Work Lads!

A poem by John Hartley

Work if tha can, it's thi duty to labor;
If able, show willin, - ther's plenty to do,
Ther's battles to feight withaat musket or sabre,
But if tha'll have pluck tha'll be safe to pool throo.

Ther's noa use sittin still wishin an sighin,
An waitin for Fortun to gie yo a lift;
For ther's others i'th' struggle an time keeps on flyin,
An him who wod conquer mun show he's some shift.

Ther's nobbut one friend 'at a chap can depend on,
If he's made up his mind to succeed in the strife;
A chap's but hissen 'at he can mak a friend on,
Unless he be blest wi' a sensible wife.

But nivver let wealth, wi' its glamour an glitter,
Be th' chief end o' life or yo'll find when too lat,
'At th' fruits ov yor labor will all have turned bitter,
An th' pleasures yo hoped for are all stale an flat.

Do gooid to yorsen, win wealth, fame, or power,
But i'th' midst ov it all keep this object i' view;
'At the mooar yo possess, let yor self-love sink lower,
An pure pleasur will spring from the gooid yo can do.

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