Love An' Labor.

A poem by John Hartley

Th' swallows are buildin ther nests, Jenny,
Th' springtime has come with its flowers;
Th' fields in ther greenest are drest, Jenny,
An th' songsters mak music ith' bowers.
Daisies an buttercups smile, Jenny,
Laughingly th' brook flows along; -
An awm havin a smook set oth' stile, Jenny,
But this bacca's uncommonly strong.

Aw wonder if thy heart like mine, Jenny,
Finds its love-burden hard to be borne;
Do thi een wi' breet tears ov joy shine, Jenny,
As they glistened an shone yestermorn?
Ther's noa treasure wi' thee can compare, Jenny,
Aw'd net change thi for wealth or estate; -
But aw'll goa nah some braikfast to share, Jenny,
For aw can't live baght summat to ait.

Like a nightingale if aw could sing, Jenny,
Aw'd pearch near thy winder at neet,
An mi choicest love ditties aw'd bring, Jenny,
An lull thi to rest soft an sweet.
Or if th' wand ov a fairy wor mine, Jenny,
Aw'd grant thi whate'er tha could wish; -
But theas porridge are salty as brine, Jenny,
An they'll mak me as dry as a fish.

A garland ov lillies aw'd twine, Jenny,
An place on thy curls golden bright,
But aw know 'at they quickly wod pine, Jenny,
I' despair at thy brow's purer white.
Them angels 'at fell bi ther pride, Jenny,
Wi' charms like thine nivver wor deckt; -
But yond muck 'at's ith' mistal's to side, Jenny,
Aw mun start on or else aw'st get seckt.

Varry sooin aw shall mak thi mi wife, Jenny,
An awr cot shall a paradise be;
Tha shall nivver know trubble or strife, Jenny,
If aw'm able to keep 'em throo thee.
If ther's happiness this side oth' grave, Jenny,
Tha shall sewerly come in for thi share; -
An aw'll tell thi what else tha shall have, Jenny,
When aw've a two-or-three moor minnits to spare.