What ails thee, my son Robin?
My heart is sore for thee;
Thi cheeks are grooin’ thinner,
An’ th’ leet has laft thi e’e;
Theaw trails abeawt so lonesome,
An’ looks so pale at morn;
God bless tho, lad, aw’m soory
To see tho so forlorn.
Thi fuutstep’s sadly awter’t,—
Aw used to know it weel;
Neaw, arto fairy-strucken;
Or, arto gradely ill?
Or, hasto bin wi’ th’ witches
I’th’ cloof, at deep o’th’ neet?
Come, tell mo, Robin, tell mo,
For summat is not reet!
“Neaw, mother, dunnot fret yo;
Aw am not like mysel’;
But, ’tis not lung o’th’ feeorin’
That han to do wi’th deil;
There’s nought at thus could daunt mo,
I’th’ cloof, by neet nor day;—
It’s yon blue e’en o’ Mary’s;—
They taen my life away.
“Aw deawt aw’ve done wi comfort
To th’ day that aw mun dee;
For th’ place hoo sets her fuut on,
It’s fairy greawnd to me;
But oh, it’s useless speighkin’,
Aw connut ston her pride;
An’ when a true heart’s breighkin
It’s very hard to bide!”
Neaw God be wi’ tho, Robin;
Just let her have her way;
Hoo’ll never meet thy marrow,
For mony a summer day!
Aw’re just same wi’ thi feyther,
When first he spoke to me:
So, go thi ways, an’ whistle;
An’ th’ lass’ll come to thee!