  C Come, Jamie, let’s undo thi shoon, An’ don summat dry o’ thi feet; Wi’ toilin’ i’th sheaw’r up an’ deawn; Aw’m fleyed at thi stockins are weet; An’, here, wi’ my yung uns i’th neest, Aw bin heark’nin’ th’ patter o’th’ rain, An’ longin’ for th’ wanderin’ brid, To comfort my spirits again. To-day, when it pelted at th’ height, “Aw’ll ston it no longer,” said I; An’, rayley, it didn’t look reet To keawer under cover so dry; So, though it were rainin’ like mad, Aw thought—for my heart gav’ a swell,— “Come deawn asto will, but yon lad Shall not have it o’ to hissel’!” So, whippin’ my bucket i’th rain, Aw ga’ th’ bits o’ windows a swill; An’, though aw geet drenched to my skin, Aw’re better content wi’ mysel’; But, theaw stons theer smilin’ o’th floor, Like a sun-fleawer drippin’ wi’ weet; Eh, Jamie, theaw knowsn’t, aw’m sure, Heaw fain aw’m to see tho to-neet! Why lass; what’s a sheawer to me? Wi’ plenty o’ sun in his breast, One’s wark keeps one hearty an’ free, An’ gi’s one a relish for rest; Aw’m noan made o’ sugar nor saut, That melts wi’ a steepin’ o’ rain; An’, as for my jacket,—it’s nought,— Aw’ll dry it by th’ leet o’ thi e’en! So, sit tho deawn close by my side,— Aw’m full as a cricket wi’ glee; Aw’m trouble’t wi’ nothin’ but pride, An’ o’ on it owin’ to thee; Theaw trim little pattern for wives;— Come, give a poor body a kiss! Aw wish every storm ov e’r lives May end up as nicely as this! _
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