So Mary, lass, tha’rt bahn to wed
It morning we young blacksmith Ned,
And tho it makes thy mother sad,
Its like to be;
I’ve nout ageean yond decent lad
No more ner thee.

Bud let me tell thee what ta due,
For my advice might help thee thru;
Be kind, and to thy husband true,
An I’ll be bun
Tha’ll nivver hev a day ta rue,
For out tha’s done.

Nah, try to keep thi former knack,
An due thi weshing in a crack,
Bud don’t be flaid to bend thi back,
Tha’ll nobbut sweeat;
So try an hev a bit o’ tack,
An do it neat.

Be sure tha keeps fra being a flirt,
An pride thysel e being alert,—
An mind to mend thi husband’s shirt,
An keep it clean;
It wod thy poor oud mother hurt,
If tha wor mean.

Don’t kal abaht like monny a wun,
Then hev to broil, an sweeat, an run;
Bud, alus hev thy dinner done,
Withaht a mooild;
If its nobbut meil, lass, set it on,
An hev it boiled.

So Mary, I’ve no more to say—
Tha gets thy choice an’ tak thy way;
An if tha leets to rue, I pray,
Don’t blame thy mother:
I wish you monny a happy day
We wun another.