GENTLE JONE.
Air—“Jenny’s Bawbee.”
“Owd lad,” said I, “just look heaw ronk These daisies groo’n at th’ edge o’th bonk; Let’s keawer us deawn, an’ have a conk, Just whol noon.” He poo’d a reech o’ bacco eawt, An’ cheese an’ mouffin in a cleawt; An’ thus began to tell abeawt Gentle Jone.
Says he, “Some chaps o’ brass are fond; They’re trouble’t sore wi’ cramp i’th hond; But yon’s the fleawer ov o’ this lond,— Gentle Jone! His heart’s as true as guinea-gowd He’s good to folk at’s ill an’ owd; Childer poo’n his lap i’th fowd,— Gentle Jone!
“I’ll bet a groat he’s off to th’ vale, Just neaw, to yer some soory tale; I never knowed his kindness fail,— Gentle Jone! O’er hill, an’ cloof, an’ moss, an’ moor, He’s reet weel known to folk at’s poor, A welcome fuut at every door,— Gentle Jone!