Lyrics composed by John Henderson on the 25th Of December, 2012,
to Freeman's 1917 music for the song, 'My
Little Rambling Rose'.
John's words in N.E. Doric are based on Rev. Henry Francis
Lyte's poem, 'To A Blade Of Grass', written in biblical English
The Rev. Lyte, born in Ednam, Kelso, Scotland in 1795, is best
known as the author of the words for the hymn, 'Abide With Me'.
sids=seeds; wur=were; sawn=sown; fun=found; biel=shelter; faar=where;
mochie=damp; wairm=warm; reets=roots; delt=dug; grupt=gripped;
kep=keep; sheets=shoots; fae=from; hairm=harm; sin=sun; reyn=rain;
cam=came; ilk=each; kibbler=stronger; tee=also; staun=stand;
treids=treads; birs'd=pressed; fan=when; leukin=looking; hoomble=humble;
ithers=others; wag=wave; maun=must; aft=often; weesh=wish; wurna=were
jist=just; hag=brushwood; kennelt=colourful; nae=not;
twig=catch; ee=eye; waffs=odours;
raikin'=roving; moch=moth; wull=will; rist=rest; oan=on;
sizzons=seasons; dee=die; aye=forever; bide=stay; rin=run; sich=such;
pairtricks=partridges; thur=their; spraikt=speckled; kin=family;
wames=bellies; meese=mice; fyle=while; happin'=covering;
hungert=hungry; kye=cows; saft=soft; nicht=night; lammies=young
lambs; dicht=wipe; dyow=dew;
clair=clear; sicht=sight; howp=hope; wauk=walk; by=past; airn=earn;
freen=friend; spyack; fur=because; shawn=shown; vailyit=valued;
Brief Introductory Music
Yer sids wur sawn an' fun a biel
Faar airth wis mochie wairm;
Yer reets delt doon an' syne grupt weel
Tae kep yer sheets fae hairm.
Wi' sin an' reyn ye tirn'd tae green
Cam ilk day kibbler tee
Tae staun-up stark tae winds abeen
An' treids birs'd doon oan ye.
Fan leukin roon yer hoomble plank,
Tho' ithers at ye wag,
Ye maun aft weesh ye wurna rank
Jist like a bit o' hag.
Kennelt ye're nae tae twig the ee;
Nae waffs tae lure a raikin' bee;
Nae e'en a moch or butterflee
Wull tak a rist oan ye.
Fyle brichter floo-ers o' the sin
Ow'r sizzons droop an' dee,
Ye aye bide green as time dis rin,
Sich lang life God's gien ye.
The pairtricks wi' thur spraikt bird kin
Fesh ye thur coorin' wames,
Tae them an' meese ye're welcomin'
Fyle happin' livrocks' hames.
Ye feed'st the hungert kye by day,
Ye're thur saft bed at nicht;
The lammies in thur mornin' play
Dicht dyow tae clair yer sicht.
I howp, fyle ithers wauk oan by,
Tae airn ye seen as ma guid freen;
Fur fae the spyack ye've shawn aye
I've vailyit wul girse green.
'To A Blade Of Grass'
Henry Francis Lyte (1793-1847)
Composer of the words for, 'Abide With Me'.
Poor little twinkler in the sun,
That liftest here thy modest head,
For every breeze to blow upon,
And every passing foot to tread;
The loneliest waste, the humblest bower,
Content in homely green to dress,
And wear away thy little hour
In meek unheeded usefulness;
No hues of thine attract the eye,
No sweets allure the roving bee,
Nor deigns the dainty butterfly
To rest his wing on lowly thee.
All undistinguished and forgot.
Among the myriads of thy kind,
The moral of thy tranquil lot
Thou wastest on the idle wind.
Be mine, while others pass thee by,
To win and wear thee in my strain;
And from thy gentle teaching try
A lesson for my heart to gain.
While brighter children of the sun
With altering seasons droop and die,
I see thee green and gladsome run
Through all the changes of the sky.
Where vegetative life begins,
Thy little flag is first unfurled,
And marks the empire Nature wins
From desolation round the world.
Yes; Nature claims thee for her own;
Her thousand children house with thee:
An insect world, to eye unknown
Peoples thy coverts blithe and free.
The partridge, 'midst her speckled brood,
Leans upon thee her cowering breast;
Thou giv'st the field-mouse home and food;
Thou curtain'st round the skylark's nest.
Thou feed'st the honest steer by day,
Thou strew'st at night his open bed;
The young lamb, in his morning play
Strikes down the dewdrop from thy head.
Oh, ever pleasing, ever plain,
Creation's goodly household vest !
By thee is fringed the ruined fane,
By thee the poor man's grave is drest.
The pilgrim of the sandy waste,
The roamer of the long, long sea,
The sick-room's or the dungeon's guest --
'Tis his, 'tis his, to value thee.
Green soother of the burning eye,
Thou speak'st of sweet and simple things--
Of freedom, health, and purity,
And all that buxom Nature brings.
Be mine to dwell with her, with thee;
At eventide the fields to roam;
My God among His works to see,
And call my wandering spirit home:
And, while I view the Hand that tends
Ten thousand worlds, so kind to thee,
To feel that He, who so descends,
Will not o'erlook a worm like me.