Them two little things they are thickest,
They help one another ’tis plain;
They try to be best and the quickest,
The smiles o’ their master to gain.
And now from her ten hours’ labour,
Back to her cottage sho shogs;
Aw hear by the tramping and singing,
’Tis the factory girl in her clogs.
An’ at night when sho’s folded i’ slumber,
Sho’s dreaming o’ noises and drawls;
Of all human toil under-rated,
’Tis our poor little factory girls.
We Him haw call my awn.
The branches o’ the woodbine hide
My little cottage wall,
An’ though ’tis but a humble thatch,
Aw envy not the hall.
The wooded hills before my eyes
Are spread both far and wide;
An’ Nature’s grandeur seems to dress,
In all her lovely pride.
It is, indeed, a lovely spot,
O’ singing birds an’ flowers;
’Mid Nature’s grandeur it is true,
I pass away my hours.
Yet think not ’tis this lovely glen,
So dear in all its charms;
Its blossomed banks and rippled reels,
Freed from the world’s alarms.
For should love’s magic change the scene,
To trackless lands unknown;
’Twor Eden in the desert wild,
Wi him aw call my own.