Young Jockey he bowt him a pair o' new shooin,
Ooin, ooin, ry diddle dooin!
Young Jockey he bowt him a pair o' new shooin,
For he'd made up his mind he'd be wed varry sooin;
An he went to ax Jenny his wife for to be,
But shoo sed, "Nay, aw'll ne'er wed a hawbuck like thee,
Thi legs luk too lanky,
Thi heead is too cranky,
Its better bi th' hawf an old maid aw should dee!"
Young Jockey then went an he bowt him a gun,
Un, un, ry diddle dun!
Young Jockey then went an he bowt him a gun,
For his ivvery hooap i' this wide world wor done;
An he went an tell'd Jenny, to end all his pains,
He'd made up his mind 'at he'd blow aght his brains,
But shoo cared net a pin,
An shoo sed wi' a grin,—
"Befoor they're blown aght tha man get some put in."
Missed his Mark.
Aw like fowrk to succeed i' life if they've an honest aim,
An even if they chonce to trip awm varry loath to blame;
Its sich a simple thing sometimes maks failure or success,
Th' prize oft slips by strugglin men to them 'at's striven less.
Aw envy nubdy Fortun's smiles, aw lang for 'em misen,—
But them at win her favors should dispense 'em nah an then.
An them 'at's blest wi' sunshine let 'em think o' those i'th' dark,
An nivver grudge a helpin hand to him 'at's missed his mark.
We connot allus hit it,—an ther's monny a toilin brain,
Has struggled for a lifetime, but its efforts proved in vain;
An monny a hardy son ov toil has worn his life away,
An all his efforts proved in vain to keep poverty at bay;
Wol others, bi a lucky stroke, have carved ther way to fame,
An ivvery thing they've tackled on has proved a winnin' game;
Let those who've met wi' fav'rin winds to waft-life's little bark,
Just spare a thowt, an gie a lift, to him 'at's missed his mark.
Aw hate to hear a purse-praad chap keep booastin of his gains,—
Sneerin at humble workin fowk who're richer far i' brains!
Aw hate all meean hard graspin slaves, who mak ther gold ther god,—
For if they could grab all ther is, awm pratty sewer they wod.
Aw hate fowk sanctimonious, whose humility is pride,
Who, when they see a chap distressed, pass by on tother side!
Aw hate those drones 'at share earth's hive, but shirk ther share o' wark,
Yet curl ther nooas at some poor soul, who's toiled, yet missed his mark.
Give me that man whose heart can feel for others griefs an woes;—
Who loves his friends an nivver bears a grudge ageean his foes;
Tho' kindly words an cheerin smiles are all he can bestow,—
If he gives that wi' willin heart, he does some gooid below.
An when th' time comes, as come it will, when th' race is at an end,
He'll dee noa poorer for what gooid he's ivver done a friend.
An when they gently put him by,—unconscious, stiff an stark,
His epetaph shall be, 'Here's one 'at didn't miss his mark.'
When Lost.
If at hooam yo have to tew,
Though yor comforts may be few,
An yo think yore lot is hard, and yor prospects bad;
Yo may swear ther's nowt gooas reight,
Wi' yor friends an wi' yor meyt,
But yo'll nivver know ther vally till j'o've lost em, lad.
Though yo've but a humble cot,
An yore share's a seedy lot;
Though yo goa to bed i'th dumps, an get up i'th mornin mad,
Yet yo'll find its mich moor wise,
What yo have to fondly prize,
For yo'll nivver know ther vally till yo've lost em, lad.