Читать книгу Random Rhymes and Rambles - Bill o'th' Hoylus End - Страница 22

An’ arta fra thee father torn,

So early e thi yuthful morn,

An’ mun aw pine away forlorn,

         E greef an’ pane;

Fer consalashun aw sall scorn

         If tha be taen.

O yes, tha art, an’ aw mun wail

Thy loss thro’ ivvery hill an’ dale,

Fer nah it is too true a tale,

         Tha’rt coud az lead.

An’ nah thee bonny face iz pale,

         Thart deead, thart deead.

Aw’s miss thee wen aw cum fra t’shop,

An’ see thi bat, an’ ball, an’ top;

An’ aw’s be awmost fit ta drop

         Aw sall so freat,

And O my very heart may stop

         And cease to beat.

I’d allus aimed if tha’d been spar’d,

Of summat better to hev shared

Ner what thi poor oud father fared,

         E this coud sphere;

Yet after all aw’st noan o’ cared

         If tha’d stayen here.

But O! Tha Conkerer Divine,

’At vanquished deeath e Palestine,

Tak to thi arms this lad o’ mine

         Noan freely given,

But mak him same as wun o’ thine,

         We thee e heven.