They niver fash’t us hafe so lang as less an’s fash us noo;
If want o’ thowte brong bodderment, it pass’t for want o’ luck,
An’ what cared we for Fortun’s bats, hooiver feurce she struck?
It mud be t’ time o’ life ’at meàd oor happiness complete
I’ Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght!
LONE AND WEARY.
Deid winter’s nūt sa dark to me
As t’ lang leet days o’ t’ spring;—
I hate to see a swallow flee,