Th' Next Mornin'.

A poem by John Hartley

Aw'll nivver get druffen noa mooar,
It's th' last time is this, an that's trew,--
For mi booans is all shakkin an sooar,
Throo th' craan o' mi hat, to mi shoe.

An mi skin, it's all cover'd wi' marks,
Some's blue, an some's black, an some's red;
Yo connot think ha mi heead warks,
An it feels just as heavy as lead.

Aw connot tell ha' aw gate fresh,
For aw didn't sup ovver mich drink,--
It's mi stummack 'at's weakly, aw guess,
It couldn't be nowt else aw' think,
For aw'd nobbut a gallon o' beer,
A couple o' whiskeys,--a rum,--
Happen two--for awm net varry clear
Hah monny--aw knaw aw hed some.

That's all, tho' aw'd happen a drop
Lat on, 'at aw knaw nowt abaat;
For th' lanlord he tell'd mi to stop,
When th' brass i' mi pocket runn'd aght,
Aw remember beein chuckt into th' street
At cloisin time, nothin noa mooar,--
An mi mates set mi up o' mi feet,
An propt me agean a hasse door.

All th' rest o' last neet is a blank,
Aw wonder who put mi to bed?
Awm sewer aw dooant knaw who to thank,
An aw connot reet think, for mi head--
Besides aw feel terrible sick,--
This drinkin, it isn't all bliss;
Aw expect aw'st be seedy a wick,
It's towt mi a lesson 'as this.