Nor iver blessed thi dad.
Aw think aw'st net ha' lived for nowt,
If, when deeath comes, aw find
Aw leave some virtuous lasses
An' some honest lads behind.
An' tho' noa coat ov arms may grace
For me, a sculptor'd stooan,
Aw hope to leave a noble race,
Wi arms o' flesh an' booan.
Then cheer up, lad, tho' things luk black,