Tha'll have to bite thi lip sometimes,
When mooar inclined to sware;
But recollect, no precious things
Bring joy unmixed wi' care.
An when her snarlin turns to smiles,
An bitterness to bliss,
Tha'll yield fresh homage to her wiles,
An mak up wi' a kiss.
Tha'll happen think 'at shoo's a fooil,
An thy superior wit
Will allus win, an keepin cooil
Tha'll triumph in a bit.
Shoo's happen thinkin th' same o' thee
An holds thi in Love's tether,
Well, nivver heed,—they best agree
When two fooils mate together.
Somdy's Chonce.
What's a poor lass like me to do,
'At langs for a hooam ov her own?
Aw'm a hale an bonny wench too,
An nubdy can say aw'm heigh-flown.
Aw want nawther riches nor style,
Just a gradely plain felly will do;
But aw'm waitin a varry long while
An ov sweethearts aw've getten but two.
But th' trubble's just this,—let me tell,
What aw want an will have if aw can,
To share wedded life wi' misel,
Is a man 'at's worth callin a man.
But Harry's as stiff as a stoop,
An Jack, onny lass wod annoy,—
Harry's nobbut a soft nin-com-poop,
An Jack's just a hobble-de-hoy.
If caarin at th' hob ov a neet,
Wi' a softheeaded twaddlin fooil;
Aw should order him aght o' mi seet,
Or be cooamin his yure wi' a stooil.
His wage,—what it wor,—couldn't bring
Joy enuff to mak up for life's pains,
If aw fan misen teed to a thing,
At could work, ait an live, withaat brains.
"But ther's love," yo may say,—Hi that's it!
But aw nivver could love a machine;
An aw'll net wed a chap 'at's baat wit,
Net if he could mak me a queen.
Aw'd like one booath hansum an strong,
An honest, truehearted an kind,
But aw'm sewer aw could ne'er get along,
Wi' a felly 'at had'nt a mind.
Soa Harry will ha to be seckt,
For a nin-com-poop's nowt i' mi line;
As for Jack,—he could nivver expect
To win sich a true heart as mine.
Ther's lasses enuff to be had,
'At'll jump at sich chonces wi' joy,
They'll tak owt at's i'th' shape ov a lad,
Quite content wi' a hobble-de-hoy.
Aw dooant want to spend all mi life,
Like a saar, neglected old maid;
Aw'd rayther bi th' hawf be a wife,
Nor to blossom an wither i'th' shade.
Soa if onny young chap wants a mate,
Tho' he may net be hansum nor rich,
If he's getten some sense in his pate,
Aw'm his chonce.—An he need'nt have mich.
To a True Friend.