Latter Wit.

A poem by John Hartley

Awm sittin o' that old stooan seeat,
Wheear last aw set wi' thee;
It seems long years sin' last we met,
Awm sure it must be three.

Awm wond'rin what aw sed or did,
Or what aw left undone:
'At made thi hook it, an' get wed,
To one tha used to shun.

Aw dooant say awm a handsom chap,
Becoss aw know awm net;
But if aw wor 'ith' mind to change,
He isn't th' chap, aw'll bet.

Awm net a scoller, but aw know
A long chawk moor ner him;
It couldn't be his knowledge box
'At made thi change thi whim.

He doesn't haddle as mich brass
As aw do ivery wick:
An' if he gets a gradely shop,
It's seldom he can stick.

An' then agean, - he goes on th' rant;
Nah, that aw niver do; -
Aw allus mark misen content,
Wi' an odd pint or two.

His brother is a lazy lout, -
His sister's nooan too gooid, -
Ther's net a daycent 'en ith' bunch, -
Vice seems to run ith' blooid.

An yet th'art happy, - soa they say,
That caps me moor ner owt!
Tha taks a deal less suitin, lass,
Nor iver awst ha' thowt.

Aw saw yo walkin aat one neet,
Befoor yo'd getten wed;
Aw guess'd what he wor tawkin, tho
Aw dooant know what he sed.

But he'd his arm araand thi waist,
An tho' thi face wor hid,
Aw'll swear aw saw him kuss thi: -
That's what aw niver did.

Aw thowt tha'd order him away,
An' mak a fearful row,
But tha niver tuk noa nooatice,
Just as if tha didn't know.

Awm hawf inclined to think sometimes,
Aw've been a trifle soft,
Aw happen should a' dun't misen?
Aw've lang'd to do it oft.

Thar't lost to me, but if a chonce
Should turn up by-an-by,
If aw get seck'd aw'll bet me booits,
That isn't t'reason why.

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