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.