"
"Nay, nay, that tale weant do, owd lad,
For Bobby Burns tells me tha had
A scythe hung o'er thi' shoulder, Gad!
Tha worn't dress'd
I' fine black clooath; tha wore' a plad
Across thi breast!"
"Well, Jack," he said, "thar't capt no daat
To find me' wanderin abaght;
But th' fact is, lad, 'at aw'm withaat
A job to do;
Mi scythe aw've had to put up th' spaat,
Mi arrows too."
"Yo dunnot mean to tell to me,
'At fowk noa moor will ha' to dee?"
"Noa, hark a minit an' tha'll see
When th' truth aw tell!
Fowk do withaat mi darts an me,
Thev kill thersel.
They do it too at sich a rate
Wol mi owd system's aght o' date;
What we call folly, they call fate;
An' all ther pleasur
Is ha' to bring ther life's estate
To th' shortest measur.
They waste ther time, an' waste ther gains,
O' stuff 'at's brew'd throo poisoned grains,
Thro' morn to neet they keep ther brains,
For ever swimmin,
An' if a bit o' sense remains,
It's fun i'th wimmen.
Tha'll find noa doctors wi ther craft,
Nor yet mysen wi scythe or shaft,
E'er made as monny deead or daft,
As Gin an' Rum,
An' if aw've warn'd fowk, then they've lafft
At me, bi gum!
But if they thus goa on to swill,
They'll not want Wilfrid Lawson's bill,
For give a druffen chap his fill,
An sooin off pops he,
An teetotal fowk moor surely still,
Will dee wi th' dropsy.
Pages:
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40