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KATE COWLE.
Grip me savadge, Miss Geargie,
An' heis me up in bed,
An' you can be radin' them texes
The while I reddy me head.
Can ye see me hanksher, Miss Geargie?
In the bed it's like it's los'.
Aw well! the couth of the winter!
Me legs is like sticks of fros'.
An' the rots is scraerpin', scraerpin'!
Aw, it's time poor Kate was took—
No, no, I'll not have no firin'
For I cannot suffer the smook.
An' well—Are ye theer, Miss Geargie?
I was dhramin' a dhrame in the night,
When the win's took rest from their noisin'
An' the say was middlin' quite.
An' the Lord Himself come down
An' stud beside the bed,
An' with thremblin' fear I heard Him speak:
"Come urrov theer," He said.
