"Wurr be gwain, mah lov'rr?"     - Ah,
no soft refrain,
this sentence sweetly rural, in
a country lane.

No country maiden pauses in
her morning walk
with country boy, and, planning for
a lover's talk,

Answers: "Over yuerr, mah lov'rr."
No, still sweeter,
these kind words were spoken not
in love to greet her,

But her father, old and smiling,
close behind her
in the parlor of a pub
by mugs of cider.

It was her brother asked the question,
gently laughing.
"Bain" gwun no-wurr," said the old man.
They were not chaffing,

For in Devon is the world
a natural lover,
both in word as well as feeling;
custom wove her,

Blessed Devon, in a tidy
weave complex.
So daun 'ee vex 'erself mah lov'rr!
Daun 'ee vex!