Coud az Leead

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.