An nivver sin durst aw go see My native hill an glen, Whar aw mud now as well hev been The happiest ov all men; Bud me blessing—an aw wish yah all A merry Kersmas day; Fer me, awl tack me poor oud bones, On Cheviot hills to lay.”
“Aw cannot say,” aw said to’t wife, “Bud aw feel rather hurt; What thinks ta lass if tha lukes aht, An finds t’oud chap a shirt.” Sho did an all, and stockins too; An tears stud in her e’e; An in her face the stranger saw Real Yorkshire sympathee.
Ahr little Jim gav monny a sigh, When he hed heard his tale, An spak o’ some oud trouses, At hung at chamer rail; Then aht at door ahr Harry runs, An back agean he shogs, He’s been it coit ta fetch a pair O’ my oud iron clogs.
It must be feearful coud ta neet, Fer fouk ats aht at door; Give him yahr oud grey coit an’ all, At’s thrown at chamer floor: And then thars thy oud hat, said Kate, At’s paused so up an dahn; It will be better ner his own, Tho’ its withaht a craan.”
So when we’d geen him what we cud, (In fact afford to give,) We saw the tears come dahn the cheeks, O’t poor oud fugitive; He thank’d us ower an ower agean And often he did pray, At barns mud nivver be like him; Then travelled on his way.
Me love is like the pashan dock, That grows it summer fog; And tho’ sho’s but a country lass, I like my Sall at Bog.
I walk’d her aht up Rivock End, And dahn a bonny dale, Whear golden balls an kahslips grow, An butter cups do smell.
We sat us dahn at top o’t grass, Cloyce to a runnin brook, An harkend watter wegtails sing Wi’t sparrow, thrush, an’ rook.
Aw lockt her in my arms, an thout Az t’sun shane in her een, Sho wor the nicest kolleflaar At ivver aw hed seen.
’Twor here we tell’d wer tales o’ love, Beneath t’oud hazel tree; How fondly aw liked Sall at Bog, How dearly sho liked me.
An’ if ivver aw deceive thee, Sall, Aw vow be all aw see, Aw wish that aw mud be a kah, An it belong ta thee.
Bud aw hev plump fergotten nah What awther on us said; At onny rate we parted friends, An boath went home ta bed.
Aw remember the days o’ me bell-button jacket, Wi its little lappels hanging down ower mi waist, And my grand bellosed cap,—noan nicer I’ll back it,— Fer her at hed bowt it wor noan without taste; Fer sho wor mi mother an’ I wor her darling, An offen sho vowed it, and stroked dahn mi hair, An sho tuke me to see her relations e Harden, It furst Pair o’ Briches it ivver aw ware.