An' sometimes aw wish—aw'm soa lonely— at tother 'ud drop off wi' rust;
But it hasn't to be, for it seems Life maks me his spooart,
An' Deeath cannot even spare time, to turn sich an owd man into dust.
Last neet as aw sat an' watched th' yule log awd put on to th' fire,
As it cracked, an' sparkled, an' flared up wi' sich gusto an' spirit,
An' when it wor touch'd it shone breeter, an' flared up still higher,
Till at last aw'd to shift th' cheer further back for aw couldn't bide near it.
Th' dull saand o' th' church bells coom to tell me one moor Christmas mornin',
Had come, for its welcome—but ha could aw welcome it when all aloan?
For th' snow wor fallin soa thickly, an' th' cold wind wor moanin,