Some grummel if th' sun doesn't shine,—
If it does they find cause for complainin;
Discontented when th' weather wor fine,
They start findin fault if its rainin.
Aw hate sich dissatisfied men,
An fowk 'at's detarmined to do soa,
Aw'd mak 'em goa live bi thersen,
Aght o'th' world,—like a Robinson Crusoe.
To mak th' pleasures surraandin us less,
Ivvery reight-minded man must think sinful;
When ther's soa mich to cheer us an bless,
Ov happiness let's have a skinful.
Aw truly mooast envy that man,
Who's gladly devotin his leisure,
To mak th' world as breet as he can,
An add to its stock ov pure pleasure.
It's true ther's hard wark to be done,
An mooast on us drop in to share it;
But if sprinkled wi' innocent fun,
Why, we're far better able to bear it.
May we live long surraanded wi' friends,
To enjoy what is healthful an pure;
An at last when this pilgrimage ends,
We shall nivver regret it aw'm sure.
Its True.
Ther's things i'plenty aw despise;—
False pride an wild ambition;
Tho' ivvery man should strive to rise,
An better his condition.
Aw hate a meean an grovlin soul,
I' breast ov peer or ploughman,
But what aw hate the mooast ov all,
Is th' chap 'at strikes a woman.
For let ther faults be what they may,
He proves 'at he's a low man,
Who lifts his hand bi neet or day,
An strikes a helpless woman.
Ther taunts may oft be hard to bide,—
Ther tempers may be fiery,
But passions even dwell inside
The convent an the priory.
An all should think where'er we dwell,
Greek, Saxon, Gaul or Roman;
We're net sich perfect things ussel,
As to despise a woman.