“It must be fearful cowd ta neet
Fer fowk ’at’s aght o’ t’door:
Give him yahr owd grey coit an’ all,
’At’s thrawn on t’chaamer floor:
An’ then there’s thy owd hat, said Kate,
’At’s pors’d so up an’ dahn;
It will be better ner his awn,
Tho’ it’s withaght a crahn.”
So when we’d geen him what we cud
(In fact afford to give),
We saw the tears come dahn the cheeks,
O’ t’poor owd fugitive;
He thank’d us ower an’ ower ageean
An’ often he did pray,
’At t’barns wod nivver be like him;
Then travell’d on his way.
The Feather’d Captive.
My little dapple-wingèd fellow,
What ruffian’s hand has made thee wellow?
I heard while down in yonder hollow,
Thy troubled breast;
But I’ll return my little fellow,
Back to its nest.
Some ruffian’s hand has set a snickle,
An’ left thee in a bonny pickle;
Whoe’er he be, I hope owd Nick will
Rise his arm,
An’ mak his heead an’ ear-hoil tickle
Wi’ summat warm.
How glad am I that fate while roaming,
Where milk-white hawthorn’s blossom’s blooming,
Has sent my footsteps ere the gloaming
Into this dell,
To stop some murdering hand fra dooming
Thy bonny sel’.
For thou wur doomed my bird, for ever,
Fra all thy feather’d mates to sever;
Were I not near thee to deliver
Wi’ my awn hand;
Nor ever more thou’d skim the river,
Or fallow’d land.
Thy feather’d friends, if thou has any;
Tho’ friends I fear there isn’t many;
But yet the dam for her, wi’ Johnny,
Will fret to-day,
And think her watter-wagtail bonny
Has flown away.
Be not afraid, for not a feather
Fra off thy wing shall touch the heather,
For I will give thee altogether
Sweet liberty!
And glad am I that I came hither,
To set thee free.
Now wing thy flight my little rover,
Thy curs’d captivity is over,
And if thou crosses t’Straits of Dover
To warmer spheres,
I hope that thou may live in clover,
For years and years.