 | Poems and Lancashire Songs |  |
221
GOD BLESS THI SILVER YURE!
I
Jone, lad, though thi hond'sLike reawsty iron to feel,
There's very few i'th lond
Aw like to gripe as weel.
Tha'll never dee i'th dumps
Becose o' bein' poor,
Thae good owd king o' trumps,—
God bless thi silver yure!
II
Poo up to th' side o'th hob,An' rest thi weary shanks,
222
Wi' fortin an' her pranks;
These folk at's preawd an' rich
May tremble at her freawn;—
They'n further far nor sich
As thee to tumble deawn.
III
Thaew never longs for wine,Nor dainties rich an' rare,
For sich a life as thine
Can sweeten simple fare;
Contented wi' thi meal,
Thae's wit enough to know
That daisies liven weel
Where tulips connot grow.
IV
An' though thi clooas are rough,An' gettin' very owd,
223
To keep thi limbs fro' cowd;
A foo would pine away
I' sich a suit as thine,
But, thaer't the stuff to may
A fustian jacket fine.
V
A tattered clout may lapA very noble prize;
A king may be, by hap,
A beggar i' disguise.
When tone has laft his feast,
An' tother done his crust,
Then, which is which, at last,—
These little piles o' dust?
224
VI
An' though thy share o' life,May seem a losin' game,
Thae's striven fair i'th strife,
An' kept a dacent aim;
No meawse-nooks i' thi mind,
Nor malice i' thi breast,
Thae 's still bin true an' kind,
An' trusted fate wi' th' rest.
VII
Through trouble, toil, an' wrung,Thae's whistle't at thi wark,
Thae's wrostle't life so lung,
Thi limbs are gettin stark;
But, sich a heart as thine's
A never failin' friend;
It cheers a mon's decline,
An' keeps it sweet to th' end.
225
VIII
Thy banner'll soon be furled,An' then they'n ha' to tell,
“He travelled th' dirty world,
An' never soil't his-sel'!”
An' when aw come to dee,
An' death has taen his tow,
Aw hope to leet o' thee,—
God bless thy snowy pow!
| Poems and Lancashire Songs | |