Mi Old Umberel

A poem by John Hartley

What matters if some fowk deride,
An point wi' a finger o' scorn?
Th' time wor tha wor lukt on wi' pride,
Befooar mooast o'th' scoffers wor born.
But aw'll ne'er turn mi back on a friend,
Tho' old-fashioned an grey like thisen;
But aw'll try to cling to thi to th' end,
Tho' thart nobbut an old umberel.

Whear wod th' young ens 'at laff be to-day,
But for th' old ens they turn into fun?
Who wor wearm thersen bent an grey,
When their days had hardly begun.
Ther own youth will quickly glide past;
If they live they'll ail grow old thersel;
An they'll long for a true friend at last,
Tho' its nobbut an old umberel.

Tha's grown budgey, an faded, an worn,
Yet thi inside is honest an strong;
But thi coverin's tattered an torn,
An awm feeard 'at tha cannot last long.
But when th' few years 'at's left us have run,
An to th' world we have whispered farewells;
May they say at my duty wor done,
As weel as mi old umberel's

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