Th' Short-Timer.

Some poets sing o' gipsy queens,     An some o' ladies fine;     Aw'll sing a song o' other scenes, -     A humbler muse is mine.     Jewels, an' gold, an silken frills,     Are things too heigh for me;     But wol mi harp wi vigour thrills,     Aw'll strike a chord for thee.     Poor lassie wan,     Do th' best tha can,     Although thi fate be hard.     A time ther'll be     When sich as thee     Shall have yor full reward.     At hauf-past five tha leaves thi bed,     An off tha goes to wark;     An gropes thi way to mill or shed,     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 at makes em grand -     They nivver 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,     Foa hauf-a-craan a wick.     Poor lassie wan, &c.     Aw envy net fowks' better lot -     Aw shouldn't like to swap.     Aw'm quite contented wi mi cot;     Aw'm but a workin chap.     But if aw had a lot o' brass     Aw'd think o' them at's poor;     Aw'd have yo' childer workin less,     An mak yor wages moor.     Poor lassie wan, &c.     "There is a land of pure delight,     Where saints immortal reign,     Infinite day excludes the night,     And pleasures banish pain."     Noa fact'ry bell shall greet thi ear,     I' that sweet home ov love;     An' those at scorn thi sufferins here     May envy thee above.     Poor lassie wan, &c.