My mother’s gan me th’ four-post bed, Wi’ curtains to’t an’ o’; An’ pillows, sheets, an’ bowsters, too, As white as driven snow; It isn’t stuffed wi’ fither-deawn; But th’ flocks are clen an’ new; Hoo says there’s daycent folk i’th’ teawn That’s made a warse un do.
So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.
Aw peeped into my cot last neet; It made me hutchin’ fain: A bonny fire were winkin’ breet I’ every window-pane; Aw marlocked upo’ th’ white hearth-stone, An’ drummed o’th’ kettle lid, An’ sung, “My neest is snug an’ sweet, Aw’ll go and fotch my brid!”
So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.
