That Lad Next Door.

A poem by John Hartley

Aw've nowt agean mi naybors,
An aw wod'nt have it sed
'At aw wor cross an twazzy,
For aw'm kind an mild asteead.
But ther's an end to patience,
E'en Job knew that aw'm sewer; -
An he nivver had noa dealins
Wi' that lad 'at lives next door.

It wod'nt do to tell 'em
What aw think abaat that lad,
One thing aw'm sarten sewer on,
Is, he's ivverything 'at's bad.
He's nivver aght o' mischief,
An he nivver stops his din, -
He's noa sooiner aght o' one scrape,
Nor he's another in.

If he wor mine aw'd thresh him,
Wol th' skin coom off his back;
Aw'd cure him teein door-snecks,
Then givin th' door a whack.
Aw'd leearn him to draw th' shape o' me
Wi' chalk on th' nessy door,
An mak mud pies o' awr front steps
An leeav 'em thear bi th' scooar.

He's been a trifle quieter
For this last day or two;
He's up to some new devilment, -
Aw dooant know what he'll do.
But here's his father comin,
He's lukkin awful sad, -
Noa wonder, - aw'st be sad enuff
If aw had sich a lad.

Aw nivver thowt 'at aw could feel
Sich sorrow, or should grieve,
But little Dick is varry sick,
They dunnot think he'll live.
Aw'd nivver nowt agean him!
Aw liked that lad aw'm sure!
Pray God, be merciful, an spare
That lad 'at lives next door.