At th’ lung-length aw geet ’em laid still; An’ aw hearken’t folks’ feet at went by; So aw iron’t o’ my clooas reet weel, An’ aw hanged ’em o’th maiden to dry; When aw’d mended thi stockin’s an’ shirts, Aw sit deawn to knit i’ my cheer, An’ aw rayley did feel rather hurt— Mon, aw’m _one-ly_ when theaw art’nt theer. “Aw’ve a drum and a trumpet for Dick; Aw’ve a yard o’ blue ribbin for Sal; Aw’ve a book full o’ babs; an’ a stick, An’ some bacco an’ pipes for mysel; Aw’ve brought thee some coffee an’ tay— Iv thae’ll _feel_ i’ my pocket, thae’ll _see_; An’ aw’ve bought tho a new cap to-day,— But aw olez bring summat for _thee_! “God bless tho, my lass; aw’ll go whoam, An’ aw’ll kiss thee an’ th’ childer o’ reawnd; Thae knows, at wheerever aw roam, Aw’m fain to get back to th’ owd greawnd; Aw can do wi’ a crack o’er a glass; Aw can do wi’ a bit ov a spree; But aw’ve no gradely comfort, my lass, Except wi’ yon childer and thee.” [Illustration] [Illustration] WHAT AILS THEE, MY SON ROBIN? What ails thee, my son Robin? My heart is sore for thee; Thi cheeks are grooin’ thinner, An’ th’ leet has laft thi e’e; Theaw trails abeawt so lonesome, An’ looks so pale at morn; God bless tho, lad, aw’m soory To see tho so forlorn. Thi fuutstep’s sadly awter’t,— Aw used to know it weel; Neaw, arto fairy-strucken; Or, arto gradely ill? Or, hasto bin wi’ th’ witches I’th’ cloof, at deep o’th’ neet? Come, tell mo, Robin, tell mo, For summat is not reet! “Neaw, mother, dunnot fret yo; Aw am not like mysel’; But, ’tis not lung o’th’ feeorin’ That han to do wi’th deil; There’s nought at thus could daunt mo, I’th’ cloof, by neet nor day;— It’s yon blue e’en o’ Mary’s;— They taen my life away. “Aw deawt aw’ve done wi comfort To th’ day that aw mun dee; For th’ place hoo sets her fuut on, It’s fairy greawnd to me; But oh, it’s useless speighkin’, Aw connut ston her pride; An’ when a true heart’s breighkin It’s very hard to bide!” Neaw God be wi’ tho, Robin; Just let her have her way; Hoo’ll never meet thy marrow, For mony a summer day! Aw’re just same wi’ thi feyther, When first he spoke to me: So, go thi ways, an’ whistle; An’ th’ lass’ll come to thee! [Illustration] GOD BLESS THESE POOR FOLK! God bless these poor folk that are strivin’ By means that are honest an’ true, For something to keep ’em alive in This world ’at we’re scramblin’ through; As th’ life ov a mon’s full o’ feightin’, A poor soul that wants to feight fair, Should never be grudged ov his heytin’, For th’ hardest o’th battle’s his share. _Chorus._—As th’ life ov a mon.