Edwin Waugh: Poems and Songs (4)

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Owd Enoch.

I.


OWD ENOCH o' Dan's laid his pipe deawn o'th hob,
And his thin fingers played i'th white thatch of his nob;
"I'm gettin' done up," to their Betty he said;
"Dost think thae could doff me, an dad me to bed?"

Derry down, &c.


II.


Then hoo geet him to bed, an' hoo happed him up weel,
An' hoo said to him, "Enoch, lad; heaw doesto feel?"
"These limbs o' mine, Betty,—they're cranky an' sore;
It's time to shut up when one's getten four-score."

Derry down.


III.


As hoo potter't abeawt his poor winterly pate,
Th' owd crayter looked dreawsily up at his mate,—
"There's nought on me laft, lass, —do o' at tho con
But th' cratchinly frame o' what once wur a mon."

Derry down.


IV.


Then he turn's his-sel' o'er, like a chylt tir't wi' play,
An' Betty crept round, while he're dozing away;
As his e'e-lids sank deawn, th' owd lad mutter's "Well done!
I think there's a bit o' sound sleep coming on."

Derry down.


V.


Then hoo thought hoo'd sit by till he'd had his nap o'er,—
If hoo'd sit theer till then, hoo'd ha' risen no more;
For he cool's eawt o'th world, an' his e'en lost their leet,
Like a cinder i'th fire-grate, i'th deeod time o'th neet.

Derry down.


VI.


As Betty sit rockin' bith' side of his bed,
Hoo looked neaw an' then at owd Enoch's white yed;
An' hoo thought to her-sel' that hoo'd not lung to stay
Iv ever th' owd prop of her life should give way.

Derry Down.


VII.


Then, wond'rin' to see him so seawnd an' so still,
Hoo touched Enoch's hond,—an' hoo fund it wur chill;
Says Betty, "He's cowd; I'll put summat moor on!"
But o' wur no use for Owd Enoch wur gone!

Derry down.


VIII.


An' when they put Enoch to bed deawn i'th greawnd,
A rook o' poor neighbours stoode bare-yedded reawnd;
They dropt sprigs o' rosemary; an' this wur their text:—
"Th' owd crayter's laid by,—we may haply be th' next!"

Derry down.


IX.


So, Betty wur left to toar on bi hersel';
An' heaw hoo poo'd through it no mortal can tell;
But th' doctor dropt in to look at her one day,
When hoo're rockin' bith' side of an odd cup o' tay.

Derry down.


X.


Well, Betty," said th' doctor, "heaw dun yo get on?
I'm soory to yer 'at yo'n lost yo'r owd mon:
What complaint had he, Betty?"   Says hoo, "I caun't tell;
We ne'er had no doctor; he dee'd of his-sel'."

Derry Down.


XI.


"Ay, Betty," said th' doctor; "there's one thing quite sure;
Owd age is a thing that no physic can cure:
Fate will have her way, lass,—do o' that we con,—
When th' time's up, we's ha' to sign o'er, an' be gone."

Derry down.


XI.


"Both winter an' summer th' owd mower's at wark
Sidin' folk eawt o' seet, both bi dayleet an' dark;
He's slavin' away while we're snorin' i' bed;
An' he'd slash at a king, if it coom in his yed."

Derry Down.


XIII.


"These sodiurs, an' parsons, an' maisters o' lond,
He lays 'em i'th greawnd, wi' their meawths full o' sond,
Rags or riches, an' owd greasy cap, or a creawn,—
He sarves o' alike,—for he switches 'em deawn."

Derry down.


XIV.


"The mon that's larn't up, an' the mon that's a foo
It mays little odds, for they both han to goo;
When they come'n within th' swing of his scythe they
        mun fo',—
If yo'n root among th' swathe, yo'n find doctors an' o."

Derry Down.

 

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Eawr folk.

I.


ER Johnny gi's his mind to books;
    Er Abram studies plants,—
He caps the dule for moss an ferns,
    An grooin' polyants;
For aught abeawt mechanickin',
    Er Ned's the very lad;
My uncle Jamie roots i'th stars,'
    Enough to drive him mad.


II.


Er Alick keeps a badger's shop,
    An teyches Sunday schoo';
Er Joseph's welly blynt, poor lad:
    Er Timothy's—a foo;
He's tried three different maks o' trades,
    An' olez missed his tip;
But, then, he's th' prattist whistler
    That ever cock'd a lip!


III.


Er Matty helps my mother, an'
    Hoo sews, an' tents er Joe;
At doin' sums, an' sich as that,
    My feyther licks 'em 'o;
Er Charley,—well,—there connot be
    Another pate like his,—
It's o' crom-full o' ancientry,
    An' Roman haw-pennies!


IV.


Er Tummy's taen to preitchin'
    He's a topper at it, too;
But then,—what's th' use,—er Bill
        comes in,
    An' swears it winnot do;
When t'one's bin striven' o' he con
    To awter wicked men,
Then t'other mays some marlocks, an'
    Convarts 'em o'er again.


V.


Er Abel's th' yung'st; an'—next to Joe,—
    My mother likes him t' best:
Hoo gi's him brass, aboon his share,
    To keep him nicely drest;—
He's gettin' in wi' th' quality
    An' when his clarkin's done,
He's olez oather cricketin',
    Or shootin' wi' a gun.


VI.


My Uncle Sam's a fiddler; an'
    I fain could yer him play
Fro' set o' sun till winter neet
    Had melted into day;
For eh,—sich glee—sich tenderness—
    Through every changin' part,
It's th' heart that stirs his fiddle,—
    An' his fiddle stirs his heart!


VII.


An', when he touches th' tremblin'-
       streng,
    It knows his thowt so weel,
It seawnds as if an angel tried
    To tell what angels feel;
An', sometimes, th' wayter in his e'en
    That fun has made to flow,
Can hardly roll away, afore
    It's bleat wi' drops o' woe.


VIII.


Then, here's to Jone, an' Ab, an' Ned,
    An' Matty,—an' er Joe,—
An', my feyther, an' my mother; an'
    Er t'other lads an' o';
An' thee, too, owd musicianer,—
    Aw wish lung life to thee,—
A mon that plays a fiddle weel
    Should never awse to dee!

 

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Forgive One Another.

I.


COME here, my bold cronies, I'll not keep yo' lung,—
    Come hither, an' hearken to me;
I'll chant yo a neigbourly snatch of a sung,—
    An' th' end o' my ditty shall be,—
        Let's forgive one another!


II.


We're a wanderin' band, in a ticklesome land,
    Where never a mortal can stay,
When yo seen folk 'at's weary, lads, lend 'em a hand,—
    An', oh,—as we're joggin' away,—
        Let's forgive one another!


III.


This will-o'-the-wisp in a poor body's breast,
    It flutters the life of a mon;
It plays him wild marlocks that rob him o' rest,—
    A mortal may do what he con,—
        Let's forgive one another!


IV.


Like harp-strings, were made of a different tone,
    And the minstrel, he sits up aboon;
To him every note of the gamut's weel known,—
    Let's hope that he'll keep us i' tune,
        To forgive one another!


V.


At neet, when a mother's her childer undress,
    They paddle'n up close to her knee,
To whisper a prayer afore gooin' to rest;
    An', th' sweetest o' th' strain, unto me,
        Is,—forgive one another!


VI.


Some liken to wrangle o'er nought but a name,
    An' who wur their mams an' their dads;
But, gentle or simple, it ends up the same,—
    We're o' Johnny Butter'oth lads!
        Let's forgive one another!


VII.


When thinkin' o' life an' its troublesome way,
    We'n very leet need to be proud;
Strike honds while yo're wick; for yo'n not long to stay;
    It's late, when you're lapped in a shreawd,
        To forgive one another!


VIII.


An' neaw,—as we never may o' meet again,—
    For th' futur' no mortal can see,—
I'll stick to my text, lads; an', as it began,
    So th' end o' my ditty shall be,—
        Let's forgive one another!

 

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Buckle to.

I.


GOOD lorjus days, what change there is
    Upon this mortal ground;
As time goes flyin o'er one's yed,
    Heaw quarely things come reawnd;
What ups an' deawns, an' ins an' eawts;—
    What blendin' ill an' well
There is i' one poor crayter's life,—
    It is not for to tell!


II.


When mornin' blinks, mon lies an' thinks
    Abeawt the comin' day;
He lays his bits o' schames so sure,
    They connot roll astray;
He cracks his thumbs, an' thinks o'll leet,
    Just heaw it's planned to go;
But when he looks things up at neet,
    He seldom finds it so.


III.


An' when a storm comes, dark an' leawd,—
    Wi' mony a weary sigh,
He toots abeawt, i'th slifter't cleawd,
    To find a bit o' sky;
He mopes an' moans, he grunts an' groans,
    An' thinks his comfort's o'er;
But, th' minute th' welkin's breet again,
    He's peearter than before.


IV.


Good luck to th' mortal that can ston
    Good luck, beawt bein' preawd;
That keeps his yed fro grooin' whot
    His heart fro grooin' cowd;
That walks his chalks, an' heeds no talks,
    But does the best he con;
An' when things are not to his mind,
    Can bide it like a mon.


V.


Then, let's be lowly when it's fine,
    An' cheerful when it's dark;
Mon ne'er wur made to mope an' whine,
    But buckle to his wark;
It sweetens th' air, it leetens care,—
    I never knew it fail:
Go at it, then,—an' let's toe fair;
    Owd Time 'll tell a tale.

 

______________________

 
Neet-fo.

I.


TH' wynt blows keen through th'
        shiverin' thorns,
    An' th' leet looks wild i'th sky;
Come, Tet, stir up that fire; an' draw
    That keyther gently by;
I've done my weshin', gronny; an'
    I've tidied every thing,
An', neaw I'll sit me deawn to sew,
    An' hearken th' kettle sing.


II.


Bring in some coals; an' shut that dur,—
    It's quite a wintry day;
Reitch deawn that ham: for Robin likes
    A relish to his tay.
Sweep th' grate; an' set yon table eawt;
    Put th' tay-pot upo' th' oon;
Its gettin' on for baggin'-time,
    An' he'll be comin' soon.


III.


The fire bruns clear; an' th' heawse begins
    A-lookin' brisk an' breet,
As th' time draws near when he gets back
    Fro' teawn at th' edge o' neet;
It makes one hutch wi' glee to yer
    A favourite fuut come whoam;
An' it's very fine to hearken, when
    One thinks it's sure to come.


IV.


Th' cat pricks up her ears at th' sneck,
    Wi' mony a leetsome toot;
An' th' owd arm-cheer i'th corner seems
    As if it yerd his fuut;
Th' window blinks; an' th' clock begins
    A-tickin' leawd an' fain;
An' th' tin things winkin' upo' th' wole
    They groon as breet again.


V.


Th' kettle's hummin' o'er wi' fun—
    Just look at th' end o'th speawt;
It's like a little sooty lad
    That's set his lips to sheawt:
Th' wayter-drops 'at fo'n fro' th' tap,
    Are gettin' wick wi' glee;
An' yore fain, gronny, too,—I know,—
    But noan as fain as me!


VI.


Keep th' rockers gooin' soft and slow,
    An' shade that leet away;
I think this little duck's o'th mend,
    Hoo sleeps so weel to-day;
Doze on, my darlin'; keep 'em shut, —
    Those teeny windows blue;
Good Lord; if aught should happen thee,
    What could thi mammy do!


VII.


Here, gronny, put this cover on,
    An' tuck it nicely in;
Keep th' keyther stirrin' gently; an'
    Make very little din:
An' lap thoose dimpled honds away
    Fro' th' frosty winter air;
They lie'n a-top o'th bit o' quilt,
    Like two clock-hummers theer!


VIII.


But stop; hoo's laughin'!   Come, hie up,—
    My bonny little puss!
God bless it!   Daddy's noan far off;
    Let mammy have a buss!
He's here!  He's here!  Tet, bring that cheer!
    Eh, dear; these darlin's two!
If it wur not for this chylt an' him
    What could a body do!

 

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A lift on the Way.

I.


COME, what's th' use o' fratchin', lads, this life's noan so lung,
So, if yon gether reawnd, aw'll try my hond at a sung;
It may shew a guidin' glimmer to some wanderer astray,
Or, haply, gi' some poor owd soul a lift on the way:
                             A lift on the way;
                             A lift on the way;
Or, haply, gi' some poor owd soul a lift on the way.


II.


Life's road's full o' ruts; it's very slutchy an' it's dree;
An' mony a worn-eawt limper lies him deawn there to dee;
Then, fleawnd'rin low i'th gutter, he looks reawnd wi' dismay,
To see if aught i'th world can give a lift on the way:
                             A lift on the way;
                             A lift on the way;
To see if aught i'th world can give a lift on the way.


III.


There's some folk 'at mun trudge it, an' there's some folk 'at
        may ride,
But, never mortal mon con tell what chance may betide;
To-day, he may be blossomin', like roses i' May;
To-morn, he may be beggin' for a lift on the way:
                             A lift on the way;
                             A lift on the way;
To-morn, he may be beggin' for a lift on the way.


IV.


Good-will, it's a jewel, where there's little else to spare
An' a mon may help another though his pouch may be bare;
A gen'rous heart, like sunshine, brings good cheer in its ray
An' a friendly word can sometimes give a lift on the way:
                             A lift on the way;
                             A lift on the way;
An' a friendly word can sometimes give a lift on the way.


V.


Like posies that are parchin' in the midsummer sun,
There's mony a poor heart faints afore the journey be run;
Let's lay the dust wi' kindness, till the close of the day,
An' gi' these droopin' travellers a lift on the way
                             A lift on the way;
                             A lift on the way;
An' gi' these droopin' travellers a lift on the way.


VI.


Oh, soft be his pillow, when he sinks deawn to his rest,
That can keep the lamp o' charity alive in his breast;
May pleasant feelin's haunt him as he's dozin' away,
An' angels give him, up aboon, a lift on the way:
                             A lift on the way;
                             A lift on the way;
An' angels give him, up aboon, a lift on the way.


VII.


Jog on, my noble comrades, then; an'—so mote it be
That hond in hond we travel till the day that we dee;
An' neaw, to end my ditty, lads, let's heartily pray
That heaven may give us ev'ry one a lift on the way!
                             A lift on the way;
                             A lift on the way;
That heaven may give us every one a lift on the way!

 

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Yesterneet.

I.


I GEET up a-milkin' this mornin',—
    I geet up afore it wur leet;
I ne'er slept a minute for thinkin'
    What Robin said yesterneet;
I've broken two basins i'th dairy;
    I've scoaded my gronny wi' tay;
It's no use o' tryin' a-spinnin'—
    My wheel's eawt o' trim to-day.


CHORUS.
It's oh, yon Robin, yon Robin;
    His e'en ne'er twinkle's so breet,
As they did when he meazur't my finger
    For th' little gowd ring last neet!


II.


Eawr Dorothy's singin' i'th shippon;
    Eawr Jonathan's leawngin' i'th fowd;
Eawr Tummy's at th' fair, where he lippens
    O' swappin' his cowt for gowd;
My gronny's asleep wi' her knittin',
    An' th' kittlin's playing with th' yarn;
Eawr Betty's gone eawt wi' a gallon
    To th' chaps at their wark i'th barn.

   
CHORUS.—But oh, yon Robin, yon Robin;


III.


Th' lasses an' lads are i'th meadow
    They're gettin' their baggin' i'th hay;
I yer 'em as leetsome as layrocks,
    I'th sky on a shiny day;
But, little care I for their marlocks;
    I dunnot want folk to see,
Though I'm fitter for cryin' than laughin',
    There's nob'dy as fain as me.


CHORUS.—For oh, yon Robin, yon Robin;


IV.


When I crept into th' nook wi' my sewin',
    My mother peeped reawnd so sly;
Hoo know'd I wur glentin' at th' coppice,
    Where Robin comes ridin' by;
Then hoo coom to me, snurchin' an' tootin',
    An' whisperin', "Heaw dost feel?
Dost think I should send for a doctor?"
    But, th' doctor hoo knows reet weel.


CHORUS.—It's oh, yon Robin, yon Robin.


V.


My feyther sits dozin' i'th corner,—
    He's dreamin' o'th harvest day:
When Robin comes in for his daughter,—
    Eh, what'll my feyther say!
Th' rosebuds are peepin' i'th garden:
    An' th' blossom's o'th apple tree;
Oh, heaw will life's winter time find us,—
    Yon Robin o' mine, an' me!


CHORUS.—Oh, yon Robin, yon Robin!


VI.


Then, hey for kisses an' blushes,
    An' hurryin' to an' fro;
An' hey for sly, sweet whispers,
    That nob'dv but me mun know!
Then, hey for rings, an' for ribbins,
    An' bonnets, an' posies fine!
An' eh,—it's o' in a flutter,—
    This little fond heart o' mine!


CHORUS
For oh, yon Robin, yon Robin;
    His e'en ne'er twinkle't so breet,
As they did when he meazur't my finger
    For th' little gowd ring last neet!

 

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I've Worn My Bits o' Shoon Away.

I.


I'VE worn my bits o' shoon away,
    Wi' roving up an' deawn,
To see yon moorlan' valleys, an'
    Yon little country teawn:
The dule tak' shoon, an' stockin's too!
    My heart feels hutchin'-fain;
An', if I trudge it bar-fuut, lads,
    I'll see yon teawn again!


II.


It's what care I for cities grand,—
    We never shall agree;
I'd rayther live where th' layrock sings,—
    A country teawn for me!
A country teawn, where one can meet
    Wi' friends an' neighbours known;
Where one can lounge i'th' market-place,
    An' see the meadows mown.


III.


Yon moorland hills are bloomin' wild
    At th' endin' o' July;
Yon woodlan' cloofs, an' valleys green,—
    The sweetest under th' sky;
Yon dainty rindles, dancin' deawn
    Fro' th' meawntains into th' plain;—
As soon as th' new moon rises, lads,
    I'm off to th' moors again!


IV.


There's hearty lads among yon hills,
    An' in yon country teawn;
They'n far moor sense than prouder folk
    I'll uphowd it for a creawn;
They're wick an' warm at wark an' fun,
    Wherever they may go,—
The primest breed o' lads o'th world,—
    Good luck attend 'em o'!


V.


Last neet I laft the city thrung,
    An' climbed yon hillock green;
An' turned my face to th' moorlan' hills,
    Wi' th' wayter i' my e'en;
Wi' th' wayter wellin' i' my e'en;—
    I'll bundle up, an' go,
An' I'll live an' dee i' my own countrie,
    Where the moorlan' breezes blow!

 

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Gentle Jone.

I.


I SEED a thowtful chap one day,
His face were mild, his toppin' gray!
Wi' wanderin' fuut he went astray,
                         Deawn yon lone:
I axed a lame owd mon i'th road,
To tell me what that chap were co'd;
Says he, "I thowt oitch body knowed
                         Gentle Jone!"


II.


"Owd lad," said I, "just look heaw ronk
These daisies groo'n at th' edge o'th bonk;
Let's keawer us deawn, an' have a conk,
                         Just till noon."
He poo'd a reech o' bacco eawt,
An' cheese an' moufin in a cleawt;
An' then began to tell abeawt
                         Gentle Jone!


III.


Says he, "Some folk o' brass are fond;
They're cowd i'th heart, an' crampt i'th hond;
But yon's the fleawer of o' this lond,—
                         Gentle Jone!
His heart's as true as guinea-gowd;
He's good to folk at's ill an' owd;
Childer poo'n his lap i'th fowd
                         Gentle Jone!


IV.


"I'll bet a creawn he's off to th' vale,
To yer some crayter's soory tale;
I never knowed his kindness fail,—
                         Gentle Jone!
O'er hill, an' cloof, an' moss, an' moor,
He's reet weel known to folk at's poor;
A welcome fuut at every door,—
                         Gentle Jone!


V.


"He taks delight i' roving round.
To quiet nooks where sorrow's found;
He comes like rain to drufty ground,—
                         Gentle Jone!
He's very slow at thinkin' ill;
He'll pass a faut wi' reet good will;
An' doin' good's his pastime still,—
                         Gentle Jone!


VI.


"An' when I broke this poor owd limb,
I should ha' dee'd except for him."
He said no moor; his e'en geet dim,
                         Mine were th' same:
"Owd brid," said I, "let's have a gill!"
"Nawe, nawe," said he, "I'm noan so weel;
It's time to paddle deawn this hill,
                         To th' owd dame."


VII.


'Twere nearly noon, i'th month o' May;
We said we'd meet another day;
An' then th' owd crayter limped away
                         Deawn th' green lone.
An' neaw, let's do the thing that's reet,
An' then, when death puts eawt er leet,
We's haply ston a chance to meet
                     Gentle Jone!

 

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Tum Rindle.

I.


TUM Rindle lope fro' the chimbley nook,
    As th' winter sun wur sinkin':
I'm tired o' keawrin' here i'th smooke,
    An' wastin' time i' thinkin':
It frets my heart, an' racks my broo—
    It sets my yed a-stewin':
A man that wouldn't dee a foo,
    Mun up, an' start a-doin'!


II.


Then, Mally, reitch my Sunday shoon,
    To rom my bits o' toes in;
An' hond mo th' jug, fro' top o'th oon,—
    An' let mo dip my nose in!
An', come, an' fill it up again;
    An' dunnot look so deawldy;
There's nought can lick a marlock, when
    One's brains are gettin' meawldy.


III.


Aw'll laithe a rook o' neighbour lads,—
    Frisky cowts, an' bowd uns;
An' let 'em bring their mams an' dads;
    We'n have it pranked wi' owd uns!
An' th' lads an' lasses they sha'n sing,
    An' fuut it, leet an' limber;
An' Robin Lilter, he shall bring
    His merry bit o' timber!


IV.


An' Joe shall come, an' Jone, an' Ben;
    An' poor owd limpid' 'Lijah;
An' Mall, an' Sall, an' Fan, an' Nan,
    An' curly-paled 'Bijah;
An' gentle Charlie shall be theer;
    An' little Dick, the ringer;
An' Moston Sam,—aw like to yer
    A snowy-yedded singer!


V.


I'll poo mi gronny eawt o'th' nook,
    An' send for Dolly Maybo',
For, when hoo's gradely donned, hoo'll look
    As grand as th' queen o' Shayba;
An' little Nell shall doance wi' me,—
    Eawr Nellv's yung an' bonny;
An' when aw've had a doance wi' thee,
    Aw'll caper wi' my gronny!


VI.


Then, Mally, fill it up again;
    An' dunnot look so deawldy;
There's nought can lick a marlock, when
    One's brains are gettin' meawldy!
We're young an' hearty; dunnot croak,
    Let's frisk it neaw, or never;
So, here's good luck to country folk,
    An' country fun, for ever!

 

______________________

 
Bonny Nan.

I.


HEIGH, Ned, owd mon, I feel as fain
    As th' breetest brid 'at sings i' May;
Come, sit tho deawn; I'll wear a creawn;
    We'n have a roozin rant to-day!
Let's doance an' sing; I've bought a ring
    For bonny Nan i'th Owler dale;
Then heigh for fun; my mopin's done!
    An' neaw I'm brisk as bottle't ale!


Oh, guess, owd brid,
    What's beawn to be;
For I like Nan,—
    An' hoo likes me!


II.


Twelve months at after Robin dee'd,
    Hoo look'd so deawn, wi' ne'er a smile;
I couldn't find i' heart or mind
    To cheep o' weddin' for a while;
I thought I'd bide; but still I sighed
    For th' mournin' cleawd to clear away;
I watched her e'en groo breet again,—
    A layrock tootin' eawt for day!


Then, guess, owd brid,
    What's beawn to be
For I like Nan,—
    An' hoo likes me!


III.


My Nanny's fair, an' trim, an' rare;
    A modest lass, an' sweet to see;
Her e'en are blue, her heart it's true,—
    An' Nanny's hardly twenty-three;
An' life's so strung, when folk are yung;
    That waitin' lunger wouldno do; []
These moor-end lads, hoo turns their yeds
    Hoo's bin a widow lung enoo!


Then guess, owd brid,
    What's beawn to be
For I like Nan,—
    An' hoo likes me!


IV.


I've sin, at neet, abeawt a leet,
    A midge keep buzzin' to an' fro,
Then dart at th' shine, 'at looked so fine,
    And brun his wings at th' end of o';
That midge's me, its plain to see,—
    My wings are brunt, an' yet, I'm fain;
For, wheer I leet, I find so sweet,
    I's never want to fly again!


Then guess, owd brid,
    What's beawn to be;
For I like Nan,—
    An' hoo likes me!

 

______________________

 
Tickle Times.

I.


HERE'S Robin looks fearfully gloomy,
    An' Jamie keeps starin' at th' greawnd,
He's thinkin o' th' table at's empty,
    An th' little things yammerin' reawnd;
It looks very dark just afore us,
    But, keep your hearts eawt o' your shoon,
Though clouds may be thickenin' o'er us,
    There's lots o' blue heaven aboon!


II.


But, when a mon's honestly willin',
    An' never a stroke to be had,
And clemmin' for want ov a shillin',—
    No wonder that he should be sad;
It troubles his heart to keep seein'
    His little brids feedin' o'th air;
An' it feels very hard to be deein',
    An' never a mortal to care.


III.


But life's sich a quare bit o' travel,—
    A marlock wi' sun an' wi' shade,—
An' then, on a bowster o' gravel,
    They lay'n us i' bed wi' a spade;
It's no use a peawtin an' fratchin'—
    As th' whirligig 's twirlin' areawnd,
Have at it again; an' keep scratchin'
    As lung as yor yed 's above greawnd.


IV.


Iv one could but grope i'th inside on't,
    There's trouble i' every heart;
An' thoose that 'n th' biggest o'th pride on't,
    Oft leeten o'th keenest o'th smart.
Whatever may chance to come to us,
    Let's patiently hondle er share,—
For there's mony a fine suit o' clooas,
    That covers a murderin' care.


V.


There's danger i' every station,—
    I'th palace as much as i'th cot;
There's hanker i' every condition,
    An' canker i' every lot;
There's folk that are weary o' livin',
    That never fear's hunger nor cowd;
An there's mony a miserly crayter,
    That's deed ov a surfeit o' gowd.


VI.


One feels, neaw at times are so nippin',
    A mon's at a troublesome schoo',
That slaves like a horse for a livin',
    An flings it away like a foo;
But, as pleasur 's sometimes a misfortin',
    An' trouble sometimes a good thing,—
Though we livin' o'th floor same as layrocks,
    We'n go up, like layrocks, to sing!



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