Th’ Honest Hard Worker.

It’s hard what poor fowk mun put u’p wi’! 
   What insults an’ snubs they’ve to tak! 
What bowin an’ scrapin’s expected,
   If a chap’s a black coit on his back. 
As if clooas made a chap ony better,
   Or riches improved a man’s heart,
As if muck in a carriage smell’d sweeter
   Nor th’ same muck wod smell in a cart.

Give me one, hard workin, an’ honest,
   Tho’ his clooas may be greasy and coorse;
If it’s muck ’ats been getten bi labor,
   It does’nt mak th’ man ony worse. 
Awm sick o’ thease simpering dandies,
   ’At think coss they’ve getten some brass,
They’ve a reight to luk daan at th’ hard workers,
   An’ curl up their nooas as they pass.

It’s a poor sooart o’ life to be leadin,
   To be curlin an’ partin ther hair;
An’ seekin one’s own fun and pleasure,
   Niver thinkin ha others mun fare. 
It’s all varry weel to be spendin
   Ther time at a hunt or a ball,
But if th’ workers war huntin an’ doncin,
   Whativer wad come on us all?

Ther’s summat beside fun an’ frolic
   To live for, aw think, if we try;
Th’ world owes moor to a honest hard worker
   Nor it does to a rich fly-bi-sky. 
Tho’ wealth aw acknowledge is useful,
   An’ awve oft felt a want on’t misen,
Yet th’ world withaat brass could keep movin,
   But it wodn’t do long withaat men.

One truth they may put i’ ther meersham,
   An’ smoke it—­that is if they can;
A man may mak hooshuns o’ riches,
   But riches can ne’er mak a man. 
Then give me that honest hard worker,
   ’At labors throo marnin to neet,
Tho’ his rest may be little an’ seldom,
   Yet th’ little he gets he finds sweet.

He may rank wi’ his wealthier brother,
   An’ rank heigher, aw fancy, nor some;
For a hand ‘at’s weel hoofed wi’ hard labor
   Is a passport to th’ world ’at’s to come. 
For we know it’s a sin to be idle,
   As man’s days i’ this world are but few;
Then let’s all wi’ awr lot ’be contented,
   An’ continue to toil an’ to tew.

For ther’s one thing we all may be sure on,
   If we each do awr best wol we’re here,
‘At when, th’ time comes for reckonin, we’re called on,
   We shall have varry little to fear. 
An’ at last, when, we throw daan awr tackle,
   An’ are biddin farewell to life’s stage,
May we hear a voice whisper at partin,
   “Come on, lad!  Tha’s haddled thi wage;”

Niver Heed.

Let others boast ther bit o’ brass,
   That’s moor nor aw can do;
Aw’m nobbut one o’th’ working class,
   ’At’s strugglin to pool throo;
An’ if it’s little ’at aw get,
   It’s littie ’at aw need;
An’ if sometimes aw’m pinched a bit,
   Aw try to niver heed.

Some fowk they tawk o’ brokken hearts,
   An’ mourn ther sorry fate,
Becoss they can’t keep sarvent men,
   An’ dine off silver plate;
Aw think they’d show more gradely wit
   To listen to my creed,
An’ things they find they cannot get,
   Why, try to niver heed.