Читать книгу Revised Edition of Poems - Bill o'th' Hoylus End - Страница 17

An’ arta fra thi father torn,

So early i’ thi youthful morn,

An’ mun aw pine away forlorn,

      I’ grief an’ pain?

Fer consolashun I sall scorn

      If tha be ta’en.

O yes, tha art, an’ aw mun wail

Thi loss through ivvery hill an’ dale,

Fer nah it is too true a tale,

      Tha’rt cowd az leead.

An’ nah thi bonny face iz pale,

      Tha’rt deead! tha’rt deead’!

Aw’s miss tha when aw cum fra t’shop,

An’ see thi bat, an’ ball, an’ top;

An’ aw’s be ommust fit ta drop,

      Aw sall so freeat,

An’ Oh! mi varry heart may stop

      An’ cease to beeat!

Ah’d allus aimed, if tha’d been spar’d,

Of summat better to hev shared

Ner what thi poor owd father fared,

      I’ this cowd sphere;

Yet, after all, aw’st noan o’ cared

      If tha’d stayed here.

But O!  Tha Conquerer Divine,

’At vanquished deeath i’ Palestine,

Tak to Thi arms this lad o’ mine

      Noan freely given;

But mak him same as wun o’ Thine,

      Wi’ Thee i’ Heaven.