Читать книгу Revised Edition of Poems - Bill o'th' Hoylus End - Страница 13

Ligging here deead, mi poor Ann Lavina,

Ligging alone, mi own darling child,

Just thi white hands crost on thi bosom,

Wi’ features so tranquil, so calm, and so mild.

Ligging here deead, so white an’ so bonny,

Hidding them eyes that oft gazed on mine;

Asking for summat withaht ever speaking,

Asking thi father to say tha wur fine.

Ligging here deead, the child that so lov’d me,

At fane wod ha’ hidden mi faults if shoo could;

Wal thi wretch of a father despairin’ stands ower tha,

Wal remorse and frenzy are freezin’ his blood.

Ligging here deead, i’ thi shroud an thi coffin,

Ligging alone in this poor wretched room;

Just thi white hands crossed ower thi bosom,

Waiting for t’angels to carry tha home.