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Leaflet | © OpenStreetMap contributors, Points © 2019 LINZ
Wy ha ris mei in ploechje jongfolk nei âlde Clara ta west. Dy soe ús de kaert lizze. Mar der wie ien jonge by, dy lake hyltyd. Hy hie mei alles de gek. Doe koe Clara it net dwaen, omdat dy jonge sa lake.
De Westereen
Wy gongen as fammen wol nei de wiersizter. Dat wie de widdou Plantinga. Wy moesten in dûbeltsje jaen om de takomst to fornimmen. Hja koe kopkekike. Hja seach yn 't kofjedik. Hja sei: Dat acht je net, Dat foracht je net En dat ûntgiet je net. Dêr is in swarte jonge, dêr is in blonde jonge, dêr komt in brief. Froeger op Ljouwerter Merke wie in tinte, dêr...
De Westereen
Alde Thomas Clare wie kaertlizter.
Ik ha 't ris meimakke, doe sieten der twa jonge froulju. Ik siet der flak by, mar sy koenen my net sjen.
Mar ik koe alles hearre.
"Dû hast in swarten," sei Klare, "dy loert op dy."
"Nòch ien, dy wol der tusken."
"D_ is wòl fortroud, d_ nèt."
"Jimme krije èk hwat nijs, beide in nije fyts."
Hja krigen beide in poppe.
De Westereen
