Its True.

Ther's things i'plenty aw despise; -     False pride an wild ambition;     Tho' ivvery man should strive to rise,     An better his condition.     Aw hate a meean an grovlin soul,     I' breast ov peer or ploughman,     But what aw hate the mooast ov all,     Is th' chap 'at strikes a woman.     For let ther faults be what they may,     He proves 'at he's a low man,     Who lifts his hand bi neet or day,     An strikes a helpless woman.     Ther taunts may oft be hard to bide, -     Ther tempers may be fiery,     But passions even dwell inside     The convent an the priory.     An all should think where'er we dwell,     Greek, Saxon, Gaul or Roman;     We're net sich perfect things ussel,     As to despise a woman.     For let ther faults, &c.     It's true old Eve first made a slip,     An fill'd this world wi' bother;     But Adam had to bite his lip, -     He couldn't get another.     An tho' at th' present day they swarm,     That chap proves his own foeman,     Who doesn't tak his strong reight arm,     An twine it raand a woman.     For let ther faults, &c.     A chap may booast he's number one,     An lord it o'er creation;     May spaat an praich, but when he's done,     He'll find his proper station.     He may be fast when at his best,     But age maks him a slow man,     An as he sinks, he's fain to rest,     On some kind-hearted woman.     For let ther faults, &c.     Aw wodn't gie a pinch o' salt,     For that cold-hearted duffer,     Who glories o'er a woman's fault,     An helps to mak her suffer.     Ther's net a cock e'er flapt a wing,     'At had th' same reight to crow, man;     As th' chap who wi' a weddin ring,     Has made a happy woman.     Then let ther faults be what they will,     Ther net for me to show, man;     But if yo seek for comfort, still,     Yo'll find it in a woman.