  W 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. |
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