  G God bless these poor folk that are strivin’ By means that are honest an’ true, For something to keep ’em alive in This world ’at we’re scramblin’ through; As th’ life ov a mon’s full o’ feightin’, A poor soul that wants to feight fair, Should never be grudged ov his heytin’, For th’ hardest o’th battle’s his share. Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon. This world’s kin to trouble; i’th best on’t, There’s mony sad changes come reawnd; We wandern abeawt to find rest on’t, An’ th’ worm yammers for us i’th’ greawnd; Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon. An’ he that can feel it a pleasur’ To leeten misfortin an’ pain,— May his pantry be olez full measur’, To cut at, and come to again; May God bless his cup and his cupbort, A theawsan for one that he gives; An’ his heart be a bumper o’ comfort, To th’ very last minute he lives! Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon. An’ he that scorns ale to his victual, Is welcome to let it alone; There’s some can be wise with a little, An’ some that are foolish wi’ noan; An’ some are so quare i’ their natur’ That nought wi’ their stomachs agree; But, he that would liefer drink wayter, Shall never be stinted by me. Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon. One likes to see hearty folk wortchin’, An’ weary folk havin’ a rest; One likes to yer poor women singin’ To th’ little things laid o’ their breast; Good cooks are my favourite doctors; Good livers my parsons shall be; An’ ony poor craytur ’at’s clemmin, May come have a meawthful wi’ me. Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon. Owd Time,—he’s a troublesome codger,— Keeps nudgin’ us on to decay, An’ whispers, “Yo’re nobbut a lodger: Get ready for goin’ away;” Then let’s ha’ no skulkin’ nor sniv’lin’, Whatever misfortins befo’, God bless him that fends for his livin’, An’ houds up his yed through it o’! Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon. |
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