And when thy days are over,
And we miss thee on our isle,
Around thy tomb for ever
May unfading laurels smile:
There may the sweetest flowers
Usher in the spring;
And roses in the gentle gales,
Their balmy odours fling.
May summer’s beams shine sweetly,
Upon thy hallowed clay,
And yellow autumn o’er thy head,
Yield a placid ray;
May winter winds blow slightly,—
The green-grass softly wave,
And falling snow-drops lightly
Upon thy honoured grave.
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.
The Factory Girl.
Sho stud beside hur looms an’ watch’d
The shuttle passin in,
But yet hur soul wor sumweer else,
’Twor face ta face wi’ John.
They saw hur lips move az in speech,
Yet none cud heear a word,
An’ but fer t’grinding o’ the wheels,
This langwidge mite be heard.