Читать книгу Revised Edition of Poems - Bill o'th' Hoylus End - Страница 22

I’ sooth shoo wor a reeal God-send,

Ta t’ human race the greatest friend,

An’ liv’d, no daht, at t’other end

      O’ history.

Her name is nah, yah may depend,

      A mystery.

But sprang shoo up fra royal blood,

Or some poor slave beyond the Flood,

Mi blessing on the sooap an’ sud

      Shoo did invent;

Her name sall renk ameng the good,

      If aw get sent.

If nobbut in a rainy dub,

Shoo did at furst begin ta skrub,

Or hed a proper weshin’ tub —

      It’s all the same;

Aw’d give a crahn, if aw’d to sub,

      To get her name.

I’ this wide world aw’m set afloat,

Th’ poor regg’d possessor of one coat;

Yet linen clean, aw on tha dote,

      An’ thus assert,

Tha’rt worthy o’ great Shakespeare’s note —

      A clean lin’ shirt.

Low is mi lot, an’ hard mi ways,

While paddlin’ thro’ life’s stormy days;

Yet aw will sing t’owd lass’s praise,

      Wi’ famous glee;

Tho’ rude an’ rough sud be mi lays,

      Shoo’s t’lass for me.

Bards hev sung the fairest fair,

Their rosy cheeks an’ auburn hair;

The dying lover’s deep despair,

      Their harps hev rung;

But useful wimmin’s songs are rare,

      An’ seldom sung.