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A song I sing o' t' Yorkshire dales,
That winnd frae t' moors to t' sea;
Frae t' breast o' t' fells, wheer t' cloud-rack sails,
Their becks flow merrily.
Their banks are breet wi' moss an' broom,...

One yeer owder, one yeer dearer:
That's what I sal awlus say.
Draw thy chair a little nearer,
Put yon stockin's reight away.
Thou hast done enough i' thy time,
Tewed i' t' house an' wrowt at loom;...

I niver heerd its name; we call it just "Our beck."
Mebbe, there's bigger streams down Ripon way;
But if thou wants clean watter, by my neck!
Thou'll travel far for cleaner, ony day.
...

Draw back my curtains, Mary,
An' oppen t' windey wide;
Ay, ay, I know I'm deein',
While to-morn I'll hardlins bide.
But yit afore all's ovver,
An' I lig cowd as snow,...

She leaned o'er her latticed casement,
The Flower of Wensleydale;
'Twas St Agnes Eve at midnight,
Through the mist the stars burnt pale.

In her hand she held twelve sage-leaves,...

But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
Jane Elliot (1727-1805).


O! day-time is weary, an' dark o' dusk dreary...