Shoo’s Deead an’ Goan!
Reading edition
My poor oud lass, an’ are ta goan, To thy long rest? An’ mun the cruel cold grave-stone Close ower thy breast? An’ are ta goan no more to see, Excepting e fond memory; Yes empty echo answers me— “Shoo’s deead an’ goan!”
E vain the wafters o’ the breeze Fan my hot brah, E vain the birds upon the trees, Sing sweetly nah; E vain the early rose-bud blaws, E vain wide Nature shows her Cause, Deeath thunders fro his greedy jaws— “Shoo’s deead an’ goan!”
There’s more ner me that’s sore bereft, I pity wun, An’ that’s my lad—he’s sadly left— My little John; He wanders up an’ dahn all t’day, An’ rarely hez a word to say, Save murmuring (an’ weel he may), Shoo’s deead an’ goan!
Bud, Jonny lad, let’s dry wer tears; At t’least we’ll try; Thi muther’s safe wi Him ’at hears The orphan’s sigh; Fer ’tis the lot o’ t’human mack— An’ who can tell which next he’ll tack? An’ crying cannot bring her back; Shoo’s deead an’ goan!