Warblin's fro' an Owd Songster (1)

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AT number one, i' Bowton's yard, mi gronny keeps a skoo,
But hasn't mony scholars yet, hoo's only one or two;
They sen th' owd woman's rather cross,—well, well, it may be so;
Aw know hoo box'd me rarely once, an' pood mi ears an' o.

At number two lives widow Burns—hoo weshes clooas for folk
Their Billy, that's her son, gets jobs at wheelin' coke;
They sen hoo coarts wi' Sam-o'-Neds, at lives at number three;
It may be so, aw conno tell, it matters nowt to me.

At number three, reet facin' th' pump, Ned Grimshaw keeps a shop;
He's Eccles-cakes, an' gingerbread, an' treacle beer, an' pop;
He sells oat-cakes an' o, does Ned, he has boath soft an' hard,
An' everybody buys off him 'at lives i' Bowton's yard.

At number four Jack Blunderick lives; he goes to th' mill an' wayves;
An' then, at th' week-end, when he's time, he pows a bit an' shaves;
He's badly off, is Jack, poor lad; he's rayther lawm, they sen,
An' his childer keep him deawn a bit—aw think they'n nine or ten.

At number five aw live mysel', wi' owd Susannah Grimes,
But dunno loike so very weel—hoo turns me eawt sometimes;
An' when awm in there's ne'er no leet, aw have to ceawer i' th' dark;
Aw conno pay mi lodgin' brass, becose awm eawt o' wark.

At number six, next dur to us, an' close o' th' side o' th' speawt,
Owd Susie Collins sells smo' drink, but hoo's welly allis beawt;
But heaw it is that is the case awm sure aw conno tell,
Hoo happen maks it very sweet, an' sups it o hersel!

At number seven there's nob'dy lives, they left it yesterday,
Th' bum-baylis coom an' mark'd their things, and took 'em o away;
They took 'em in a donkey-cart—aw know newt wheer they went—
Aw recon they'n bin ta'en and sowd becose they owed some rent.

At number eight—they're Yawshur folk—there's only th' mon an' woife,
Aw think aw ne'er seed nicer folk nor these i' o mi loife;
Yo'll never yer 'em foin' eawt, loike lots o' married folk,
They allis seem good-tempered like, an' ready wi' a joke.

At number nine th' owd cobbler lives—th' owd chap 'at mends my shoon,
He's getting very weak an' done, he'll ha' to leov us soon;
He reads his Bible every day, an sings just loike a lark,
He says he's practisin' for heaven—he's welly done his wark.

At number ten James Bowton lives—he's th' noicest heawse i' th' row;
He's allis plenty o' sum'at t' eat, an lots o' brass an' o;
An' when he rides an' walks abeawt he's dress'd up very fine,
But he isn't hawve as near to heaven as him at number nine.

At number 'leven mi uncle lives—aw co him uncle Tum,
He goes to concerts, up an' deawn, an' plays a kettle-drurn;
I' bands o' music, an' sich things, he seems to tak' a pride,
An' allis maks as big a noise as o i' th' place beside.

At number twelve, an' th' eend o' th' row, Joe Stiggins deals i' ale;
He's sixpenny, an' fourpenny, dark-coloured, an' he's pale;
But aw ne'er touch it, for aw know it's ruined mony a bard—
Awm th' only chap as doesn't drink 'at lives i' Bowton's yard.

An' neaw awve dune aw'll say good-bye, an' leave yo' for awhile;
Aw know aw have n't towd mi tale i' sich a first-rate style;
But iv yo're pleased awm satisfied, an' ax for no reward
For tellin' who mi nayburs are at live i' Bowton's yard.




WELL, readers, awm glad 'at we're met once ogen;
    An' tho' we're a year or two owder,
Let's hope 'at eawr love for each other an' God
    Hasn't grown ony feebler or cowder.
Aw think aw may venture to flatter mysel'
    'At awve met wi' some on yo befoor;
So iv yo'll alleaw me that pleasure ogen,
    Aw'll try to amuse yo once moor.

It's pleasant to meet an' shake honds wi' owd friends,
    Tho' it very oft pains us to foind
At th' sun o' prosperity's withered some hearts
    At once wur booath lovin' an' kind.
An' some 'at we knew when they'rn lasses an' lads
    Are neaw, loike one's self, gettin' hoary;
Whoile others have finished loife's battle deawn here,
    And neaw they're gone forrud to glory.

Th' owd Reaper keeps slashing away wi' his scythe,
    First o' one hand, an' then on the other;
Neaw some darlin' pet lamb's rudely hurried away,
    Then some silver-haired sister or brother.
There's mony a dear loved one pack'd up an' gone whoam
    Sin' last yo an' me met together;
They've thrown eawt their anchors, their barques are neaw
    Let's hope they're enjoyin' good weather.

We shall ole have to go—young an' owd, rich an' poor,
    Whatever eawr kindred or nation;
Death sweeps all before him, an' cares newt at o
    For noather rank, title, or station.
Well, wheer are we for—thoose of us 'at's left?
    Have we settled what haven we'll book to?
Is th' craft at we sail in seaworthy an' seawnd?
    Is th' pilot a safe un to look to?

Eawr souls are loike musical instruments.   Ah!
    An' they're here to be put into tune.
This earth's nobbut th' schoolheawse or practisin' greaund—
    Th' grand concert tak's place up aboon.
Let's everyone see 'at eawr lamps are well trimm'd,
    An' th' lights burnin' clearly an' steady;
An' when th' Bridegroom comes knock-in' at th' dur,may He
    'At we're ole on us waitin' an' ready.

Dear readers, for once you'll excuse me, aw'm sure,
    For pennin' so serious a strain;
For yo know very weel 'at it's moor i' my loine
    To write in a humorous vein;
But a feelin' o' this mak' comes o'er one at times,
    'At we connot shake off if we would;
Awd sooner bi' th' hauve tak' mi pen i' mi hand
    To pleos yo a bit iv aw could.

So come neaw, just straighten yore faces a bit,
    An' try to look cheerful an' jolly.
Yo fling ole yore cares o' one side a bit, John—
    An' yo mop up thoose tears o' yores, Polly;
An' tho' gloomy cleawds may be hoverin' o'er,
    Flingin' shadows o'er th' loife ov a mon,
Let's spread eawrsel's eawt for th' good things 'at God
    And drink in ole th' sunshoine we con.




BREET days!   Heaw soon they pass away!
    Th' best days Heaven sends to men!
Aw wish aw wurn't so owd an' gray
    Aw'd cooart a bit ogen;
An' every spot wheer Kate an' me
    Have often met befoor,
To sit an' tell eawr tales o' love,
    Aw'd try to see once moor.

There's th' tree aw used to clamber up;
    An' yonder's th' garden wo;
An' th' owd church clock on th' village green—
    Aw think aw see 'em o.
Awve noan forgetten th' chimney-nook,
    That owd familiar place
Wheer Kate would often sit an' look
    So fondly i' mi' face!

Tho' years have passed sin' thoose breet heawers,
    Aw'm noan ashamed to tell—
Aw used to go an' gather th' fleawers
    'At grew i' th' primrose dell;
An' these awd twoine i' th' nut-breawn hair
    O' Kate, mi darlin' pet;
An then th' dear lass would look so fair—
    Aw think aw see her yet.

A kind an' thoughtful girl wur Kate,
    An' gentle as a dove;
Hoo never learned to scorn or hate,
    Her heart wur full o' love;
Her features allis wore a smoile,
    An' these o' moine wur th' same.
Aw used to ceawer me deawn at th' stoile,
    An' whistle till hoo came.

Oft aw recall thoose happy heawers,
    When 'neath the moonlit sky
Two lovers paced yon silent beawers—
    Mi' bonny Kate an I.
One lovely neet, i' th' month o' June,
    Whoile under th' hawthorne tree,
Aw axed her if hoo'd wed me soon.
    Hoo smiled, an' said—"Aw'll see."

Just then Giles Bloomfield drove his flock
    Close by that owd church teawer;
We lingered chattin' theer till th' clock
    Proclaimed the midnight heawer.
That neet we named the happy day;
    An' aw remember still,
Heaw in the church aw heard her say—
    "Have Robin?   Yes, I will!"




THA'RT livin' at thi country seat,
    Among o th' gents an' nobs;
Tha's sarvant girls to cook thi meat,
    An' do thi bits o' jobs.
Aw'm lodgin' here wi' Bridget Yates,
    At th' cot near th' Ceaw Lone Well;
Aw mend mi stockin's, peel th' potates,
    An' wesh mi shurts misel'!

Tha wears a finer cooat nor me;
    Thi purse is better lined,
An' fortin's lavished moor o' thee,
    Than th' rest o' human kind.
Life's storms 'at rage abeawt this yead,
    An' pelt so hard at me—
That mony a time aw've wished aw're dead,—
    But seldom trouble thee.

Tha'rt rich i' ole this world can give;
    Tha's silver, an' tha's gowd;
But me—aw find it hard to live,
    Aw'm poor, an' gettin' owd.
These fields an' lones aw'm ramblin' throo—
    They o belong to thee;
Aw've only just a yard or two
    To ceawer in when aw dee.

When tha rides eawt th' folks o areawnd
    Stond gapin' up at thee,
Becose tha'rt worth ten theawsand peawnd',
    But scarcely notice me.
Aw trudge abeawt fro' spot to spot,
    An' nob'dy seems to care:
They never seek my humble cot,
    To ax me heaw aw fare.

If tha should dee, there's lots o' folk
    Would fret an' cry, noa deawt;
When aw shut up, they'll only joke,
    An' say, "He's just gone eawt!
Well, never heed him, let him goo,
    An' find another port;
We're never to a chap or two,
    We've plenty moor o' th' sort."

Tha'll have a stone placed o'er thi grave
    To show thi name an' age;
An o tha's done 'at's good an' brave,
    Be seen o' history's page.
When aw get tumbled into th' greawnd,
    There'll ne'er be nowt to show
Whose restin' 'neath that grassy meawnd,
    Au' nob'dy'll want to know.

But deawn i' th' grave, what spoils o th' sport,
    No ray o' leet can shine;
An' th' worms 'll have hard wark to sort
    Thy pampered clay fro' mine.
So, when this world for th' next tha swaps,
    Tak' wi' thee under th' stone
Thi cooat ov arms, an' bits o' traps,
    Or else tha'll ne'er be known.

Pack up thi albert, hoop, an' pin,
    An' opera-glass an' o;
Be sure tha sees 'em o put in,
    Before tha gangs below.
Then iv some hungry worm should come,
    To root abeawt thi bones,—
Tha may stond a better chance nor some
    If it's known tha'rt Mister Jones.

But up above, there's One at sees
    Thro' th' heart o' every mon;
An' He'll just find thee as tha dees,
    So dee as weel as t' con.
An' when deawn here this campin' ends,
    An' o eawr fau'ts forgiven,—
Let thee an' me still shew we're friends,
    Bi shakin' honds i' heaven!




TEETOTAL?   Of course awm teetotal!
    Is there owt wrong i' that, do yo think?
Con yo foind me a mon under heaven
    Made grander or nowbler wi' drink?
Neaw we need noather lawyers nor doctors
    To help us to sattle disputes;
For it dosen't need very much larnin'
    To judge of a tree by its fruits.

Th' other day, as aw're goin' thro' Owdham,
    Aw met wi' a chap 'ut aw knew—
He appeared to be eawt seekin' orders,
    So aw axed what he'd getten to do.
"Well," he said, "Awm a dealer i' sperrits."
    But didn't aw look at th' owd lad,
As good as to say—"Arto jokin',
    Or arto gone stark starin' mad?"

So theaw's gone into th' sperrit loine, hasto?
    Well, theaw's getten a very queer trade!
Are they sperrits they get at these drink shops,
    Or do they attend Doctor Slade?
What's to do 'at theaw carries no samples?
    Mon, theaw'd foind it to act like a charm
Iv theaw'd one or two well-seasoned topers
    Along wi' thee under thi arm.

Well, we arn't ole blest wi' one fancy,
    Nor do ole look at things i' one leet.
Some are fond o' owd stuff 'ats gone putrid,
    An othersome loike their meat sweet;
But there's nowt to admire in a drunkard—
    He isnt' loike th' work o' God's hand;
For there s newt i' thoose drink-bloated features
    'As stroikes one as nowble or grand.

God's image is theer after all's done.
    But heaw is it marred do yo think?
Not wi' feedin' off beefsteaks an' onions,
    Nowt o'th' sooart; it's wi' drinkin' strong drink.
But yore some on yo moderate, are yo?
    Yo never do drink to excess?
Well, yore tackin' th' same liquor as drunkards,
    Wi' this difference—yo use rayther less.

Beware!   That degraded owd toper
    Wur once as pure-moinded as yo;
A kind-hearted Sunday-schoo' teacher—
    It's th' drink 'at's made th' difference—that's o.
Aw believe i' God's grace—it'll help yo,
    So long as yore doin' what's reet;
But it never makes alcohol harmless,
    Nor rotten potatoes turn sweet.

Iv yo'n faith i' yore prayers, yo can try em.
    Go an' tak' a run jump into th' say;
An' except yore good practical swimmers
    Yo'll dreawn, as heaw hard yo may pray.
Neaw will yo alleaw me to show yo,
    I' th' form ov a bit ov a song,
'At God's laws are ne'er altered or brocken
    To help us to mend up a wrong?

What we reap must depend upo' th' sowin';
    We shall ole of us get what we've earned;
Iv we play wi' a wasp it'll sting us;
    Thoose 'at play wi' a foire get burned.
An' tho' blessed loike Shakespere or Milton
    Wi' great moinds to reason or think,
We'se get daubed iv we creep up a chimney,
    An' drunk iv we tak' to mich drink.




BETWEEN these shoe soles an' this hat,
    Stonds a very respectable mon;
An' nob'dy 'll contradict that,
    An' why?   Becose nobody con.

There's none o' yo're hypocrites here,
    Deceivin' o th' folk 'at they see;
Aw'm nowt nobbut what I appear,
    There's none o' yo're durt abeawt me.

Respectable! well, an' what's that?
    Does it meon to be polished a bit—
Sport a silver-knobbed cane, an' silk hat,
    Un' be coe'd Mister Muggins?   Not it.

Yo' see this owd jacket, aw guess;
    Well, it covers as decent a brick
As ever wur moulded!—oh, yes,
    I' every way quite "up to Dick."

There's Joe Dandy, Tom Vain, an' Bob Breet;
    These think weel o' theirsels, one may see;
But they winno stond bringin' to th' leet,
    And comparin' wi' someb'dy loike me.

They may curl up their noses an' laff,
    When they happen to meet me on th' way;
They may turn eawt their slang an' their chaff,
    But aw'm th' yead above them ony day.

Aw know aw'm noan donn'd up so smart,
    An' yo' wouldn't give much for this hat;
But aw hope aw've a good honest heart,
    An' it's summat t' be preaud on, is that.

Aw con boast noather heawses nor londs,
    An' wealthy relations aw've noan;
But aw've getten mi brains, an' mi honds,
    An', thank God! aw con co' these mi own.

Ah, mi own, an' they're shackled bi none;
    Fro mi toes to mi toppin' aw'm free;
An' let tyrants do o' 'at they con,
    Aw meon to be so till aw dee.

Aw've getten th' good sense to behave,
    An' respect thoose at's put in to rule;
But aw'll never be reckoned a slave—
    Aw'll never be used as a tool.

Aw've no patience wi' dandified gents!
    One's sick o' so mitch o' this pride;
They're soakin' wi hair oils an' scents,
    But there isn't mitch else beside!

Neaw aw towd yo' when furst aw begun,
    Aw're a very respectable men;
Bless yo're life, aw wur noan i' mi fun—
    Find a daycenter chap iv yo' con.

Heaw yo're grinnin' at what aw've just said!
    Aw dar' say yo' think aw'm noan reet;
But aw'll stick mi owd hat o' mi yead,
    An' be trudgin'; good neet, folk; good neet.




IT'S been said 'at there's sarmons i' stones;
    Well, judgin' bi thoose i' eawr fowd,—
Awm a bit i' th' same mind as Tom Jones,—
    'At sich sarmons must feel rayther cowd.
This o' mine, tho' it's noan o' th' furst stamp,
    It's as good as this heart con indite;
Mi text, ta'en fro' th' post ov a lamp,
    Is "Foot-passengers, keep to the right."

An' furstly, aw'd ha' yo' beware
    O'th' dandy 'at tak's greater pains
To convince us he's nice curly hair,
    Than he does to convince us he's brains.
There's words o' deceit on his tongue,
    Calculated fair prospects to blight:
If yo' tread i' his steps yo'll be wrong;
    Young fellows! keep on to the right.

Let th' standard yo' go by be true;
    Measure man by his mind, not his purse;
There's mony a great squire 'at's a foo',
    An' a drunken foo' to', an' that's worse.
We've lots o' rich men one could name,
    'At are hurried whoam drunk every night;
Well, this a scandalous shame,
    So, "Foot-passengers, keep to the right."

Let th' motives 'at guide yo' be pure,
    Proceedin' fro' hearts full o' love;
Deal gently wi' th' errin' an' th' poor,
    For kind acts are recorded above.
To lead folk to virtue an' God,
    Exert o yo'r influence an' might;
Bid 'em guard against fashion's smooth road.
    Ask 'em kindly to keep to the right.

Keep eawt o' thoose traps 'at are laid,
    Th' Breawn Ceaw, th' Black Horse, an' th' Blue Bell,
There's a curse on their damnable trade,
    An' on th' death-dealin drink 'at they sell!
While yo, tramp throo this wearisome world,
    Keep th' goal 'at yo' aim at i' sight;
Let th' banner o' truth be unfurled,
    Wi' this motto on—"Keep to the right."

Some tempter may come wi' his wiles;
    Try to get yo' to tread i' th' wrong track;
Tack no heed to his words an' sweet smiles,
    But, like Jesus did, say "Stand back!"
Tack no notice o' praises or freawns;
    Dunno fret o'er yo'r locks growin' white;
Hoary heads 'll be glorified creawns,
    To thoose 'at keep on to th' right.

If dark gloomy cleawds should appear,
    To o'ershadow yo'r hearths an' yo'r homes;
Light yo'r lamps, am tak care they burr, clear,
    An, be ready when th' bridegroom comes.
Should th' sky appear cleawdless aboon,
    An' yo'r prospects be hopeful an' bright,
Beware! for a storm may come soon:
    Be cautious, an' keep to the right.

When Death yo'r last summons shall bring,
    To be sharp an' pack up an' be gone.
Yo' con calmly, triumphantly sing
    "Aw'll be wi' thee as soon as aw con"
An' heaw th' angels i' heaven will rejoice,
    When yo bid us yo'r last "good night!"
An' yo'll hear Christ's own welcomin' voice,—
    "Come up hither, my friend, to the right!"




HERE you are!   I'm the great and renowned Doctor Bell!
Oh yes, I'm the man who can soon make you well;
You see this small box that I hold in my hand,
Well, it holds the best salve ever made in the land
For all kinds of ulcers and sores you can name,
The salve now before you has got a great fame.

A lady who lives near the "Shamrock and Rose,"
Had a carbuncle right at the tip of her nose;
Well, she came to my stall here one Saturday night
And purchased one box, now she's perfectly right;
I have cured an old man of a very sore lip,
And a poor little boy of a boil on his hip;
I engage to remove all the ailments of man
As soon and as cheaply as anyone can.

Now, to give some idea of my knowledge and skill
I will bring to your notice my world-renowned pill;
There's a pill now before you unequalled on earth,
The man is not born who can tell you its worth;
For removing obstructions no better is made,
"Old Parr" and all others are thrown in the shade,
As a plain illustration of what I now say
I will mention a fact which I heard yesterday.

A gentleman living not far from this town,
And I may as well give you his name—Mr. Brown;
This gentleman had a large safe in his shop,
The key of which he'd the misfortune to drop;
Now, this safe contained most of his cash and his bills,
Well, having oft heard of my excellent pills,
He sent for a box and straightway applied
One or two of the pills to the keyhole outside,
When, strange to relate, they burst open the door.
And bills, notes, and cashbox lay spread on the floor!
Now, I think you'll admit friends, from what you've just heard,
That the pills need no praises from me, not a word;
If they'll open a safe, their laurels are won,
And they'll ne'er shy at anything under the sun.

Here you are, once again, in my fingers I hold
A most certain cure for a cough or a cold,
Any lady or gentleman now standing by
Who is troubled with hoarseness, I ask them to try
My unrivalled wafer, the "Princess of Wales,"
And I'll venture to forfeit five pounds if it fails.
An acquaintance of mine and a learned M.P.,
With talking so much he was hoarse do you see;
Well, he ate one or two of my wafers one night,
Next morning his throat had got perfectly right:
He sent me a letter, and in it he said—
Were it not for my wafers he might have been dead.

Well, ladies and gents, there's one article more
That I wish to produce from my wonderful store,
And that is my world-renowned Syrup of Plums,
For earache, for toothache, and pains in the gums,
Any party now standing before me to-night,
May be cured on the spot, and made perfectly right.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, do not delay;
You can't purchase medicine like this every day,
Only twopence per box for the pills, that is all,
And one penny the salve, the charge is but small.
The wafers, in packets, are one penny each,
A price that must come within everyone's reach.
To those persons afflicted with pains in the gums,
Twopence-halfpenny per ounce for my Syrup of Plums;
Now, you know who I am, friends, the great Doctor Bell,
If you swallow my stuff you are sure to do well!




COME Mally, owd woman, it's near forty year,
    Sin' thee an' me furst coom together;
We've had mony a breet smile, ah, an' mony a sad tear,
    An' experienced booath good an' bad weather.
As eawr 'Lizabeth's gone to look after thi geawn,
    An' eawr Tum's rubbin' th' mare deawn i' th' stable,
What thinks ta, owd lass, iv we sitten us deawn,
    An' have a nice chat while we're able?

Owd age is fast whitenin' eawr yeads one con see;
    An' these shanks o' eawrs are no' so nimble
As they wur when aw held thee th' furst time on mi knee,
    An' tha rapp'd me o'er th' yead wi' thi thimble.
I' fancy aw often look back to thoose days,
    When tha lived wi' thi aunt i' th' Flag Alley;
There wur nob'dy awm sure had a prattier face,
    An' aw did think some weel on thee, Mally!

Aw bowt thee some ear-rings o' reet solid gowd,
    An' some side-combs to stick i' thi hair;
An' when we walked eawt, aw wur lots o' times towd,
    Tha wur th' han'somest lass i' o th' fair.
True, sin then a great deol o' thi charms have gone dead,
    An' tha'rt newt near as lusty an' clever;
But, spite o' thi wrinkles an' silvery yead,
    Aw love thee as dearly as ever.

There's one thing aw've noticed owd lass, an' it's this,—
    That whenever tha's had ony trouble,
An' tha's come an' pretended to borrow a kiss,
    Tha allis would pay me back double.
Neaw, when ta'en an' compared wi, a woman like thee,
    What's beauty, position, or riches!
But tha seems to be shapin' for cryin' aw see,
    So get on wi' mendin' mi britches.

"Neaw, drop it, do, Jonas, tha's said quite enuff;
    Mon, tha'rt worse than tha wur when we're courtin';
An' at that time tha turned eawt a lot o' queer stuff,
    'At needed some weedin' an' sortin'.
Awm surprised at a grey-yeaded fellow like thee;
    Still, it's nobbut thi fun 'at tha'rt pokin;
An', someheaw, tha never con let me a-be
    When tha'rt ceawrin' i' th' corner an' smokin'.

Aw see 'at there's one o' thi waist-buttons gone,
    An' one o' thi gallowses brocken;
Tha needn't ha' gone abeawt this way mon,
    If tha'd oppen'd thi meawth an' just spocken.
Awm expectin' eawr 'Lizabeth here very soon;
    An' eawr Will's abeawt leavin' Jane Tupper;
If tha'll push a few lumps o' dry wood under th' oon,
    Aw'll see abeawt mackin' some supper.

As it's Setterday neet, we shall want summat nice;
    Heaw would t' relish some tripe or some trotters?
As tha knows, lad, we've had some good stuff once or twice
    At that shop th' next but one to owd Potters.
If tripe doesn't suit thee when goin' to bed
    Aw con mak thee a mess o' good porritch;
We've some capital meal 'at owd Carrier Ned
    Browt wi' him fro' Gregson's at Nor'itch.

But tha musn't forget tha's to wesh thee a bit,
    An' go deawn to th' shop for some stuff;
We want a few beons, an' some corn for th' owd tit,
    An' tha wants some 'bacco an' snuff.
It's Sunday to-morn!   Oh aw like it to come,
    For it's th' best day we have i' ole th' seven,—
A day when one's soul con look on tow'rds whoam,
    An', on earth, get a foretaste o' heaven!"




OH dear! oh dear! aw do feel queer,
Pooin' mi face an' ceawerin' here
                O this while.
Reach me that stoo' here, will ta, Kit?
An' let me rest mi leg a bit:
                Oh! this boil!

Iv these are boils aw want no moor,
Aw'd rayther have a roast, aw'm sure;
                Pig or goose.
Robin, thee mind that cheer o' thine;
Tha mun keep off this leg o' mine,
                It's no use.

Confeawnd this stinkin' drawin' sauve,
It mak's me bawl eawt like a cawve;
                What a bore!
Aw dar'no stur misel' a peg,
For fear lest aw should hurt mi leg,
                It's so sore.

Aw've sweat wi' toothwarch mony a time;
Aw've had mi fingers brunt wi' lime;—
                Aw have so!
Aw've walked wi' blistered feet for miles,
But aw'm prepared to swear this boil's
                Wor' nor o!

Aw think th' owd plague's abeawt at th' worst;
Kit, when does think it's beawn to burst?
                Tell me that;
For oh! aw do feel dreadful bad;
Iv it dosen't get weel soon, aw'll'go mad,
                An' punse th' cat.

Aw dar'no laff, aw dar'no cry,
Aw'm freet'ned aw should hurt mi thigh,
                Th' skin's so tight.
Aw've shewed mi boil to Limpin' Ned;
He says aw shouldn't ha' getten wed;—
                Sarves me right!

Hard-hearted wretch! inhuman cleawn!
To kick a fellow when he's deawn
                Isn't reet.
He met ha' kept that to hissen,
At leost while aw'd got up ogen
                On mi feet.

Oh dear! whenever mun aw stur?
Aw've never been eawtside o'th' dur
                For a week.
Aw've ceawered so long inside this room,
'At aw haven't getten a bit o' bloom
                On mi cheek.

Aw'm gradely done,—aw'm reet fagg'd eawt
Aw shall ha' to vomit soon aw deawt;—
                Come here, Ted!
An' stur, theaw good for nothin', theaw!
Ho-up! ho-up! it's comin' neaw,
                Howd mi yead.

O dear! aw am gone sick an' queer;
Tak' me an' lay me on th' couch cheer
                For awhile.
Oh! what a torment, to be sure!
What? healthy things! aw want no moor,
                Oh! this boil!



DUNNO steal, nor nowt, mi brothers;
    That's noan what aw meon—not it.
Now, it's this—look less to others—
    Try to help yor'sels a bit.
Neaw, aw'm noa great politician,
    Up to th' een in't, same as some;
Aw believe a mon's position
    May be mended mooast awhom.

Thurty year aw've been a toiler,
    Th' mooast o'th' toime i'th' cotton mill;
Sweat as hard as th' best among yo'—
    Ah, an' lads, aw'm workin' still!
Workin' when yo're noicely dozin'—
    Workin' wi' a weakly frame—
Thinkin', feelin', an' composin',
    Not to get mysel a name,

But to try an' raise mi brothers—
    Thoose 'at labour by mi soide—
Sons o'th' same dear English mothers—
    Britain's glory, strength, an' proide.
Oh, may God, i' heaven aboon us,
    Help me i' mi humble task!
Gi'e, me th' will an' strength to do it!
    Brothers, this is o aw ask.

Let's be thowtful, let's be sober,
    Get eawr drinks fro' nature's wells:
Put less confidence i' others,
    An' a bit moor i' eawrsels.
Some consider th' Tories reet uns—
    Friends o'th' workin' men an' sich;
Other some co th' Liberals breet uns—
    Noan o' these can help us mich.

At th' elections here aw've yeard yo'
    Set up mony a rare good sheawt;
Well, an' what will this wark bring us?
    No' mich cheese an' bread, aw deawt.
Bless yo, lads, it is but little
    Onyone deawn here con do:
Th' best o' men are nobbut mortal,
    Often selfish—seldom true.

Brother toilers, let's no longer
    Trust to this or that big mon;
Th' chaps at Lunnun con do nowt mich—
    Help yo'rsels, lads, o yo' con.
Let me ax yo' t' give o'er drinkin';
    Nob'dy's peawer to raise yo' up;
Nob'dy can prevent yo' sinkin',
    While yo'r slaves to summat t' sup.

Th' world's a ring—we're wrostlers in it;
    Life's a conflict, let's "wire in,"
Struggle monfully an' bravely,
    Same as thoose 'at meon to win.
Iv successful, let's keep humble;
    Iv we are no', never heed;
Th' best o' men mun sometimes tumble,
    Th' bravest warriors sometimes bleed.

Toime's to precious to be wasted;
    Loife's to' short to fling away;
Let's o set to work i' earnest,
    Hopin' t' see a breeter day.
Dunno look to mich to others;
    Drink deep draughts fro' wisdom's wells;
Carve yo'r own way eawt, mi brothers;
    Help yo'rsels, lads! help yo'rsels!



TH'RT here again, well, come this way;
We'n bin owd chums for mony a day;
We'n often differed when we'n met,
But never had a partin' yet.
Aw conno say awm fond o' thee,
Then why does t stick so fast to me?
Aw know aw used t' be some an' mad,
Theau plagued me so when aw're a lad.

Tha knows that time when Robin Clegg
Fell off th' barn dur an' broke his leg?
Poor lad! aw took him on mi knee,
An' should ha' helped him but for thee.
What con a body do 'at's poor?
Aw cried a bit, but newt no moor.
Well, never moind, he geet it set,
An' thee an' me are owd chums yet.

Aw've tried for years to shake thee off—
An' when th' last winter theaw'd a cough,
Aw hoped to see thee laid i' th' greawnd,
But th' summer weather's browt thee reawnd.
Well, poo thi cheer up—warm thi shanks,
Aw'll sit an' watch thee play thi pranks;
Aw meon to shunt thee when aw con,
Till then aw'll face thee like a mon.

Thae'll ha' fair play, tha needn't fear—
Now, now, thae'll see no shufflin' here!
Aw'll tell thee plainly theaw'rt a pest,
An's spoilt me mony a good neet's rest;
Theaw stole mi supper t'other neet,
An' sent me t' bed wi' cowd wet feet.
Aw didn't relish this—Would theaw?
Well, come, we'll let it pass o'er neaw.

Heaw is it theaw ne'er goes to see
Big folks 'at's better off nor me?
There's plenty up an' deawn i'th' lond,
'At theaw'd do weel to tak' bi' th' hond,
An' leod 'em every day to schoo'.
There's young Nat Wild—poor silly foo'—
He's lots o' brass, but noan mich wit,
Go play thi pranks wi' him a bit.

Aw've had mi friends—fond, firm, an' true,
An' dear relations not a few;
But noan o' these han stuck to me
As firmly an' as long as thee.
An' after o it's hardly reet
To goa an' turn thee eawt i' th' street,
And one not knowin' wheer thae'rt beawn
Aw conno do it—sit thee deawn.



EH dear! what foin' eawt there is;
    It does look bad, for sure:
We'n th' young at loggeryeads wi' th' owd,
    An' th' rich at war wi' th' poor.
Professin' Christians quarrel too;
    M.P.'s get eawt o' square;
A pity this: but come, mi lads,
    Let's everyone feight fair.

While toddlin' thro' this world o' eawrs
    Th' best on us getten hit;
An', tho' we'd rayther live at peace,
    We han to feight a bit.
There's wrongs one dosen't like to see;
    We'n rights we conno spare;
There allis sum'at t' feight abeawt;
    But come, mi lads, feight fair.

We'n Superstition t' battle wi',
    Owd Prejudice an' o;
An' we shall foind it hardish wark
    Opposin these, aw know.
Ne'er mind, let's buckle to ogen,
    An' meet us, if they dare;
They'll ha' to shift afore so long;
    Feight fair, mi lads, feight fair.

There's foak to feight 'at never larned
    To aim a gradely blow;
They'n noather science, skill, nor sense;
    Neaw these are th' worst of o;
They'll fire their shots, an' wheer they leet
    They noather know nor care;
Th' owd-fashund way o' arguin' this;
    But, never mind, feight fair.

Well, then, there's hollow-yeaded folk
    (Of course they'n lots o' tongue),
'At fancy their ideas are reet,
    An' other folks's wrong.
Let's treat these kindly, pity 'em,
    An' lay their follies bare;
A dose like this may do 'em good;
    Let's try it, lads; feight fair.

Yo'll ha' some ruffish feightin' t' do,
    An' rare hard tugs wi' some,
Altho' they know nowt, good or bad,
    Bo what they'n larned awhoam.
Wi' th' weapons these ull bring i'th' field
    No deawt they'll mak' yo' stare;
But, then, they're o they han to use,
    They are, indeed; feight fair.

When Error stonds i'th' way o' truth,
    An' Wrong i'th' way o' Right;
To clear the way, an' see fair play,
    Set to wi' o yo'r might.
But act wi' reason, tak' yo'r time,
    An' have a bit o' care;
Be firm, an' yet be gentle, too;
    Feight fair, mi lads, feight fair.

Feight fair wi' everyone yo' meet,
    Wi' rich, poor, young, an' owd;
An' value noble actions moor
    Nor oather fame or gowd.
An' lads, as far as in us lies,
    Let's do what's reet an' square;
An' when there's feightin' to be done,
    Let's aim at feightin' fair.




WHEER are my dear owd playmates neaw—
    Thoose lads aw loved so weel?
Wheer's Allen Ridgway, Jemmy Breawn,
    An' little Bobby Steel?
An' that dear lad 'at used to come
    An' play wi' me i'th' fowd,
Wi' th' dimpled chin, an' rosy cheeks,
    An' curly locks o' gowd?

It's getten thirty year, an' moor,
    Sin' we we'rn lads at th' schoo';
Heaw toime goes trudgin' on, for sure!
    An' foalk go with it too.
But, oh ! aw've noan forgetten yet
    Thoose childish sports o' eawrs
Rompin' abeawt o'er hill an' dale,
    'Mong moss, an' ferns, an' fleawers.

Wheer are they neaw—those playful lads?
    Wheer's honest-hearted Will,
'At used to come fro' Whiteley Ho'
    An' lodge wi' Missis Gill?
He's long bin restin' in his grave;
    Poor lad! he geet a cowd,
An' th' scarlet fever took him off,
    When short o' nine year owd.

Dick Lunn's alive an' hearty yet,
    But isn't hawve as gay:
No foot-bo punsin' neaw for him,
    Nor rowlin' o'er i'th' hay;
He's toathry wrinkles on his broo,
    An' care-worn, too, aw see;
No deawt he's had some hardish rubs,
    An' worse for wear, like me.

An' then there's Widow Simpson's lad—
    Poor thing! he deed when young.
Aw fancy aw can see him yet,
    An' yer his prattlin' tongue.
It broke his poor owd mother's heart,
    To lose her hope an' pride;
An' neaw i'th' country churchyard, yon,
    They're lyin' side bi side.

Aw loved to linger near that grave;
    Aw've sat theer scores o' heawrs;
An' th' silent tears aw've letten fo,
    Han moisten'd th' fair wild fleawers;
An' tho' there's some may reckon this
    Unworthy brain or pen,
Aw'm glad to think, an' preawd to own,
    We'd childer's feelin's then.

Heaw are we neaw—thoose on us left?
    Is sympathy asleep?
Or do we laugh wi' thoose 'at laugh,
    An' weep wi' thoose 'at weep?
Has age improved us?   Are these hearts
    More manly, kind, an' true?
Or han we less good feelin' neaw
    Nor when we'rn lads at th' schoo?

Let's hope we're better, an' as age
    Creeps o'er us, may we feel
At th' bit o' toime we'n bin i'th' world
    We'n fowt loife's battle weel.
An' may thoose lads 'at deed when young,
    An' thoose 'at live t' be owd,
All meet ogen wheer every yead
    Shall wear a creawn o' gowd!




HAIL, owd friend! aw'm fain to see thee:
    Wheer has t' been so mony days?
Lots o' times aw've looked up for thee,
    Wishin' aw could see thi face.
Th' little childer reawnd abeawt here,
    Say they wonder wheer tha'rt gone;
An' they wanten me to ax thee
    T' show thisel' as oft as t' con.

Come an' see us every mornin'
    Come, these droopin' spirits cheer:
Peep thro' every cottage window;
    Tha'll be welcome everywheer.
Show thisel i' o thi splendour;
    Throw that gloomy veil aside;
What dost t' creep to th' back o'th' cleawds for?
    Tha's no fau'ts nor nowt to hide.

Flashy clooas an' bits o foinery
    Help to mend sich loike as me:
Veils improve some women's faces,
    But, owd friend, they'll noan mend thee.
Things deawn here 'at we co'n pratty
    Soon begin to spoil an' fade;
But tha still keeps up thi polish,
    Tha'rt as breet as when new made.

Tha wur theer when th' hosts o' heaven
    Sweetly sang their mornin' song;
But tha looks as young as ever,
    Tho' tha's bin up theer so long.
An' for ages tha's bin shinin'—
    Smilin' o' this world o' eawrs;
Blessin' everythin' tha looks on,
    Makin' th' fruit grow—oppenin' fleawers.

It wur thee 'at Adam looked on,
    When i'th' garden bi hisel';
An' tha smoiled upon his labour—
    Happen helped him—who can tell?
It wur thee 'at Joshua spoke to
    On his way to th' promised land;
When, as th' good owd Bible tells us,
    Theaw obeyed his strange command.

Tha'll ha' seen some curious antics
    Played deawn here bi th' human race;
Some tha couldn't bear to look on,
    For tha shawmed an' hid thi face.
Mony a toime aw see thee blushin',
    When tha'rt leavin' us at neet:
An' no wonder, for tha's noticed
    Things we'n done 'at's noan been reet.

After o tha comes to own us,
    Tho' we do so mich 'at's wrong;
Even neaw tha'rt shinin' breetly,
    Helpin' me to write this song.
Heaw refreshin'! heaw revivin'!
    Stay as long as ever t' con;
We shall noan feel hawve as happy,
    Hawve as leetsome, when tha'rt gone.

Oh! for th' sake o' foalk 'at's poorly,
    Come an' cheer us wi thi rays;
We forgetten 'at we all owt
    When we see thy dear owd face.
Every mornin' when it's gloomy.
    Lots o' foalk are seen abeawt;
Some at th' door-steps, some at th' windows,
    Watchin' for thee peepin' eawt.




NEAW, women, God bless yo! yo know aw'm yo'r friend,
An' as long as aw'm able to stur, aw intend
To do what aw con, booath wi' tongue an' wi' pen,
To praise yo, an' get yo weel thowt on bi' th' men.
At th' same toime aw shall noan be for howdin' mi tongue,
Iv aw foind 'at yo'r guilty o' doin' what's wrong.
Aw dar' say yo know very weel what aw meon;
Aw want yo t' keep th' heawses o tidy an' cleon;

An' be sure—when yo'r husbands come in ov a neet—
To ha' th' har'stone new mopp'd an' th' fender rubb'd breet;
See 'at everything's noicely put by in its place,
An' welcome 'em whoam wi a smile on yo'r face.
When it's weshin' day, get done as soon as yo con;
Aw'll assure yo it's very unpleasant for John
To come into th' heawse ov a noonin or neet,
An' foind th' durty clooas spread abeawt at his feet.

Aw'll be hang'd iv aw've patience wi' th' slatternly hags,
Sich as som'toimes aw see when aw'm goin' deawn th' flags;
It's no wonder their husbands should set off an' drink;
Will they stop wi' sich slovens as thoose, do yo think?
Now, aw'll warrant they winnot, for aw never should;
Aw'd "hook it" as sharply as ever aw could.
Whoa could ever expect one to ceawer in a hole,
Wheer a woman sits smookin', as black as a coal?

Iv a fellow gets wed to a cratur' like this—
Unless he's some very queer notions o' bliss—
Aw think he'll prefer bein' off eawt o' th' dur
To ceawrin' o' th' har'stone wi' someb'dy loike her.
But oh ! a chap's blest when he gets a good woife,
To help him thro' th' world, and to sweeten his loife ;
An' one or two youngsters to romp on his knee;
Neaw, aw've tried it, an' know what it is, do yo see.

It's noice when a little thing meets one on th' way,
An' sheawts, "Come on, daddy, come on to yo'r tay."
Eh, women, aw'll venture to gie my owd hat
Iv yo'll foind ony music 'ats sweeter nor that.
Oh! it's grand when one enters th' inside o' their cot,
An' foinds 'at th' woife's made it a heaven ov a spot;
An' her stondin' theer, bless her, to welcome yo in,
Wi' o 'at's abeawt her as clean as a pin!

An' it does seawnd some sweet, when hoo tells yo hoo's fain
To see yo come whoam weel an' hearty again.
Iv one's wantin' a bit o' real pleasure, it's here—
Bein' welcomed an' cared for bi' thoose yo' love dear.
There's newt 'at's moor dear to a chap i' this loife,
Nor th' breet smilin' face ov a fond lovin' woife.
Well, women, what are yo for doin', neaw, come?
Will yo promise an' try to keep th' husbands awhoam?

Let 'em feel—when their wark's done—'at th' loveliest spot
'At there is under heaven, is their own humble cot.
Ah! there's lots o' poor fellows aw've known i' mi loife,
'At's bin driven fro' whoam bi' a slovenly woife:
When they'n come in at neet, wearied eawt wi' their toil,
I' th' stead o' bein' met wi' a sweet lovin' smoile,
There's nothin' but black-lookin' holes met their een,
An' a woife an' some childer, a shawm to be seen.

Neaw, women, aw beg on yo, do what yo con
To mak things look summat loike reet for a mon;
There'll be less drunken husbands, awm sure, if yo will;
An' less money spent across th' road, at th' "Quiet Gill."
Yo'll be paid for yo'r trouble wi' th' comfort it brings,
An' havin' moor brass for foine bonnets an' things.
Iv yo want to be happy, aw'd ha' yo be quick,
An' practice th' advoice o' yo'r friend, Uncle Dick.




NO deawt it ud look a deol better o' me
To moind mi own wark, an' let th' women a-be;
But awm anxious to gie yo a bit ov advoice,
For awm fond on yo, bless yo, yo looken so noice,
Wi yo're bonny blue een, set loike gems i' yo'r yead;
Aw very nee wish 'at aw'd never bin wed;
But there'd noan be mich chance iv aw' wurno, perhaps,
For aw reckon yo'r th' mooast on yo fitted wi chaps.

God bless yo, yo'r loike tender plants 'at's i' th' bud;
Iv aw'd peawr to protect yo fro' danger, aw would;
When th' cowd winds are blowin', to keep yo fro' harm,
Aw'd cover yo up weel, an' keep yo reet warm;
An' aw'd tak' care 'at th' sun didn't spoil yo an' o,
For aw'd nurse yo loike folk nurses plants for a show.
Neaw aw want a young woman--afore hoo gets wed
To Willie, or Albert, or Jammie, or Ned--

To try an' foind eawt if he's fond ov his books--
Never mind what he wears, nor heaw pratty he looks;
Never heed heaw he brushes an' fettles his yure:
These things are attractive to one to be sure;
But let her forget his fine clooas, if hoo con,
An' mak' sure o' one thing--an' that is--'at John's
Getten summat coed brains i' th' inside ov his nob.
Dunno ax iv he's getten a watch in his fob;

Dunno mak' so mich bother respectin' his age,
Nor what he can get in a week as a wage;
For there's mony a young fellow get's plenty o' brass
'At 's never no business to cooart a young lass;
For it's very well known 'at he's only a foo'--
Th' street-corner's his chapel, an' th' ale-heawse his schoo'.
Neaw, a young woman acts very foolish, aw think,
'At gets wed to a fellow 'ats fond ov his drink;

For hoo connot expect to be happy, awm sure--
Ho'll be likelier far to be wretched an' poor.
So, lasses, yo bargain weel, whoile yo'r agate,
An' not ha' to after-think, when it's to' late;
For there's lots o' poor deawn-trodden women aw know
'At once wur as happy as ony o' yo;
When they started a-cooartin' their prospects wur breet--
Walkin' eawt arm-i'-arm wi' their lovers at neet:

Their minds free fro' trouble an' cankering care,
"An' as women are neaw, buildin' "castles i' th' air,"
Never dreomin' but what sich accomplished young men
Would be allus as lovin' as what they wur then:
But men are loike women--they sometimes do wrong--
An' loike them, too, they mak' too mich use o' their tongue;
Its surproisin' what noice-seawndin' tales they can tell--
Aw darsay aw've towd mony a hundert misel.

Well, lasses, iv ever yo meon to get wed,
Prepare yo'rsels for it.   Aw once yeard it said,
'At a chap deawn i' Slawwit--a village close by--
Ax'd his newly-made woife t' mak' a potato pie.
Neaw, hoo never had made nowt o' th' sooart in her loife,
But hoo towd him hoo'd try, like a dutiful woife;
So hoo geet some potatoes, some mutton an' stuff,
An' at first hoo appeared to get on weel enuff;

But, as th' tale gooas, it seems hoo went wur tor't th' last--
When hoo coom to put th' crust on, hoo geet gradely fast;
Hoo couldn't for th' loife on her ger it th' reet size,
An' wondered why th' husband should want sich loike pies;
Hoo rowled it, an' pood it, an' frabb'd a good bit,
But whatever hoo did, couldn't ger it to fit.
At last, when hoo'd done till hoo'rn getten reet stowd,
Hoo went to her mother's--a piece fur up th' road,

An' towd her what bother hoo'd had wi' this pie;
"Well, come," said th' owd woman, "tha's no need to cry;
Soa tha'rt fast, an' tha's come to thi mother to th' schoo';
Get a knife, an' then cut reawnd th' edges, tha foo'!"




AS sengle young women have had some advoice,
Aw think it ud hardly be fair or look noice
If friend Uncle Dick didn't set to ogen.
And try to say summat to sengle young men.
Well, as yo'r weel aware, lads, aw've bin young misel',
So a hint or two met be o' use--who can tell?
Aw'm noan yet a very owd fellow, it's true,
Still aw've gone through a deol 'at yo'll have to go through.

Neaw th' bit ov advoice 'at aw have to impart,
Let me tell yo's weel meant, an comes warm fro' mi heart;
For aw know very weel what it is to be young;
Aw remember the toime when aw whistled an' sung
As aw used to be trudgin' along to mi wark,
As cheerful, as merry, as blithe as a lark;
Little thinkin' 'at care 'ud o'ertak' me so soon,
To mar an put everythin' reet eawt o' tune.

But we foind, while trampin' this rough world o' eawrs,
A great deol o' thorns, but a very few fleawers.
It's weel 'at it is so; wur this a good shop,
We should aim at no better, but want to stop.
Well, neaw, will yo kindly excuse an owd mon,
While he's tryin' to gie th' best advoice 'at he con.
Beware o' bad habits: cigars an' strong drink
Are doin' moor harm to young folk nor they think.

Aw mony a toime wish eawr big men ud mak laws
To punish young lads seen wi' pipes i' their jaws.
Neaw isn't it a painful, a humblin' seet,
To witness mere childer go smookin' through th' street?
Young lads! iv yo ever intend to be men,
Shun poipes an' cigars; never touch 'em ogen.
Aw'm sorry to gie yo'r pet habits such raps,
But smookin' an drinkin' oft ruin young chaps.

Well, aw reckon there's some little coartin' t' be done--
Some woman's affections 'at han to be won.
An here let me warn yo t' beware what yo do--
If yo' mak a bad match yo'll be certin to rue.
If tha meons to get wed, John, look eawt for a lass
Wi' some brains an' good fingers--care nowt abeawt brass,
For iv that's o tha get's tha'll repent o thi life
At that did'nt get howd ov a sensible woife.

Neaw, chaps, dunno yo be loike some 'at aw've seen--
Led away wi' red cheeks, rosy lips, an blue een.
Pratty women are very attractive, aw know;
They'll do for us t' look at a bit--but that's o.
Neaw, dunno go tellin' it up an deawn th' teawn
'At beauty's a thing at aw want to run deawn;
For a honsome young woman tak's th' lead, ther's no deawt,
I' o th' bonny things at eawr Maker's turned eawt.

What aw want yo to do, chaps, is this--get some woives
'At are loikely to wear weel, an' sweeten yo'r loives;
'At'll love yo an' comfort yo' mony a long day,
When age comes, an beauty's o faded away.
Get some woives 'at'll ha some affection to show,
An' cling to yo firmly i' weal an i' woe.
That's th' best sort o' beauty 'at winno go cowd,
But sticks to a mon when he's helpless an owd.

Well, aw'll drop it neaw lads; aw'm at the' eend o' mi bant,
An aw dar' say aw've said quite as mich as yo want.
Aw've tried to appeal booath to th' heart an to th' yead,
An' hope yo'll be better for th' little aw've said:
Just tak these few hints as they come fro' mi pen,
And put 'em i' practice, young fellows, an' then--
Some day, when yo foind things are workin' so noice,
Yo'll thank Uncle Dick for his bit ov advoice.




WHAT to say to wed fellows aw conno weel tell;
Altho aw've been wed two or three times mysel'.
It's a awkwardish job, an it's noan very noice
To be actin' th' owd uncle, an givin' advoice.
But th' wed women keep botherin' an wantin' me t' write
Iv aw dunno, aw know they'll do nowt nobbut flite.
My woife's among th' rest, hoo kicks up a rare fuss,
An says at there's reawm for improvement i' us.

Well aw dar' say there is, were noan angels, aw know;
Now, now, chaps, there's nowt o' that stamp here below;
Even women, as fair as they happen to be,--
They're sent into world witheawt wings, one can see;
An' it's weel as it is so, for if they could fly,
That woife o' Tom Breawn's ud be off up i' th' sky;
And there's moor beside her 'at ud soon disappear,
For they're tired o' bein' hampert an' kicked abeawt here.

Neaw why should it be so? come, chaps, is this reet?
Awm for bein' reet plain an straight forrud to-neet.
Does tha yer, Tom? heaw is it theaw treats wi' neglect
That woman tha promised to love an protect?
Heaw is it th'art gradely wi' folk eawt o' th' dur,
But when tha gets whoam th'art so peevish wi' hur?
Eh, Tom, iv there's owt tha should love i' this loife,
Awm sure it's yore Poll, for hoo mak's a good woife.

Why, mon, tha's forgetten that mornin' awm sure,
When tha took her to th' altar, so fair an so pure;
An' talk abeawt angels, an bonny blue een,
To mi thinkin' a prattier lass never wur seen.
When yo sect off to th' church, bells wor ringin' so sweet,
And th' nayburs God blessed her when passin' deawn th' street,
An her feythur an' mother--they mingled their prayers,
'At tha'd mack a good whoam for that dear lamb o' theirs.

Has ta done so, owd brid? nowt o'th' sooart mon, tha knows
'At hoo's sufferin' just neaw fro' thi kicks an thi blows;
It wur nobbut last neet, tha wur on at th' "King Ned,"
An' becose hoo went for thi, an ax'd thee t' go t' bed--
Tha up wi' thi fist, an' witheawt e'en a word,
Tha knocked her on th' paivins;--it's true mon, aw've yeard.
Eh, Tom, lad, aw'd oather be better nor thee--
An' keep off that mischievous drink--or aw'd see.

A chap when he's wed should feel sattled i' loife--
Stay at whoam of a neet wi' his books an' his woife;
An' if it so leets 'at there's youngsters to nurse,
It's his duty to help, for there's nothin' looks worse
Nor a chap to be gaddin' abeawt eawt o'th' dur,
An his woife wi' th nursin' an th' wark left to her.
Neaw awm sure it ud look far moor monly an' fair
If we stay'd in to help 'em, an did th' biggest share.

Aw con fancy aw yer somb'dy say, "Uncle Dick!
Aw wish yo'd stop gabblin' an talkin' so quick.
Let's have a word wi' yo,--it's o very noice
For a chap to be writin' an givin' advoice;
But we wanten yo'r wife here, no deawt hoo could tell
Heaw toime after toime yo'n bin guilty yo'rsel;
When ogen yo'r inclined to give others a rap,
Think on an' begin' at Jerusalem, owd chap."

Well, well, lads, aw will, for awm guilty, no deawt;
We'n o bits o' failin's--we're noan on us beawt.
Even th' best on us, when we're weel polished an' breet
Winno bear a good siftin' nor bringin' to th' leet.
So let's start an' mend, let's begin an be good,
For eawr woives ud be rarely set up if we would.
Let's prove eawrsel's honest an monly an' true,
An then th' women ull try, an' they'll mend a bit too.

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