Hawf-Past Five At Neet. Poem by William Baron

For fooak 'at's slaves to t' factory bell, life's nooan so breet nor gay;
For every morn they start at six, an' wark like foo's o t' day.
Bud when id geds tort stoppin' time, ther sinkin' hearts grow leet;
An' sich a change comes o'er 'em o at hawf-past five at neet.

Id meks 'em feel so glad, to know ther labour's o'er once mooar;
An' lots a' faces breeten up, 'at looked quite sad befoor.
They swarm like bees throo' t' factory gate, to th' oppen air i' t' street;
An' leeave o t' cares o' toil behind, at hawf-past five at neet.

There's t' chap as fuddled t' neet afooar, an' geet aboon his share;
He's ready, soon as th' engine stops, to dart off like a hare.
Another pint or two, he ses, ull mek him feel o reet;
An' in he pops at t' nearest 'pub,' at hawf-past five at neet.

Yo'll see young lasses decked i' smiles, o rushin' fro' ther wark;
To ged donned up to meet ther chaps, an' ramble reawnd bi t' park.
It's t' thowts o' t' walk, an' t' pleasant talk, 'at mek ther faces breet;
An' fills ther hearts wi' sweet content, at hawf-past five at neet.

For t' chap 'at's fagged an' wearied eawt, wi' t' toil he's done throo t' day;
Id brings a spell o' welcome rest, to drive o t' gloom away.
An' when he reyches th' hooam fireside, wheer o's so snug an' breet,
He feels 'at's life's wo'th livin' for, at hawf-past five at neet.

It's th' only time as warkin' fooak con tek life as they choose,
An' sit an' smook, or read some book, or talk o'er th' latest news.
Or ramble eawt, at t' clooase o' day, when t' summer air smells sweet;
For slavery's theirs—an' nowt no moor, till hawf-past five at neet.

To t' sons o' toil, wode'er they be, id flings id joys areawnd;
Id cheers up mony a weary heart, an' meks ther sperrits beawnd.
Id brings 'em t' tidin's 'at they're free, an' meks ther burdens leet;
Hey! t' richest gem o' factory life is hawf-past five at neet.