Awr Annie.

A poem by John Hartley

Saw yo that lass wi' her wicked een?
That's awr Annie.
Shoo's th' pet o'th' haase, we call her 'queen,'
Shoo's th' bonniest wench wor ivver seen;
Shoo laffs an frolics all th' day throo, -
Shoo does just what shoo likes to do, -
But then shoo's loved, - an knows it too; -
That's awr Annie.

If ivver yo meet wi' a saucy maid, -
That's awr Annie.
Shoo's sharp as onny Sheffield blade,
Shoo puts all others into th' shade.
At times shoo'll sing or laff or cry,
An nivver give a reason why:
Sometimes shoo's cheeky, sometimes shy;
That's awr Annie.

Roamin throo meadows green an sweet,
That's awr Annie;
Trippin away wi' fairy feet,
Noa fairer flaar yo'll ivver meet;
Or in some trees cooil shade shoo caars
Deckin her golden curls wi' flaars;
Singin like happy burd for haars,
That's awr Annie.

Chock full o' mischief, aw'll admit,
That's awr Annie; -
But shoo'li grow steadier in a bit,
Shoo'll have mooar wisdom, an less wit.
But could aw have mi way i' this,
Aw'd keep her ivver as shoo is, -
Th' same innocent an artless miss,
That's awr Annie.

Child ov mi old age, dearest, best!
That's awr Annie;
Cloise to mi weary bosom prest,
Far mooar nor others aw feel blest; -
Jewels an gold are nowt to me,
For when shoo's sittin o' mi knee,
Ther's nubdy hawf as rich as me,
Unless it's Annie.

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