Oh ! who is the man who is warst off in life,
To be without wit or to hev a cross wife ?
Baath of ’em are caases that’s hard to surpass,
But he’s in t’ warst pickle that’s dealt without brass.
Oh ! the chap without brass ! as a thousand fooak knahs,
Is as helpless in t’ world as a cat without claws ;
Though he’s nayther deficient in talent or pluck,
He mun stand on yan side or be trodden in t’ muck.
Though his sperrit be heigh an’ his temper be quick,
He’ll hev to knock under as sure as he’s wick ;
For to other men’s wills he mun knucle an’ bend,
An’ howivver it grubs him his caase he can’t mend.
Though his ways an’ his dealin’s be honest an’ straight,
If he wants to git on he’ll hev uphill to feight ;
He mun learn to keep tongue an’ sperrit in fetters
When he’s dealing wi’ them that the world caus his betters.
Oh ! the chap without brass ! who gives him a thowt ?
His naam is unknahn an’ his word gangs for nowt ;
For if he feels injured an’ seeks for redress,
The maar noise he macks he gits caar’d for the less.
Poor chap without brass ! words cannot express
The ills that attend him, the griefs that distress ;
Wi’ his nooas on the grundstaan through life he mun trudge,
As mute as a mile-post to lackey and drudge.
If a chap but hes brass how it alters the caase,
Let him gang whar he will he can hod up his face ;
Though bad his character an’ empty his skull,
He can be a girt man if his pockets be full.
Though for talent an’ learnin’ he’s nowt varra grand,
Yet he walks up and down wi’ the lords of the land ;
Though he gambles an’ drinks an’ does owt that is vile,
Yet beauty an’ fashion ’ll give him a smile.
Oh ! the chap that hes brass ! let him gang whar he may,
He’ll find lots round about him to cringe an’ obey ;
Wi’ the heart of a villain an’ heead of an ass,
He’ll be honour’d and worshipp’d for t’ sake of his brass.
But a chap that hes brass – if ’tis nobbut his mind –
Many blessin’s can give to the poor of his kind ;
But if he’s a miser an’ macks it his god,
An object less worthy the world doesn’t hod.
Oh ! the chap that hes brass ! – if ’tis nobbut his will –
The nak’d an’ the hunger’d can cover an’ fill ;
But if after pleasure he’ll do nowt but run,
It ’ll bring him to grief like the prodigal son.
Ye tight-fisted mortals wi’ plenty o’ tin,
The maar yer possessions the deeper yer sin ;
If ye gang to the bible ye’ll find ’at ye’re told
That ye can’t buy heaven wi’ bags full o’ gold.
An’ ye, ye rich spendthrifts, whose joy day by day
Is eatin’ an’ drinkin’ an fast gangin’ play ;
If wi’ riotous living yer substance ye spend,
It’s ten hundred to one but ye’ll mack a bad end.
Oh ! gold ! shinin’ gold ! what joy or what woe,
Through its use or abuse to poor mortals can fau ;
It is mighty for good, if used wisely and well,
But when it’s abused ’tis an agent of hell.
Oh ! gold ! mighty gold ! this effort of mine
Expresses but faintly the power that is thine ;
In deep adoration, from sea unto sea,
The world’s population pays homage to thee.