J’sis-t-i’ à gabather b’samment en viage!
Quand l’èrpos qué j’espéthe au but du c’mîn
èrpôs’sa acouo du paids sus man b’sage:
“Les milles dé t’n anmîn lus m’suthent d’en par-chîn.”
Man j’va chabole en portant man triste paids,
bâté d’ma b’sée, accabâssé d’man d’so.
Ch’est par sa natuthe qu’ma pouôrre quédole sait
qu’châque pas tchi t’êlouongne n’en vaut dgéthe l’avo.
M’n êp’thon sanglieux n’peut d’aut’ l’êtibotchi,
ouaithe qu’i’ faiche f’ler, lî sait pitchi dans l’flianc;
et b’samment l’bidet rêpond d’sa hînn’nie
tchi m’êtiboque. Tchi brai bliêssant et b’sant!
Chutte même hînn’nie m’cache pus à co à craithe
qu’man d’so r’a l’avant – ma jouaie r’est driéthe.

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel’s end,
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
“Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!”
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider lov’d not speed being made from thee.
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind,
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.