  Air—“Jenny’s Bawbee.” I 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! _ _
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