His brother is a lazy lout,—­
   His sister’s nooan too gooid,—­
Ther’s net a daycent ‘en ith’ bunch,—­
   Vice seems to run ith’ blooid.

An yet th’art happy,—­soa they say,
   That caps me moor ner owt! 
Tha taks a deal less suitin, lass,
   Nor iver awst ha’ thowt.

Aw saw yo walkin aat one neet,
   Befoor yo’d getten wed;
Aw guess’d what he wor tawkin, tho
   Aw dooant know what he sed.

But he’d his arm araand thi waist,
   An tho’ thi face wor hid,
Aw’ll swear aw saw him kuss thi:—­
   That’s what aw niver did.

Aw thowt tha’d order him away,
   An’ mak a fearful row,
But tha niver tuk noa nooatice,
   Just as if tha didn’t know.

Awm hawf inclined to think sometimes,
   Aw’ve been a trifle soft,
Aw happen should a’ dun’t misen? 
   Aw’ve lang’d to do it oft.

Thar’t lost to me, but if a chonce
   Should turn up by-an-by,
If aw get seck’d aw’ll bet me booits,
   That isn’t t’reason why.

My Gronfayther’s Days.

A’a, Jonny! a’a Johnny! aw’m sooary for thee! 
But come thi ways to me, an’ sit o’ mi knee,
For it’s shockin’ to hearken to th’ words ’at tha says:—­
Ther wor nooan sich like things i’ thi gronofayther’s days.

When aw wor a lad, lads wor lads, tha knows, then,
But nahdays they owt to be ‘shamed o’ thersen;
For they smook, an’ they drink, an’ get other bad ways;
Things wor different once i’ thi gronfayther’s days.

Aw remember th’ furst day aw went a coortin’ a bit,
An’ walked aght thi granny;—­awst niver forget;
For we blushed wol us faces wor all in a blaze;—­
It wor nooa sin to blush i’ thi gronfayther’s days.

Ther’s nooa lasses nah, John, ’at’s fit to be wed;
They’ve false teeth i’ ther maath, an false hair o’ ther heead;
They’re a make up o’ buckram, an’ waddin’, an’ stays,
But a lass wor a lass i’ thi gronfayther’s days.

At that time a tradesman dealt fairly wi’ th’ poor,
But nah a fair dealer can’t keep oppen th’ door;
He’s a fooil if he fails, he’s a scamp if he pays;
Ther wor honest men lived i’ thi gronfayther’s days.

Ther’s chimleys an’ factrys i’ ivery nook nah,
But ther’s varry few left ’at con fodder a caah;
An’ ther’s telegraff poles all o’th edge o’th’ highways,
Whear grew bonny green trees i’ thi gronfayther’s days.

We’re teld to be thankful for blessin’s at’s sent,
An’ aw hooap ‘at tha’ll allus be blessed wi’ content;
Tha mun make th’ best tha con o’ this world wol tha stays,
But aw wish tha’d been born i’ thi gronfayther’s days.

Heart Brocken.

He wor a poor hard workin lad,
   An’ shoo a workin lass: 
An’ hard they tew’d throo day to day,
   For varry little brass. 
An’ oft they tawk’d o’th’ weddin’ day,
   An’ lang’d for th’ happy time,
When poverty noa moor should part,
   Two lovers i’ ther prime.