[From Manx Melodies, 1922]
POOR Bobby, he thravelled from dhure to dhure,
An' each wan gev him a piece;
He'd ress on the settle or lie on the flure,
An' a bit of dhry bread was a feas'.
He had his oul' cot an' a bit of a turf,
To keep out the couth of the night;
But it's up he'd be an' down at the surf,
As soon as the morning was light.
There's wans would be urging him out to the Brows,
To be fetchin' their cattle in,
But Bobby'd be heavin' hard words at the cows,
"Twas makin' his sowl to sin.
Poor Bobby lay down on his dying bed,
An' " Wumman," we heard him say,
" Put out them boots an' that piece of bread,
For I'm goin' a long, long way."
The bread was a piece of a barley cake,
The las' his Mother had made,
Kep' by him these years for his Mother's sake,
In the chiss with her Bible laid.
We lef' him good-night when our work was done,
An' sof' we went out on the dhure;
An' behoul' ye, next mornin' poor Bobby was gone-
But his boots was lef' on the flure.