Some fowk ivverlastinly grummel,
At th' world an at th' fowk ther is in it;
If across owt 'at's pleasant they stummel,
They try to pick faults in a minnit.
We all have a strinklin o' care,
An they're lucky 'at ne'er meet a trubble,
But aw think its unkind, an unfair,
To mak ivvery misfortun seem double.
Some grummel if th' sun doesn't shine,—
If it does they find cause for complainin;
Discontented when th' weather wor fine,
They start findin fault if its rainin.
Aw hate sich dissatisfied men,
An fowk 'at's detarmined to do soa,
Aw'd mak 'em goa live bi thersen,
Aght o'th' world,—like a Robinson Crusoe.
To mak th' pleasures surraandin us less,
Ivvery reight-minded man must think sinful;
When ther's soa mich to cheer us an bless,
Ov happiness let's have a skinful.
Aw truly mooast envy that man,
Who's gladly devotin his leisure,
To mak th' world as breet as he can,
An add to its stock ov pure pleasure.
It's true ther's hard wark to be done,
An mooast on us drop in to share it;
But if sprinkled wi' innocent fun,
Why, we're far better able to bear it.
May we live long surraanded wi' friends,
To enjoy what is healthful an pure;
An at last when this pilgrimage ends,
We shall nivver regret it aw'm sure.