Nea mair he'll ride to t' soond o' t' horn,
Nea mair he'll fettle his sickle for t' corn.
Nea mair he'll coom to your skep of a morn,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Muther sits cryin' i' t' ingle nook,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Parson's anent her wi' t' Holy Book,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
T' mourners are coom, an' t' arval is spread,
Cakes fresh frae t' yoon,(1) an' fine havver-bread.
But toom'(2) is t' seat at t' table-head,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Look, conny(3) bees, I's winndin' black crape,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Slowly an' sadly your skep I mun drape,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Else you will sicken an' dwine(4) reet away,
Heart-brokken bees, now your maister is clay;
Or, mebbe, you'l leave us wi' t' dawn o' t' day,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Sitha! I bring you your share o' our feast,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Cakes an' yal(5) an' wine you mun taste,
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Gie some to t' queen on her gowlden throne,
There's foison to feed both worker an' drone;
Oh! dean't let us fend for oursels alone;
Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
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