Through trouble, toil, an’ wrung, Thae’s whistle’t at thi wark, An’ wrostle’t life so lung, Thi limbs are gettin stark; But, sich a heart as thine’s A never-failin’ friend; It cheer’s a mon’s decline, An’ keeps it sweet to th’ end.
Thy banner’ll soon be furled, An’ then they’n ha’ to tell, “He travell’t th’ dirty world, An’ never soil’t hissel’!” An’ when aw come to dee, An’ death has ta’en his tow, Aw hope to leet o’ thee,— God bless thi snowy pow!
MARGIT’S COMIN’.
Air—“Th’ Rakes o’ Mellor.”
But, houd; yor Margit’s up i’th teawn; Aw yerd her ax for thee at th’ Crown; An’, just meet neaw, aw scampert deawn;— It’s true as aught i’th Bible! Thae knows yor Margit weel ov owd; Her tung—it makes mo fair go cowd Sin’ th’ day hoo broke my nose i’th fowd Wi’ th’ edge o’th porritch thible.