The poor old man is me:

And on the little grassy mound
'Neath which their parents sleep,
They bend the knee, and pray for me;
I pray for them and weep.


Aght o' Wark

Aw've been laikin for ommost eight wick,
An' aw can't get a day's wark to do!
Aw've trailed abaght th' streets wol awm sick
An' aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost through.

Aw've a wife an' three childer at hooam,
An' aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock,
For they think it's high time aw should come,
An' bring 'em a morsel 'o jock.

A'a dear! it's a pitiful case
When th' cubbord is empty an' bare;
When want's stamped o' ivery face,
An' yo hav'nt a meal yo can share.

Today as aw walked into th' street,
Th' squire's carriage went rattlin past;
An' aw thout 'at it hardly luk'd reet,
For aw had'nt brokken mi fast.