It's varry monny years sin then,—
Mi hair's nah growin gray;
But oft throo life aw've thowt aw've heeard
That same owd farmer say,—
When in some fix aw've vainly sowt
For aid from other men,—
"Tha'rt wastin time,—if tha wants help
Pluck up, an help thisen."
If th' prize yo long for seems too heigh,
Dooant let yor spirits drop;
Ther may be lots o' thrustin, but
Yo'll find ther's room at th' top.
Yo connot tell what yo can do
Until yo've had a try;
It may be a hard struggle, but
Yo'll get thear, by-an-bye.
Nah, young fowk, bear this in yor mind
An let it be yor creed,
For sooin yo'll find fowk's promises
Are but a rotten reed.
Feight yor own battles bravely throo,
Yo'll sewerly win, an then
Yo'll find ther's lots will help yo,
When yo con help yorsen.
Bless 'em!
O, the lasses, the lasses, God bless 'em!
His heart must be hard as a stooan
'At could willingly goa an distress 'em,
For withaat 'em man's lot 'ud be looan.
Tho' th' pooasies i' paradise growin
For Adam, wor scented soa sweet,
He ne'er thank'd 'em for odour bestowin,
He trampled 'em under his feet.
He long'd to some sweet one to whisper;
An wol sleepin Eve came to his home;
He wakken'd, an saw her, an kuss'd her,
An ne'er ax'd her a word ha shoo'd come.
An tho' shoo, like her sex, discontented,
An anxious fowk's saycrets to know,
Pluck'd an apple,—noa daat shoo repented
When shoo saw at it made sich a row.
Tho' aw know shoo did wrang, aw forgie her;
For aw'm fairly convinced an declare,
'At aw'd rayther ha sin an be wi' her,
Nor all th' world an noa woman to share.
Then let us be kind to all th' wimmin,
Throo th' poorest to th' Queen up oth' throne,
For if, Eve-like, they sometimes goa sinnin,
It's moor for th' chaps' sakes nor ther own.