I
I wot well o' his going
To think in flowers fair;—
His a right kind heart, my dear,
To give the grass such hair.
II.
I wot well o' his lying
Such nights out in the cold,—
To list the cricket's crick, my sweet,
To see the glow-worm's gold.
III.
An mine eyes be laughterful,
Well may they laugh, I trow,—
Since two dead eyes a yesternight
Gazed in them sad enow.
IV.
An my heart make moan and ache,
Well may it dree, I'm sure;—
He is dead and gone, my love,
And it is beggar poor.