Awr Lad.

A poem by John Hartley

Beautiful babby! Beautiful lad!
Pride o' thi mother and joy o' thi dad!
Full ov sly tricks an sweet winnin ways; -
Two cherry lips whear a smile ivver plays;
Two little een ov heavenly blue, -
Wonderinly starin at ivverything new,
Two little cheeks like leaves of a rooas, -
An planted between em a wee little nooas.
A chin wi' a dimple 'at tempts one to kiss; -
Nivver wor bonnier babby nor this.
Two little hands 'at are seldom at rest, -
Except when asleep in thy snug little nest.
Two little feet 'at are kickin all day,
Up an daan, in an aght, like two kittens at play.
Welcome as dewdrops 'at freshen the flaars,
Soa has thy commin cheered this life ov awrs.
What tha may come to noa mortal can tell; -
We hooap an we pray 'at all may be well.
We've other young taistrels, one, two an three,
But net one ith' bunch is moor welcome nor thee.
Sometimes we are tempted to grummel an freeat,
Becoss we goa short ov what other fowk get.
Poverty sometimes we have as a guest,
But tha needn't fear, tha shall share ov the best.
What are fowks' riches to mother an me?
All they have wodn't buy sich a babby as thee.
Aw wor warned i' mi young days 'at weddin browt woe,
'At labor an worry wod keep a chap low, -
'At love aght o' th' winder wod varry sooin flee,
When poverty coom in at th' door, - but aw see
Old fowk an old sayins sometimes miss ther mark,
For love shines aght breetest when all raand is dark.
Ther's monny a nobleman, wed an hawf wild,
'At wod give hawf his fortun to have sich a child.
Then why should we envy his wealth an his lands,
Tho' sarvents attend to obey his commands?
For we have the treasures noa riches can buy,
An aw think we can keep 'em, - at leeast we can try;
An if it should pleeas Him who orders all things,
To call yo away to rest under His wings, -
Tho' to part wod be hard, yet this comfort is giv'n,
We shall know 'at awr treasures are safe up i' Heaven,
Whear no moth an noa rust can corrupt or destroy,
Nor thieves can braik in, nor troubles annoy.
Blessins on thi! wee thing, - an whativver thi lot,
Tha'rt promised a mansion, tho' born in a cot,
What fate is befoor thi noa mortal can see,
But Christ coom to call just sich childer as thee.
An this thowt oft cheers me, tho' fortun may fraan,
Tha may yet be a jewel to shine in His craan.

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