An’ arta fra thee father torn,
So early e thi yuthful morn,
An’ mun aw pine away forlorn,
E greef an’ pane;
Fer consalashun aw sall scorn
If tha be taen.

O yes, tha art, an’ aw mun wail
Thy loss thro’ ivvery hill an’ dale,
Fer nah it is too true a tale,
Tha’rt coud az lead.
An’ nah thee bonny face iz pale,
Thart deead, thart deead.

Aw’s miss thee wen aw cum fra t’shop,
An’ see thi bat, an’ ball, an’ top;
An’ aw’s be awmost fit ta drop
Aw sall so freat,
And O my very heart may stop
And cease to beat.

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

But O! Tha Conkerer Divine,
’At vanquished deeath e Palestine,
Tak to thi arms this lad o’ mine
Noan freely given,
But mak him same as wun o’ thine,
We thee e heven.