Page:Poems, Volume 1, Coates, 1916.djvu/143



OULD Jesus come to me, Mither,

The morrow's Christmas morn,

Wearin' the bonny smile he had

That day that he was born,

Around his head a wreath o' light,

And not a twig o' thorn,—

I'd open wide the doore, Mither,

The way that he'd come in;

And not to gi' him pain at all,

I'd keep my heart from sin;

And all I could to pleasure him

I'd right at once begin.

Not in a stall should he be laid,

But on me own fine bed;

And half me porridge wi' me own

Small spoon should he be fed,

The while his Mither smiled, and shared

Wi' you the bit o' bread.