Prime October.
By John Hartley
Ther's some fowk like watter,
An others like beer;
It doesn't mich matter,
If ther heead is kept clear.
But to guzzle an swill,
As if aitin an drinkin
Wor all a chap lives for,
Is wrang to my thinkin.
Ivvery gooid thing i' life
Should be takken i' reason;
Even takkin a wife
Should be done i'th' reight season.
Tho' i' that case to give
Advice is noa use,
Aw should ne'er win fowk's thanks
But might get some abuse.
But if ther's a fault
'At we owt to luk ovver,
It's when a chap's tempted
Wi' "prime old October."
An to cheer up his spirits
As nowt else on earth could,
He keeps testin its merits,
An gets mooar nor he should.
Ov coorse he'll be blamed
If he gets ovver th' mark;
An noa daat he'll feel shamed
When he's throo wi' his lark.
An he'll promise "it nivver
Shall happen agean,"
Tho' he's feelin all th' time
Just as dry as a bean.
But who can resist,
When it sparkles an shines;
An his nooas gets a whif
At's mooar fragrant nor wines?
Aw'd forgie a teetotaller
At sich times, if he fell; -
For aw know ha it is,
'Coss aw've been thear mysel.