Lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed.

A poem by John Hartley

Nay surelee tha's made a mistak;
Tha'rt aght o' thi element here;
Tha may weel goa an peark up o'th' thack,
Thi bonny wings shakin wi' fear.

Aw should think 'at theease rattlin looms
Saand queer sooart o' music to thee;
An tha'll hardly quite relish th' perfumes
O' miln-greease, - what th' quality be.

Maybe tha'rt disgusted wi' us,
An thinks we're a low offald set,
But tha'rt sadly mistaen if tha does,
For ther's hooap an ther's pride in us yet.

Tha wor nobbut a worm once thisen,
An as humble as humble could be;
An tho we nah are like tha wor then,
We may yet be as nobby as thee.

Tha'd to see thi own livin when young,
An when tha grew up tha'd to spin;
An if labor like that wornt wrong,
Tha con hardly call wayvin 'a sin.'

But tha longs to be off aw con tell:
For tha shows 'at tha ar'nt content;
Soa aw'll oppen thee th' window - farewell
Off tha goas, bonny fly! - An it went.

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