Ya summer day when I were mowin',
When flooers of monny soorts were growin',
Which fast befoor my scythe fell bowin',
As I advance,
A frog I cut widout my knowin'-
A sad mischance.
Poor luckless frog, why com thoo here?
Thoo sure were destitute o' fear;
Some other way could thoo nut steer
To shun the grass?
For noo that life, which all hod dear,
Is gean, alas!
Hadst thoo been freeten'd by the soond
With which the mowers strip the groond,
Then fled away wi' nimble boond,
Thoo'd kept thy state:
But I, unknawin', gav a wound,
Which browt thy fate.
Sin thoo com frae thy parent spawn,
Wi' painted cooat mair fine than lawn,
And golden rings round baith ees drawn,
All gay an' blithe,
Thoo lowpt the fields like onny fawn,
But met the scythe.
Frae dikes where winter watters steead
Thoo com unto the dewy mead,
Regardless of the cattle's treead,
Wi' pantin' breeath,
For to restore thy freezin' bleead,
But met wi' deeath.
A Frenchman early seekin' prog,
Will oftentimes ransack the bog,
To finnd a sneel, or weel-fed frog,
To give relief;
But I prefer a leg of hog,
Or roond o' beef.
But liker far to the poor frog,
I's wanderin' through the world for prog,
Where deeath gies monny a yan a jog,
An' cuts them doon;
An' though I think misen incog,
That way I's boun.
Time whets his scythe and shakes his glass,
And though I know all flesh be grass,
Like monny mair I play the ass,
Don't seem to know;
But here wad sometime langer pass,
Befoor I go.
Ye bonnie lasses, livin' flooers,
Of cottage mean, or gilded booers,
Possessed of attractive pooers,
Ye all mun gang
Like frogs in meadows fed by shooers,
Ere owt be lang.
Though we to stately plants be grown,
He easily can mow us doon;
It may be late, or may be soon,
His scythe we feel;
Or is it fittin' to be known?
Therefore fareweel.
