Its True.

A poem by John Hartley

Ther's things i'plenty aw despise; -
False pride an wild ambition;
Tho' ivvery man should strive to rise,
An better his condition.
Aw hate a meean an grovlin soul,
I' breast ov peer or ploughman,
But what aw hate the mooast ov all,
Is th' chap 'at strikes a woman.

For let ther faults be what they may,
He proves 'at he's a low man,
Who lifts his hand bi neet or day,
An strikes a helpless woman.

Ther taunts may oft be hard to bide, -
Ther tempers may be fiery,
But passions even dwell inside
The convent an the priory.
An all should think where'er we dwell,
Greek, Saxon, Gaul or Roman;
We're net sich perfect things ussel,
As to despise a woman.

For let ther faults, &c.

It's true old Eve first made a slip,
An fill'd this world wi' bother;
But Adam had to bite his lip, -
He couldn't get another.
An tho' at th' present day they swarm,
That chap proves his own foeman,
Who doesn't tak his strong reight arm,
An twine it raand a woman.

For let ther faults, &c.

A chap may booast he's number one,
An lord it o'er creation;
May spaat an praich, but when he's done,
He'll find his proper station.
He may be fast when at his best,
But age maks him a slow man,
An as he sinks, he's fain to rest,
On some kind-hearted woman.

For let ther faults, &c.

Aw wodn't gie a pinch o' salt,
For that cold-hearted duffer,
Who glories o'er a woman's fault,
An helps to mak her suffer.
Ther's net a cock e'er flapt a wing,
'At had th' same reight to crow, man;
As th' chap who wi' a weddin ring,
Has made a happy woman.

Then let ther faults be what they will,
Ther net for me to show, man;
But if yo seek for comfort, still,
Yo'll find it in a woman.