The Moor (Written as Said)
by Camilla Patterson
Loik aught athort th' moor,
Betwix th' Laurel Heights,
Where lil' lasses play,
An' lads remorse tha're plight.
Where t'was th' animals reigned,
An' roamed arund so free.
When a'last they came ta' rest
'Derneath th' sycamore tree.
At nights ye're verra tired,
But, canna get ta' sleep,
Fer yer mind aught filled with playin'
Amung th' willows weep.
Claud sailors sail from afar,
Amung th' sea o' green.
Which is splauttered in pinks an' yellow
An' small broun crunchin' leaves.
Ye canna call 'em brigands,
Fer tha's nay what thee're cauld.
Yet, long ago, just once they were,
In the days o' auld.
An' now th' lads an' lasses,
With swords made o' wood,
call out among th' reeds,
Loiking fer Robin Hood.
A red fox acomes creepin' by,
Loiking fer his food.
Dinna know what lurks ahin,
Amung in th' foul wood.
A hunta' loies in waitin'
Sittin' on oppu'tunity's door.
Yet, methinks he just likes
Th' silence o' th' moor.
Th' wind behoind me back,
Th' breeze upon me face,
An' I stand upon th' moor,
'Membran when me visited th' Thrace.
Th' sky with sun a-setting,
Th' scene painted ableize,
T'was a braw sight to behold,
An' left me quite bumbaze.
O, moor, ne'er forget me,
Ne'er me an' mine,
Fer a day'll come
Whence ye'll hear me fechted cry.
Calling aught amung the reeds,
A dagga' in me 'and.
An' I shall slay tha' dragon,
which 'aunts th' magic moorland.
