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Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.

Edwin Waugh 1818–90

Th’ Sweetheart Gate

OH, there ’s mony a gate eawt ov eawr teawn-end,

But nobbut one for me;

It winds by a rindlin’ wayter side,

An’ o’er a posied lea,

It wanders into a shady dell;

An’ when aw ’ve done for th’ day,

Aw never can sattle this heart o’ mine,

Beawt walkin’ deawn that way.

It ’s noather garden, nor posied lea,

Nor wayter rindlin’ clear;

But deawn i’ th vale there ’s a rosy nook,

An’ my true love lives theer.

It ’s olez summer where th’ heart’s content,

Tho’ wintry winds may blow;

An’ there ’s never gate ’at ’s so kind to th’ fuut,

As th’ gate one likes to go.

When aw set off o’ sweetheartin,’ aw ’ve

A theawsan’ things to say;

But th’ very first glent o’ yon chimbley-top

It drives ’em o’ away;

An’ when aw meet wi’ my bonny lass,

It sets my heart a-jee;—

Oh, there ’s summut i’ th’ leet o’ yon two blue e’en

That plays the dule wi’ me!

When th’ layrock ’s finished his wark aboon,

An’ laid his music by,

He flutters deawn to his mate, an’ stops

Till dayleet stirs i’ th’ sky.

Though Matty sends me away at dark,

Aw know that hoo ’s reet full well;—

An’ it ’s heaw aw love a true-hearted lass,

No mortal tung can tell!

Aw wish that Candlemas day were past,

When wakin’ time comes on;

An’ aw wish that Kesmass time were here,

An’ Matty an’ me were one.

Aw wish this wanderin’ wark were o’er—

This maunderin’ to an’ fro;

That aw could go whoam to my own true love,

An’ stop at neet an’ o’.