TICKLE TIMES.
HHere’s Robin, he looks very gloomy;An’ Jamie keeps starin’ at th’ greawnd;An’ thinkin’ o’th table at’s empty,An’ th’ little things yammerin’ reawnd;It’s true, that it’s dark just afore us,—But, keep your hearts eawt o’ your shoon,—Though clouds may be thickenin’ o’er us,There’s lots o’ blue sky up aboon!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’ clooasThat 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 nowmunAt’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!
HHere’s Robin, he looks very gloomy;An’ Jamie keeps starin’ at th’ greawnd;An’ thinkin’ o’th table at’s empty,An’ th’ little things yammerin’ reawnd;It’s true, that it’s dark just afore us,—But, keep your hearts eawt o’ your shoon,—Though clouds may be thickenin’ o’er us,There’s lots o’ blue sky up aboon!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’ clooasThat 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 nowmunAt’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!
HHere’s Robin, he looks very gloomy;An’ Jamie keeps starin’ at th’ greawnd;An’ thinkin’ o’th table at’s empty,An’ th’ little things yammerin’ reawnd;It’s true, that it’s dark just afore us,—But, keep your hearts eawt o’ your shoon,—Though clouds may be thickenin’ o’er us,There’s lots o’ blue sky up aboon!
H
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’ clooasThat 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 nowmunAt’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!