A Friend to Me.

A poem by John Hartley

Poor Dick nah sleeps quietly, his labor is done,
Deeath shut off his steam tother day;
His engine, long active, has made its last run,
An his boiler nah falls to decay.
Maybe he'd his faults, but he'd vartues as well,
An tho' dearly he loved a gooid spree;
If he did onny harm it wor done to hissel: -
He wor allus a gooid friend to me.

His heart it wor tender, - his purse it wor free,
To a friend or a stranger i' need;
An noa matter ha humble or poor they might be,
At his booard they wor welcome to feed.
Wi' his pipe an his glass bi his foirside he'd sit,
Yet some fowk wi' him couldn't agree,
An tho' monny's the time 'at we've differed a bit,
He wor allus a gooid friend to me.

His word wor his bond, for he hated a lie,
An sickophants doubly despised;
He wor ne'er know to cringe to a rich fly-bi-sky,
It wor worth an net wealth 'at he prized.
Aw shall ne'er meet another soa honest an true,
As aw write ther's a tear i' mi ee;
Nah he's gooan to his rest, an aw'll give him his due, -
He wor allus a gooid friend to me.

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