Pratas

Did ye gether tae a spinner,

Whun the deys wus shoart an coul?

Did the digger man keep kempin’,

Tae ye curs’t his verra sowl?

Did ye iver poo the prata taps,

An pile them in the feil’,

An burn them a’ geen quattin time,

Whun oot the moon did steal?

Did ye iver in the ashes

Roast a prata ye had dug?

Did ye ate it lake a banquet?

Wur ye blak fae ear tae lug?

Did ye iver in the moonlicht

Bing up a prata pit,

Lake I dane fifty year ago —

An heth I min’ it yit?

Did ye iver watch yer Fether

Wae rashes thatch the pit,

Wae yer bak turn’t tae the greeshagh,

O’ the fire ye had lit?

If ye niver sa’ or dane these things,

Them I’m feart ye miss’t a lot.

Ach! I know it haes a bearin’

On the aches an pains I’ve got.

But the fermer then, wae whut he had,

He wrocht fae dey tae dey,

An him an nature, dooble yok’t,

Gane on their simple way.

They sae I’m oul an dotin’,

An in the past I’m loast,

But tae the men o’ yisteryear

I’d lake tae drink a toast.

Here’s tae the men whut know’t the lan,

The saysons an the craps,

For half the young yins o’ the dey

Thinks pratas gruws in shaps.