GOOD BWYE TA THEE COT!

GOOD bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha dâs o' my childhood

Glaw'd bright as tha zun in a mornin o' mâ ; When tha dumbledores hummin, craup out o' tha cob-wâll,

An, shakin ther whings, thâ vleed vooäth an awâ.*

Good bwye ta thee Cot!-on thy drashel, a-mâ-be,
I niver naw moor sholl my voot again zet;
Tha jessamy awver thy poorch zweetly bloomin,
Whauriver I goo, I sholl niver vorget.

* This fact, in natural history, is well known to those acquainted with mud-walls and mud-wall houses. The humble-bee, bombylius major, or dumbledore, as it is here called, makes holes very commonly in these walls, in which it deposits a kind of farina: but it never, in such holes, as far as I have observed, deposits honey; in this bee will be found, nevertheless, on dissection, a considerable portion of that delicious sweet.

Tha rawzes, tha lillies, that blaw in tha borders-
The gilawfers, too, that I us'd ta behawld—
Tha trees, wi' tha honeyzucks ranglin âll awver,
I always sholl think o' nif I shood be awld.

Tha tutties that oten I pick'd on a zunday, And stickt in my qut-thâ war thawted za fine;

Aw how sholl I tell o'm-vor âll pirty maidens When I pass'd 'em look'd back-ther smill rawze on tha wine.

Good bwye ta thee Ash! which my Father beforne me,

A planted, wi' pleasure, tha dâ I war born; Zâ, oolt thou drap a tear when I cease to behawld thee,

An wander awâ droo tha wordle vorlorn.

Good bwye ta thee Tree! an thy cawld shade in

zummer;

Thy apples, aw who ool be lotted ta shake? When tha wine, mangst thy boughs sifes at Milemas in sorrow,

Zâ oolt thou sife for me, or one wild wish awake?

Good bwye ye dun Elves! who, on whings made o' leather,

Still roun my poorch whiver an whiver at night;

Aw må naw hord-horted, unveelin disturber,

Destrây your snug nests, an your plâ by moonlight.

Good bwye ta thee Bower!-ta thy moss an thy ivy

graw;

To tha flowers that aroun thee âll blossomin 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 âll, Er lessins wi' kindress, wi' tenderness gid us;

An ax'd us, war she dead, what ood us bevâll.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha nightingale's music,

In tha midnight o' Mâ-time, rawze loud on the

ear;

Whaur tha colley awâk'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 tha smawk makes it dork at noon dâ;

Bit nif it is true, I'm afeard that I âlways

And iver sholl thenk on tha cot thatch'd wi' strâ.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! there is One that râins

awver,

An wâtches 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.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! shood I niver behauld thee Again; still I thank thee vor âll that is past! Thy friendly ruf shulter'd-while mother wâtch'd

awver,

An haw'd vor my comfort vrom vust unto last.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! vor the time mâ be longful
Beforn I on thy drashel again zet my eye;
Thy tutties ool blossom, an daver an blossom
Again and again-zaw good bwye, an good
bwye!