To Let.

A poem by John Hartley

Aw live in a snug little cot,
An' tho' poor, yet aw keep aght o' debt,
Cloise by, in a big garden plot,
Stands a mansion, 'at long wor "to let."

Twelve month sin or somewhear abaat,
A fine lukkin chap donned i' black,
Coom an luk'd at it inside an aght
An decided this mansion to tak.

Ther wor whiteweshers coom in a drove
An masons, an joiners, an sweeps,
An a blacksmith to fit up a cove,
An bricks, stooans an mortar i' heaps.

Ther wor painters, an glazzeners too,
To mend up each bit ov a braik,
An a lot 'at had nowt else to do,
But to help some o'th t'others to laik.

Ther wor fires i' ivvery range,
They nivver let th' harston get cooiled,
Throo th' cellar to th' thack they'd a change,
An ivverything all in a mooild.

Th' same chap 'at is th' owner o'th' Hall,
Is th' owner o'th' cot whear aw dwell,
But if aw ax for th' leeast thing at all;
He tells me to do it mysel.

This hall lets for fifty a year,
Wol five paand is all 'at aw pay;
When th' day come mi rent's allus thear,
An that's a gooid thing in its way.

At th' last all th' repairers had done,
An th' hall wor as cleean as a pin,
Aw wor pleased when th' last lot wor gooan,
For aw'd getten reight sick o' ther din.

Then th' furnitur started to come,
Waggon looads on it, all spankin new,
Rich crimson an gold covered some,
Wol some shone i' scarlet an blue.

Ov sofas aw think hauf a scoor,
An picturs enuff for a show?
They fill'd ivvery corner aw'm sure,
Throo th' garret to th' kitchen below.

One day when a cab drove to th' gate,
Th' new tenant stept aght, an his wife,
(An tawk abaat fashion an state!
Yo ne'er saw sich a spreead i' yor life.)

Ther war sarvents to curtsey 'em in,
An aw could'nt help sayin, "bi th' mass;"
As th' door shut when they'd booath getten in,
"A'a, it's grand to ha plenty o' brass."

Ther wor butchers, an bakers, an snobs,
An grocers, an milkmen, an snips,
All seekin for orders an jobs,
An sweetenin th' sarvents wi' tips.

Aw sed to th' milk-chap 'tother day,
"Ha long does ta trust sich fowk, Ike?
Each wick aw'm expected to pay,"
"Fine fowk," he says, "pay when they like."

Things went on like this, day bi day,
For somewhear cloise on for a year;
Wol aw ne'er thowt o' lukkin that way,
Altho' aw wor livin soa near.

But one neet when aw'd finished mi wark,
An wor tooastin mi shins anent th' fire,
A chap rushes in aght 'o'th' dark
Throo heead to fooit plaistered wi' mire.

Says he, "does ta know whear they've gooan?"
Says aw, "Lad, pray, who does ta meean?"
"Them at th' hall," he replied, wi a grooan,
"They've bolted an diddled us cleean."

Aw tell'd him aw'd ne'er heeard a word,
He cursed as he put on his hat,
An he sed, "well, they've flown like a burd,
An paid nubdy owt, an that's what."

He left, an aw crept off to bed,
Next day aw'd a visit throo Ike,
But aw shut up his maath when aw sed,
"Fine fowk tha knows pay when they like."

Ther's papers i'th' winders, "to let,"
An aw know varry weel ha 't 'll be;
They'll do th' same for th' next tenant awl bet,
Tho they ne'er do a hawpoth for me.

But aw let 'em do just as they pleease,
Aw'm content tho' mi station is low,
An awm thankful sich hard times as thease
If aw manage to pay what aw owe.

This precept, friends, nivver forget,
For a wiser one has not been sed,
Be detarmined to rise aght o' debt
Tho' yo go withaat supper to bed.