My Polly.
By John Hartley
My Polly's varry bonny,
Her een are black an breet;
They shine under her raven locks,
Like stars i'th' dark o'th' neet.
Her little cheeks are like a peach,
'At th' sun has woo'd an missed;
Her lips like cherries, red an sweet,
Seem moulded to be kissed.
Her breast is like a drift o' snow,
Her little waist's soa thin,
To clasp it wi' a careless arm
Wod ommost be a sin.
Her little hands an tiny feet,
Wod mak yo think shoo'd been
Browt up wi' little fairy fowk
To be a fairy queen.
An when shoo laffs, it saands as if
A little crystal spring,
Wor bubblin up throo silver rocks,
Screened by an angel's wing.
It saands soa sweet, an yet soa low,
One feels it forms a part
Ov what yo love, an yo can hear
Its echoes in yor heart.
It isn't likely aw shall win,
An wed soa rich a prize;
But ther's noa tellin what strange things
Man may do, if he tries.