My Lass.

A poem by John Hartley

Fairest lass amang the monny,
Hair as black as raven, O.
Net another lass as bonny,
Lives i'th' dales ov Craven, O.
City lasses may be fairer,
May be donned i' silks an laces,
But ther's nooan whose charms are rarer,
Nooan can show sich bonny faces.
Yorksher minstrel tune thy lyre,
Show thou art no craven, O;
In thy strains 'at mooast inspire,
Sing the praise ov Craven, O.

Purest breezes toss their tresses,
Tint ther cheeks wi' rooases, O,
An old Sol wi' warm caresses,
Mak 'em bloom like pooasies, O.
Others may booast birth an riches,
May have studied grace ov motion,
But they lack what mooast bewitches, -
Hearts 'at love wi' pure devotion.
Perfect limbs an round full bosoms,
Sich as set men ravin, O,
Only can be faand i' blossoms,
Sich as bloom i' Craven, O,

An amang the fairest, - sweetest,
Ther's net sich a brave en, O;
For her beauty's the completest,
Yo can find i' Craven, O.
Ivvery charm 'at mother Nature
Had to give, shoo placed upon her, - -
Modest ways, an comely feature -
Health ov body, - soul ov honor
Isn't shoo a prize worth winnin?
An a gem worth savin, O?
Smile on, - sooin yo'll stop yor grinnin,
When my lass leeaves Craven, O.

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