Az sooin as Joe gat up t’ rails, Hiz e’en blazed in hiz heead; Exclaiming, thay mud just as weel A goan an robb’d the deead.
Bud ’o ivvers tane them childer dahn, Away fra poor oud Dick, Desarvs hiz heaad weel larapin, We a dahn gooid hazel stick.
T’ lad seeing Joe froth ate at maath, He sooin tuke to hiz heels, Fer at steead o’ Oastlers’ Monument, He’d shown um Bobby Peel’s.
O! welcome, lovely summer, With thi golden days so long, When the throstle and the blackbird Charm us with their song; When the lark in early morning Taks his aireal flight; An’ the humming bat, an’ buzzard, Frolic in the night.
O! welcome, lovely summer, With her rainbow’s lovely form; Her thunder an’ her leetnin, An’ her grandeur in the storm: With her sunshine and her shower, And her wurlin of the dust; An the maiden with her flagon, To slack the mower’s thirst.
O! welcome, lovely summer, When the woods wi music ring, And the bees so hevvy laden, To their hives their treasures bring: When we seek some shady bower, Or some lovely little dell, Or bivock in the sunshine, Besides some cooling well.
O! welcome, lovely summer, With her roses in full bloom; When the cowslaps an’ the lalack Deck the cottage home; When the cherry an’ the berry, Gives a grandeur to the charm; And the clover and the haycock Scent the little farm.
O! welcome, lovely summer, With the partridge on the wing; When tewit an the moorgame, Up fra the heather spring, From the crowber an the billber, An the bracken an the ween; As from the noisey tadpole, We hear the crackin din. O! welcome, lovely summer.
Go bring that tuther whisky in, An put no watter to it; Fer I mun drink a bumper off, To Scotland’s darling poet.
Its a hunderd year an thirteen nah, This Jenewary morn, Sin in a lowly cot i’ Kyle, A rustic bard wor born.
He kettled up his moorland harp, To ivv’ry rustic scene; An sung the ways o’ honest men, His Davey and his Jean.
Their wor nivver a bonny flaar that grew, Bud what he could admire; Their wor nivver lovely hill or dale, That suited not his lyre.
At last ould Coilia sade enuff, My bardy tha did sing, Then gently tuke his moorland harp, And brack it ivvery string.
An’ bindin’ up the holly wreath, We all its berries red, Sho placed it on his noble brow, An pensively sho said:—
