  O for Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght! When t’ stars come few an’ flaytely, efter weerin’ oot day-leeght— When t’ black-kite blossom shews itsel’ i’ hafe-seen gliffs o’ grey, An’ t’ honey-suckle’s scentit mair nor iver it is i’ t’ day. An’ n?t a shadow, shap’ or soond, or seeght, or sign ’at tells ’At owte ’at’s wick comes santerin’ theer but you, yer oan two sel’s. Ther’ cannot be anudder spot so private an’ so sweet, As Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght! T’ Hempgarth Broo’s a cheersome pleÀce when t’ whins bloom full o’ flooar— Green Hecklebank turns greener when it’s watter’t wid a shooar— There’s bonnie neuks about Beckside, Stocks-hill, an’ Greystone Green— High Woker Broo gi’es sec a view as isn’t offen seen— It’s glorious doon ont’ Sandy-beds when t’ sun’s just g?n to set— An’ t’ Clay-Dubs isn’t far aslew when t’ wedder isn’t wet; But nin was meÀd o’ p?rpose theer a bonnie lass to meet Like Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght. Yan likes to trail ow’r t’ Sealand-fields an’ watch for t’ comin’ tide, Or slare whoar t’ Green hes t’ Ropery an’ t’ Shore of ayder side— T’ Weddriggs road’s a l?l-used road, an’ reeght for coortin toke— An’ Lowca’ lonnin’s reeght for them ’at like a langsome woke— Yan’s reeght aneuf up t’ Lime-road, or t’ Waggon-way, or t’ Ghyll, An’ reeght for ram’lin’s C?nning-wood or Scattermascot hill. Ther’s many spots ’at’s reeght aneuf, but nin o’ ways so reeght As Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght. Sec thowtes as thur com’ thick lang sen to yan, a lonterin’ lad, Wid varra lal to brag on but a sperrit niver sad, When he went strowlin’ far an’ free aboot his sea-side heÀm, An’ stamp’t a mark upon his heart of ivery frind-like neÀm;— A mark ’at seems as time drees on to deepen mair an’ mair— A mark ’at ola’s breeghtens meÀst i’ t’ gloom o’ comin’ care; But nowte upon his heart has left a mark ’at hods so breeght As Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght! Oor young days may’d be wastet days, but d?r their mem’ry’s dear! And what wad yan not part wid noo ageÀn to hev them here? Whativer trubles fash’t us than, though nayder leet nor few, They niver fash’t us hafe so lang as less an’s fash us noo; If want o’ thowte brong bodderment, it pass’t for want o’ luck, An’ what cared we for Fortun’s bats, hooiver feurce she struck? It mud be t’ time o’ life ’at meÀd oor happiness complete I’ Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght! |
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