To th' Swallow.

A poem by John Hartley

Bonny burd! aw'm fain to see thee,
For tha tells ov breeter weather;
But aw connot quite forgie thee, -
Connot love thee altogether.

'Tisn't thee aw fondly welcome -
'Tis the cheerin news tha brings,
Tellin us fine weather will come,
When we see thi dappled wings.

But aw'd rayther have a sparrow, -
Rayther hear a robin twitter; -
Tho' they may net be thi marrow,
May net fly wi' sich a glitter;

But they nivver leeav us, nivver -
Storms may come, but still they stay;
But th' first wind 'at ma's thee shivver,
Up tha mounts an flies away.

Ther's too monny like thee, swallow,
'At when fortun's sun shines breet,
Like a silly buzzard follow,
Doncin raand a bit o' leet.

But ther's few like Robin redbreast,
Cling throo days o' gloom an care;
Soa aw love mi old tried friends best -
Fickle hearts aw'll freely spare.

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