We wor snugly set araand the hob,
’Twor one wet Kersmas Eve,
Me an arr Kate an t’ family,
All happy aw believe:
Aar Kate hed Harry on her knee,
An’ awd aar little Ann,
When their come rapping at the door
A poor oud beggar man.

Sleet trinkled down his hoary locks,
That once no daht were fair;
His hollow cheeks were dead’ly pale,
His neck and breast were bare;
His clooase, unworthy o’ ther name,
Were raggd an steepin wet;
His poor oud legs were stockingless,
And badly shooed his feet.

Come in to’t haase, said t’ wife to him,
An get thee up to’t fire;
Sho then brought aht were humble fare,
T’wor what he did desire;
And when he’d getten what he thowt,
An his oud regs were dry,
We akst what distance he hed come,
An thus he did reply:

“Awm a native of Cheviot hills,
Some weary miles fra here;
Where I like you this neet hev seen
Mony a Kersmas cheer;
Bud I left my father’s haase, when young,
Determined aw wad roaam;
An’ like the prodigal of yore,
Am mackin toards mi hoame.

“Aw soldiered in the Punjaub lines,
On India’s burning sand;
An nearly thirty years ago
Aw left me native land;
Discipline being ta hard for me,
My mind wor always bent;
So in an evil hoar aw did
Desart me regiment.

An nivver sin durst aw go see
My native hill an glen,
Whar aw mud now as well hev been
The happiest ov all men;
Bud me blessing—an aw wish yah all
A merry Kersmas day;
Fer me, awl tack me poor oud bones,
On Cheviot hills to lay.”

“Aw cannot say,” aw said to’t wife,
“Bud aw feel rather hurt;
What thinks ta lass if tha lukes aht,
An finds t’oud chap a shirt.”
Sho did an all, and stockins too;
An tears stud in her e’e;
An in her face the stranger saw
Real Yorkshire sympathee.

Ahr little Jim gav monny a sigh,
When he hed heard his tale,
An spak o’ some oud trouses,
At hung at chamer rail;
Then aht at door ahr Harry runs,
An back agean he shogs,
He’s been it coit ta fetch a pair
O’ my oud iron clogs.

It must be feearful coud ta neet,
Fer fouk ats aht at door;
Give him yahr oud grey coit an’ all,
At’s thrown at chamer floor:
And then thars thy oud hat, said Kate,
At’s paused so up an dahn;
It will be better ner his own,
Tho’ its withaht a craan.”

So when we’d geen him what we cud,
(In fact afford to give,)
We saw the tears come dahn the cheeks,
O’t poor oud fugitive;
He thank’d us ower an ower agean
And often he did pray,
At barns mud nivver be like him;
Then travelled on his way.