  C Come, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine, An’ lilt away wi’ me; An’ dry that little drop o’ brine, Fro’ th’ corner o’ thi e’e; Th’ mornin’ dew i’th’ heather-bell’s A bonny gem o’ weet; That tear a different story tells,— It pains my heart to see’t. So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. No lordly ho’ o’th’ country-side’s So welcome to my view, As th’ little cottage where abides My sweetheart, kind an’ true; So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. My feyther’s gan mo forty peawnd, I’ silver an’ i’ gowd; An’ a bonny bit o’ garden greawnd, O’th’ mornin’ side o’th’ fowd; An’ a honsome bible, clen an’ new, To read for days to come;— There’s leaves for writin’ names in, too, Like th’ owd un at’s awhoam. So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. Eawr Jenny’s bin a-buyin’ in, An’ every day hoo brings Knives an’ forks, an’ pots; or irons For smoothin’ caps an’ things; My gronny’s sent a chist o’ drawers, Sunday clooas to keep; An’ little Fanny’s bought a glass For thee an’ me to peep. So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. Eawr Tum has sent a bacon-flitch; Eawr Jem a load o’ coals; Eawr Charlie’s bought some pickters, an’ He’s hanged ’em upo’ th’ woles; Owd Posy’s white-weshed th’ cottage through; Eawr Matty’s made it sweet; An Jack’s gan mo his Jarman flute, To play by th’ fire at neet! So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. There’s cups an’ saucers; porritch-pons, An’ tables, greyt an’ smo’; There’s brushes, mugs, an’ ladin-cans; An eight days’ clock an’ o’; There’s a cheer for thee, an’ one for me, An’ one i’ every nook; Thi mother’s has a cushion on’t— It’s th’ nicest cheer i’th’ rook. So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. My mother’s gan me th’ four-post bed, Wi’ curtains to’t an’ o’; An’ pillows, sheets, an’ bowsters, too, As white as driven snow; So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. Aw peeped into my cot last neet; It made me hutchin’ fain: A bonny fire were winkin’ breet I’ every window-pane; Aw marlocked upo’ th’ white hearth-stone, An’ drummed o’th’ kettle lid, An’ sung, “My neest is snug an’ sweet, Aw’ll go and fotch my brid!” So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. |
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