The sun it was sinking, the neet it was fair,
An’ sweet was the breath of the calm summer air ;
The last merry notes of a skylark shrill,
Hed deed on the heights of a neighb’ring hill ;
The evening sang of the deep-toned thrush
Was poured fra a twig on a hawthorn bush ;
An’ I, i’ the twilight was walking alone,
When I heeard a voice sing in a piteous tone,
“ O, I am fifty and three ! ”
“ Ah, me ! ” it exclaimed, with a deep-drawn sigh,
“ I shall nivver be married, me time hes gone by ;
Me charms they hev wither’d an’ deed away
Like the once green leaves on an autumn’s day ;
Me youth it is fled, and me beauty gone,
An’ I feel that grim tyrant, old age, creeping on ;
Now pale are me cheeks, where once bloomed the rose,
And, ah ! I hev scarcely a tooth i’ my jaws,
For I am fifty and three. ”
“ Full well I remember when I war sixteen,
I was fair as a lily, and proud as a queen ;
An’ wharivver I went — to the dance or the fair,
Then lovers in plenty would wait on me there.
But none of them got a kind word from me,
I wanted a man of much higher degree ;
But now I’m forsaken, me hopes are all fled,
An’ I’ll shiv’ring creep to me cold, lone bed,
For I am fifty and three. ”
“ All Ionely I sit through the lang summer day,
Without a companion to while time away;
An’ I starve i’ me bed on a cowd winter’s neet,
Wi’ a shawl round my heead, an’ hot bricks at me feet.
Will naa man come forrad an’ mak me a wife ?
For I’m weary, indeed, of my desolate life ;
I’ve plenty to itt, an’ to drink, an’ au that,
But I’ve nothing to love but a lazy Tom-Cat,
For I am fifty and three. ”
Saa now, au ye lasses, ’at’s turn’d twenty-yan,
Don’t be saa consated i’ t’ choice of a man ;
Don’t set yersels up wi’ a heigh, scornful air,
But strike for a bargain whal t’ buyer bids fair ;
For youth is like summer — swift passin’ away,
An’ soon ye’ll be like to a cowd winter’s day ;
Yer strength will be wasted, yer beauty decay’d,
An’ ye’ll finnd ye’ll be nowt but a stingy owd maid,
When ye are fifty and three.