Some poets sing o' gipsy queens,
An' some o' ladies fine;
Aw'll sing a song o' other scenes,
A humbler muse is mine:
Jewels, an' gold, an' silken frills,
Are things too heigh for me,
But woll mi harp wi' vigour thrills,
Aw'll strike a chord for thee.
Poor lassie wan,
Do th' best tha can,
Although thi fate be hard;
A time ther'll be
When sich as thee
Shall have yor full reward.

At hauf-past five tha leaves thi bed,
An' off tha goes to wark;
An' gropes thi way to mill or shed,
Six months o'th' year i'th' dark.
Tha gets but little for thi pains,
But that's noa fault o' thine;
Thi maister reckons up his gains,
An' ligs i' bed till nine.
Poor lassie wan, &c.

He's little childer ov his own
'At's quite as old as thee;
They ride i' cushioned carriages
'At's beautiful to see;
They'd fear to spoil ther little hand,
To touch thy greasy brat:
It's wark like thine 'as maks 'em grand
They niver think o' that.
Poor lassie wan, &c.

I' summer time they romp an' play
Where flowers grow wild and sweet;
Ther bodies strong, ther spirits gay,
They thrive throo morn to neet.
But tha's a cough, aw hear tha has;
An' oft aw've known thee sick;
But tha mun work, poor little lass,
For hauf-a-craan a wick.
Poor lassie wan, &c.

Aw envy net fowks' better lot--
Aw should'nt like to swap.
Aw'm quite contented wi'mi cot;
Aw'm but a warkin chap.
But if aw had a lot o' brass
Aw'd think o' them 'at's poor;
Aw'd have yo' childer workin' less,
An' mak yor wages moor.
Poor lassie wan, &c.

'There is a land of pure delight,
Where saints immortal reign,
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain.'
Noa fact'ry bell shall greet thi ear,
I' that sweet home ov love;
An' those 'at scorn thi sufferins here
May envy thee above.
Poor lassie wan, &c.