O welcum, young princess, thou sweetest of dawters,
An’ furst bloomin issue o’ king sixty-four,
Wi thi brah dekked wi gems o’ the purest o’ waters,
Tha tells us thi sire, stern winter is ower.

We hail thi approach wi palm-spangled banners;
The plant an’ the sapling await thy command;
An’ natur herseln, to show hur good manners,
Now spreads hur green mantle all ower the plain.

Tha appears in the orchard, the gardin, an’ grotto,
Whare sweet vegetation anon will adorn;
Tha smiles on the lord no more than the cottar,
Fer thi meanest o’ subjects tha nivver did scorn.

O hasten ta labour! ye wise, O be going!
Theze wurds they are borne on the wing o’ the wind;
Tha bid us be early e pleuin an’ sowing,
Fer he o’ neglects thee tha’ll leave um behind.