Classic Poem

Our morals are as black as ink,
Our pubs are full of beer;
Our lasses far too freely wink;
Book larnin's scarce, I fear,
For we can 'ardly read or write,
You will be vexed to hear.

It sounds a moast alarmin' taale,
An' 'ez a nasty ring,
But I can't think a glass of aale
Is sich a monstrous thing;
An' as for lads an' lasses—well,
They're bound to 'ev their fling.

That schoolin's rate enough in towns
For them what loves a bench;
But 'ere we want our boys to work—
To hedge, or ridge, or trench,
To larn to sow, an' reap, an' mow,
Not 'ow to talk in French.

An' after all be said an' done,
Our country-side breeds true,
Noa narrow-chested, pigeon-breasted,
White-faced factory crew;
An' tho' our braains mayn't be soa grand,
We do know 'ow to till the land.

'Ere's blacker crimes than them of ours,
An' worser foak I laay;
For what goes on in city slums,
'Id from the light of daay,
Would maak our honest farmers blush,
An' turn their 'eds awaay.

They're glad enough in towns to git
Our lads to show the rooad,
An' tho' we're maybe lackin' wit,
We've health an' strength, thank God.
Tho' towns maay be the best by far,
Yet let us keep on as we are.