An’ t’ crake call’d foor its maate,
An’ t’ bleeat o’ monny lambs yan heeard,
An’ t’ moths can oot ti late
Ther suppers fra some neetly bloom,
An’ t’ wo’lld war fair ti see,
Whahl sumhoo yan felt bet ti knaw
Hoo owt bud luv c’u’d be.
A twittering noos an’ thens yan heeard
Fra t’ larl bo’ds i’ ther nist,
Ez croodled under t’ muther wing