Somdy's Chonce.

What's a poor lass like me to do,     'At langs for a hooam ov her own?     Aw'm a hale an bonny wench too,     An nubdy can say aw'm heigh-flown.     Aw want nawther riches nor style,     Just a gradely plain felly will do;     But aw'm waitin a varry long while     An ov sweethearts aw've getten but two.     But th' trubble's just this, - let me tell,     What aw want an will have if aw can,     To share wedded life wi' misel,     Is a man 'at's worth callin a man.     But Harry's as stiff as a stoop,     An Jack, onny lass wod annoy, -     Harry's nobbut a soft nin-com-poop,     An Jack's just a hobble-de-hoy.     If caarin at th' hob ov a neet,     Wi' a softheeaded twaddlin fooil;     Aw should order him aght o' mi seet,     Or be cooamin his yure wi' a stooil.     His wage, - what it wor, - couldn't bring     Joy enuff to mak up for life's pains,     If aw fan misen teed to a thing,     At could work, ait an live, withaat brains.     "But ther's love," yo may say, - Hi that's it!     But aw nivver could love a machine;     An aw'll net wed a chap 'at's baat wit,     Net if he could mak me a queen.     Aw'd like one booath hansum an strong,     An honest, truehearted an kind,     But aw'm sewer aw could ne'er get along,     Wi' a felly 'at had'nt a mind.     Soa Harry will ha to be seckt,     For a nin-com-poop's nowt i' mi line;     As for Jack, - he could nivver expect     To win sich a true heart as mine.     Ther's lasses enuff to be had,     'At'll jump at sich chonces wi' joy,     They'll tak owt at's i'th' shape ov a lad,     Quite content wi' a hobble-de-hoy.     Aw dooant want to spend all mi life,     Like a saar, neglected old maid;     Aw'd rayther bi th' hawf be a wife,     Nor to blossom an wither i'th' shade.     Soa if onny young chap wants a mate,     Tho' he may net be hansum nor rich,     If he's getten some sense in his pate,     Aw'm his chonce. - An he need'nt have mich.