Help Thisen.

A poem by John Hartley

"Come, help thisen, lad, - help thisen!"
Wor what mi uncle sed.
We'd just come in throo makkin hay,
To get some cheese an breead.
An help misen aw did, - yo bet!
Aw wor a growin lad;
Aw thowt then, an aw fancy yet,
'Twor th' grandest feed aw'd had.

When aw grew up aw fell i' love, -
Shoo wor a bonny lass!
But bein varry young an shy,
Aw let mi chonces pass.
Aw could'nt for mi life contrive
A thing to do or say,
For fear aw should offend her, soa
Aw let her walk away.

But what aw suffered nooan can tell; -
Aw loved her as mi life!
But dursn't ax her for the world
To be mi darlin wife.
Aw desperate grew, - we met, - aw ax'd
For just one kuss, - an then,
Shoo blushed, an shook her bonny curls,
But let me help misen.

It's varry monny years sin then, -
Mi hair's nah growin gray;
But oft throo life aw've thowt aw've heeard
That same owd farmer say, -
When in some fix aw've vainly sowt
For aid from other men, -
"Tha'rt wastin time, - if tha wants help
Pluck up, an help thisen."

If th' prize yo long for seems too heigh,
Dooant let yor spirits drop;
Ther may be lots o' thrustin, but
Yo'll find ther's room at th' top.
Yo connot tell what yo can do
Until yo've had a try;
It may be a hard struggle, but
Yo'll get thear, by-an-bye.

Nah, young fowk, bear this in yor mind
An let it be yor creed,
For sooin yo'll find fowk's promises
Are but a rotten reed.
Feight yor own battles bravely throo,
Yo'll sewerly win, an then
Yo'll find ther's lots will help yo,
When yo con help yorsen.