My Polly.

My Polly's varry bonny,     Her een are black an breet;     They shine under her raven locks,     Like stars i'th' dark o'th' neet.     Her little cheeks are like a peach,     'At th' sun has woo'd an missed;     Her lips like cherries, red an sweet,     Seem moulded to be kissed.     Her breast is like a drift o' snow,     Her little waist's soa thin,     To clasp it wi' a careless arm     Wod ommost be a sin.     Her little hands an tiny feet,     Wod mak yo think shoo'd been     Browt up wi' little fairy fowk     To be a fairy queen.     An when shoo laffs, it saands as if     A little crystal spring,     Wor bubblin up throo silver rocks,     Screened by an angel's wing.     It saands soa sweet, an yet soa low,     One feels it forms a part     Ov what yo love, an yo can hear     Its echoes in yor heart.     It isn't likely aw shall win,     An wed soa rich a prize;     But ther's noa tellin what strange things     Man may do, if he tries.