Tha tutties that oten I pick'd on a zunday,
And stickt in my qut—thâ war thawted za fine:
Aw how sholl I tell o'm—vor âll pirty maidens
When I pass'd 'em look'd back—ther smill rawze on tha wine.
Good bwye ta thee Ash! which my Father beforne me,
A planted, wi' pleasure, tha dâ I was born;
Zâ, oolt thou drap a tear when I cease to behawld thee,
An wander awâ droo tha wordle vorlorn.
Good bwye ta thee Tree! an thy cawld shade in zummer;
Thy apples, aw who ool be lotted ta shake?
When tha wine, mangst thy boughs sifes at Milemas in sorrow,
Zâ oolt thou sife for me, or one wild wish awake?
Good bwye ye dun Elves! who, on whings made o'leather,
Still roun my poorch whiver an' whiver at night;
Aw mâ naw hord-horted, unveelin disturber,
Destrây your snug nests, an your plâ by moonlight.
Good bwye ta thee Bower!—ta thy moss an thy ivy—
To tha flowers that aroun thee all blossomin graw;
When I'm gwon, oolt thou grieve?—bit 'tis foolish to ax it;
What is ther that's shower in this wordle belaw?
Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur my mother za thoughtvul,
As zumtimes she war droo er care vor us âll,
Er lessins wi' kindness, wi' tenderness gid us;
An ax'd, war she dead, what ood us bevâll.
Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha nightingale's music,
In tha midnight o' Mâ-time, rawze loud on the ear;
Whaur tha colley awâk'd, wi' tha zun, an a zingin
A went, wi' tha dirsh, in a voice vull and clear.
Good bwye ta thee Cot! I must goo ta tha city.
Whaur, I'm tawld, that the smawk makes it dork at noon dâ;
Bit nif it is true, I'm afeard that I âlways
And iver sholl thenk on tha cot thatch'd wi' strâ.
Good bwye ta thee Cot! there is One that râins awver,
An wâtches tha wordle, wi' wisdom divine;
Than why shood I mang, wi' tha many, my ma-bes;
Bin there's readship in Him, an to him I resign.
Good bwye ta thee Cot! shood I niver behauld thee
Again; still I thank thee vor âll that is past!
Thy friendly ruf shelter'd—while mother wâtch'd awver.
An haw'd vor my comfort vrom vust unto last.