Poor Old Hat.

A poem by John Hartley

Poor old hat! poor old hat! like misen tha's grown
An fowk call us old fashioned an odd;
But monny's the storm we have met sin that day,
When aw bowt thee all shiny an snod.
As aw walked along th' street wi thee peearkt o' mi broo,
Fowk's manners wor cappin to see;
An aw thowt it wor me they bade 'ha do yo do,'
But aw know nah they nodded at thee.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! aw mun cast thee aside,
For awr friendship has lasted too long;
Tho' tha still art mi comfort, an once wor mi pride,
Tha'rt despised i' this world's giddy throng.
Dooant think me ungrateful, or call me unkind,
If another aw put i thi place;
For aw think tha'll admit if tha'll oppen thi mind,
Tha can bring me nowt moor but disgrace.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! varry sooin it may be,
Aw'st be scorned an cast off like thisen;
An be shoved aght o'th gate wi less kindness nor thee
An have nubdy to care for me then.
But one thing aw'll contrive as tha's sarved me soa weel,
An tha gave thi best days to mi use;
Noa war degradation aw'll cause thee to feel,
For aw'll screen thi throo scorn an abuse.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! if thart thrown aght o' door,
Tha may happen be punced abaat th' street,
For like moor things i'th world, if thart shabby an poor,
It wor best tha should keep aght o'th seet.
Wine mellows wi age, an old pots fotch big brass,
An fowk rave ov antique this an that,
An they worship grey stooans, an old booans, but alas!
Ther's nubdy respects an old hat.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! awm reight fast what to do,
To burn thi aw havnt the heart,
If aw stow thi away tha'll be moth etten throo,
An thart seedy enuff as tha art.
Tha's long been a comfort when worn o' mi heead,
Soa dooant freeat, for to pairt we're net gooin,
For aw'll mak on thi soils for mi poor feet asteead,
An aw'll wear thi once moor i' mi shooin.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! ne'er repine at thi lot,
If thart useful what moor can ta be?
Better wear cleean away nor be idle an rot,
An remember thart useful to me.
Though its hard to give up what wor once dearly prized,
Tha but does what all earthly things must,
For though we live honored, or perish despised, -
We're at last but a handful o' dust.

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