Good bwye ta thee Bower!--ta thy moss an thy ivy--
To tha flowers that aroun thee all blossomin graw;
When I'm gwon, oolt thou grieve?--bit 'tis foolish to ax it;
What is ther that's shower in this wordle belaw?
Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur my mother za thoughtvul,
As zumtimes she war droo er care vor us Acll,
Er lessins wi' kindness, wi' tenderness gid us;
An ax'd, war she dead, what ood us bevAcll.
Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha nightingale's music,
In tha midnight o' MAc-time, rawze loud on the ear;
Whaur tha colley awAck'd, wi' tha zun, an a zingin
A went, wi' tha dirsh, in a voice vull and clear.
Good bwye ta thee Cot! I must goo ta tha city.
Whaur, I'm tawld, that the smawk makes it dork at noon dAc;
Bit nif it is true, I'm afeard that I Aclways
And iver sholl thenk on tha cot thatch'd wi' strAc.
Good bwye ta thee Cot! there is One that rAcins awver,
An wActches tha wordle, wi' wisdom divine;
Than why shood I mang, wi' tha many, my ma-bes;
Bin there's readship in Him, an to him I resign.
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