Aw think aw could tell what day it wor th o' aw didn't know if aw could
see a lot o' factry fowk gooin to ther wark. Mondy's easy to tell,
becoss th' lasses have all clean approns on, an' ther hair hasn't lost
its Sundy twists, an' twines ther faces luk ruddier an' ther een
breeter. Tuesdy, ther's a change; they're not quite as prim lukkin! ther
topping luk fruzzier, an' ther's net as monny shignons as ther wor th'
day before. Wednesday,--they just luk like hard-workin fowk 'at live to
wark an' wark to live. Ther's varry few faces have a smile on 'em, an'
th' varry way they set daan ther clogs seems to say, "Wark-a-day,
Live-a-day, Laik-a-day, Get-noa-pay; Rain-or-noa, Bun-to-goa."
Thursdy.--They luk cross, an' ther heeads are abaat hauf-a-yard i'
advance o' ther tooas. Ther clogs seem to ha made up ther mind net to
goa unless they're made. Friday.--That's pay day. Noa matter ha full
ther belly may be, ther's a hungry luk abaat ther een; an'ther's a lot
on 'em huggin baskets; an' yo can see it written i' ther faces 'at if
they dar leeave as sooin as they've getten ther bit o' brass they wod.
Then comes Setterday --Short day--an' yo can tell th' difference as
sooin as yo clap een on' em. They're all i' gooid spirits. They luk at
th' church clock as they pass, an' think it'll sooin be nooin, an'
then!--An' then what? Why, then they'll have a day an' a hauf for
thersen--abaat one fifth o' ther life--one fifth o' ther health an'
strength for thersen. That doesn't luk mich, but ther fain on it. They
owt to be thankful becoss they live in a free country. They can suit
thersen's whether they do that, or go to th' workhaase. Justice, they
say, is blind, an' if Freedom isn't, shoo must be put to th' blush
sometimes.

   Who'd be a slave, when Freedom smiling stands,
   To strike the gyves from of his fettered hands?
   Who'd be a slave, and cringe, and bow the knee,
   And kiss the hand that steals his liberty?
   Behold the bird that flits from bough to bough;
   What though at times the wintry blasts may blow,--
   Happier it feels, half frozen in its nest,
   Than caged, though fed and fondled and caressed.
   'Tis said, 'on Briton's shore no slave shall dwell,'
   But have you heard not the harsh clanging bell,
   Or the discordant whistles' yelling voice,
   That says, 'Work slave, or starve! That is your choice!'
   And have you never seen the aged and grey,
   Panting along its summons to obey;
   Whilst little children run scarce half awake,
   Sobbing as tho' ther little hearts would break
   And stalwart men, with features stern and grave,
   That seem to say, "I scorn to be a slave."
   He is no slave;--he is a Briton free,
   A noble sample of humanity.
   This may be liberty,--the ass, the horse,
   Wear out their lives in routine none the worse.
   They only toil all day,--then eat and sleep,
   They have no wife or children dear to keep.
   Better, far better, is the tattered lout,
   Who, tho' all so-called luxuries without,
   Can stand upon the hill-side in the morn,
   And watch the shadows flee as day is born.
   Tho' with a frugal meal his fast he breaks,
   And from the spring his crystal draught he takes,
   Better, far better, seems that man to mel
   For he owns Heaven's best gift,--his liberty.

Aw dooant believe i' idleness--aw hate a chap 'at's too lazy to do his
share--but what aw dooant like is 'at he should have to wark just
exactly when, an' whear, an' for just soa mich (or, aw owt to say, just
soa little) as another chap thinks fit. They'll say, if he doesn't like
it he can leave it. Happen net--may be he can't get owt else, an' he's a
haase an' family to luk after. Then they'll say, 'if he can't better
hissen he mun _put up wi' it._' That's what he is dooin, an' it's
_puttin up wi' it_ 'at's makkin him soa raand shouldered. It's
_puttin up wi' it_ 'at's made them hollow cheeks an' dull heavy een.