Tha’ dassent wander Ilkley moor baht ‘at,

the breeze up yonder strips ye tae the bone;

a drop o’ rain’s enough to beat thee flat,

sometimes those drops feel heavy as a stone.

 

So allus wear tha’s heavy winter coat

all buttoned to the neck to keep thee warm;

complete it wi’ a muffler rahnd tha throat,

and tha’ll be reight, and ready for a storm.

 

Tha’ll ‘appen meet a maungy southern prat,

and all he’ll do is mither thee and moan;

for he’s no comprehension where he’s at,

‘cause he can’t get a signal on his phone.

 

So mebbe laik at summat else to do,

or better, stop at ‘ome and mash a brew.