On Th' Hills - A Poem by John Trafford Clegg 1857-95

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Come onto th’windy moors wi’me,
An’ let th’world slur away;
An’ you’ll ne’er want or need to dee
Afore yo’re owd and grey.

Climb fro’ yo’r holes, where wayther lies
Black-feaw bi every teawn;
An’ sit wi’ me to watch it rise
An’ rush I’ music deawn.

Lev reausty forge an’ sweaty mill,
Breek wole an’ smooky flue;
Wi’ breath fro’ heaven yo’r wynt-pipes fill,
An’ wesh yorsels I’ dew.

Like layrocks I’ ribbed cages put
To sing their hearts away,
I’ slate an’ stone yo’r souls are shut,
An’ pine for th’leet o’ day.

Bowd flutthers t’bluebell’s banner’rt spear,
Yeth’s painted carpet spread,
There’s gowd and’ silver lyin’ here
Enough for o th’folk bred.

Here’s rest an’ length o’ merry days
For ony ‘at ‘ll look;
An’ beauty’s hud bi th’windin’ ways
I’ mony a fleaur-pil’t nook.

Come onto th’moors, and lev yo’r wark,
An’ let him slave ‘at will,
I’ th’ gutthers wheere Dyeath creeps to mark
Who next he’s beaun to kill.

Come up where yo’r fore-eldhers coome,
Crawl eaut o’ th’valleys deep,
An’ lapped I’ th’scent o’ hawthorn bloom
Live whol o ends I’ sleep.

An’ seaund, unbrokken sleep yo’ll have
Aboon th’world’s roarin’ strife,
An’ get moore quietness I’ th’grave
Nor e’en yo’ fund I’ life.