A little word ’at’s easy sed,
      Sometimes may heal a smart;
   A cruel word or luk instead,
      May help to braik a heart.

   Men hang together like a chain,
     Tho’ varied be ther plan;
   Each link hangs by another link,
     Man hangs to brother man.

But a gooid word throo some is as scarce as a white crow.  They’re iverlastingly lukking aght for faults an’ failins, an’ gooid words an’ gooid deeds are things they niver think are due to onnybody but thersen.

   Life’s pathway could oft be made pleasant,
      If fowk wor to foller this plan;
   Throo a prince ov the throne to a peasant,
      To do a gooid turn when they can.

But they’ll nawther do a gooid turn thersen nor let onybody else do one if they can help it.  They seem to be born wi’ soa mich eliker i’ ther blooid ‘at if they come i’ contact wi’ ony sweet milk o’ human kindness, ‘at it curdles it.  Whether it’s ther own fault or th’ fault o’ ther mother aitin too many saar gooisberries before they wor born aw can’t tell.  Aw’ve met some soa ill contrived ‘at they wodn’t let th’ sun shine on onybody’s puttaty patch but ther own if they could help it.

Nah this class o’ fowk have generally one or two noations o’ ther own ’at they think iverybody else owt to be ruled by.  One’ll be a strict teetotaller, an’ consider ’at onybody ‘at taks a drop o’ drink is gooin to a place whear top coits wiln’t be needed.  Another belangs to some sect, an’ doesn’t hesitate to say ’at onybody ’at gooas to a Concert Hall has signed a contract wi’ that dark complexioned owd snoozer ’at wears horns an’ wags a tail.  They’ve been at th’ trouble to chalk aght a line for iverybody else to walk on, tho’ they know varry weel ’at they dooant allus keep to it thersen when ther’s nubdy lukkin.

Well, let them ‘at relish th’ saars have’ em to ther hearts’ content, but dooant try to prevent other fowk havin some o’ th’ sweets.  Aw’m one o’ them ‘at likes th’ sweets best, an’ if they’ll nobbut let me alooan aw’ll promise niver to mell o’ them.

Grooanin, mooanin, an’ grummelin, is abaat th’ warst way o’ spendin one’s time.  If yo come in for a lot o’ gooid things, enjoy ’em wol yo’ve th’ chance, an’ dooant pass by ivery flaar ’at smiles along yor path for fear yo may find a twitch-clock i’ one.  An’ if things dooant turn aght just as gooid as yo’d like’ em, try to mak th’ best o’ th’ bit o’ gooid ther is in ’em.

They tell me this world’s full o’ trouble,
An’ each one comes in for a share;
An’ pleasure they say is a bubble,
‘At gooas floating away up in th’ air. 
But aw’ll niver give way to repinin,
Tho’ th’ claads may luk gloomy an’ black,
For they all have a silvery linin,
An’ some day shall breeten awr track. 
Let other fowk brood o’er ther sorrow,
From each day enjoyment we’ll borrow,
Let to-morrow tak care ov to-morrow,
An strive to be happy to-day.