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;
But, there’s a nook beside yon spring,
An’ iv thae’ll share’t wi’ me;
Aw’ll buy tho th’ prattist gowden ring
That ever theaw did see!
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;
It isn’t stuffed wi’ fither-deawn;
But th’ flocks are clen an’ new;
Hoo says there’s daycent folk i’th’ teawn
That’s made a warse un do.
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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]