AIR—“_Jenny’s Bawbee_.”
I seed a thowtful chap one day,
His face were mild, his toppin grey;
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.”
“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 whol noon.”
He poo’d a reech o’ bacco eawt,
An’ cheese an’ mouffin in a cleawt;
An’ thus began to tell abeawt
Gentle Jone.
Says he, “Some chaps o’ brass are fond;
They’re trouble’t sore wi’ cramp i’th hond;
But yon’s the fleawer ov 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!
“I’ll bet a groat he’s off to th’ vale,
Just neaw, to yer some 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!
“He taks delight i’ roving reawnd,
To nooks where trouble’s mostly feawnd;
He comes like rain to drufty greawnd,—
Gentle Jone!
He’s very slow at thinkin’ ill;
Forgi’s a faut wi’ hearty will;
An’ doin’ good’s his pastime still,—
Gentle Jone!
“At th’ time 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 lad,” said I, “Come, have a gill!”
“Naw, naw,” said he, “I’m rayther ill;
It’s time to paddle deawn this hill,
To th’ owd dame.”
’Twere nearly noon, i’th month o’ May;
We said we’d meet some other 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 e’r leet,
We’s haply ston a chance to meet
Gentle Jone!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]