Aw wodn't care to live at all,
Unless aw could be jolly!
Let sanctimonious skinflints call
All recreation folly.
Aw still believe this world wor made
For fowk to have some fun in;
An net for everlastin trade,
An avarice an cunnin.
Aw dooant believe a chap should be
At th' grinnel stooan for ivver;
Ther's sewerly sometime for a spree,
An better lat nor nivver.
It's weel enuff for fowk to praich
An praise up self denial;
But them 'at's forradest to praich,
Dooant put it oft to trial.
They'd rayther show a thaasand fowk
A way, an point 'em to it;
Nor act as guides an stop ther tawk,
An try thersens to do it.
Aw think this world wor made for me,
Net me for th' world's enjoyment;
An to mak th' best ov all aw see
Will find me full employment.
"My race," they say, "is nearly run,
It mightn't last a minnit;"
But if ther's pleasure to be fun,
Yo bet yor booits awm in it.
Aw wodn't care to live at all,
Weighed daan wi' melancholy;
My doctrine is, goa in for all,
'At helps to mak life jolly.