Oh! it meäde me a'most teary-ey'd,
An' I vound I a'most could ha' groan'd—
What! so winnèn, an' still cast a-zide—
What! so lovely, an' not to be own'd;
Oh! a God-gift a-treated wi' scorn,
Oh! a child that a squier should own;
An' to zend her away to be born!—
Aye, to hide her where others be shown!
[*] Words once spoken to the writer.