They've battles to feight 'at we've fowt,
They've trubbles an trials to face;
I'th' futer they luk an see nowt
'At can hamper ther coorse i' life's race.
Th' sun's shinin soa breetly, they think
Sorrow's claads have noa shadow for them,
They walk on uncertainty's brink,
An they see in each teardrop a gem.
Happy dreams 'at they had long ago,
Too sweet to believe—-could be true,
Are realized nah, for they know
Th' world's pleasures wor made for them two.
We know 'at it's all a mistak,
An we pity, an yet we can pray,
'At when th' end comes they'll nivver luk back
Wi' regret to that sweet weddin day.
God bless 'em! may happiness dwell,
I' ther hearts, tho' they beat in a cot;
An if in a palace,—well,—well,—
Shall ther young love be ever forgot.
Nay,—nay,—tho' old Time runs his plough,
O'er fair brows an leaves monny a grove;
May they cloiser cling, th' longer they grow,
Till two lives blend i' one sacred love.
Bless th' bride! wi' her bonny breet e'en!
Bless th' husband, who does weel his part;
Aye! an bless those old fowk where they've been,
The joy an the pride ov ther heart.
May health an prosperity sit
At ther table soa long as they live!
An accept th' gooid wishes aw've writ,
For they're all 'at aw'm able to give.
To Let.
Aw live in a snug little cot,
An' tho' poor, yet aw keep aght o' debt,
Cloise by, in a big garden plot,
Stands a mansion, 'at long wor "to let."
Twelve month sin or somewhear abaat,
A fine lukkin chap donned i' black,
Coom an luk'd at it inside an aght
An decided this mansion to tak.
Ther wor whiteweshers coom in a drove
An masons, an joiners, an sweeps,
An a blacksmith to fit up a cove,
An bricks, stooans an mortar i' heaps.
Ther wor painters, an glazzeners too,
To mend up each bit ov a braik,
An a lot 'at had nowt else to do,
But to help some o'th t'others to laik.
Ther wor fires i' ivvery range,
They nivver let th' harston get cooiled,
Throo th' cellar to th' thack they'd a change,
An ivverything all in a mooild.