WHAT AILS THEE, MY SON ROBIN?
WWhat ails thee, my son Robin?My heart is sore for thee;Thi cheeks are grooin’ thinner,An’ th’ leet has laft thi e’e;Theaw trails abeawt so lonesome,An’ looks so pale at morn;God bless tho, lad, aw’m sooryTo see tho so forlorn.Thi fuutstep’s sadly awter’t,—Aw used to know it weel;Neaw, arto fairy-strucken;Or, arto gradely ill?Or, hasto bin wi’ th’ witchesI’th’ cloof, at deep o’th’ neet?Come, tell mo, Robin, tell mo,For summat is not reet!“Neaw, mother, dunnot fret yo;Aw am not like mysel’;But, ’tis not lung o’th’ feeorin’That han to do wi’th deil;There’s nought at thus could daunt mo,I’th’ cloof, by neet nor day;—It’s yon blue e’en o’ Mary’s;—They taen my life away.“Aw deawt aw’ve done wi comfortTo th’ day that aw mun dee;For th’ place hoo sets her fuut on,It’s fairy greawnd to me;But oh, it’s useless speighkin’,Aw connut ston her pride;An’ when a true heart’s breighkinIt’s very hard to bide!”Neaw God be wi’ tho, Robin;Just let her have her way;Hoo’ll never meet thy marrow,For mony a summer day!Aw’re just same wi’ thi feyther,When first he spoke to me:So, go thi ways, an’ whistle;An’ th’ lass’ll come to thee!
WWhat ails thee, my son Robin?My heart is sore for thee;Thi cheeks are grooin’ thinner,An’ th’ leet has laft thi e’e;Theaw trails abeawt so lonesome,An’ looks so pale at morn;God bless tho, lad, aw’m sooryTo see tho so forlorn.Thi fuutstep’s sadly awter’t,—Aw used to know it weel;Neaw, arto fairy-strucken;Or, arto gradely ill?Or, hasto bin wi’ th’ witchesI’th’ cloof, at deep o’th’ neet?Come, tell mo, Robin, tell mo,For summat is not reet!“Neaw, mother, dunnot fret yo;Aw am not like mysel’;But, ’tis not lung o’th’ feeorin’That han to do wi’th deil;There’s nought at thus could daunt mo,I’th’ cloof, by neet nor day;—It’s yon blue e’en o’ Mary’s;—They taen my life away.“Aw deawt aw’ve done wi comfortTo th’ day that aw mun dee;For th’ place hoo sets her fuut on,It’s fairy greawnd to me;But oh, it’s useless speighkin’,Aw connut ston her pride;An’ when a true heart’s breighkinIt’s very hard to bide!”Neaw God be wi’ tho, Robin;Just let her have her way;Hoo’ll never meet thy marrow,For mony a summer day!Aw’re just same wi’ thi feyther,When first he spoke to me:So, go thi ways, an’ whistle;An’ th’ lass’ll come to thee!
WWhat ails thee, my son Robin?My heart is sore for thee;Thi cheeks are grooin’ thinner,An’ th’ leet has laft thi e’e;Theaw trails abeawt so lonesome,An’ looks so pale at morn;God bless tho, lad, aw’m sooryTo see tho so forlorn.
W
Thi fuutstep’s sadly awter’t,—Aw used to know it weel;Neaw, arto fairy-strucken;Or, arto gradely ill?Or, hasto bin wi’ th’ witchesI’th’ cloof, at deep o’th’ neet?Come, tell mo, Robin, tell mo,For summat is not reet!
“Neaw, mother, dunnot fret yo;Aw am not like mysel’;But, ’tis not lung o’th’ feeorin’That han to do wi’th deil;There’s nought at thus could daunt mo,I’th’ cloof, by neet nor day;—It’s yon blue e’en o’ Mary’s;—They taen my life away.
“Aw deawt aw’ve done wi comfortTo th’ day that aw mun dee;For th’ place hoo sets her fuut on,It’s fairy greawnd to me;But oh, it’s useless speighkin’,Aw connut ston her pride;An’ when a true heart’s breighkinIt’s very hard to bide!”
Neaw God be wi’ tho, Robin;Just let her have her way;Hoo’ll never meet thy marrow,For mony a summer day!Aw’re just same wi’ thi feyther,When first he spoke to me:So, go thi ways, an’ whistle;An’ th’ lass’ll come to thee!