For ther's somdy comes runnin to tell us 'At one on em's takken wi' fits; Or ther's two on 'em feightin for th' bellus, An' rivin' ther clooas all i' bits.

In a mornin' they're all weshed an' tidy'd, But bi nooin they're as black as mi shoe; To keep a lot cleean, if yo've tried it, Yo know 'at ther's summat to do.

When my felly comes hooam to his drinkin', Aw try to be gradely, an' straight; For when all's nice an' cleean, to mi thinkin', He enjoys better what ther's to ait.

If aw tell him aw'm varry near finished Wi allus been kept in a fuss, He says, as he looks up astonished, "Why, aw niver see owt 'at tha does."

But aw wonder who does all ther mendin', Weshes th' clooas, an cleans th' winders an' flags?

But for me they'd have noa spot to stand in-- They'd be lost i' ther filth an' ther rags.

But it allus wor soa, an' it will be, A chap thinks' at a woman does nowt; But it ne'er bothers me what they tell me, For men havn't a morsel o' thowt.

But just harken to me wol aw'm tellin'

Ha aw tew to keep ivery thing straight; An' aw'l have yo for th' judge if yor willin', For aw want nowt but what aw think's reight.

Ov a Monday aw start o' my weshin', An' if th' day's fine aw get um all dried; Ov a Tuesday aw fettle mi kitchen, An' mangle, an' iron beside.

Ov a Wednesday, then aw've mi bakin'; Ov a Thursday aw reckon to brew; Ov a Friday all th' carpets want shakin', An' aw've th' bedrooms to clean an' dust throo.

Then o'th' Setterday, after mi markets, St.i.tch on b.u.t.tons, an' th' stockins' to mend, Then aw've all th' Sundy clooas to luk ovver, An' that brings a week's wark to its end.

Then o'th' Sundy ther's cooking 'em th' dinner, It's ther only warm meal in a wick; Tho' ther's some say aw must be a sinner, For it's paving mi way to Old Nick.

But a chap mun be like to ha' summat, An' aw can't think it's varry far wrang, Just to cook him an' th' childer a dinner, Tho' it may mak me rayther too thrang.

But if yor a wife an' a mother, Yo've yor wark an' yor duties to mind; Yo mun leearn to tak nowt as a bother, An' to yor own comforts be blind.

But still, just to seer all ther places, When they're gethred raand th' harston at neet, Fill'd wi six roosy-red, smilin' faces; It's nooan a despisable seet.

An, aw connot help thinkin' an' sayin', (Tho' yo may wonder what aw can mean), 'At if single, aw sooin should be playin'

Coortin tricks, an' be weddin' agean.

What they say.

They say 'at its a waste o' bra.s.s--a nasty habit too,-- A thing 'at noa reight-minded chap wod ivver think to do; Maybe they're reight; They say it puts one's brains to sleep, an maks a felly daft,-- Aw've hearken'd to ther doctrins, then aw've lit mi pipe an laft, At ther consait.

At morn when startin for mi wark, a bit o' bacca's sweet, An aw raillee should'nt like to be withaat mi pipe at neet, It comforts me.

An if awm worritted an vext, wi' bothers durin th' day, Aw tak a wiff, an in a claad, aw puff 'em all away, An off they flee.

They tell me its a poison, an its bad effects they show; Aw nivver contradict 'em but aw think its varry slow, An bad to tell; They say it leeads to drinkin, an drink leeads to summat war; But aw know some at nivver smook 'at's getten wrang as far As me misel.

They say its an example 'at we did'nt owt to set,-- For owt 'at's nowt young fowk sooin leearn, but dooant soa sooin forget, That's varry true.

But aw shall be contented, if when comes mi time to dee, To smook a pipe o' bacca is th' warst thing they've lent throo me: Aw'st manage throo,

They say it maks one lazy, an time slips by unawares,-- It may be soa, an if it is, that's noa consarn o' theirs; Aw work mi share.

If it prevents fowk meddlin wi' th' affairs ov other men, 'Twod happen be as weel, aw think, if they'd to smook thersen;-- They've time to spare.

But what they say ne'er matters, for aw act upon a plan, If th' world affooards a pleasure awll enjoy it if aw can, At morn or neet; They may praich agean mi bacca, an may looad it wi' abuse, But aw think its a gooid crayter if its put to a gooid use.

Pa.s.s me a leet.

Young Jockey.

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. .h.i.t 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 G.o.d,-- 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, pa.s.s 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.

Mak a Gooid Start.

Let's mak a gooid start, nivver fear What grum'lers an growlers may say; That nivver need cause yo a tear, For whear ther's a will ther's a way.