Bless 'em!
By John Hartley
O, the lasses, the lasses, God bless 'em!
His heart must be hard as a stooan
'At could willingly goa an distress 'em,
For withaat 'em man's lot 'ud be looan.
Tho' th' pooasies i' paradise growin
For Adam, wor scented soa sweet,
He ne'er thank'd 'em for odour bestowin,
He trampled 'em under his feet.
He long'd to some sweet one to whisper;
An wol sleepin Eve came to his home;
He wakken'd, an saw her, an kuss'd her,
An ne'er ax'd her a word ha shoo'd come.
An tho' shoo, like her sex, discontented,
An anxious fowk's saycrets to know,
Pluck'd an apple, - noa daat shoo repented
When shoo saw at it made sich a row.
Tho' aw know shoo did wrang, aw forgie her;
For aw'm fairly convinced an declare,
'At aw'd rayther ha sin an be wi' her,
Nor all th' world an noa woman to share.
Then let us be kind to all th' wimmin,
Throo th' poorest to th' Queen up oth' throne,
For if, Eve-like, they sometimes goa sinnin,
It's moor for th' chaps' sakes nor ther own.