Th' Gowden Weddin'. Poem by William Baron

It seems no mooar nor tuthri year,
Sin' th' day 'at we wur wed!
An' yet ther's fifty summers bloomed,
An' fifty winters fled.
-We've hed eawr share o' strife an' care,
I' ploddin' throo life's way,
Sin' th' parson med us booath i' one,
Just fifty year to-day.

To-day's eawr gowden weddin', lass!—
Sooa sit tha deawn wi' me,
An' talk a bit o'er owden times,
An' things 'at used to be.
We're gettin' close to th' latter end,
But still we'll not repine ;
An' time's changed welly everything,
Except that heart o' thine.

Thi yure 'at shone like burnished gowd,
For years hes neaw bin grey;
An' youth's breet roses fro' thi cheeks
Hev long sin' passed away.
But tho' theaw weears time's fingermarks
I' th' wrinkles on thi broo,
Theaw'rt th' same as what theaw allus wur—
Theaw'rt luvvin', kind, an' true.

We've booath warked hard, an' poo'd one road
Throo th' rough an' smooth o' life;
An' struggled on as nob'dy con,
Exceptin' mon an' wife.
An' tho' we've booath bin quare at times,
When things hes bin upset,—
An', maybe, hed a word or two,
Ther's nowt to cause regret.

Last neet, aw passed throo th' owd churchyard,
An' stood wi' heavin' breast
Bi th' grave wheer eawr three darlin's lie
So peacefully at rest.
Eh, lass !—thoose days wur happy days !—
Pure bliss, witheawt alloy,
Till Death stretched eawt his cruel hond,
An' robbed us uv eawr joy.

It med me feel so sad, mi lass,
To think they o hed gone,
For weel theaw knows what pain it wur,
To lose 'em everyone.
They med cowd winter seem to us
As breet as sunny May ;
But life wur like a stormy neet
When they wur ta'en away.

An' sooa we've hed to potter on
Throo th' closin' days o' life,
Wi' nob'dy near to comfort us,
An' help us on i' th' strife.
But tho' we've bin so hard poo'd deawn,
Wi' sich a load o' care,
We've getten what'll keep us snug,
Besides a bit to spare.

To-day's eawr gowden weddin', lass!—
Sooa sit tha deawn wi' me,
An' talk a bit o'er owden times,
An' things 'at used to be.
Theaw's turned thi three score years an' ten—
Theaw'rt feeble, worn, an' grey,
But yet, to me, theaw's altered nooan,
Sin fifty year to-day!