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.

I' summer time they romp an' play
Where flowers grow wild and sweet;
Ther bodies strong, ther spirits gay,
They thrive throo morn to neet.
But tha's a cough, aw hear tha has;
An' oft aw've known thee sick;
But tha mun work, poor little lass,
For hauf-a-craan a wick.
Poor lassie wan, &c.

Aw envy net fowks' better lot--
Aw should'nt like to swap.
Aw'm quite contented wi'mi cot;