But, when a mon’s honestly willin’ To wortch, an’ it connot be had; And clemmin’ for want ov a shillin’,— No wonder ’at he should be sad; It troubles his heart to keep seein’, His little brids feedin’ o’th air; An’ it feels very hard to be deein’, An’ never a mortal to care. But life’s sich a quare bit o’ travel,— A marlock wi’ sun an’ wi’ shade,— An’ then, on a bowster o’ gravel, They lay’n us i’ bed wi’ a spade; It’s no use a peawtin’ an’ fratchin’— As th’ whirligig’s twirlin’ areawnd, Have at it again; an’ keep scratchin’ As lung as your yed’s aboon greawnd. Iv one could but grope i’th inside on’t, There’s trouble i’ every heart; An’ thoose that’n th’ biggest o’th pride on’t, Oft leeten o’th keenest o’th’ smart. Whatever may chance to come to us, Let’s may th’ best we con ov e’r share,— For there’s mony a fine suit o’ clooas That covers a terrible care. There’s danger i’ every station,— I’th’ palace as mich as i’th cot; There’s hanker i’ every condition, An’ canker i’ every lot; There’s folk that are weary o’ livin’, That never fear’t hunger nor cowd; An’ there’s mony a miserly nowmun At’s deed ov a surfeit o’ gowd. One feels, neaw at times are so nippin’, A mon’s at a troublesome schoo’, That slaves like a horse for a livin’, An’ flings it away like a foo; But, as pleasur’s sometimes a misfortin’, An’ trouble sometimes a good thing,— Though we livin’ o’th’ floor same as layrocks, We’n go up, like layrocks, to sing! [Illustration] [Illustration] JAMIE’S FROLIC. One neet aw crope whoam when my weighvin’ were o’er, To brush mo, an’ wesh mo, an’ fettle my yure; Then, trailin’ abeawt, wi’ my heart i’ my shoon, Kept tryin’ my hond at a bit ov a tune; As Mally sit rockin’, An’ darnin’ a stockin’, An’ tentin’ her bakin’ i’th’ oon. Th’ chylt were asleep, an’ my clooas were reet; Th’ baggin’ were ready, an’ o’ lookin’ sweet; But aw’re mazy, an’ nattle, an’ fasten’t to tell What the dule it could be that’re ailin’ mysel’; An’ it made me so naught, That, o’ someheaw, aw thought, “Aw could just like a snap at eawr Mall.” Poor lass, hoo were kinder becose aw were quare; “Come, Jamie, an’ sattle thisel in a cheer; Thae’s looked very yonderly mony a day; It’s grievin’ to see heaw thae’rt wearin’ away, An’ trailin’ abeawt, Like a hen at’s i’th meawt; Do, pritho, poo up to thi tay! “Thae wants some new flannels; thae’s getten a cowd Thae’rt noather so ugly, my lad, nor so owd; But, thae’rt makin’ thisel’ into nought but a slave, Wi’ weighvin’, an’ thinkin’, an’ tryin’ to save;— Get summat to heyt, Or thae’ll go eawt o’ seat,— For thae’rt wortchin thisel’ into th’ grave.”