Fieldfares, bonny fieldfares, feedin' 'mang the bent,
Wheer the sun is shinin' through yon cloud's wide rent,
Welcoom back to t' moorlands,
Frae Norway's fells an' shorelands,
Welcoom back to Whardill,(1) now October's ommost spent.

Noisy, chackin' fieldfares, weel I ken your cry,
When i' flocks you're sweepin' ower the hills sae high:
Oft on trees you gethers,
Preenin' out your feathers,
An' I'm fain to see your coats as blue as t' summer sky.

Curlews, larks an' tewits,(2) all have gone frae t' moors,
Frost has nipped i' t' garden all my bonny floors;
Roses, lilies, pansies,
Stocks an' yallow tansies
Fade away, an' soon the leaves 'll clutter(3) doon i' shoors.

Here i' bed I'm liggin', liggin' day by day
Hay-cart whemmled ower,(4) and underneath I lay;
I was nobbut seven,
Soon I'll be eleven;
Fower times have I seen you fieldfares coom an' flee away.

You'll be gone when t' swallow bigs his nest o' loam,
April winds 'll blaw you far ower t' saut sea foam;
You'll not wait while May-time,
Summer dews an' hay-time;
Lang afore our gerse is mawn your mates 'll call you home.