An Ancient gaffer once I knew,
Who puffed a pipe and tossed a tankard;
He claimed a hundred years or two,
And for a dozen more he hankered;
So o-er a pint I asked how he
Had kept his timbers tight together;
He grinned and answered: -It maun be
Because I likes all kinds o- weather.

-Fore every morn when I get up
I lights my clay pipe wi- a cinder,
And as me mug o- tea I sup
I looks from out the cottage winder;
And if it-s shade or if it-s shine
Or wind or snow befit to freeze me,
I always say: -Well, now that-s fine...
It-s just the sorto- day to please me.-

-For I have found it wise in life
To take the luck the way it-s coming;
A wake, a worry or a wife -
Just carry on and keep a-humming.
And so I lights me pipe o- clay,
And through the morn on blizzard borders,
I chuckle in me guts and say:
-It-s just the day the doctor orders.-�

A mighty good philosophy
Thought I, and leads to longer living,
To make the best of things that be,
And take the weather of God-s giving;
So though the sky be ashen grey,
And winds be edged and sleet be slanting,
Heap faggots on the fire and say:
-It-s just the kind of day I-m wanting.�