’Tisn’t thee aw fondly welcome—­
   ’Tis the cheerin news tha brings,
Tellin us fine weather will come,
   When we see thi dappled wings.

But aw’d rayther have a sparrow,
   Rayther hear a robin twitter;
Tho’ they may net be thi marrow,
   May net fly wi’ sich a glitter;

But they niver leeav us, niver—­
   Storms may come, but still they stay;
But th’ first wind ’at ma’s thee shiver,
   Up tha mounts an’ flies away.

Ther’s too mony like thee, swallow,
   ’At when fortun’s sun shines breet,
Like a silly buzzard follow,
   Doncin raand a bit o’ leet.

But ther’s few like Robin redbreast,
   Cling throo days o’ gloom an’ care;
Soa aw love mi old tried friends best—­
   Fickle hearts aw’ll freely spare.

Plenty o’ Brass

A’a! it’s grand to ha’ plenty o’ brass! 
   It’s grand to be able to spend
A trifle sometimes on a glass
   For yorsen, or sometimes for a friend
To be able to bury yor neive
   Up to th’ shackle i’ silver an’ gowd
An’, ‘baght pinchin’, be able to save
   A wee bit for th’ time when yor owd.

A’a! it’s grand to ha’, plenty o’ brass! 
   To be able to set daan yor fooit
Withaght ivver thinkin’—­bith’ mass! 
   ‘At yor wearin’ soa mitch off yor booit;
To be able to walk along th’ street,
   An’ stand at shop windows to stare,
An’ net ha’ to beat a retreat
   If yo’ scent a “bum bailey” i’ th’ air.

A’a I it’s grand to ha’ plenty o’ brass! 
   To be able to goa hoam at neet,
An’ sit i’th’ arm-cheer bith’ owd lass,
   An’ want nawther foir nor leet;
To tak’ th’ childer a paper o’ spice,
   Or a pictur’ to hing up o’ th’ wall;
Or a taste ov a summat ’at’s nice
   For yor friends, if they happen to call.

A’a! it’s grand to ha’ plenty o’ brass! 
   Then th’ parsons’ll know where yo’ live: 
If yo’r’ poor, it’s mooast likely they’ll pass,
   An’ call where fowk’s summat to give. 
Yo’ may have a trifle o’ sense,
   An’ yo’ may be both upright an’ true
But that’s nowt, if yo’ can’t stand th’ expense
   Ov a hoal or a pairt ov a pew.

A’a! it’s grand to ha’ plenty o’ brass! 
   An’ to them fowk at’s getten a hoard,
This world seems as smooth as a glass,
   An’ ther’s flaars o’ boath sides o’th’ road;
But him ’at’s as poor as a maase,
   Or, happen, a little i’ debt,
He mun point his noas up to th’ big haase,
   An’ be thankful for what he can get.

A’a! it’s grand to ha’ plenty o’ chink! 
   But doan’t let it harden yor heart: 
Yo’ ‘at’s blessed wi’ abundance should think
   An’ try ta do gooid wi’ a part! 
An’ then, as yor totterin’ daan,
   An’ th’ last grains o’ sand are i’th glass,
Yo’ may find ’at yo’ve purchased a craan
   Wi’ makkin gooid use o’ yor brass.