and true
No lad cud ivver find;
But a lad like thee iz easily found,
False, faithless, and unkind.”
Bonny Lark
Sweetest warbler of the wood,
Rise thy soft bewitching strain,
And in pleasure’s sprightly mood,
Soar again.
With the sun’s returning beam,
First appearance from the east,
Dimpling every limpid stream,
Up from rest.
Thro’ the airy mountains stray,
Chant thy welcome songs above,
Full of sport and full of play,
Songs of love.
When the evening cloud prevails,
And the sun gives way for night,
When the shadows mark the vales,
Return thy flight.
Like the cottar or the swain,
Gentle shepherd, or the herd;
Best thou till the morn again,
Bonny bird.
Like thee, on freedom’s airy wing,
May the poet’s rapturous spark,
Hail the first approach of spring.
Bonny lark.
T’oud Blacksmith’s Advise ta hiz Son Ned
So, Ned, awm geen ta understand,
Tha’rt bahn ta join e wedlock band,
Ta travil thru life’s weeary strand,
Yond lass an’ thee.
But if yor joinin heart an’ hand,
It pleases me.
Nah tha’ll hev trubbles, Ned, ta bear,
Wile pushin thru this world o’ care,
An’ wat tha’ll hev it face ta stare,
Its hard ta tell;
Life’s ups and dahns tha’ll get thi share,
So pleas thisell.
Tha’rt weel an’ strong, long may it last;
But age an’ care creep on us fast;
Then akt az tha can luke at past
An’ feel no shame;
Then if tha’rt poor az sum ahtcast,
Tha’s noan ta blame.
Doant sport abaht an’ wagers bet,
But mind an’ shun that foolish set
At cannut mak ther awn ta fet,
Thaw shame ta say it.
An’ mind tha keeps fra being e dett,
An’ tha’ll be reight.
An’ stick fast hod o’ iron will;
Push bouldly on an’ feear no ill;
Keep Him e vue, whoas merces fill
The wurld sa wide.
No daht but His omnishent skill,
Al be thi guide.
So Ned, mi lad, tak this advise,
Prove wurth o’ yond lasse’s choise,
E yeears ta cum tha may rejoise,
Tha tuke hur hand;
An’ listened to thi father’s voise,
An’ hiz command.
Address ta mi Bed
Oud stocks on thee I first began
To be that curious crater man,
Ta travel thro this life’s short span,
By fate’s dekree;
Till aw fulfilled grate Nater’s plan,
An’ cease ta be.
Wen sikkness cums ta thee aw fly,
Ta sooth mi pain an’ cloise mi eye;
On thee, alas! aw sumtimes sigh,
An’ ofttimes weep; —
Till by sum means, aw knaw not why,
I fall asleep.
Wen tore wi’ labor or wi pane,
Ha often aw am glad an’ fane,
Ta seek thi downy brest again;
Yet heaves mi breast
For wretches in the pelting rain,
At hev no rest.
How oft within thy little space
Does mony a thout oft find a place?
Aw think at past, an’ things ta face,
My mind hiz filled,
Th’ wild gooise too aw offen chase,
An’ cassels bild.
O centre place o’ rest an’ greefe,
Disease or deeath, a kind releef,
Monarks of a time so breef,
Alternate reign,
Till death’s grim reaper cut the sheaf,
And clears the plain.
Aw, awm convinced by thee alone,
This grate important truth ta awn,
On thee aw furst saw life, ’tis knawn,
E mortal birth;
Till a few fleetin haars flown,
Then back ta earth.
Home ov Mi Boyish Days
Home of my boyish days, how can I call
Scenes to my memory, that did befall?
How can my trembling pen find power to tell
The grief I experienced in bidding farewell?
Can I forget the days joyously spent,
That flew on so rapidly, sweet with content?
Can I then quit thee, whose memory’s so dear,
Home of my boyish days, without one tear?
Can I look back on days that’s gone by,
Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh?
Oh, no!