Poetry > Ballads in the Cumberland dialect

CUMBERLAND BALLADS.
165
They’re rich, whea in age are leet-hearted,
And mourn nit for days that are geane.
Our bairns are heale, hearty, and honest,
And willinly toil thro’ the year;
Our duty we aye hae duin ti’ them,
And poverty e’en let them bear:
Theer’s Jenny hes larnin, and manners,
And Wully can match onie yen;
We tought tern my guid ladder’s maxim,
And they’ll bless the auld fwok,when geane.
Theer’s ae thing I lang, lang ha’e pray’d for,
Sud tyrant Deeth tear thee away,
And rob me o’ life’s dearest treasure,
May he gie me a caw the seame day!
If fworc’d to resign my auld lassie,
I cuddent lang linger my leane;
I’d creep to thy greave, broken-hearted,
Wi’ thowts o’ the days that are geane.
ROB LOWRIE.
Tune—Rob Morris."
I’ve seen thirty summers strow flow’rs i’ the glen,
But anudder blithe summer I’ll ne’er see again!
I’ve hed monie wooers, frae clown to the beau,
But I’ve lost Rob Lowrie, the flow’r o’ them aw!
The furst was Joe Coupland, when I was fifteen;
The neist was Wull Wawby, and then com Gib
Green;
An’ Jwohn o’ Kurkan’rews, and sly Dicky Slee,
But bonny Rob Lowrie was dearest to me!