Then them at is—I understand—
What yo may call trustees,
They hev ther favorites, yo knaw,
An gives to who they please.
Some’s nowt to do bud shew ther face,
An skrew ther maath awry;
An t’brass is shuvv’d into ther hand,
As they are passing by.
There’s mony a woman I knaw weel,
Boath middle-aged an oud,
At’s waited for ther bit o’ brass,
An catch’d ther deeath o’ coud.
Wal mony a knave wi lots o’ brass,
Hes cum e all his pride,
An t’flunkeys, fer to let him pass,
Hes push’d t’poor folk aside.
Fra Bradford, Leeds, an Halifax,
If they’ve a claim, they come;
But what wi t’Railway fares an drink,
It’s done be they get home.
Wal mony a poorer family
At’s nut been nam’d e t’list,
At weel desarves a share o’ t’spoil,
Bud thenk yo—they are miss’d.
We see a man at hes a haase,
Or happen two or three,
They Mr. him, an hand him aaght
Five times as mitch as me.
’Twor better if yo’d teed yer brass
Tight up e sum oud seck,
An getten t’Corporation brooms
To sweep it into t’Beck.”
No longer like Capias’ form,
Wi a tear e boath her een,
But like the gallant Camilla,
The Volscian warrior Queen.
She, kneeling, pointed up aboon,
An vow’d be all so breet,
Sho’d rack her vengence on ther heeads,
Or watch em day an neet.