“‘For yee sall prosper niver meear, yersel’, nor yan o’ t’ breed;
Whativer schemes yee set a geeat ’ill widder i’ yer hand,
Whativer side yee tak’ ’ill lwose; an’, spite of o’ yer greed,
A time ’ill come when t’ Philipson’s wi’ n’t awn an inch o’ land.
“An’, while Co’garth’s strang wo’s sall stand, we’ll hā’nt it neet an’ day,
Ye s’ niver mair git shot on us, whativer way yè tak’;
Whativer plan or geeat yè try, ut banish us away,
Ye’ll hardly knā’ we irr away afooer ye see us back.’
“An’ suer aneeuf, neist Kersmas, when they’d nit been twelvemonth deead,
(They’d buriet t’ pooer āld fooak wi’ lime, whār the’ wor putten doon,)