Nivver Heed.

A poem by John Hartley

Let others boast ther bit o' brass,
That's moor nor aw can do;
Aw'm nobbut one o'th' workin class,
'At's strugglin to pool throo;
An if it's little 'at aw get,
It's little 'at aw need;
An if sometimes aw'm pinched a bit,
Aw try to nivver heed.

Some fowk they tawk o' brokken hearts,
An mourn ther sorry fate,
Becoss they can't keep sarvent men,
An dine off silver plate;
Aw think they'd show more gradely wit
To listen to my creed,
An things they find they connot get,
Why, try to nivver heed.

Ther's some 'at lang for parks an halls,
An letters to ther name;
But happiness despises walls,
It's nooan a child o' fame.
A robe may lap a woeful chap,
Whose heart wi' grief may bleed,
Wol rags may rest on joyful breast,
Soa hang it! nivver heed!

Th' sun shines as breet for me as them,
An' th' meadows smell as sweet,
Th' larks sing as sweetly o'er mi heead,
An th' flaars smile at mi feet.
An when a hard day's wark is done,
Aw ait mi humble feed;
Mi appetite's a relish fun,
Soa hang it, nivver heed.