A Lad About Whoam (Thomas Brierley 1828 - 1909)

He may be a good Blacksmith, an' hondle his tools
Wi' a skill an' expertness, not common to fools;
He may understond meltin', an‘ blowin', an' heat,
Know just to perfection heaw iron to beat.
His talents may shine, I' but doin' one thing,
Or his genius may vary, like birds that con sing,
But just show his neighbours his wark, an' bi gum
They'n find toothrie fawts — he's a lad abeawt whoam.

He may be a poor weaver; wi' very quick honds,
An' have to donce hard upon treadles an' lams,
To get a poor livin' - for ah, it's a truth,
That folk for that trade should be born without mouth.
This trade he may master, its pickers an' pins,
Its shuttles, an' spindles, an' bobbins an' things,
Its beams an' its boxes so neat by the way, Its jacks an' its shafts that keep doncin' o day.
Know cloth that is heavy an' flabbly as Lin, From that which is cockled an' crapy' an' thin;
Till th'whole is as plain an' as easy bi th'mass, As eying your person an' face in a glass,
But just tell a neighbour — he'll happen say, come, Why he is rather sharp for a lad abeaut whoam.

He may spring fro' a father that seems weel to do, That's plenty o' money to send him to th'skoo;
An' let him just peep at this learnin' so breet, As clear as the moon on a fine winter's neet.
Well, well, he may tak, to this learnin' wi' thowt, Get spellin' an' reading' as easy as owt;
He may do th'rule o' three without hurtin' his brains, Geology finger, bi atoms an' grains.
He may scribble as easy as fires make reech, Dash on through his grammar, an' figures o' speech;
But just say he's clever, an' th'neighbours bi gum Will cry — why he's nobbut a lad abeaut whoam.

But lads abeawt whoam never mind an odd sting, If yo're blessed wi' a gift, fiddle on to that string;
If yo're born for a poet then rouse up yo'r fire, An' charm all the world with your musical lyre.
If made for a blacksmith, why hammer away, Or if for a sailor, then study the sea;
If formed for a tradesman, be cautious an' wise, Or if for astronomy, gaze into th'skies.
If shaped for a lawyer an' knowledge I' writs, Then go to a grindstone an' sharpen yo'r wits;
For Milton, an' Shakespeare, an' Byron, an' Burns, An' Cromwell, an' Nelson, an' Napier by turns,
An' every one else that has carried a scar, Or dazzled the world by his genius I' war,
An' those who have fingered a beautiful lyre, An' kindled men's thoughts into musical fire;
Yes, all this fine lot reckoned up in a sum, Wur nobbut at startin' - some lads abeawt whoam.