God bless these poor folk that are strivin’
By means that are honest an’ true,
For something to keep ’em alive in
This world ’at we’re scramblin’ through;
As th’ life ov a mon’s full o’ feightin’,
A poor soul that wants to feight fair,
Should never be grudged ov his heytin’,
For th’ hardest o’th battle’s his share.
Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.
This world’s kin to trouble; i’th best on’t,
There’s mony sad changes come reawnd;
We wandern abeawt to find rest on’t,
An’ th’ worm yammers for us i’th’ greawnd;
May he that’ll wortch while he’s able,
Be never long hungry nor dry;
An’ th’ childer ’at sit at his table,—
God bless’ em wi’ plenty, say I.
Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.
An’ he that can feel it a pleasur’
To leeten misfortin an’ pain,—
May his pantry be olez full measur’,
To cut at, and come to again;
May God bless his cup and his cupbort,
A theawsan for one that he gives;
An’ his heart be a bumper o’ comfort,
To th’ very last minute he lives!
Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.
An’ he that scorns ale to his victual,
Is welcome to let it alone;
There’s some can be wise with a little,
An’ some that are foolish wi’ noan;
An’ some are so quare i’ their natur’
That nought wi’ their stomachs agree;
But, he that would liefer drink wayter,
Shall never be stinted by me.
Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.
One likes to see hearty folk wortchin’,
An’ weary folk havin’ a rest;
One likes to yer poor women singin’
To th’ little things laid o’ their breast;
Good cooks are my favourite doctors;
Good livers my parsons shall be;
An’ ony poor craytur ’at’s clemmin,
May come have a meawthful wi’ me.
Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.
Owd Time,—he’s a troublesome codger,—
Keeps nudgin’ us on to decay,
An’ whispers, “Yo’re nobbut a lodger:
Get ready for goin’ away;”
Then let’s ha’ no skulkin’ nor sniv’lin’,
Whatever misfortins befo’,
God bless him that fends for his livin’,
An’ houds up his yed through it o’!
Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.