It’s wise to be humble i’ prosperous ways, For trouble may chance to be nee; It’s wise for to struggle wi’ sorrowful days Till sorrow breeds sensible glee; He’s rich that, contented wi’ little, lives weel, An’ nurses his little to moor; He’s weel off ’at’s rich, iv he nobbut can feel He’s brother to thoose that are poor; An’ to him ’at does fair, Though his livin’ be bare, Some comfort shall olez be sure. We’n nobbut a lifetime a-piece here below, An’ th’ lungest is very soon spent; There’s summat aboon measur’s cuts for us o’, An’ th’ most on ’em nobbut a fent; Lung or short, rough or fine, little matter for that, We’n make th’ best o’th stuff till it’s done, An’ when it leets eawt to get rivven a bit, Let’s darn it as weel as we con; When th’ order comes to us To doff these owd clooas, There’ll surely be new uns to don. [Illustration] [Illustration] GOD BLESS THI SILVER YURE! Jone, lad, though thi hond’s Like reawsty iron to feel, There’s very few i’th lond Aw like to gripe as weel. Thae’ll never dee i’th dumps Becose o’ bein’ poor, Thae good owd king o’ trumps,— God bless thi silver yure! Poo up to th’ side o’th hob, An’ rest thi weary shanks, An’ dunnot fret thy nob Wi’ fortin’ an’ her pranks; These folk at’s preawd an’ rich May tremble at her freawn, They’n further far nor sich As thee to tumble deawn. Theaw never longs for wine, Nor dainties rich an’ rare. For sich a life as thine Can sweeten simple fare; Contented wi’ thi meal, Thae’s wit enough to know That daisies liven weel Where tulips connot grow. An’ though thi cloas are rough, An’ gettin’ very owd, They’n onswer weel enough To keep thi limbs fro’ th’ cowd; A foo would pine away I’ such a suit as thine, But, thaer’t the stuff to may A fustian jacket fine. A tattered clowt may lap A very noble prize; A king may be, by hap, A beggar i’ disguise. When t’one has laft his feast, An’ t’other done his crust, Then, which is which at last,— These little piles o’ dust? An’ though thy share o’ life, May seem a losin’ game, Thae’s striven fair i’th strife, An’ kept a daycent aim; No meawse-nooks i’ thi mind, No malice i’ thi breast, Thae’s still bin true an’ kind, An’ trusted fate wi’ th’ rest. Through trouble, toil, an’ wrung, Thae’s whistle’t at thi wark, An’ wrostle’t life so lung, Thi limbs are gettin stark; But, sich a heart as thine’s A never-failin’ friend; It cheer’s a mon’s decline, An’ keeps it sweet to th’ end.