They do it too at sich a rate
Wol mi owd system’s aght o’ date;
What we call folly, they call fate;
   An’ all ther pleasur
Is ha’ to bring ther life’s estate
   To th’ shortest measur.

They waste ther time, an’ waste ther gains,
O’ stuff ’at’s brew’d throo poisoned grains,
Thro’ morn to neet they keep ther brains,
   For ever swimmin,
An’ if a bit o’ sense remains,
   It’s fun i’th wimmen.

Tha’ll find noa doctors wi ther craft,
Nor yet mysen wi scythe or shaft,
E’er made as monny deead or daft,
   As Gin an’ Rum,
An’ if aw’ve warn’d fowk, then they’ve lafft
   At me, bi gum!

But if they thus goa on to swill,
They’ll not want Wilfrid Lawson’s bill,
For give a druffen chap his fill,
   An sooin off pops he,
An teetotal fowk moor surely still,
   Will dee wi th’ dropsy.

It’s a queer thing at sich a nation
Can’t use a bit o’ moderation;
But one lot rush to ther damnation
   Through love o’th bottle: 
Wol others think to win salvation
   Wi being teetotal.”

Wi’ booany neive he stroked mi heead,
“Tak my advice, young chap,” he sed,
“Let liquors be, sup ale asteead,
   An’ tha’ll be better,
An’ dunnot treat th’ advice tha’s heard
   Like a dead letter.”

“Why Deeath,” aw sed, “fowk allus say,
Yo come to fotch us chaps away! 
But this seems strange, soa tell me pray,
   Ha wor’t yo coom? 
Wor it to tell us keep away,
   Yo hav’nt room?”

“Stop whear tha art, Jack, if tha dar
But tha’ll find spirits worse bi far
Sarved aght i’ monny a public bar,
   At’s thowt quite lawful;
Nor what tha’ll find i’th’ places par-
   Sons call soa awful.”

“Gooid bye!” he sed, an’ off he shot,
Leavin behind him sich a lot
O’ smook, as blue as it wor hot! 
   It set me stewin! 
Soa hooam aw cut, an’ gate a pot
   Ov us own brewin.

---------

If when yo’ve read this stooary through,
Yo daat if it’s exactly true,
Yo’ll nobbut do as others do,
   Yo may depend on’t. 
Blow me! aw ommost daat it too,
   So thear’s an end on’t

Take Heart.

Roughest roads, we often find,
   Lead us on to th’ nicest places;
Kindest hearts oft hide behind
   Some o’th’ plainest-lukkin faces.

Flaars’ whose colors breetest are,
   Oft delight awr wond’ring seet;
But thers others, humbler far,
   Smell a thaasand times as sweet.

Burds o’ monny color’d feather,
   Please us as they skim along,
But ther charms all put together,
   Connot equal th’ skylark’s song.

Bonny women—­angels seemin,—­
   Set awr hearts an’ brains o’ fire;
But its net ther beauties; beamin,
   Its ther gooidness we admire.

Th’ bravest man ’at’s in a battle,
   Isn’t allus th’ furst i’th’ fray;
He best proves his might an’ mettle,
   Who remains to win the day.