Aght o' Wark.

A poem by John Hartley

Aw've been laikin for ommost eight wick,
An aw can't get a day's wark to do!
Aw've trailed abaat th' streets, wol aw'm sick
An aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost throo.

Aw've a wife an three childer at hooam,
An aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock,
For they think it's high time aw should come,
An bring 'em a morsel 'o jock.

A'a dear! it's a pitiful case
When th' cubbord is empty an bare;
When want's stamped o' ivvery face,
An yo hav'nt a meal yo can share.

Today as aw walked into th' street,
Th' squire's carriage went rattlin past;
An aw thowt 'at it hardly luk'd reet,
For aw had'nt brokken mi fast.

Them horses, aw knew varry weel,
Wi' ther trappins all shinin i' gold,
Had nivver known th' want of a meal,
Or a shelter to keep 'em throo th' cold.

Even th' dogs have enuff an to spare,
Tho' they ne'er worked a day i' ther life;
But ther maisters forget they should care
For a chap 'at's three bairns an a wife.

They give dinners at th' hall ivvery neet,
An ther's carriages standin bi'th' scooar,
An all th' windows are blazin wi' leet,
But they seldom give dinners to th' poor.

I' mi pocket aw hav'nt a rap,
Nor a crust, nor a handful o' mail;
An unless we can get it o'th' strap,
We mun pine, or mun beg, or else stail.

But hooam'ards aw'll point mi owd clogs
To them three little lambs an ther dam; -
Aw wish they wor horses or dogs,
For its nobbut poor fowk 'at's to clam.

But they say ther is One 'at can see,
An has promised to guide us safe throo;
Soa aw'll live on i'hopes, an' surelee,
He'll find a chap summat to do.

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