My little dappled-wingged fellow,
What ruffin’s hand has made thee wellow?
Haw heard while down in yonder hollow,
Thy troubled breast;
But I’ll return my little fellow,
Back to its nest.

Some ruffin’s hand has set a snickle,
And left thee in a bonny pickle;
Who e’er he be, haw hope old Nick ’al
Rise his arm,
And mak his heead an’ ear-hoil tickle
We summat warm.

How glad am aw that fate while roaming,
Where milk-white Hawthorns’ blossoms blooming,
As sent me footsteps ere the gloaming
Into this dell.
To stop some murdering hand fra drowning
Thy bonny sell.

For thou wert doomed, my bird, for ever,
Fra all thy fethered mates to sever;
Were aw not near thee to deliver
We my awn hand;
Nor never more thou’d skim the river,
Or fellowed land.

Thy fetherd friends, if thou has onny;
Tho’ friends aw fear there izant mony;
But yet thy dam for her, we Johnny,
Will fret to-day.
And think her watter-wagtail bonny
Has flown away.

Be not afraid, for net a fether
Fra of thy wing shall touch the hether,
For I will give thee altogether
Sweet liberty!
And glad am aw that aw came hither,
To set thee free.

Now wing thy flight my little rover,
Thy cursed captivity is over,
And if thou crosses t’ Straits o’ Dover
To warmer spheres;
Hoping thou may live in clover,
For years and years.

Happily, like thee, for fortune’s fickle,
I may, myself, be caught it snickle;
And some kind hand that sees my pickle
Through saving thee,
May snatch me, too, fra death’s grim shackle,
And set me free.