A cat to purr o’th’ fender rims,
   To freeten th’ mice away;
A cosy bed to rest mi limbs
   Throo neet to commin day.

Gie me all this, an’ aw shall be
   Content, withaat a daat,
But if denied, then let me be
   Content to live withaat.

For ‘tisn’t th’ wealth one may possess
   Can purchase pleasures true;
For he’s th’ best chonce o’ happiness,
   Whose wants are small an’ few.

What it is to be Mother.

A’a, dear! what a life has a mother! 
   At leeast, if they’re hamper’d like me,
Thro’ mornin’ to neet ther’s some bother,
   An’ ther will be, aw guess, wol aw dee.

Ther’s mi chap, an misen, an’ six childer,
   Six o’th’ roughest, aw think, under th’ sun,
Aw’m sartin sometimes they’d bewilder
   Old Joab, wol his patience wor done.

They’re i’ mischief i’ ivery corner,
   An’ ther tongues they seem niver at rest;
Ther’s one shaatin’ “Little Jack Horner,”
   An’ another “The realms o’ the blest.”

Aw’m sure if a body’s to watch ’em,
   They mun have een at th’ back o’ ther yed;
For quiet yo niver can catch ’em
   Unless they’re asleep an’ i’ bed.

For ther’s somdy comes runnin to tell us
   ‘At one on em’s takken wi’ fits;
Or ther’s two on ’em feightin for th’ bellus,
   An’ rivin’ ther clooas all i’ bits.

In a mornin’ they’re all weshed an’ tidy’d,
   But bi nooin they’re as black as mi shoe;
To keep a lot cleean, if yo’ve tried it,
   Yo know ’at ther’s summat to do.

When my felly comes hooam to his drinkin’,
   Aw try to be gradely, an’ straight;
For when all’s nice an’ cleean, to mi thinkin’,
   He enjoys better what ther’s to ait.

If aw tell him aw’m varry near finished
   Wi allus been kept in a fuss,
He says, as he looks up astonished,
   “Why, aw niver see owt ’at tha does.”

But aw wonder who does all ther mendin’,
   Weshes th’ clooas, an cleans th’ winders an’ flags? 
But for me they’d have noa spot to stand in—­
   They’d be lost i’ ther filth an’ ther rags.

But it allus wor soa, an’ it will be,
   A chap thinks’ at a woman does nowt;
But it ne’er bothers me what they tell me,
   For men havn’t a morsel o’ thowt.

But just harken to me wol aw’m tellin’
   Ha aw tew to keep ivery thing straight;
An’ aw’l have yo for th’ judge if yor willin’,
   For aw want nowt but what aw think’s reight.

Ov a Monday aw start o’ my weshin’,
   An’ if th’ day’s fine aw get um all dried;
Ov a Tuesday aw fettle mi kitchen,
   An’ mangle, an’ iron beside.

Ov a Wednesday, then aw’ve mi bakin’;
   Ov a Thursday aw reckon to brew;
Ov a Friday all th’ carpets want shakin’,
   An’ aw’ve th’ bedrooms to clean an’ dust throo.

Then o’th’ Setterday, after mi markets,
   Stitch on buttons, an’ th’ stockins’ to mend,
Then aw’ve all th’ Sundy clooas to luk ovver,
   An’ that brings a week’s wark to its end.