I thinks I had yer there, my boy,
For all your sniggerin’ jeers;
Thee’re in t’ mud, I tell ’ee, lad,
Rightoover ’ed an’ ears.
Zounds! what a orful thing it be
That love should blind us so!
Why, them there bloomin rosy cheeks
Be ony masks o’ woe!
The reddest on ’em thee could kiss
Aint ’ardly wuth the pains;
At best it’s but the husk o’ bliss,
It’s nuther wuts nor banes.
There aint a pleasure you can name,
From coourtin down to skittles,
But wot there’s mischief in the same,
Like pisen in your wittles.
The Reverend Brimstone says, “Beloved,
Be allays meek an umble;
A saint should never ax for moor,
An never larn to grumble.”
We ain’t to tork o’ polleticks
An’ things as don’t consarn us,
And wot we wornts to know o’ lor
The madgistret will larn us.
We ain’t to drink wi’ Methodists,
No, not a friendly soop;
We ain’t to tork o’ genteel folks
Onless to praise un oop.
We ain’t to ’ear a blessed word
Agin our betters said;
We’re got to lay the butter thick
Becorse they’re sich ’igh bred!
We got to say “Ha! look at he!
A gemman tooth and nail!”
You morn’t say, “What a harse he’d be
If he’d a got a tail!”
For why? becorse these monied gents
Ha’ got sich birth an’ breedin’;
An’ down we got to ’old our ’eads,
Like cattle, when they’re feedin’.