Oud stocks on thee I first began
To be that curious crater man,
Ta travel thro this life’s short span,
By fate’s dekree;
Till aw fulfilled grate Nater’s plan,
An’ cease ta be.
Wen sikkness cums ta thee aw fly,
Ta sooth mi pain an’ cloise mi eye;
On thee, alas! aw sumtimes sigh,
An’ ofttimes weep;—
Till by sum means, aw knaw not why,
I fall asleep.
Wen tore wi’ labor or wi pane,
Ha often aw am glad an’ fane,
Ta seek thi downy brest again;
Yet heaves mi breast
For wretches in the pelting rain,
At hev no rest.
How oft within thy little space
Does mony a thout oft find a place?
Aw think at past, an’ things ta face,
My mind hiz filled,
Th’ wild gooise too aw offen chase,
An’ cassels bild.
O centre place o’ rest an’ greefe,
Disease or deeath, a kind releef,
Monarks of a time so breef,
Alternate reign,
Till death’s grim reaper cut the sheaf,
And clears the plain.
Aw, awm convinced by thee alone,
This grate important truth ta awn,
On thee aw furst saw life, ’tis knawn,
E mortal birth;
Till a few fleetin haars flown,
Then back ta earth.
Home ov Mi Boyish Days.
Home of my boyish days, how can I call
Scenes to my memory, that did befall?
How can my trembling pen find power to tell
The grief I experienced in bidding farewell?
Can I forget the days joyously spent,
That flew on so rapidly, sweet with content?
Can I then quit thee, whose memory’s so dear,
Home of my boyish days, without one tear?
Can I look back on days that’s gone by,
Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh?
Oh, no! though never more these eyes may dwell
On thee, old cottage home, I love so well:
Home of my childhood, wherever I be,
Thou art the nearest and dearest to me.
Can I forget the songs sung by my sire,
Like some prophetic bard tuning the lyre?
Sweet were the notes that he taught to the young;
Psalms for the Sabbath on Sabbath were sung;
And the young minstrels enraptured would come
To the lone cottage I once called my home.
Can I forget the dear landscape around,
Where in my boyish days I could be found,
Stringing my hazel-bow, roaming the wood,
Fancying myself to be bold Robin Hood?
Then would my mother say—where is he gone?
I’m waiting of shuttles that he should have won:
She in that cottage there knitting her healds,
While I her young forester was roaming the fields.