Awr Dooad.

A poem by John Hartley

Her ladyship's getten a babby, -
An they're makkin a famous to do, -
They say, - Providence treated her shabby -
Shoo wor fairly entitled to two.
But judgin bi th' fuss an rejoicin,
It's happen as weel as it is;
For they could'nt mak moor ov a hoilful,
Nor what they are makkin o' this.

He's heir to ther titles an riches,
Far moor nor he ivver can spend;
Wi' hard times an cold poverty's twitches,
He'll nivver be called to contend.
Life's rooad will be booarded wi' flaars,
An pleasur will wait on his train,
He can suck at life's sweets, an its saars
Will nivver need cause him a pain.

Aw cannot help thinkin ha diff'rent
It wor when awr Dooady wor born;
Aw'd to tramp fifteen mile throo a snow storm,
One bitterly, cold early morn.
Aw'd to goa ax old Mally-o'th'-Hippins,
If shoo'd act as booath doctor an nurse; -
An God bless her! shoo sed, "Aye, an welcome,"
Tho' aw had'nt a meg i' mi purse.

'Twor hard scrattin to get what wor needed,
But we managed someha, to pool throo';
An what we wor short we ne'er heeded,
For that child fun us plenty to do.
But we'd health, an we loved one another,
Soa things breetened up after a while;
An nah, that young lad an his mother,
Cheer mi on wi' ther prattle an smile.

Them at th' Hall, may mak feeastin an bluster,
An ther table may grooan wi' its looad;
But ther's one thing aw know they can't muster, -
That's a lad hawf as grand as awr Dooad.
For his face is like lillies an rooases,
An his limbs sich as seldom are seen;
An just like his father's his nooas is,
An he's getten his mother's blue een.

Soa th' lord an his lady are welcome,
To mak all they like o' ther brat;
They may hap him i' silk an i' velvet, -
He's net a bit better for that.
I' life's race they'll meet all sooarts o' weather,
But if they start fair on th' same rooad,
They may run pratty nearly together,
But aw'll bet two to one on awr Dooad.

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