An' keep thi heart as free throo sin,
As what it is to-day.


Th' Little Black Hand

Ther's a spark just o'th tip o' mi pen,
An' it may be poetical fire;
An' suppoase 'at it is'nt--what then?
Wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire?

Aw'm detarmined to scribble away--
Soa's them 'at's a fancy con read;
An' tho aw turn neet into day,
If aw'm suitin an odd en, neer heed!

Aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life;
But then ther's abundance o' care,
An' them 'at's contented wi' strife
May allus mak sure o' ther share.

But aw'll laff woll mi galluses braik,
Tho mi bed's net as soft as spun silk;
An' if butter be aght o' mi raik,
Aw'll ma' th' best ov a drop o' churn milk.

It's nooan them 'at's getten all th' brass
'At's getten all th' pleasure, net it!
When aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd lass,
Aw con thoil 'em whativer they get.