An' suppoase 'at it is'nt—what then?
Wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire?
Aw'm detarmined to scribble away—
Soa's them 'at's a fancy con read;
An' tho aw turn neet into day,
If aw'm suitin an odd en, neer heed!
Aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life;
But then ther's abundance o' care,
An' them 'at's contented wi' strife
May allus mak sure o' ther share.