If aw wor free to please mi mind,
   Aw’st niver mak this stur;
But aw’ve a mother ommust blind,
   What mud become o’ her?

Tha knows shoo cared for me, when waik
   An’ helpless ivery limb,
Aw’m feeard her poor owd heart ud braik
   If aw’d to leave her, Jim.

Aw like to hear thee talk o’ th’ trees
   ‘At tower up to th’ sky,
An’ th’ burds ‘at flutterin i’th’ breeze,
    Lie glitterin’ jewels fly.

Woll th’ music of a shepherd’s reed
   May gently float along,
Lendin its tender notes to lead
   Some fair maid’s simple song;

An’ flaars ‘at grow o’ ivery side,
   Such as we niver see;
But here at hooam, at ivery stride,
   There’s flaars for thee an’ me.

Aw care net for ther suns soa breet,
   Nor warblin melody;
Th’ clink o’ thi clogs o’ th’ flags at neet
   Saands sweeter, lad, to me.

An’ tho’ aw wear a gingham gaan,
   A claat is noa disgrace;
Tha’ll niver find a heart moor warm
   Beat under silk or lace.

Then settle daan, tak my advice,
   Give up this wish to rooam! 
An’ if tha luks, tha’ll find lots nice
   Worth stoppin’ for at hooam.”

“God bless thee, Jenny! dry that e’e,
   An’ gi’e us howd thi hand! 
For words like thoase, throo sich as thee,
   What mortal could withstand!

It isn’t mich o’th’ world aw know,
   But aw con truly say,
A faithful heart’s too rich to throw
   Withaat a thowt away.

So here aw’ll stay, and should fate fraan,
   Aw’ll tew for thine and thee,
An’ seek for comfort when cast daan,
   I’th’ sunleet o’ thi e’e.”

The Short-Timer

Some poets sing o’ gipsy queens,
   An’ some o’ ladies fine;
Aw’ll sing a song o’ other scenes,
   A humbler muse is mine: 
Jewels, an’ gold, an’ silken frills,
   Are things too heigh for me,
But woll mi harp wi’ vigour thrills,
   Aw’ll strike a chord for thee. 
         Poor lassie wan,
         Do th’ best tha can,
      Although thi fate be hard;
         A time ther’ll be
         When sich as thee
     Shall have yor full reward.

At hauf-past five tha leaves thi bed,
   An’ off tha goes to wark;
An’ gropes thi way to mill or shed,
   Six months o’th’ year i’th’ dark. 
Tha gets but little for thi pains,
   But that’s noa fault o’ thine;
Thi maister reckons up his gains,
   An’ ligs i’ bed till nine. 
         Poor lassie wan, &c.

He’s little childer ov his own
   ’At’s quite as old as thee;
They ride i’ cushioned carriages
   ’At’s beautiful to see;
They’d fear to spoil ther little hand,
   To touch thy greasy brat: 
It’s wark like thine ’as maks ’em grand
   They niver think o’ that. 
         Poor lassie wan, &c.