Come, Jamie, let’s undo thi shoon,
An’ don summat dry o’ thi feet;
Wi’ toilin’ i’th sheaw’r up an’ deawn;
Aw’m fleyed at thi stockins are weet;
An’, here, wi’ my yung uns i’th neest,
Aw bin heark’nin’ th’ patter o’th’ rain,
An’ longin’ for th’ wanderin’ brid,
To comfort my spirits again.
To-day, when it pelted at th’ height,
“Aw’ll ston it no longer,” said I;
An’, rayley, it didn’t look reet
To keawer under cover so dry;
So, though it were rainin’ like mad,
Aw thought—for my heart gav’ a swell,—
“Come deawn asto will, but yon lad
Shall not have it o’ to hissel’!”
So, whippin’ my bucket i’th rain,
Aw ga’ th’ bits o’ windows a swill;
An’, though aw geet drenched to my skin,
Aw’re better content wi’ mysel’;
But, theaw stons theer smilin’ o’th floor,
Like a sun-fleawer drippin’ wi’ weet;
Eh, Jamie, theaw knowsn’t, aw’m sure,
Heaw fain aw’m to see tho to-neet!
Why lass; what’s a sheawer to me?
Wi’ plenty o’ sun in his breast,
One’s wark keeps one hearty an’ free,
An’ gi’s one a relish for rest;
Aw’m noan made o’ sugar nor saut,
That melts wi’ a steepin’ o’ rain;
An’, as for my jacket,—it’s nought,—
Aw’ll dry it by th’ leet o’ thi e’en!
So, sit tho deawn close by my side,—
Aw’m full as a cricket wi’ glee;
Aw’m trouble’t wi’ nothin’ but pride,
An’ o’ on it owin’ to thee;
Theaw trim little pattern for wives;—
Come, give a poor body a kiss!
Aw wish every storm ov e’r lives
May end up as nicely as this!