An' childern now a-comèn on,
Do bring me still my mother's smiles
In light that now do show my chile's;
An' I've a-sheär'd the wold vo'ks' me'th,
Avore the burnèn Chris'mas he'th,
At friendly bwoards, where feäce by feäce,
Did, year by year, gi'e up its pleäce,
An' leäve me here, behind, to tread
The ground a-trod by wold vo'k dead.
But wold things be a-lost vor new,