Plain Jane.

A poem by John Hartley

Plain Jane - plain Jane;
This wor owd Butterworth's favourite strain:
For wealth couldn't buy,
Such pleasur an joy.
As he had wi his owd plain Jane.
Ther wor women who oft,
Maybe, thinkin him soft,
Who endeavoured to 'tice him away,
But tho ther breet een,
An ther red cheeks had been
Quite enuffto lead others astray, -
All ther efforts wor lost,
For he knew to his cost,
'At th' pleasur they promised browt pain,
Soa he left em behind,
Wol he went hooam to find,
Purer pleasures i'th' arms o' plain Jane.

Plain Jane, - plain Jane, -
Owd Butterworth sed he'd noa cause to complain:
Shoo wor hearty an strong,
An could troll aght a song,
An trubbles shoo held i' disdain,
He'd not sell her squint
For all th' brass i'th' mint,
Nor pairt wi her blossomin nooas;
He's no rival to fear,
Soa he keeps i' gooid cheer,
An cares nowt ha th' world comes or it gooas.
Cats are all gray at neet,
Soa when puttin aght th' leet,
As he duckt under th' warm caanterpain,
He sed, "Beauty breeds strife
Oft between man an wife,
But it ne'er trubbles me nor awr Jane."

Plain Jane, - plain Jane, -
To cuddle and coddle him allus wor fain;
Shoo wod cook, stew or bake,
Wesh and scaar for his sake,
An could doctor his ivvery pain.
Tho his wage wor but small
Shoo ne'er grummeld at all,
An if th' butter should chonce to run short;
Her cake shoo'd ait dry,
If axt why? shoo'd reply,
Becoss aw know weel ther's nowt for't.
But th' harstun wor cleean,
Tho th' livin wor meean,
An her karacter hadn't a stain;
An owd Butterworth knows,
As his bacca he blows,
Ther's war wimmen ith' world nor owd Jane.

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