While takin’ a wift o’ my pipe tother neet,
A thowt trickled into my pate,
That sulkin’ becose everything isn’t sweet,
Is nought but a foolish consate;
Iv mon had bin made for a bit of a spree,
An’ th’ world were a marlockin’ schoo’,
Wi’ nought nobbut heytin’, an’ drinkin’, an’ glee,
An’ haliday gam to go through,
He’d sicken afore
His frolic were o’er,
An’ feel he’d bin born for a foo’.
Poor crayter, he’s o’ discontentment an’ deawt,
Whatever his fortin may be;
He’s just like a chylt at goes cryin’ abeawt,
“Eawr Johnny’s moor traycle nor me;”
One minute he’s trouble’t, next minute he’s fain,
An’ then, they’re so blended i’ one,
It’s hard to tell whether he’s laughin’ through pain,
Or whether he’s peawtin’ for fun;—
He stumbles, an’ grumbles,
He struggles, an’ juggles,—
He capers a bit,—an’ he’s gone.
* * * * *
It’s wise to be humble i’ prosperous ways,
For trouble may chance to be nee;
It’s wise for to struggle wi’ sorrowful days
Till sorrow breeds sensible glee;
He’s rich that, contented wi’ little, lives weel,
An’ nurses his little to moor;
He’s weel off ’at’s rich, iv he nobbut can feel
He’s brother to thoose that are poor;
An’ to him ’at does fair,
Though his livin’ be bare,
Some comfort shall olez be sure.
We’n nobbut a lifetime a-piece here below,
An’ th’ lungest is very soon spent;
There’s summat aboon measur’s cuts for us o’,
An’ th’ most on ’em nobbut a fent;
Lung or short, rough or fine, little matter for that,
We’n make th’ best o’th stuff till it’s done,
An’ when it leets eawt to get rivven a bit,
Let’s darn it as weel as we con;
When th’ order comes to us
To doff these owd clooas,
There’ll surely be new uns to don.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]