A Lankisher Mon Poem by William Baron

Yo'll see him donn'd up in his fustian,
Wi' a smile on his breet, honest face ;
For it's seldom yo'll find him deawn-hearted
As he's pushin' along throo life's race.
He might be a bit coarse i' manners,
But pass o'er it as weel as yo con;
For yo'll find 'at he's true and streytforrad
Tho' he's nobbut a Lankisher mon.

Every mornin, booath winter an' summer,
He's eawt o' bed soon after five ;
An' long afore th' last bell gives warnin*
He peyls off to th' labourin' hive.
An' he warks o' throo th' day like a good 'un,
An' at neet, when his labour is done,
He meks off tort whoam, fagged an' weary,
But preawd he's a Lankisher mon.

Becose he looks simple an' careless,
Dunnot reckon him up as a too' ;
Nor dunnot try fancy tricks on him,
For yo'll find yorsels ' done ' if yo do.
Yo'll not see him lackin' i' courage,
If he finds 'at he's bein' put on ;
For he'll stick up for th' reight when it's wanted,
If he's nobbut a Lankisher mon.

Then here's to eawr time-honoured ceawnty,
An' its emblem o' th' bonny red rose ;
An' here's to its fustian-clad toiler,
'At luvs it wheerever he goes.
No matter heaw humble his station,
This fact ston's, deny it 'at con :
He'll allus be liked an' respected
Becose he's a Lankisher mon.