This world’s kin to trouble; i’th best on’t, There’s mony sad changes come reawnd; We wandern abeawt to find rest on’t, An’ th’ worm yammers for us i’th’ greawnd; May he that’ll wortch while he’s able, Be never long hungry nor dry; An’ th’ childer ’at sit at his table,— God bless’ em wi’ plenty, say I. _Chorus._—As th’ life ov a mon. An’ he that can feel it a pleasur’ To leeten misfortin an’ pain,— May his pantry be olez full measur’, To cut at, and come to again; May God bless his cup and his cupbort, A theawsan for one that he gives; An’ his heart be a bumper o’ comfort, To th’ very last minute he lives! _Chorus._—As th’ life ov a mon. An’ he that scorns ale to his victual, Is welcome to let it alone; There’s some can be wise with a little, An’ some that are foolish wi’ noan; An’ some are so quare i’ their natur’ That nought wi’ their stomachs agree; But, he that would liefer drink wayter, Shall never be stinted by me. _Chorus._—As th’ life ov a mon. One likes to see hearty folk wortchin’, An’ weary folk havin’ a rest; One likes to yer poor women singin’ To th’ little things laid o’ their breast; Good cooks are my favourite doctors; Good livers my parsons shall be; An’ ony poor craytur ’at’s clemmin, May come have a meawthful wi’ me. _Chorus._—As th’ life ov a mon. Owd Time,—he’s a troublesome codger,— Keeps nudgin’ us on to decay, An’ whispers, “Yo’re nobbut a lodger: Get ready for goin’ away;” Then let’s ha’ no skulkin’ nor sniv’lin’, Whatever misfortins befo’, God bless him that fends for his livin’, An’ houds up his yed through it o’! _Chorus._—As th’ life ov a mon. [Illustration] [Illustration] COME, MARY, LINK THI ARM I’ MINE. Come, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine, An’ lilt away wi’ me; An’ dry that little drop o’ brine, Fro’ th’ corner o’ thi e’e; Th’ mornin’ dew i’th’ heather-bell’s A bonny gem o’ weet; That tear a different story tells,— It pains my heart to see’t. So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. No lordly ho’ o’th’ country-side’s So welcome to my view, As th’ little cottage where abides My sweetheart, kind an’ true; But, there’s a nook beside yon spring, An’ iv thae’ll share’t wi’ me; Aw’ll buy tho th’ prattist gowden ring That ever theaw did see! So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. My feyther’s gan mo forty peawnd, I’ silver an’ i’ gowd; An’ a bonny bit o’ garden greawnd, O’th’ mornin’ side o’th’ fowd; An’ a honsome bible, clen an’ new, To read for days to come;— There’s leaves for writin’ names in, too, Like th’ owd un at’s awhoam. So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.