LAYCOCK, owd brid, though gone to roost,
    Foaks still remember thee;
An' this to me's as preawd a spot
    As onny place con be.

Here ther's noa lordly castle owd,
    Wi' turret, moat, an' keep;
But just a' whoamly cottage heawse
    Built into th' hillsoide deep.

But 'tis fro' lowly wortchin' foaks
    'At th' world's best teychers rise,
Hence common spots an' cottage whoams
    Are sacred in eawr eyes.

Two theawsan' yer sin', very nee,
    This world's Great Teacher coom
To leet i' lowly Bethlehem;
    Sin' then fro' bench, an' loom,

An' farm, an' mill, an' shepherd's cote,
    True men ov God ha'n sprung;
To help monkoind to higher things,
    They'n suffer't an' they'n sung.

An' as fur thee, theaw worthy bard,
    'At sprung fro' this lone spot,
Theaw's cheered some scores o' warty loives,
    Enlivened mony a cot.

Throo' o thi lung an' useful loife,
    Theaw lived an' sung fur th' poor;
An' turned their thowts to One aboon —
    A Guide 'at's awlus sure.

An' neaw they'n put thee deawn i' th' greawnd,
    Thy songs are ringin' on,
Loike sweetest bells at eventoide,
    Just when the sunleet's gone.

Aw'm fain aw've seen this little spot,
    Becose theaw once lived heer;
An' though we connut see thi face,
    Aw think theaw mun be near:

Perchance theaw'rt watchin' us to-day,
    An' wonderin' why we weep,
When theaw'rt enjoyin' well-earned rest —
    A peace 'at's calm an' deep.

Well, well, owd friend, theaw'rt gone before,
    We linger still behoind;
But when eawr journey's o'er, may we
    Wi' thee a dwelling foind.

Adieu, sweet spot, pearcht uppo' th' hill,
    Henceforth to memory dear;
Oft 'mid loife's busy maze eawr thowts
    Will linger fondly here.

An' we shall hunger for that voice
    Whose music used to thrill,
An' vainly lung to grasp that hond
    Neaw lyin' cowd an' still.

David Lawton.