Wi' gifts that mwost do teäke vor best;
The lofty-pinion'd rufs do rise
To screen his head vrom stormy skies;
His land's a-spreadèn roun' his hall,
An' hands do leäbor at his call;
The while the ho'se do fling, wi' pride,
His lofty head where he do guide;
But still his e'thly jaÿ's a-vled,
His woone true friend, his wife, is dead.
Zoo now her happy soul's a-gone,