'As ta seen ah Sarah's bonnet,
It's a stunner an' no mistak,
Gorra wreath o' roses on it,
An' a feather darn 'er back'
Yeller ribbons an' fine laces,
An' a cock-a-doodle-doo,
An' rahnd her bonny face,
A sprig o' posies, blue.

Last Sunday, when she went to t' Church,
T'parson couldn't say his text,
An' poor owd Widow Grundon,
spluttered "Pray, what next!"
T'lads laughed at one another,
T'lasses snittered i' their glee,
An' soon t'whole congregation
'Ad 'er bonnet i' their ee.

Then the parson said, most kindly,
That "If his erring Sister wished
to find her way to glory,
She'd not put on her head
A whole conserv-a-tory".

Na, our Sarah's nooan short o' wit.
She jumped up in a minute.
"Parson" she said, "thy heead's bare,
Tha's nowt in it, an' nowt on it.
Suppose tha puts some flowers there,
Like them 'ats i' my bonnet!"

I learnt this from my grandmother, who was a broadly spoken Yorkshire mill lass in her youth in the early 20th. century, back in the 1940s.