  I mind me of the cottage where I used to bide Just above the harbour on the steep hill-side; Cobbled was the cause'y to the jasmined door That looked into the kitchen with the grey stone floor. I mind me of the dresser with the chainy white, An' the gurt big Bible as was read aSunday night; An' the old cloam tay-pot with the broken spout As wanted suant dealin' at the pourin' out. I mind the quiet mornin's an' the tickin' o' the clock, An' the brath upon the brandiss in the steamin' crock; An' the goin' of the shadows an' the comin' of the day, An' the startin' in the dimsey for the fishin' in the bay. I mind me of the night-times an' wind whisslin' drear, An' the scraitchin' o' the shingle when I couldn' slape for fear; An' the groanin' gropin' darkness with norra gleam nor star, An' the boom of the billows on the harbour bar. But the cosy chimley corner, I mind it best of all, With the smell of tatie pasties from the oven in the wall, An' the crackle of the fuzzen with the billies on the blow, An' the ring o' ruddy faces in the hearth-fire glow. The cottage still is lookin' from the hill across the bay; Above the cobbled cause'y swings the jasmine spray; But the gleam o' ruddy faces an' the hearth-fire glow Went out in the darkness long long ago. |
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