As a dream, an think its past;
But mi poor heart loves thi still,
An' wol life is mine it will.
When aw'm seated, lone and sad,
Wi mi scanty, hard won meal,
One thowt still shall mak me glad,
Thankful that alone aw feel
What it is to tew an'strive
Just to keep a soul alive.
Th' whin-bush rears o'th' moor its form,