Over the mines and under the oaks, the cratur ploughs
through the bracken. Followed by a dozen humbugs
it oiks and tosses the drying moss, pizzin’ the vorest,
the nesh ground crumples and flumps, releasing
the hum of the miners as the boar snaps daddocky:
thou’ it the song as they hauled up the dipple, tushin
the coal from the heart of the Dean. Armed with a
comp they peered with blackened yuds, squinting
into the prancing light of the awld vorest.
The jud sleep silently under the ettles. Dyuth
is the food for this great vorest. As the brutish
craturs toss the earth, thee see a new vorest floor.
The rasty mammals, like a strame, are always in
motion. They never quat long in the same bed.
But it is Spring who gyules, as into their destruction,
she breathes a new life into the Vorest of Dean.