Ligging here deead, me poor Ann Lavina,
Ligging alone me own darling child,
Just thee white hands crossed on thee bosom,
We features so tranquil, so calm, and so mild.

Ligging here deead, so white an’ so bonny,
Hidding them eyes that oft gazed on mine;
Asking for sommat withaht ever speaking,
Asking thee father to say tha wor fine.

Ligging here deead, the child that so loved me,
At fane wod ha’ hidden me faults if sho could,
Wal thi wretch of a father dispairing stands ower thee,
While remorse and frenzy is freezing his blood.

Ligging here deead, e thee shroud an thee coffin,
Ligging alone in this poor wretched room,
Just thee white hands crossed ower thee bosom,
Waiting for t’angels to carry thee home.