A Breet Prospect.

A poem by John Hartley

As aw passed Wit'orth chapel 'twor just five o'clock,
Aw'd mi can full o' teah, an a bundle o' jock;
An aw thowt th' bit o' bacca aw puffed on mi way
Wor sweeter nor ivver aw'd known it that day.
An th' burds sang soa sweetly,
An th' sun shone soa breetly,
An th' trees lukt soa green; - it wor th' furst day i' May.

Aw wor lazy that mornin, an could'nt help thinkin,
As aw'd getten booath braikfast, an dinner, an drinkin,
An bacca, an matches, - 'at just a odd day
For a stroll, could'nt braik monny squares onnyway,
But it tuk me noa little,
To screw up mi mettle,
For if th' wife gate to know aw'd a guess what shoo'd say.

Soa aw thowt aw'll let wark goa to pot for a bit,
Its net once i'th' year 'at aw get sich a treeat;
But aw'll have a day aght just bi th' way ov a change,
For aw've moped i' yond miln wol aw raylee feel strange:
For mi heead's full o'th' whirlin,
O'th' twistin an twirlin; -
Mun aw'm feeard aw'st goa crackt if aw've nivver a change.

Then aw thowt o' mi wife an mi childer at hooam,
An says aw, aw shall loise a day's wage if aw rooam;
Green fields an wild flaars wor ne'er meant for me,
Aw mun tew ivvery day wol mi time comes to dee;
An then fowk 'll mutter,
As aw'm tossed into th' gutter,
"It's nobbut a wayver; - oh, fiddle-de-dee!"

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