If.

A poem by John Hartley

Dear Jenny, if fortun should favour mi lot,
Mi own bonny wife tha shall be;
For trubbles an worries we'll care net a jot,
For we'll rout 'em wi' frolic an glee.

We'll have a snug cot wi' a garden at th' back,
An aw'll fix peearks i'th' cellar for hens;
Then a fresh egg for braikfast tha nivver need lack,
When thi fancy to sich a thing tends.

Some cheers an a table, an two-o'-three pans,
Some pots an a kettle for tea;
A bed an a creddle an smart kist o' drawers,
An a rockin-cheer, lass, - that's for thee.

Some books, an some picters to hing up o'th' wall,
To mak th' place luk nobby an neat;
An a rug up o'th' harstun to keep thi tooas warm,
An some slippers to put on thi feet.

An when Sundy comes, - off to th' chapel or church,
An when we get back we'll prepare,
Some sooart ov a meal, - tho its hooamly an rough,
If its whooalsum we nivver need care.

If we're blest wi' a bairn, we mun ne'er be put aght,
If it shows us its tempers an tiffs;
Soa Jenny, have patience, for th' change i' thi state,
Depends varry mich on theas "Ifs."