A redwut brick may miss its mark,
A madman change his whim;
A lion may forgive a theft;
A leaky tub may swim.
Bullets may pass yo harmless by,
An leeav all safe at last;
A thaasand thunders shake the sky,
An spare yo when they've past.
Yo may o'ercome mooast fell disease;
Mak poverty yo're friend;
But wi' a mean, blackhearted man,
Noa mortal can contend.
Ther's malice in his kindest smile,
His proffered hand's a snare;
He's plannin deepest villany,
When seemingly mooast fair.
He leads yo on wi' oily tongue,
Swears he's yo're fastest friend;
He get's yo once within his coils,
An crushes yo i'th' end.
Old Nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin aght,
An seeks whom to devour;
But he's a saint, compared to some,
'At's th' luk to be i' power.
Fairly Weel-off.
Ov whooalsum food aw get mi fill,—
Ov drink aw seldom want a gill;
Aw've clooas to shield me free throo harm,
Should winds be cold or th' sun be warm.
Aw rarely have a sickly spell,—
Mi appetite aw'm fain to tell
Ne'er plays noa scurvy tricks on me,
Nowt ivver seems to disagree.
Aw've wark, as mich as aw can do,—
Sometimes aw laik a day or two,—
Mi wage is nobbut small, but yet,
Aw manage to keep aght o' debt.
Mi wife, God bless her! ivvery neet
Has slippers warmin for mi feet;
An th' hearthstun cleean, an th' drinkin laid,
An th' teah's brew'd an th' tooast is made.
An th' childer weshed, an fairly dressed,
Wi' health an happiness are blest;
An th' youngest, tho' aw say't misen,
Is th' grandest babby ivver seen.
Aw've friends, tho' humble like misen,
They're gradely, upright, workin-men,
They're nooan baght brains oth' sooart they're on;—
They do what's reight as near's they con.
Aw tak small stock i' politics,
For lib'ral shams an tooary tricks,
Have made me daat 'em one an all;—
Ther words are big, but deeds are small.