hand,
       To my zide at Woak Hill.

On the road I did look round, a-talkèn
       To light at my shoulder,
   An' then led her in at the doorway,
       Miles wide vrom Woak Hill.

An' that's why vo'k thought, vor a season,
       My mind wer a-wandrèn
   Wi' sorrow, when I wer so sorely
       A-tried at Woak Hill.

But no; that my Me{'a}ry mid never
      Behold herzelf slighted,
   I wanted to think that I guided
       My guide vrom Woak Hill.