If it for a lily sighed,
An' a lily chonced to grow,
When it found the fair one died,
Powerless to brave the blow
Of the first rude gust o' wind,
Which had left its wreck behind.
Then 'twod own 'twor better fate
Niver to ha' held the prize;
Whins an' lilies connot mate,
Sich is not ther destinies;
Then 'twor wrang for one like me,
One soa poor, to sigh for thee.
Then gooid bye, aw dunnot blame,
Tho' mi loss it's hard to bide,
For it wod ha' been a shame
Had tha iver been mi bride;
Content aw'll wear mi lonely lot,
Tho' mi poor heart forgets thee not.
Duffin Johnie.
(A Rifleman's Adventure.)
Th' mooin shone breet wi silver leet,
An' th' wind wor softly sighin,
Th' burds did sleep, an' th' snails did creep,
An' th' buzzards wor a flying;
Th' daisies donned ther neet caps on,
An' th buttercups wor weary,
When Jenny went to meet her John,
Her Rifleman, her dearie.
Her Johnny seemed as brave a lad
As iver held a rifle,
An' if ther wor owt in him bad,
'Twor nobbut just a trifle
He wore a suit o' sooity grey,
To show 'at he wor willin
To feight for th' Queen and country
When perfect in his drillin.
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