“So long as Willies bru ther malt, An Robs an Allans spree; Mi Burns’s songs an Burns’s name, Remember’d thay shall be.
Ligging here deead, me poor Ann Lavina, Ligging alone me own darling child, Just thee white hands crossed on thee bosom, We features so tranquil, so calm, and so mild.
Ligging here deead, so white an’ so bonny, Hidding them eyes that oft gazed on mine; Asking for sommat withaht ever speaking, Asking thee father to say tha wor fine.
Ligging here deead, the child that so loved me, At fane wod ha’ hidden me faults if sho could, Wal thi wretch of a father dispairing stands ower thee, While remorse and frenzy is freezing his blood.
Ligging here deead, e thee shroud an thee coffin, Ligging alone in this poor wretched room, Just thee white hands crossed ower thee bosom, Waiting for t’angels to carry thee home.
There is hope in the time that is coming, When the lambs will frolic on the plain, Whilst the bees o’er the heather are humming, Then the songsters will cheer us again. For the pretty little birds from the edges, The reeds for their nest will have riven; While the lark from his covert he is soaring, His musical notes to the heaven.
Then we’ll go to the banks of the river, Through meadows that’s blooming in green, Where the swallow ’neath the branches will quiv’r O’er the fish as they sport in the stream: Then the farmer will be patiently awaiting, For the fruits of that labour he has striven, While the lark from his covert he is soaring, His musical notes to the heaven.
Then the rays of the sunbeam we’ll cherish, The rose that’s unseen in the bud, And the foxglove and hyacinth will flourish, Round the ferns in the depths of the wood: Then we’ll pluck up the primrose and daisy, And the sweets that nature she has given, While the lark from his covert he is soaring, His musical notes to the heaven.
Then the merry little boys they will ramble, So gleesome, o’er mountain and dale, Where the sweets of the rose through the bramble Will be blown by the mild summer gale: Then a share of Nature’s smiles each morning To the poor humble peasant will be given. While the lark from his covert he is soaring, His musical notes to the heaven.
Says a wag to a porter e Haworth one day, “Yahr not ower sharp are ye drones o’ t’railway, For fra Keighley to Haworth I’ve been oft enough, But nivver a hawpenny I’ve paid yah, begoff.”