Ge me thi hand, mi trusty friend,
Mi own is all aw ha to gie thi;
Let friendship simmer on to th' end;—
God bless thi! I an gooid luck be wi' thi!
Aw prize thee just for what tha art;—
Net for thi brass, thi clooas, or station;
But just becoss aw know thi heart,
Finds honest worth an habitation.
Ther's monny a suit ov glossy black,
Worn bi a chap 'at's nowt to back it:
Wol monny a true, kind heart may rack,
Lapt in a tattered fushten jacket.
Ther's monny a smilin simperin knave,
Wi' oppen hand will wish 'gooid morrow,'
'At wodn't gie a meg to save
A luckless mate, or ease his sorrow.
Praichers an taichers seem to swarm,
But sad to tell,—th' plain honest fact is,
They'd rayther bid yo shun all harm,
Nor put ther taichin into practice.
But thee,—aw read thee like a book,—
Aw judge thi booath bi word an action;
An th' mooar aw know, an th' mooar aw look,
An th' mooar awm fill'd wi' satisfaction.
Soa once agean, Gooid bye, old lad!
An till we meet agean, God bless thi!
May smilin fortun mak thi glad,
An may noa ills o' life distress thi.