A Rustic Song

OH, I be vun of the useful troibe

O’ rustic volk, I be;

And writin’ gennelmen dü descroibe

The doin’s o’ such as we;

I don’t knaw mooch o’ corliflower plants,

I can’t tell ’oes from trowels,

But ’ear me mix ma consonants,

An’ moodle oop all ma vowels!

I talks in a wunnerful dialect

That vew can hunderstand,

’Tis Yorkshire-Zummerzet, I expect,

With a dash o’ the Oirish brand;

Sometimes a bloomin’ flower of speech

I picks from Cockney spots,

And when releegious truths I teach,

Obsairve ma richt gude Scots!

In most of the bukes, ’twas once the case

I ’adn’t got much to do,

I blessed the ’eroine’s purty face,

An’ I seëd the ’ero through;

But now, I’m juist a pairsonage!

A power o’ bukes there be

Which from the start to the very last page

Entoirely deal with me!

The wit or the point o’ what I spakes

Ye’ve got to find if ye can;

A wunnerful difference spellin’ makes

In the ’ands of a competent man!

I mayn’t knaw mooch o’ corliflower plants,

I mayn’t knaw ’oes from trowels,

But I does ma wark, if ma consonants

Be properly mixed with ma vowels!