GOD BLESS THI SILVER YURE!
JJone, lad, though thi hond’sLike reawsty iron to feel,There’s very few i’th londAw like to gripe as weel.Thae’ll never dee i’th dumpsBecose 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 nobWi’ fortin’ an’ her pranks;These folk at’s preawd an’ richMay tremble at her freawn,They’n further far nor sichAs thee to tumble deawn.Theaw never longs for wine,Nor dainties rich an’ rare.For sich a life as thineCan sweeten simple fare;Contented wi’ thi meal,Thae’s wit enough to knowThat daisies liven weelWhere tulips connot grow.An’ though thi cloas are rough,An’ gettin’ very owd,They’n onswer weel enoughTo keep thi limbs fro’ th’ cowd;A foo would pine awayI’ such a suit as thine,But, thaer’t the stuff to mayA fustian jacket fine.A tattered clowt may lapA 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’sA never-failin’ friend;It cheer’s a mon’s decline,An’ keeps it sweet to th’ end.Thy banner’ll soon be furled,An’ then they’n ha’ to tell,“He travell’t th’ dirty world,An’ never soil’t hissel’!”An’ when aw come to dee,An’ death has ta’en his tow,Aw hope to leet o’ thee,—God bless thi snowy pow!
JJone, lad, though thi hond’sLike reawsty iron to feel,There’s very few i’th londAw like to gripe as weel.Thae’ll never dee i’th dumpsBecose 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 nobWi’ fortin’ an’ her pranks;These folk at’s preawd an’ richMay tremble at her freawn,They’n further far nor sichAs thee to tumble deawn.Theaw never longs for wine,Nor dainties rich an’ rare.For sich a life as thineCan sweeten simple fare;Contented wi’ thi meal,Thae’s wit enough to knowThat daisies liven weelWhere tulips connot grow.An’ though thi cloas are rough,An’ gettin’ very owd,They’n onswer weel enoughTo keep thi limbs fro’ th’ cowd;A foo would pine awayI’ such a suit as thine,But, thaer’t the stuff to mayA fustian jacket fine.A tattered clowt may lapA 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’sA never-failin’ friend;It cheer’s a mon’s decline,An’ keeps it sweet to th’ end.Thy banner’ll soon be furled,An’ then they’n ha’ to tell,“He travell’t th’ dirty world,An’ never soil’t hissel’!”An’ when aw come to dee,An’ death has ta’en his tow,Aw hope to leet o’ thee,—God bless thi snowy pow!
JJone, lad, though thi hond’sLike reawsty iron to feel,There’s very few i’th londAw like to gripe as weel.Thae’ll never dee i’th dumpsBecose o’ bein’ poor,Thae good owd king o’ trumps,—God bless thi silver yure!
J
Poo up to th’ side o’th hob,An’ rest thi weary shanks,An’ dunnot fret thy nobWi’ fortin’ an’ her pranks;These folk at’s preawd an’ richMay tremble at her freawn,They’n further far nor sichAs thee to tumble deawn.
Theaw never longs for wine,Nor dainties rich an’ rare.For sich a life as thineCan sweeten simple fare;Contented wi’ thi meal,Thae’s wit enough to knowThat daisies liven weelWhere tulips connot grow.
An’ though thi cloas are rough,An’ gettin’ very owd,They’n onswer weel enoughTo keep thi limbs fro’ th’ cowd;A foo would pine awayI’ such a suit as thine,But, thaer’t the stuff to mayA fustian jacket fine.
A tattered clowt may lapA 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’sA never-failin’ friend;It cheer’s a mon’s decline,An’ keeps it sweet to th’ end.
Thy banner’ll soon be furled,An’ then they’n ha’ to tell,“He travell’t th’ dirty world,An’ never soil’t hissel’!”An’ when aw come to dee,An’ death has ta’en his tow,Aw hope to leet o’ thee,—God bless thi snowy pow!