Dear Harden, the home o’ mi boyhood so dear,
Thy wanderin son sall thee ivver revere;
Tho’ years hev rolled ower sin thy village I left,
An’ o’ frends an’ relations I now am bereft.

Yet thy hills they are pleasant, tho’ rocky an’ bare;
Thy dawters are handsom, thy sons they are rare;
When I wauk thro’ thy dells, by the clear running streams,
I think o’ mi boyhood an’ innocent dreams.

No care o’ this life then trubled me breast,
I wor like a young bird new fligged fra its nest;
Wi me dear little mates did I frolic an’ play,
Wal life’s sweetest moments wor flying away.

As the dew kissed the daisies ther portals to close,
At neet e mi bed I did sweetly repose;
An’ rose in the morning at nature’s command,
Till fra boyhood to manhood mi frame did expand.

The faces that wunce were familiar to me,
Those that did laugh at my innocent glee;
I fancy I see them, tho’ now far away,
Or praps e Bingley church-yard they may lay.

Fer sin I’ve embarked on life’s stormy seas,
Mi mind’s like the billows that’s nivver at ease;
Yet I still hev a hope mi last moments to crown
E thee, dearest village, to lay misell down.”