That Lass.

A poem by John Hartley

Awm nobbut a poor workin man,
An mi wage leeavs me little to spare;
But aw strive to do th' best 'at aw can,
An tho' poor, yet aw nivver despair.
'At aw live bi hard wark is mi booast,
Tho' mi clooas may be shabby an meean;
But th' one thing awm langin for mooast,
Is that grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.

They may call me a fooil or a ass,
To tawk abaat wantin a wife;
But there's nowt like a true hearted lass,
To sweeten a workinman's life.
An love is a feelin as pure
In a peasant as 'tis in a queen,
An happy aw could be awm sewer,
Wi' that grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.

Aw dreeam ov her ivvery neet,
An aw think o' nowt else durin th' day;
An aw lissen for th' saand ov her feet,
But its melted i'th' distance away.
At mi lot aw cant help but repine,
When aw think ov her bonny black een,
For awm feeard shoo can nivver be mine;
That grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.

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