Aw like to see a lot o' lads
All frolicsome an free,
An hear ther noisy voices,
As they run an shaat wi' glee;
But if ther's onny sooart o' lad
Aw like better nor another,
'At maks mi heart mooast truly glad,
It's th' lad 'at loves his Mother.
He may be rayther dull at schooil,
Or rayther slow at play;
He may be rough an quarrelsome,—
Mischievous in his way;
He may be allus in a scrape,
An cause noa end o' bother;
But ther's summat gooid an honest
In the lad 'at loves his Mother.
He may oft do what isn't reight,
But conscience will keep prickin;
He dreeads far mooar his mother's grief,
Nor what he'd fear a lickin.
Her trubbled face,—her tearful een,
Her sighs shoo tries to smother,
Are coals ov foir on the heead
Ov th' lad 'at loves his Mother.
When years have passed, an as a man
He faces toil an care;
An whear his mother used to sit
Is but a empty chair;—
When bi his side sits her he loves,
Mooar dear nor onny other,
He still will cherish, love an bless,
The mem'ry ov his Mother.
A guardian angel throo life's rooad,
Her spirit still will be;
An in the shadow ov her wings,
He'll find security.
A better husband he will prove,
A father or a brother;
For th' lad 'at maks the noblest man,
Is th' lad 'at loves his Mother.