The parson put it kindly like—
He sed, says he, as ’ow
We’re bean’t so good as them there grubs
We turns up wi’ the plow.
There’s nowt more wretcheder an we,
Or worthier an the rich,
I praises ’em for bein’ born,
An’ ’eaven for makin’ sich.
So wile we be, I daily stares
That earthquakes doan’t fall,
An’ swaller up this unconwinced
Owdashus earthly ball!
An’ wen I thinks of all our sins—
Lay down, says I, my boys,
We’re fittin’ only for manoor,
So don’t let’s make a noise.
Let’s spred us out upon the ground
An’ make the turmuts grow,
It’s all we’re good for in this world
O’ wickedness an’ woe!
And yet we’re ’llow’d to brethe the air
The same as gents from town;
And ’llow’d to black their ’appy boots,
And rub their ’orses down!
To think o’ blessins sich as these,
Is like ongrateful lust;
It stuffs us oop wi’ worldly pride,
As if our ’arts would bust!
But no, we’re ’umble got to be,
Though privileged so ’igh:
Why doan’t we feed on grass or grains,
Or leastways ’umbly die!
We got to keep our wicked tongue
From disrespeckful speakin’,
We han’t a got to eat too much,
Nor yet goo pleasure seekin’.
Nor kitch a rabbit or a aire,
Nor call the Bobby names,
Nor stand about, but goo to church,
And play no idle games: