Classic Poem

An’ arta fra thi father torn,
So early i’ thi youthful morn,
An’ mun aw pine away forlorn,
I’ grief an’ pain?
Fer consolashun I sall scorn
If tha be ta’en.

O yes, tha art, an’ aw mun wail
Thi loss through ivvery hill an’ dale,
Fer nah it is too true a tale,
Tha’rt cowd az leead.
An’ nah thi bonny face iz pale,
Tha’rt deead! tha’rt deead’!

Aw’s miss tha when aw cum fra t’shop,
An’ see thi bat, an’ ball, an’ top;
An’ aw’s be ommust fit ta drop,
Aw sall so freeat,
An’ Oh! mi varry heart may stop
An’ cease to beeat!

Ah’d allus aimed, if tha’d been spar’d,
Of summat better to hev shared
Ner what thi poor owd father fared,
I’ this cowd sphere;
Yet, after all, aw’st noan o’ cared
If tha’d stayed here.

But O! Tha Conquerer Divine,
’At vanquished deeath i’ Palestine,
Tak to Thi arms this lad o’ mine
Noan freely given;
But mak him same as wun o’ Thine,
Wi’ Thee i’ Heaven.