Heaw slow these weary weeks dhrag on,
Th’ hard toimes ull ne’er be o’er, aw’m sure;
Eawr mill’s bin stondin’ idle yon
For these last eighteen months, or mooar.
We walk abeawt i’ th’ leet o’ th’ day
I’ clooas ut sumdy else has bowt;
Think o’er it when an’ heaw we may,
We’re like to own it’s up to nowt.
To thrust to sumdy else for bread,
An’ by th’ relief keep torin’ on,
Maks honest folk to hang their yead,
An’ crushes th’ heart o’ th’ preawdest mon.
We known it’s not eawr bread we ate,
We known they’re not eawr clooas we wear,
We want agen eawr former state,
Eawr former dhrudgin’ life o’ care.
Toime wur, if amdy dust ha worn,
Sich things as neaw are worn by me,
Ut folks ud sheawt wi jeers an’ scorn,
“Eh! thoose are ’thank yo, sirs’, aw see.”
Bo sheawts and jeers like these are o’er,
Neaw nob’dy’s reawm to mak a stir;
If wortchin’ folk yo meet by th’ score,
Oitch one ull wear a “thank yo, sir.”
It’s fro no faut o eawrs, it’s true,
An’ folks han met eawr wants like men,
Like brothers an’ like sisters too,—
May th’ great God pay em back agen.
Heawe’er aw grumble at mi state,
Aw’ve no hard word to say to them;
Aw thank the poor, aw thank the great,
Ut couldno stond to see us clem.
Their help has bin great help to me,
It’s that alone ut sent me t’ schoo;
I t’s that ut towt me th’ A B C,
For o aw’d turnt o’ forty-two.
’ T wur rayther hard at fust to sit
An’ stare at things aw couldno tell,
Cose when owt puzzl’t me a bit,
O th’ lads ud laugh among thersel’.
A mon grown up, an’ owd as me,
I o stop before a letther fast;
Wur gradely fun for them to see,
Bo aw geet thro’, an’ that’s o’ past.
I’ th’ news aw neaw con read a bit;
I' the’ Bible spell a chapther thro’;
Con write a line ut’s fair an’ fit;
An’ multiply, divide, an’ do.
On lots o’ things aw get new leet,
Mi idle toime’s noan badly spent;
To th’ wife an’ th’ childher neaw oitch neet
Aw read a bit i’ th’ Testiment,
Heaw Jesus Christ once fed the poor,
An’ th’ little childher to him co’d;
Heaw th’ sick an’ blind he oft did cure,
An’ th’ lame to help ’em on their road.
When o’ these weary toimes are past—
When th’ schoos an’ o’ are past away—
These happy neets awhoam ull last,
At th’ eend o’mony a breetther day:—
Bo th’ eend o’ th’ ill it’s hard to see,
An’ very hard to battle thro’;
A gradely plague it’s bin to me—
It’s bin a gradely blessin’ too.