An' at last one drooped, an' Deeath coom an' marked her with his seal.
A year or two moor an' another seemed longin to goa,
An' all we could do wor to smooth his deeath bed, 'at he might sleep sweeter—
Then th' third seemed to sicken an' pine, an' we couldn't say "noa,"
For he said his sister had called, an' he wor most anxious to meet her—
An' how we watched th' youngest, noa mortal can tell but misen,
For we prized it moor, becoss it wor th' only one left us to cherish;
At last her call came, an' shoo luked sich a luk at us then,
Which aw ne'er shall forget, tho mi mem'ry ov all other things perish.
A few years moor, when awr griefs wor beginnin to lighten,