My poor oud lass, an’ are ta goan,
To thy long rest?
An’ mun the cruel cold grave-stone
Close ower thy breast?
An’ are ta goan no more to see,
Excepting e fond memory;
Yes empty echo answers me—
“Shoo’s deead an’ goan!”

E vain the wafters o’ the breeze
Fan my hot brah,
E vain the birds upon the trees,
Sing sweetly nah;
E vain the early rose-bud blaws,
E vain wide Nature shows her Cause,
Deeath thunders fro his greedy jaws—
“Shoo’s deead an’ goan!”

There’s more ner me that’s sore bereft,
I pity wun,
An’ that’s my lad—he’s sadly left—
My little John;
He wanders up an’ dahn all t’day,
An’ rarely hez a word to say,
Save murmuring (an’ weel he may),
Shoo’s deead an’ goan!

Bud, Jonny lad, let’s dry wer tears;
At t’least we’ll try;
Thi muther’s safe wi Him ’at hears
The orphan’s sigh;
Fer ’tis the lot o’ t’human mack—
An’ who can tell which next he’ll tack?
An’ crying cannot bring her back;
Shoo’s deead an’ goan!