One 'ats nowt but love to gie.
Hard hoot'd neives like thease o' mine.
Surely ne'er wor made to press
Hands so lily-white as thine;
Nor should arms like thease caress
One so slender, fair, an' pure,
'Twor unlikely, lass, aw'm sure.
But thease tears aw cannot stay,
Drops o' sorrow fallin fast,
Hopes once held aw've put away