Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.
This world’s kin to trouble; i’th best on’t, There’s mony sad changes come reawnd; We wandern abeawt to find rest on’t, An’ th’ worm yammers for us i’th’ greawnd; May he that’ll wortch while he’s able, Be never long hungry nor dry; An’ th’ childer ’at sit at his table,— God bless’ em wi’ plenty, say I.
Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.
An’ he that can feel it a pleasur’ To leeten misfortin an’ pain,— May his pantry be olez full measur’, To cut at, and come to again; May God bless his cup and his cupbort, A theawsan for one that he gives; An’ his heart be a bumper o’ comfort, To th’ very last minute he lives!
Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.
An’ he that scorns ale to his victual, Is welcome to let it alone; There’s some can be wise with a little, An’ some that are foolish wi’ noan; An’ some are so quare i’ their natur’ That nought wi’ their stomachs agree; But, he that would liefer drink wayter, Shall never be stinted by me.
One likes to see hearty folk wortchin’, An’ weary folk havin’ a rest; One likes to yer poor women singin’ To th’ little things laid o’ their breast; Good cooks are my favourite doctors; Good livers my parsons shall be; An’ ony poor craytur ’at’s clemmin, May come have a meawthful wi’ me.
Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.