Gi'e me a pleäce that's warm an' dry,
A-zittèn nigh my vier-zide.
Vor where do love o' kith an' kin,
At vu'st begin, or grow an' wride,
Till souls a-lov'd so young, be wold,
Though never cwold, drough time nor tide
But where in me'th their gather'd veet
Do often meet—the vier-zide.
If, when a friend ha' left the land,
I shook his hand a-most wet-eyed,