Somdy's Chonce.

A poem by John Hartley

What's a poor lass like me to do,
'At langs for a hooam ov her own?
Aw'm a hale an bonny wench too,
An nubdy can say aw'm heigh-flown.
Aw want nawther riches nor style,
Just a gradely plain felly will do;
But aw'm waitin a varry long while
An ov sweethearts aw've getten but two.

But th' trubble's just this, - let me tell,
What aw want an will have if aw can,
To share wedded life wi' misel,
Is a man 'at's worth callin a man.
But Harry's as stiff as a stoop,
An Jack, onny lass wod annoy, -
Harry's nobbut a soft nin-com-poop,
An Jack's just a hobble-de-hoy.

If caarin at th' hob ov a neet,
Wi' a softheeaded twaddlin fooil;
Aw should order him aght o' mi seet,
Or be cooamin his yure wi' a stooil.
His wage, - what it wor, - couldn't bring
Joy enuff to mak up for life's pains,
If aw fan misen teed to a thing,
At could work, ait an live, withaat brains.

"But ther's love," yo may say, - Hi that's it!
But aw nivver could love a machine;
An aw'll net wed a chap 'at's baat wit,
Net if he could mak me a queen.
Aw'd like one booath hansum an strong,
An honest, truehearted an kind,
But aw'm sewer aw could ne'er get along,
Wi' a felly 'at had'nt a mind.

Soa Harry will ha to be seckt,
For a nin-com-poop's nowt i' mi line;
As for Jack, - he could nivver expect
To win sich a true heart as mine.
Ther's lasses enuff to be had,
'At'll jump at sich chonces wi' joy,
They'll tak owt at's i'th' shape ov a lad,
Quite content wi' a hobble-de-hoy.

Aw dooant want to spend all mi life,
Like a saar, neglected old maid;
Aw'd rayther bi th' hawf be a wife,
Nor to blossom an wither i'th' shade.
Soa if onny young chap wants a mate,
Tho' he may net be hansum nor rich,
If he's getten some sense in his pate,
Aw'm his chonce. - An he need'nt have mich.

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