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.
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 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?