Aw've trailed abaght th' streets wol awm sick
An' aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost through.
Aw've a wife an' three childer at hooam,
An' aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock,
For they think it's high time aw should come,
An' bring 'em a morsel 'o jock.
A'a dear! it's a pitiful case
When th' cubbord is empty an' bare;
When want's stamped o' ivery face,
An' yo hav'nt a meal yo can share.