Mi hair is besprinkled wi' gray,
An mi face has grown wrinkled an wan;—
They say ivvery dog has his day,
An noa daat its th' same way wi a man.
Aw know at mi day is nah passed,
An life's twileet is all at remains;
An neet's drawin near varry fast,—
An will end all mi troubles an pains.
Aw can see misen, nah, as a lad,
Full ov mischief an frolic an fun;—
An aw see what fine chonces aw had,
An regret lots o' things at aw've done.
Thowtless deeds—unkind words—selfish gains,—
Time wasted, an more things beside,
But th' saddest thowt ivver remains,—
What aw could ha done, if aw'd but tried.
Aw've had a fair share ov life's joys,
An aw've nivver known th' want ov a meal;
Aw've ne'er laiked wi' luxuries' toys,
Nor suffered what starvin fowk feel.
But aw'm moor discontented to-day,
When mi memory carries me back,
To know what aw've gethered is clay,
Wol diamonds wor strewed on mi track.
Aw can't begin ovver agean,
(Maybe its as weel as it is,)
Soa aw'm waitin for th' life 'at's to be,
For ther's nowt to be praad on i' this.
When deeath comes, as sewerly it will,
An aw'm foorced to respond to his call;
Fowk'll say, if they think on me still,—
"Well, he lived,—an that's abaat all."