A'a, Willie, lad, aw'm fain to hear
Tha's won a wife at last;
Tha'll have a happier time next year,
Nor what tha's had i'th' past.
If owt can lend this life a charm,
Or mak existence sweet,
It is a lovin woman's arm
Curled raand yor neck at neet.

An if shoo's net an angel,
Dooant grummel an find fault,
For eearth-born angels, lad, tha'll find
Are seldom worth ther salt.
They're far too apt to flee away,
To spreead ther bonny wings;
They'd nivver think o'th' weshin day
Nor th' duties wifehood brings.

A wife should be a woman,
An if tha's lucky been;
Tha'il find a honest Yorksher lass,
Is equal to a Queen.
For if her heart is true to thee,
An thine to her proves true, -
Tha's won th' best prize 'at's under th' skies,
An tha need nivver rue.

Tha'll have to bite thi lip sometimes,
When mooar inclined to sware;
But recollect, no precious things
Bring joy unmixed wi' care.
An when her snarlin turns to smiles,
An bitterness to bliss,
Tha'll yield fresh homage to her wiles,
An mak up wi' a kiss.

Tha'll happen think 'at shoo's a fooil,
An thy superior wit
Will allus win, an keepin cooil
Tha'll triumph in a bit.
Shoo's happen thinkin th' same o' thee
An holds thi in Love's tether,
Well, nivver heed, - they best agree
When two fooils mate together.