Ther's things i'plenty aw despise;—
False pride an wild ambition;
Tho' ivvery man should strive to rise,
An better his condition.
Aw hate a meean an grovlin soul,
I' breast ov peer or ploughman,
But what aw hate the mooast ov all,
Is th' chap 'at strikes a woman.
For let ther faults be what they may,
He proves 'at he's a low man,
Who lifts his hand bi neet or day,
An strikes a helpless woman.
Ther taunts may oft be hard to bide,—
Ther tempers may be fiery,
But passions even dwell inside
The convent an the priory.
An all should think where'er we dwell,
Greek, Saxon, Gaul or Roman;
We're net sich perfect things ussel,
As to despise a woman.
For let ther faults, &c.
It's true old Eve first made a slip,
An fill'd this world wi' bother;
But Adam had to bite his lip,—
He couldn't get another.
An tho' at th' present day they swarm,
That chap proves his own foeman,
Who doesn't tak his strong reight arm,
An twine it raand a woman.
For let ther faults, &c.
A chap may booast he's number one,
An lord it o'er creation;
May spaat an praich, but when he's done,
He'll find his proper station.
He may be fast when at his best,
But age maks him a slow man,
An as he sinks, he's fain to rest,
On some kind-hearted woman.
For let ther faults, &c.
Aw wodn't gie a pinch o' salt,
For that cold-hearted duffer,
Who glories o'er a woman's fault,
An helps to mak her suffer.
Ther's net a cock e'er flapt a wing,
'At had th' same reight to crow, man;
As th' chap who wi' a weddin ring,
Has made a happy woman.
Then let ther faults be what they will,
Ther net for me to show, man;
But if yo seek for comfort, still,
Yo'll find it in a woman.