They may talk of pure love but its
fleeting at best;
Let them ridicule gold if they will;
But money’s the thing that has long stood the test,
And is longed for and sought after still.
Love must kick the balance against a full purse,
And you’ll find if you live to four score,
That whativer your troubles the heaviest curse,
Is to drag on your life and be poor.
If you sigh after titles and long
for high rank,
Let this be your aim night and day,
To increase the small balance you have at your bank,
And to honors’ ’t will soon point the way.
For you’ll find that men bow to the glittering dross,
Whate’er its possessor may be;
And if obstacles rise they will help you across,
If you only can boast L. s. d.
See that poor man in rags, bending
under his load,
He passes unnoticed along:
No one lends him a hand as he goes on his road,
He must toil as he can through the throng.
But if he was wealthy, how many would fly
To assist him and offer the hand;
But he’s poor, so they leave him to toil or to die,
That’s the rule in this Christian land.
‘Nah, that’s summat like a song; aw could lizzen to that all th’ neet, an’ aw think yo’ll all agree ’at owd fiddle face has lost his gallon. Nah, lad, does ta hear? Tak to payin.’
But he didn’t hear, for he’d quietly slipped away an’ left ’em wi’ a empty pitcher. ’Well, he’s a mean owd stick, onyway; but aw’ll pay for it fillin once moor. An’ nah, Miles, it’s yor turn to call.’
‘Mr. Cheerman, aw’ll call o’ yor friend for th’ next.’
‘A’a, lad,’ sed Dick, ’tha should pass by me, for aw niver sang a song i’ mi life, an’ awm to old to start, but if yo’ve noa objections aw’ll give yo a recitation.’
‘Gooid lad, Dick, goa on! Tha’rt gam, aw know.’
Ov all th’ enjoyments’
at sweeten man’s life,
Ther’s nooan can come up to a sweet tempered wife;
An’ he must be lonesome, an’ have little pleasure,
’At doesn’t possess sich a woman to treasure.
But them ’at expect when they tak hooam a bride,
‘At nowt nobbut sunshine wi’ them will abide,
An’ think ’at noa sorrow will iver oppress,
They’ll find ther mistak aght, yo’ll easily guess.
For th’ mooast fascinatin an’ lovable elves,
Are all on ’em mortal, just th’ same as ussels,
An’ show tempers ’at sometimes are net ovver pleasant,
They find fault whear ther’s room, an’ sometimes whear ther isn’t,
An’ to get there own way, why they’ll kiss, coax, or cavil,
They’ll smile like an angel, or storm like the devil.
But aw’ve monny times sed, an’ aw say it ageean,
‘At women are ofter i’th’ reight nor are th’ men,
Just fancy gooin hooam to a bachelor’s bed,
All shudderin an’ shakkin