Classic Poem

My poor owd lass, an art ta goan,
To thy long rest?
An’ mun the cruel cold grave-stone
Close ower thy breast?
An’ art ta goan no more to see,
Exceptin’ i’ fond memory?
Yes, empty echo answers me—
“Shoe’s deead an’ goan!”

I’ vain the wafters o’ the breeze
Fan my hot brah,
I’ vain the birds upon the trees,
Sing sweetly nah;
I’ vain the early rose-bud blaws,
I’ vain wide Nature shows her cause,
Deeath thunders fro his greedy jaws—
“Shoe’s deead an’ goan!”

There’s more ner me ’at’s sad bereft,
I pity wun,
An’ that’s my lad—he’s sadly left—
My little John;
He wander’s up an’ dahn all t’day,
An’ rarely hez a word to say,
Save murmuring (an’ weel he may),
“Shoo’s deead an goan!”

Bud, Johnny lad, let’s dry wer tears;
At t’least we’ll try;
Thy mother’s safe wi’ Him ’at hears
T’poor orphan’s sigh;
Fer ’tis the lot o’ t’human mack—
An’ who can tell which next he’ll tack?
An’ crying cannot bring her back;
“Shoe’s deead an’ goan!”