Come onto th’windy moors wi’me,

An’ let th’world slur away;

An’ you’ll ne’er want or need to dee

Afore yo’re owd and grey.

Climb fro’ yo’r holes, where wayther lies

Black-feaw bi every teawn;

An’ sit wi’ me to watch it rise

An’ rush I’ music deawn.

Lev reausty forge an’ sweaty mill,

Breek wole an’ smooky flue;

Wi’ breath fro’ heaven yo’r wynt-pipes fill,

An’ wesh yorsels I’ dew.

Like layrocks I’ ribbed cages put

To sing their hearts away,

I’ slate an’ stone yo’r souls are shut,

An’ pine for th’leet o’ day.

Bowd flutthers t’bluebell’s banner’rt spear,

Yeth’s painted carpet spread,

There’s gowd and’ silver lyin’ here

Enough for o th’folk bred.

Here’s rest an’ length o’ merry days

For ony ‘at ‘ll look;

An’ beauty’s hud bi th’windin’ ways

I’ mony a fleaur-pil’t nook.

Come onto th’moors, and lev yo’r wark,

An’ let him slave ‘at will,

I’ th’ gutthers wheere Dyeath creeps to mark

Who next he’s beaun to kill.

Come up where yo’r fore-eldhers coome,

Crawl eaut o’ th’valleys deep,

An’ lapped I’ th’scent o’ hawthorn bloom

Live whol o ends I’ sleep.

An’ seaund, unbroken sleep yo’ll have

Aboon th’world’s roarin’ strife,

An’ get moore quietness I’ th’grave

Nor e’en yo’ fund I’ life.

John Trafford Clegg 1857-95