Act Square.

"Another day will follow this," Ah,—that shall sewerly be, But th' day 'at dawns to-morn, my lad, May nivver dawn for thee, This day is thine, soa use it weel, For fear when it has passed, Some duty has been left undone On th' day at proved thy last.

What's passed an gooan's beyond recall, An th' futer's all unknown; Dooant specilate on what's to be, Neglect in what's thi own. When morn in comes thank God tha'rt spared To see another day; An when tha goas to bed at neet, Life's burdens on Him lay.

Although thy station may be low, Thy life's conditions hard, Mak th' best o' what falls to thi lot, An tha shall win reward. Man's days ov toil on earth are few Compared to that long rest 'At stretches throo Eternity, For them 'at's done ther best.

Though monny rough hills tha's to climb, An bogs an becks to wade; Though thorns an brambles chooak thi path, Yet, push on undismayed. Detarmination, back'd wi' Faith, An Hope to cheer thi on, Shall gie thi strugglin efforts strength, Until thi journey's done.

Let thi religion be thi life,— Let ivvery word an deed Be prompted bi a love for all, Whativver be ther creed. Let wranglin praichers twist an twine, Ther doctrines new an old; Act square,—an ther is One will see Tha'rt net left aght i'th' cold.

His Dowter Gate Wed.

He'd had his share ov ups an daans, His sprees an troubles too; Ov country joys an life i' taans, He'd run th' whoal gamut throo. He labored hard to mak ends meet, An keep things all ship-shap: An th' naybor's sed, 'at lived i'th' street, "He's a varry daycent chap."

He paid his rent an gave his wife Enuff for clooas an grub, To pleas her he'd insured his life, An joined a burial club. His childer,—grander nivver ran To climb a father's knee; Noa better wife had onny man,— Noa praader chap could be.

He tuk noa stock i' fleetin time, He nivver caanted th' years; For he wor hale, just in his prime, An nowt to cause him fears. He nivver dreamt ov growin old, Sich thowts ne'er made him freat, He sed,—"Why aw'm as gooid as gold, Aw'm but a youngster yet!"

His childer thrave like willow wands, An made fine maids an men, But th' thowt ne'er entered in his nut, 'At he grew old hissen. His e'en wor oppened one fine day, His dreams o' youth all fled; An th' reason on it wor, they say,— His dowter,—shoo gate wed.

"E'a, gow!" he sed, "but this licks me! Shoo's but a child hersen,— Ov all things!—why,—it connot be Her thowts should turn to men!" "Whisht!" sed his wife, "we wed as young, An shoo's moor sense bi far,— An then tha knows shoo's th' grandest lass 'At lives at Batley Carr."

He gave a grooan, for on his lass He'd set a deal o' stooar. He lit his pipe an filled his glass, Then fixed his e'en o'th' flooar. "By gum!" he sed, "but this is rough, Aw ne'er knew owt as bad, If shoo's a wife, its plain enuff Aw connot be a lad."

"Aw must be old,—aw say,—old lass,— Does't think aw'm growin grey? Gooid gracious! but ha time does pass! But tha doesn't age a day. Tha'rt just as buxum nah as then, Aw'st think tha must feel shamed, Tha luks as young as her thisen,— Or could do, if tha framed."

"Aw'st ha to alter all mi ways,— Noa moor aw'st ha to rooam;— Just sattle daan an end mi days Cronkt up bith' hob at hooam. An 'fore owts long, as like as net, Wol crooidled up i'th' nook, Ther'll be some youngster browt, aw'll bet, To watch his grondad smook."

"Do stop! aw wonder ha tha dar, Behave thi soa unkind! Does't think 'at th' lads i' Batley Carr Are all booath dumb an blind? Shoo's wed a steady, honest chap, An shoo's booath gooid an fair, Ther's net another fit to swap,— They mak a gradely pair."

"'Man worn't made to live alooan,' Tha tell'd me that thisen:— Tha needn't shak thi heead an grooan;— Tha's happen changed sin then. But if ther ivver wor a crank, It's been my luck to see, It wor my childer's father When he furst coom coortin me."

"But rest content, its all for th' best;— An then tha must ha known,— Shoo thowt it time at shoo possest A nice hooam ov her own." "Well—may they prosper! That's my prayer,— They'st nivver want a friend Wol aw'm alive,—but aw'st beware, An watch theas younger end."

All We Had.

It worn't for her winnin ways, Nor for her bonny face But shoo wor th' only lass we had, An that quite alters th' case.

We'd two fine lads as yo need see, An' weel we love 'em still; But shoo war th' only lass we had, An' we could spare her ill.

We call'd her bi mi mother's name, It saanded sweet to me; We little thowt ha varry sooin Awr pet wod have to dee.

Aw used to watch her ivery day, Just like a oppenin bud; An' if aw couldn't see her change, Aw fancied' at aw could.

Throo morn to neet her little tongue Wor allus on a stir; Awve heeard a deeal o' childer lisp, But nooan at lispt like her.

Sho used to play all sooarts o' tricks, 'At childer shouldn't play; But then, they wor soa nicely done, We let her have her way.

But bit bi bit her spirits fell, Her face grew pale an' thin; For all her little fav'rite toys Shoo didn't care a pin.

Aw saw th' old wimmin shak ther heeads, Wi monny a doleful nod; Aw knew they thowt shoo'd goa, but still Aw couldn't think shoo wod.

Day after day my wife an' me, Bent o'er that suff'rin child, Shoo luk'd at mammy, an' at me, Then shut her een an' smiled.

At last her spirit pass'd away; Her once breet een wor dim; Shoo'd heeard her Maker whisper 'come,' An' hurried off to Him.

Fowk tell'd us t'wor a sin to grieve, For God's will must be best; But when yo've lost a child yo've loved, It puts yor Faith to th' test.

We pick'd a little bit o' graand, Whear grass and daisies grew, An' trees wi spreeadin boughs aboon Ther solemn shadows threw.

We saw her laid to rest, within That deep grave newly made; Wol th' sexton let a tear drop fall, On th' handle ov his spade.

It troubled us to walk away, An' leeav her bi hersen; Th' full weight o' what we'd had to bide, We'd niver felt till then.

But th' hardest task wor yet to come, That pang can ne'er be towld; 'Twor when aw feszend th' door at nee't, An' locked her aat i'th' cowld.

'Twor then hot tears roll'd daan mi cheek, 'Twor then aw felt mooast sad; For shoo'd been sich a tender plant, An' th' only lass we had.

But nah we're growin moor resign'd, Although her face we miss; For He's blest us wi another, An we've hopes o' rearin this,

Th' First o'th Sooart.

Aw heeard a funny tale last neet— Aw could'nt howd fro' laffin— 'Twor at th' Bull's Heead we chonced to meet, An' spent an haar i' chaffin. Some sang a song, some cracked a joak, An' all seem'd full o' larkin; An' th' raam war blue wi' bacca smook, An' ivery e'e'd a spark in.

Long Joa 'at comes thro th' Jumples cluff, Wor gettin rayther mazy; An' Warkus Ned had supped enuff To turn they're Betty crazy;— An Bob at lives at th' Bogeggs farm, Wi' Nan throo th' Buttress Bottom, Wor treating her to summat wanm, (It's just his way,—"odd drot em!")

An' Jack o'th' Slade wor theear as weel, An' Joa o' Abe's throo Waerley; An' Lijah off o'th' Lavver Hill, Wor passing th' ale raand rarely.— Throo raand and square they seem'd to meet, To hear or tell a stoory; But th' gem o' all aw heard last neet Wor one bi Dooad o'th' gloory.

He bet his booits 'at it wor true, An' all seem'd to believe him; Tho' if he'd lost he need'nt rue— But 't wodn't ha done to grieve him His uncle lived i' Pudsey taan, An' practised local praichin; An' if he 're lucky, he wor baan To start a schooil for taichin.

But he wor takken varry ill; He felt his time wor comin: (They say he brought it on hissel Wi' studdyin his summin.) He call'd his wife an' neighbors in To hear his deein sarmon, An' tell'd 'em if they liv'd i' sin Ther lot ud be a warm en.

Then turin raand unto his wife, Said—"Mal, tha knows, owd craytur, If awd been bless'd wi' longer life, Aw might ha' left things straighter. Joa Sooitill owes me eighteen pence— Aw lent it him last lovefeast." Says Mal—"He has'nt lost his sense— Thank God for that at least!"

"An Ben o'th' top o'th' bank tha knows, We owe him one paand ten.".— "Just hark!" says Mally, "there he goas! He's ramellin agean! Dooant tak a bit o' noatice, fowk! Yo see, poor thing, he's ravin! It cuts me up to hear sich talk— He spent his life i' savin!

"An Mally lass," he said agean, "Tak heed o' my direction: Th' schooil owes us hauf a craan—aw mean My share o'th' last collection.— Tha'll see to that, an have what's fair When my poor life is past."— Says Mally, "listen, aw declare, He's sensible to th' last."

He shut his een an' sank to rest— Deeath seldom claimed a better: They put him by,—but what wor th' best, He sent 'em back a letter, To tell 'em all ha he'd gooan on; An' ha he gate to enter; An' gave 'em rules to act upon If ever they should ventur.

Theear Peter stood wi' keys i' hand: Says he, "What do you want, sir? If to goa in—yo understand Unknown to me yo can't sir.— Pray what's your name? where are yo throo? Just make your business clear." Says he, "They call me Parson Drew, Aw've come throo Pudsey here."

"You've come throo Pudsey, do you say? Doant try sich jokes o' me, sir; Aw've kept thease doors too long a day, Aw can't be fooiled bi thee, sir." Says Drew, "aw wodn't tell a lie, For th' sake o' all ther's in it: If yo've a map o' England by, Aw'll show yo in a minit."

Soa Peter gate a time-table— They gloored o'er th' map together: Drew did all at he wor able, But could'nt find a stiver. At last says he, "Thear's Leeds Taan Hall, An thear stands Braforth mission: It's just between them two—that's all: Your map's an old edition.

But thear it is, aw'll lay a craan, An' if yo've niver known it, Yo've miss'd a bonny Yorksher taan, Tho mony be 'at scorn it." He oppen'd th' gate,—says he, "It's time Some body coom—aw'll trust thee. Tha'll find inside noa friends o' thine— Tha'rt th' furst 'at's come throo Pudsey."

Poor Old Hat.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! like misen tha's grown An fowk call us old fashioned an odd; But monny's the storm we have met sin that day, When aw bowt thee all shiny an snod. As aw walked along th' street wi thee peearkt o' mi broo, Fowk's manners wor cappin to see; An aw thowt it wor me they bade 'ha do yo do,' But aw know nah they nodded at thee.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! aw mun cast thee aside, For awr friendship has lasted too long; Tho' tha still art mi comfort, an once wor mi pride, Tha'rt despised i' this world's giddy throng. Dooant think me ungrateful, or call me unkind, If another aw put i thi place; For aw think tha'll admit if tha'll oppen thi mind, Tha can bring me nowt moor but disgrace.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! varry sooin it may be, Aw'st be scorned an cast off like thisen; An be shoved aght o'th gate wi less kindness nor thee An have nubdy to care for me then. But one thing aw'll contrive as tha's sarved me soa weel, An tha gave thi best days to mi use; Noa war degradation aw'll cause thee to feel, For aw'll screen thi throo scorn an abuse.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! if thart thrown aght o' door, Tha may happen be punced abaat th' street, For like moor things i'th world, if thart shabby an poor, It wor best tha should keep aght o'th seet. Wine mellows wi age, an old pots fotch big brass, An fowk rave ov antique this an that, An they worship grey stooans, an old booans, but alas! Ther's nubdy respects an old hat.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! awm reight fast what to do, To burn thi aw havnt the heart, If aw stow thi away tha'll be moth etten throo, An thart seedy enuff as tha art. Tha's long been a comfort when worn o' mi heead, Soa dooant freeat, for to pairt we're net gooin, For aw'll mak on thi soils for mi poor feet asteead, An aw'll wear thi once moor i' mi shooin.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! ne'er repine at thi lot, If thart useful what moor can ta be? Better wear cleean away nor be idle an rot, An remember thart useful to me. Though its hard to give up what wor once dearly prized, Tha but does what all earthly things must, For though we live honored, or perish despised,— We're at last but a handful o' dust.

Done Agean.

Aw've a rare lump o' beef on a dish, We've some bacon 'at's hung up o' th' thack, We've as mich gooid spice-cake as we wish, An wi' currens its varry near black; We've a barrel o' gooid hooam brewed drink, We've a pack o' flaar reared agean th' clock, We've a load o' puttates under th' sink, So we're pretty weel off as to jock. Aw'm soa fain aw can't tell whear to bide, But the cause aw dar hardly let aat; It suits me moor nor all else beside: Aw've a paand at th' wife knows nowt abaat.

Aw can nah have a spree to misel; Aw can treat mi old mates wi' a glass; An' aw sha'nt ha' to come home an tell My old lass, ha' aw've shut all mi brass. Some fowk say, when a chap's getten wed, He should nivver keep owt thro' his wife; If he does awve oft heeard 'at it's sed, 'At it's sure to breed trouble an strife; If it does aw'm net baan to throw up, Though awd mich rayther get on withaat; But who wodn't risk a blow up, For a paand 'at th' wife knows nowt abaat.

Aw hid it i' th' coil hoil last neet, For fear it dropt aat o' mi fob, Coss aw knew, if shoo happened to see 't, 'At mi frolic wod prove a done job. But aw'll gladden mi e'en wi' its face, To mak sure at its safe in its nick;— But aw'm blest if ther's owt left i' th' place! Why, its hook'd it as sure as aw'm wick. Whear its gooan to's a puzzle to me, An' who's taen it aw connot mak aat, For it connot be th' wife, coss you see It's a paand 'at shoo knew nowt abaat.

But thear shoo is, peepin' off th' side, An' aw see 'at shoo's all on a grin; To chait her aw've monny a time tried, But I think it's nah time to give in, A chap may be deep as a well, But a woman's his maister when done; He may chuckle and flatter hissel, But he'll wakken to find at shoo's won. It's a rayther unpleasant affair, Yet it's better it's happened noa daat; Aw'st be fain to come in for a share O' that paand at th' wife knows all abaat.

What it is to be a Mother.

A'a, dear! what a life has a mother! At leeast, if they're hamper'd like me, Thro' mornin' to neet ther's some bother, An' ther will be, aw guess, wol aw dee.

Ther's mi chap, an misen, an' six childer, Six o'th' roughest, aw think, under th' sun, Aw'm sartin sometimes they'd bewilder Old Joab, wol his patience wor done.

They're i' mischief i' ivery corner, An' ther tongues they seem niver at rest; Ther's one shaatin' "Little Jack Horner," An' another "The realms o' the blest."

Aw'm sure if a body's to watch 'em, They mun have een at th' back o' ther yed; For quiet yo niver can catch 'em Unless they're asleep an' i' bed.

For ther's somdy comes runnin to tell us 'At one on em's takken wi' fits; Or ther's two on 'em feightin for th' bellus, An' rivin' ther clooas all i' bits.

In a mornin' they're all weshed an' tidy'd, But bi nooin they're as black as mi shoe; To keep a lot cleean, if yo've tried it, Yo know 'at ther's summat to do.

When my felly comes hooam to his drinkin', Aw try to be gradely, an' straight; For when all's nice an' cleean, to mi thinkin', He enjoys better what ther's to ait.

If aw tell him aw'm varry near finished Wi allus been kept in a fuss, He says, as he looks up astonished, "Why, aw niver see owt 'at tha does."

But aw wonder who does all ther mendin', Weshes th' clooas, an cleans th' winders an' flags? But for me they'd have noa spot to stand in— They'd be lost i' ther filth an' ther rags.

But it allus wor soa, an' it will be, A chap thinks' at a woman does nowt; But it ne'er bothers me what they tell me, For men havn't a morsel o' thowt.

But just harken to me wol aw'm tellin' Ha aw tew to keep ivery thing straight; An' aw'l have yo for th' judge if yor willin', For aw want nowt but what aw think's reight.

Ov a Monday aw start o' my weshin', An' if th' day's fine aw get um all dried; Ov a Tuesday aw fettle mi kitchen, An' mangle, an' iron beside.

Ov a Wednesday, then aw've mi bakin'; Ov a Thursday aw reckon to brew; Ov a Friday all th' carpets want shakin', An' aw've th' bedrooms to clean an' dust throo.

Then o'th' Setterday, after mi markets, Stitch on buttons, an' th' stockins' to mend, Then aw've all th' Sundy clooas to luk ovver, An' that brings a week's wark to its end.

Then o'th' Sundy ther's cooking 'em th' dinner, It's ther only warm meal in a wick; Tho' ther's some say aw must be a sinner, For it's paving mi way to Old Nick.

But a chap mun be like to ha' summat, An' aw can't think it's varry far wrang, Just to cook him an' th' childer a dinner, Tho' it may mak me rayther too thrang.

But if yor a wife an' a mother, Yo've yor wark an' yor duties to mind; Yo mun leearn to tak nowt as a bother, An' to yor own comforts be blind.

But still, just to seer all ther places, When they're gethred raand th' harston at neet, Fill'd wi six roosy-red, smilin' faces; It's nooan a despisable seet.

An, aw connot help thinkin' an' sayin', (Tho' yo may wonder what aw can mean), 'At if single, aw sooin should be playin' Coortin tricks, an' be weddin' agean.

What they say.

They say 'at its a waste o' brass—a nasty habit too,— A thing 'at noa reight-minded chap wod ivver think to do; Maybe they're reight; They say it puts one's brains to sleep, an maks a felly daft,— Aw've hearken'd to ther doctrins, then aw've lit mi pipe an laft, At ther consait.

At morn when startin for mi wark, a bit o' bacca's sweet, An aw raillee should'nt like to be withaat mi pipe at neet, It comforts me. An if awm worritted an vext, wi' bothers durin th' day, Aw tak a wiff, an in a claad, aw puff 'em all away, An off they flee.

They tell me its a poison, an its bad effects they show; Aw nivver contradict 'em but aw think its varry slow, An bad to tell; They say it leeads to drinkin, an drink leeads to summat war; But aw know some at nivver smook 'at's getten wrang as far As me misel.

They say its an example 'at we did'nt owt to set,— For owt 'at's nowt young fowk sooin leearn, but dooant soa sooin forget, That's varry true. But aw shall be contented, if when comes mi time to dee, To smook a pipe o' bacca is th' warst thing they've lent throo me: Aw'st manage throo,

They say it maks one lazy, an time slips by unawares,— It may be soa, an if it is, that's noa consarn o' theirs; Aw work mi share. If it prevents fowk meddlin wi' th' affairs ov other men, 'Twod happen be as weel, aw think, if they'd to smook thersen;— They've time to spare.

But what they say ne'er matters, for aw act upon a plan, If th' world affooards a pleasure awll enjoy it if aw can, At morn or neet; They may praich agean mi bacca, an may looad it wi' abuse, But aw think its a gooid crayter if its put to a gooid use. Pass me a leet.

Young Jockey.

Young Jockey he bowt him a pair o' new shooin, Ooin, ooin, ry diddle dooin! Young Jockey he bowt him a pair o' new shooin, For he'd made up his mind he'd be wed varry sooin; An he went to ax Jenny his wife for to be, But shoo sed, "Nay, aw'll ne'er wed a hawbuck like thee, Thi legs luk too lanky, Thi heead is too cranky, Its better bi th' hawf an old maid aw should dee!"

Young Jockey then went an he bowt him a gun, Un, un, ry diddle dun! Young Jockey then went an he bowt him a gun, For his ivvery hooap i' this wide world wor done; An he went an tell'd Jenny, to end all his pains, He'd made up his mind 'at he'd blow aght his brains, But shoo cared net a pin, An shoo sed wi' a grin,— "Befoor they're blown aght tha man get some put in."

Missed his Mark.

Aw like fowrk to succeed i' life if they've an honest aim, An even if they chonce to trip awm varry loath to blame; Its sich a simple thing sometimes maks failure or success, Th' prize oft slips by strugglin men to them 'at's striven less. Aw envy nubdy Fortun's smiles, aw lang for 'em misen,— But them at win her favors should dispense 'em nah an then. An them 'at's blest wi' sunshine let 'em think o' those i'th' dark, An nivver grudge a helpin hand to him 'at's missed his mark.

We connot allus hit it,—an ther's monny a toilin brain, Has struggled for a lifetime, but its efforts proved in vain; An monny a hardy son ov toil has worn his life away, An all his efforts proved in vain to keep poverty at bay; Wol others, bi a lucky stroke, have carved ther way to fame, An ivvery thing they've tackled on has proved a winnin' game; Let those who've met wi' fav'rin winds to waft-life's little bark, Just spare a thowt, an gie a lift, to him 'at's missed his mark.

Aw hate to hear a purse-praad chap keep booastin of his gains,— Sneerin at humble workin fowk who're richer far i' brains! Aw hate all meean hard graspin slaves, who mak ther gold ther god,— For if they could grab all ther is, awm pratty sewer they wod. Aw hate fowk sanctimonious, whose humility is pride, Who, when they see a chap distressed, pass by on tother side! Aw hate those drones 'at share earth's hive, but shirk ther share o' wark, Yet curl ther nooas at some poor soul, who's toiled, yet missed his mark.

Give me that man whose heart can feel for others griefs an woes;— Who loves his friends an nivver bears a grudge ageean his foes; Tho' kindly words an cheerin smiles are all he can bestow,— If he gives that wi' willin heart, he does some gooid below. An when th' time comes, as come it will, when th' race is at an end, He'll dee noa poorer for what gooid he's ivver done a friend. An when they gently put him by,—unconscious, stiff an stark, His epetaph shall be, 'Here's one 'at didn't miss his mark.'

When Lost.

If at hooam yo have to tew, Though yor comforts may be few, An yo think yore lot is hard, and yor prospects bad; Yo may swear ther's nowt gooas reight, Wi' yor friends an wi' yor meyt, But yo'll nivver know ther vally till j'o've lost em, lad.

Though yo've but a humble cot, An yore share's a seedy lot; Though yo goa to bed i'th dumps, an get up i'th mornin mad, Yet yo'll find its mich moor wise, What yo have to fondly prize, For yo'll nivver know ther vally till yo've lost em, lad.

Mak a Gooid Start.

Let's mak a gooid start, nivver fear What grum'lers an growlers may say; That nivver need cause yo a tear, For whear ther's a will ther's a way. If yo've plenty to ait an to drink, Nivver heed, though yor wark may be rough; If yo'll nobbut keep hooapful, aw think, Yo'll find th' way to mend plain enuff.

If yor temper gets saar'd an cross, An yor mind is disturbed an perplext; Or if troubled wi' sickness an loss, An yor poverty maks yo feel vext;— Nivver heed! for its fooilish to freeat Abaat things at yo connot prevent; An i'th futer ther may be a treeat, 'At'll pay for all th' sad days you've spent,

I' this new life beginnin,—who knows What for each on us may be i' stoor? For th' river o' Time as it flows, Weshes th' threshold o' ivvery man's door. At some it leeavs little, may be, An at others deposits a prize; But if yo be watchful yo'll see Ther's a trifle for each one 'at tries.

Ther's a time booath to wish an decide;— For a chap at ne'er langs nivver tews;— If yo snuff aght ambition an pride, Yo sink a chap's heart in his shoes, Wish for summat 'at's honest an reight, An detarmine yo'll win it or dee! Yo'll find obstacles slink aght o'th gate, An th' black claads o' daat quickly flee.

Young men should seek labor an gains, Old men wish for rest an repose;— Young lasses want brave, lovin swains, An hanker for th' finest o' clooas. Old wimmin,—a cosy foirside, An a drop o' gooid rum i' ther teah; Little childer, a horse they can ride, Or a dolly to nurse o' ther knee.

One thing a chap cant do withaat, Is a woman to share his estate; An mooast wimmen, ther isn't a daat, Think life a dull thing baght a mate. Ther's a sayin booath ancient an wise, An its one at should be acted upon;— Yo'll do weel, to accept its advice,— To, "Begin as yo meean to goa on."

Stop at Hooam.

"Tha wodn't goa an leave me, Jim, All lonely by mysel? My een at th' varry thowts grow dim— Aw connot say farewell.

Tha vow'd tha couldn't live unless Tha saw me every day, An' said tha knew noa happiness When aw wor foorced away.

An th' tales tha towld, I know full weel, Wor true as gospel then; What is it, lad, 'at ma's thee feel Soa strange—unlike thisen?

Ther's raam enuff, aw think tha'll find, I'th taan whear tha wor born, To mak a livin, if tha'll mind To ha' faith i' to-morn.

Aw've mony a time goan to mi wark Throo claads o' rain and sleet; All's seem'd soa dull, soa drear, an' dark, It ommust mud be neet.

But then, when braikfast time's come raand, Aw've seen th' sun's cheerin ray, An' th' heavy lukkin claads have slunk Like skulkin lads away.

An' then bi nooin it's shooan soa breet Aw've sowt some shade to rest, An' as aw've paddled hooam at neet, Glorious it's sunk i'th west.

An' tho' a claad hangs ovver thee, (An' trouble's hard to bide), Have patience, lad, an' wait an' see What's hid o'th' tother side.

If aw wor free to please mi mind, Aw'st niver mak this stur; But aw've a mother ommust blind, What mud become o' her?

Tha knows shoo cared for me, when waik An' helpless ivery limb, Aw'm feeard her poor owd heart ud braik If aw'd to leave her, Jim.

Aw like to hear thee talk o' th' trees 'At tower up to th' sky, An' th' burds 'at flutterin i'th' breeze, Lie glitterin' jewels fly.

Woll th' music of a shepherd's reed May gently float along, Lendin its tender notes to lead Some fair maid's simple song;

An' flaars 'at grow o' ivery side, Such as we niver see; But here at hooam, at ivery stride, There's flaars for thee an' me.

Aw care net for ther suns soa breet, Nor warblin melody; Th' clink o' thi clogs o' th' flags at neet Saands sweeter, lad, to me.

An' tho' aw wear a gingham gaan, A claat is noa disgrace; Tha'll niver find a heart moor warm Beat under silk or lace.

Then settle daan, tak my advice, Give up this wish to rooam! An' if tha luks, tha'll find lots nice Worth stoppin' for at hooam."

"God bless thee, Jenny! dry that e'e, An' gi'e us howd thi hand! For words like thoase, throo sich as thee, What mortal could withstand!

It isn't mich o'th' world aw know, But aw con truly say, A faithful heart's too rich to throw Withaat a thowt away.

So here aw'll stay, and should fate fraan, Aw'll tew for thine and thee, An' seek for comfort when cast daan, I'th' sunleet o' thi e'e."

Advice to Jenny.

Jenny, Jenny, dry thi ee, An' dunnot luk soa sad; It grieves me varry mich to see Tha freeats abaat yon lad; For weel tha knows, withaat a daat, Whearivver he may be, Tho fond o' rammellin' abaat, He's allus true to thee.

Tha'll learn mooar sense, lass, in a while, For wisdom comes wi' time, An' if tha lives tha'll leearn to smile At troubles sich as thine; A faithful chap is better far, Altho' he likes to rooam, Nor one 'at does what isn't reight, An' sits o'th' hearth at hooam.

Tha needn't think 'at wedded life Noa disappointment brings; Tha munnot think to keep a chap Teed to thi appron strings. Soa dry thi een, they're varry wet, An' let thi heart be glad, For tho' tha's wed a rooamer, yet, Tha's wed a honest lad.

Ther's mony a lady, rich an' great, 'At's sarvents at her call, Wod freely change her grand estate For thine tha thinks soa small: For riches cannot buy content, Soa tho' thi joys be few, Tha's one ther's nowt con stand anent,— A heart 'at's kind an' true.

Soa when he comes luk breet an' gay, An' meet him wi' a kiss, Tha'll find him mooar inclined to stay Wi treatment sich as this; But if thi een luk red like that, He'll see all's wrang at once, He'll leet his pipe, an' don his hat, An' bolt if he's a chonce.

Jockey an Dolly.

Th' sun shone breet at early morn, Burds sang sweetly on the trees; Larks wor springin from the corn, Tender blossoms sowt the breeze. Jockey whistled as he went O'er rich meadows wet wi' dew; In his breast wor sweet content, For his wants an cares were few. Dolly passed him on his way, Fresh an sweet an fair wor she; Jockey lost his heart that day, To the maid ov Salterlee. Jockey an Dolly Had allus been jolly, Till Love shot his arrow an wounded the twain; Their days then pass sadly, Yet man an maid madly, In spite ov the torture, they nursed the sweet pain.

Since that day did jockey pine, Dolly shyly kept apart; Still shoo milk'd her willin kine, Tho' shoo nursed a braikin heart, But one neet they met i'th' fold, When a silv'ry mooin did shine; Jockey then his true love told, An he axt, "will't thou be mine?" Tears ov joy filled Dolly's een, As shoo answered modestly; Dolly nah is Jockey's queen, Th' bonniest wife i' Salterlee. Jockey an Dolly, Are livin an jolly, May blessins for ivver attend i' ther train; Ther days they pass gladly, Noa moor they feel sadly, For two hearts are for ivver bound fast i' Love's chain.

Dooant Forget the Old Fowks.

Dooant forget the old fowks,— They've done a lot for thee; Remember tha'd a mother once, Who nursed thi on her knee. A father too, who tew'd all day To mak thi what tha art, An dooant forget tha owes a debt, An strive to pay a part.

Just think ha helpless once tha wor,— A tiny little tot; But tha wor given th' cosiest nook I' all that little cot. Thy ivvery want wor tended to, An soothed thy ivvery pain, They didn't spare love, toil or care, An they'd do it o'er ageean. An all they crave for what they gave, Is just a kindly word;— A fond "God bless yo parents," Wod be th' sweetest saand they've heard.

Then dooant forget the old fowks, &c.

Tha's entered into business nah,— Tha'rt dooin pratty weel; Tha's won an tha desarves success,— Aw know tha'rt true as steel. Tha'rt growin rich, an lives i' style, Tha's sarvents at thi call; But dooant forget thi mother, lad, To her tha owes it all. Thi father totters in his walk, His hair is growin grey; He cannot work as once he did, He's ommost had his day. But th' heart 'at loved thi when a child, Is still as warm an true; His pride is in his lad's success,— He hopes tha loves him too. But what they long for mooast ov all, Is just that kindly word, "God bless yo, my dear parents!" Wod be th' sweetest saand they've heard.

Then dooant forget the old fowks, &c,

Soa Bonny.

Aw've travell'd o'er land, an aw've travell'd o'er sea, An aw've seen th' grandest lasses 'at ivver can be; But aw've nivver met one 'at could mak mi heart glad, Like her,—for oh! shoo wor bonny mi lad.

Shoo wornt too gooid, for her temper wor hot, An when her tongue started, shoo wag'd it a lot; An it worn't all pleasant, an some on it bad, But oh! shoo wor bonny!—soa bonny mi lad.

Consaited and cocky, an full o' what's nowt, An shoo'd say nasty things withaat ivver a thowt; An shood try ivvery way, just to mak me get mad;—- For shoo knew shoo wor bonny,—soa bonny mi lad.

Fowk called me a fooil to keep hingin araand, But whear shoo'd once stept aw could worship the graand; For th' seet ov her face cheer'd mi heart when 'twor sad, For shoo wor soa bonny,—soa bonny mi lad.

But shoo wor like th' rest,—false,—false in her heart; Shoo made me to love her,—an Cupid's sharp dart Wor nobbut her fun,—wi' decait it wor clad;— But then, shoo wor bonny;—soa bonny mi lad.

Shoo sooin wed another,—noa better nor me, An aw hooap shoo'll be happy, though my life is dree; An aw'll try to submit, though shoo treated me bad, But oh! mi poor heart is nigh brokken mi lad.

Ther may come a time when her passion has cooiled, Shoo may think ov a chap shoo unfeelingly fooiled; Shoo may seek me agean;—if shoo does,—well, by gad! Aw'll welcome her back. Shoo's soa bonny mi lad.

The Linnet.

Little linnet,—stop a minnit,— Let me have a tawk with thee: Tell me what this life has in it, Maks thee seem so full o' glee? Why is pleasure i' full measure, Thine throo rooasy morn to neet, Has ta fun some wondrous treasure, Maks thi be for ivver breet?

—————

Sang the linnet,—"wait a minnit, Let me whisper in thine ear; Life has lots o' pleasure in it, Though a shadow's oftimes near. Ivvery shoolder has its burden, Ivvery heart its weight o' care; But if bravely yo accept it, Duty finds some pleasure thear. Lazy louts dooant know what rest is,— Those who labor find rest sweet; Grumling souls ne'er know what best is,— Blessins wither 'neath ther feet. Sorrow needs noa invitation,— Joy is shy an must be sowt; Grief seeks onny sitiwation,— Willin to accept for nowt. All pure pleasure is retirin, Allus modest,—shrinkin,—shy,— Like a violet,—but goa seek it, An yo'll find it by-an-bye. Birds an blossoms,—shaars an sunshine, Strive to cheer man on his way; An its nobbut them 'at willn't, 'At cant taste some joy each day. Awm a teeny little songster,— All mi feathers plainly grave; But aw wish noa breeter plumage, Awm content wi' what aw have. An mi mate is just as lovin, An he sings as sweet to me,— An his message nivver varies,— 'Love me love, as aw love thee.' An together, o'er awr nestlins, We keep watch, i' hooaps to see, They may sooin share in awr gladness Full ov love,—from envy free. Grumbler,—cast a look araand thi;— Is this world or thee to blame? Joys an blessins all surraand thi,— Dar to grummel?—fie,—for shame!"

—————

An that linnet, in a minnit, Flitted off, the trees among; An those joys its heart had in it, Ovverflowed i' limpid song. An it left me sittin, blinkin, As it trill'd its nooats wi glee;— An truly,—to my way o' thinkin, Th' linnet's far moor sense nor me.

Mary Jane.

One Easter Mundy, for a spree, To Bradforth, Mary Jane an me, Decided we wod tak a jaunt, An have a dinner wi mi hont; For Mary Jane, aw'd have yo know, Had promised me, some time ago, To be mi wife,—an soa aw thowt Aw'd introduce her, as aw owt. Mi hont wor pleeased to see us booath,— To mak fowk welcome nivver looath,— An th' table grooaned wi richest fare, An one an all wor pressed to share, Mi sweetheart made noa moor to do. Shoo buckled on an sooin gate throe; Mi hont sed, as shoo filled her glass,— "Well, God bless thi belly, lass!"

Mi Mary Jane is quite genteel, Shoo's fair an slim, an dresses weel; Shoo luks soa delicate an fair, Yo'd fancy shoo could live on air. But thear yo'd find yor judgment missed, For shoo's a mooast uncommon twist; Whear once shoo's called to get a snack, It's seldom at they've axt her back. To a cookshop we went one neet, An th' stuff at vanished aght o'th' seet, Made th' chap at sarved us gape an grin, But shoo went on an tuckt it in; An when aw axt ha mich we'd had, He sed, "It's worth five shillin, lad." Aw sighed as aw put daan mi brass,— "Well, God bless thi belly lass!"

But when a lass's een shine bright, Yo ne'er think ov her appetite; Her love wor what aw lang'd to gain, Nor did mi efforts prove in vain, For we wor wed on Leeds Fair Day, An started life on little pay. But aw've noa reason to regret, Her appetite shoo keeps up yet. Eight years have passed sin shoo wor mine, An nah awr family numbers nine. A chap when wedded life begins, Seldom expects a brace o' twins; But Mary Jane's browt that for me,— Shoo's nursin th' last pair on her knee; An as aw th' bowls o' porrige pass, Aw say, "God bless thi belly lass!"

We have noa wealth i' gold or lands, But cheerful hearts, an willin hands; Altho soa monny maaths to fill, We live i' hooaps an labor still. Ther little limbs when stronger grown, Will be a fortun we shall own. We're in a mooild thro morn to neet, But rest comes to us doubly sweet, An fowk learn patience, yo can bet, When they've to care for sich a set. But we can honestly declare, Ther isn't one at we can spare. Ther little tricks cause monny a smile, An help to leeten days o' toil. An joyfully aw say, "Bith' mass! Well, God bless thi childer, lass."

My Lass.

Fairest lass amang the monny, Hair as black as raven, O. Net another lass as bonny, Lives i'th' dales ov Craven, O. City lasses may be fairer, May be donned i' silks an laces, But ther's nooan whose charms are rarer, Nooan can show sich bonny faces. Yorksher minstrel tune thy lyre, Show thou art no craven, O; In thy strains 'at mooast inspire, Sing the praise ov Craven, O.

Purest breezes toss their tresses, Tint ther cheeks wi' rooases, O, An old Sol wi' warm caresses, Mak 'em bloom like pooasies, O. Others may booast birth an riches, May have studied grace ov motion, But they lack what mooast bewitches,— Hearts 'at love wi' pure devotion. Perfect limbs an round full bosoms, Sich as set men ravin, O, Only can be faand i' blossoms, Sich as bloom i' Craven, O,

An amang the fairest,—sweetest, Ther's net sich a brave en, O; For her beauty's the completest, Yo can find i' Craven, O. Ivvery charm 'at mother Nature Had to give, shoo placed upon her,—- Modest ways, an comely feature— Health ov body,—soul ov honor Isn't shoo a prize worth winnin? An a gem worth savin, O? Smile on,—sooin yo'll stop yor grinnin, When my lass leeaves Craven, O.

A Gooid Kursmiss Day.

It wor Kursmiss day,—we wor ready for fun, Th' puddin wor boil'd an th' rooast beef wor done; Th' ale wor i'th' cellar, an th' spice-cake i'th' bin, An th' cheese wor just lively enuff to walk in. Th' lads wor all donned i' ther hallidy clooas, An th' lasses,—they each luckt as sweet as a rooas; An th' old wife an me, set at each end o'th' hob, An th' foir wor splutterin raand a big cob, An aw sed, "Nah, old lass, Tho we havn't mich brass, We shall celebrate Kursmiss to-day."

Th' young fowk couldn't rest, they kept lukkin at th' clock, Yo'd a thowt 'twor a wick sin they'd had any jock, But we winkt one at tother as mich as to say, They mun wait for th' reight time, for ther mother has th' kay. Then they all went to th' weshus at stood just aghtside, An they couldn't ha made mich moor din if they'd tried, For they skriked an they giggled an shaated like mad, An th' wife sed, "They're happy," an aw sed, "Awm glad, An be thankful old lass, Tho we havn't mich brass, We shall celebrate Kursmiss to-day."

When twelve o'clock struck, th' wife says "aw'll prepare, An ov ivvery gooid thing they shall all have a share; But aw think some o'th' lasses should help me for once," An aw answered, "ov coorse,—they'll be glad ov a chonce." Soa aw went to call em, but nivver a sign Could aw find o' them strackle-brained childer o' mine; An when th' wife went ith' cellar for th' puddin an th' beef, An saw th' oppen winder, it filled her wi grief, An shoo sed, "nay old lad, This is rayther too bad, We can't celebrate Kursmiss to-day,"

Aw went huntin raand, an ith' weshus aw faand, Some bits o' cold puddin, beef, spicecake an cheese; Then aw heard a big shaat, an when aw lukt agivt, Them taistrels wor laffin as hard as yo pleeas. Aw felt rayther mad,—but ov coorse awm ther dad, An as it wor Kursmiss aw tuk it as fun; But what made me capt, wor th' ale worn't tapt, Soa mi old wife an me stuck to that wol 'twor done. An aw railly did feel We enjoyed ussen weel, An we had a gooid Kursmiss that day.

Mi Love's Come Back.

Let us have a jolly spree, An wi' joy an harmonie, Let the merry moments flee, For mi love's come back. O, the days did slowly pass, When awd lost mi little lass, But nah we'll have a glass, For mi love's come back.

O, shoo left me in a hig, An shoo didn't care a fig, But nah aw'll donce a jig, For mi love's come back, An aw know though far away, 'At her heart ne'er went astray, An awst ivver bless the day, For mi love's come back.

When shoo axt me yesterneet, What made mi een soa breet? Aw says, "Why cant ta see'ts 'Coss mi love's come back," Then aw gave her sich a kiss, An shoo tuk it nooan amiss;— An awm feeard awst brust wi bliss, For mi love's come back.

Nah, awm gooin to buy a ring, An a creddle an a swing, Ther's noa tellin what may spring, Nah, mi love's come back; O, aw nivver thowt befooar, 'At sich joy could be i' stooar, But nah aw'll grieve noa moor, For mi love's come back.

A Wife.

Who is it, when one starts for th' day A cheerin word is apt to say, At sends yo leeter on yor way? A wife.

An who, when th' wark is done at neet, Sits harknin for yor clogs i'th' street, An sets warm slippers for yor feet? A wife.

An who, when yo goa weary in, Bids th' childer mak a little din, An smiles throo th' top o'th' heead to th' chin? A wife.

An who, when troubled, vext an tried, Comes creepin softly to yor side, An soothes a grief 'at's hard to bide? A wife.

An when yor ommost driven mad, Who quiets yo daan, an calls yo "lad," An shows yo things are nooan soa bad? A wife.

Who nivver once forgets that day, When yo've to draw yor bit o' pay, But comes to meet yo hawf o'th' way? A wife.

Who is it, when yo hooamward crawl, Taks all yo have, an thinks it small; Twice caants it, an says, "Is this all?" A wife.

All Tawk.

Some tawk becoss they think they're born Wi' sich a lot o' wit; Some seem to tawk to let fowk know They're born withaat a bit. Some tawk i' hooaps 'at what they say May help ther fellow men; But th' inooast 'at tawk just tawk becoss They like to hear thersen.

Aw Can't Tell.

Aw nivver rammel mich abaat, Aw've summat else to do; But yet aw think, withaat a daat, Aw've seen a thing or two.

One needn't leeav his native shoor, An visit foreign lands,— At hooam he'll find a gooid deeal moor Nor what he understands.

Aw can't tell why a empty heead Should be held up soa heigh, Or why a suit o' clooas should leead Soa monny fowk astray.

Aw can't tell why a child 'at's born To lord or lady that, Should be soa worship'd, wol they scorn A poor man's little brat.

Aw can't tell why a workin man Should wear his life away, Wol maisters grasp at all they can, An grudge a chap his pay.

Aw can't tell why a lot o' things Are as they seem to be; But if its nowt to nubdy else, Ov coorse its nowt to me.

Happen Thine.

Then its O! for a wife, sich a wife as aw know! Who's thowts an desires are pure as the snow, Who nivver thinks virtue a reason for praise, An who shudders when tell'd ov this world's wicked ways.

Shoo isn't a gossip, shoo keeps to her hooam, Shoo's a welcome for friends if they happen to come; Shoo's tidy an cleean, let yo call when yo may, Shoo's nivver upset or put aght ov her way.

At morn when her husband sets off to his wark, Shoo starts him off whistlin, as gay as a lark; An at neet if he's weary he hurries straight back, An if worried forgets all his cares in a crack.

If onny naybor is sick or distressed, Shoe sends what shoo can an allus her best; An if onny young fowk chonce to fall i' disgrace, They fly straight to her and they tell her ther case.

Shoo harkens—an then in a motherly tone Sympathises as tho they were bairns ov her own; Shoo shows 'em ther faults, an points aght th' best way, To return to th' reight rooad, if they've wandered astray.

Soa kindly shoo tries to set tangled things straight, Yo'd ommost goa wrang to let her set yo reight. Shoo helps and consoles the poor, weary an worn,— Shoo's an angel baght wings if one ivver wor born.

Shoo can join a mild frolic if fun's to be had, For her principal joy is to see others glad; Shoo's a jewel, an th' chap who can call her his own, Has noa 'cashion to hunt for th' philosopher's stooan.

If failins shoo has, they're unknown unto me,— Shoo's as near to perfection as mortal can be;— To know shoo's net mine, does sometimes mak me sad;— If shoo's thine, then tha owt to be thankful, owd lad.

Contrasts.

If yo've a fancy for a spree, Goa up to Lundun, same as me, Yo'll find ther's lots o' things to see, To pleeas yo weel. If seem isn't quite enuff, Yo needn't tew an waste yor puff, To find some awkard sooarts o' stuff At yo can feel.

Yo'll nobbut need to set yor shoe On some poleeceman's tender toa,— A varry simple thing to do,— An wi a crack Enuff to mak a deead man jump, Daan comes his staff, an leeaves a lump, An then he'll fling yo wi a bump, Flat o' yor back.

If signs o' riches suit yo best, Yer een can easily be blest; Or if yo seek for fowk distrest, They're easy fun, Wi faces ommost worn to nowt, An clooas at arn't worth a thowt, Yet show ha long wi want they've fowt, Till fairly done.

Like a big ball it rolls along, A nivver ending, changing throng, Mixt up together, waik an strong,— An gooid an bad. Virtues an vices side bi side,— Poverty slinkin after pride,— Wealth's waste, an want at's hard to bide, Some gay, some sad.

It ommost maks one have a daat, (To see some strut, some crawl abaat, One in a robe, one in a claat,) If all's just square. It may be better soa to be, But to a simpleton like me, It's hard to mak sich things agree; It isn't fair.

To Mally.

Its long sin th' parson made us one, An yet it seems to me, As we've gooan thrustin, toilin on, Time's made noa change i' thee. Tha grummeld o' thi weddin day,— Tha's nivver stopt it yet; An aw expect tha'll growl away Th' last bit o' breeath tha'll get.

Growl on, old lass, an ease thi mind! It nivver troubles me; Aw've proved 'at tha'rt booath true an kind,— Ther's lots 'at's war nor thee. An if tha's but a hooamly face, Framed in a white starched cap, Ther's nooan wod suit as weel i'th' place,— Ther's nooan aw'd like to swap.

Soa aw'll contented jog along,— It's th' wisest thing to do; Aw've seldom need to use im tongue, Tha tawks enuff for two. Tha cooks mi vittals, maks mi bed, An finds me clooas to don; An if to-day aw worn't wed, Aw'd say to thee,—"Come on."

Th' State o' th' Poll. A nop tickle illusion.

Sal Sanguine wor a bonny lass, Ov that yo may be sewer; Shoo had her trubbles tho', alas! An th' biggest wor her yure. Noa lass shoo knew as mich could spooart, But oft shoo'd heeard it sed, They thank'd ther stars they'd nowt o'th sooart, It wor soa varry red.

Young fowk we know are seldom wise,— Experience taiches wit;— Some freeat 'coss th' color o' ther eyes Is net as black as jet. Wol others seem quite in a stew, An can't tell whear to bide, 'Coss they've black een asteead o' blue,— An twenty things beside.

Aw'm foorced to own Sal Sanguine's nop, It had a ruddy cast; An once shoo heeard a silly fop, Say as he hurried past— "There goes the girl I'd like to wed,— 'Twould grant my heart's desire; In spring pull carrots from her head,— In winter 'twould save fire."

Her cheeks wi' passion fairly burned,— Shoo made a fearful vow, To have to some fresh color turned That yure upon her brow. Shoo knew a chap 'at kept a shop, An dyed all sooarts o' things; An off shoo went withaat a stop, As if shoo'd flown wi' wings.

Shoo fan him in, an tell'd her tale, An tears stood in her ee; "Why, Sal," he sed, "few chap's wod fail If axt, to dye for thee. What color could ta like it done? Aw'll pleeas thi if aw can; We'st ha some bother aw'll be bun, But aw think aw know a plan."

"Why mak it black, lad, if tha can; Black's sewer to suit me best; Aw dooant care if its black an tan,— Mi life's been sich a pest. For tho' aw say 'at should'nt say't, Ther's lots noa better bred, Curl up ther nooas an cut me straight, Becoss mi yure's soa red."

"Come on ageean to-morn at neet, Aw'll have all ready, lass; An if aw connot do it reight Aw'll ax thi for noa brass." Soa Sally skuttered hooam agean, An into bed shoo popt, Her fowk wor capt what it could meean, For thear th' next day shoo stopt,

When th' evenin coom shoo up an dress'd, An off shoo went to th' place; Shoo seem'd like some poor soul possess'd, Or one i' dire disgrace. "Come here," sed th' chap, "all's ready nah, It's stewin here i'th' pan; Aw'll dip thi heead,—hold,—steady nah! Just bide it if tha can."

Poor Sally skriked wi' all her might, But as all th' doors wor shut, He nobbut sed, "nah lass, keep quiet, It weant do baght its wut. To leearn mi trade, for twenty year, Throo morn to neet aw've toiled, An know at nawther hanks nor heeads, Are weel dyed unless boiled.

But as tha'rt varry tender, An aw've takken th' job i' hand, Aw'll try it rayther cooiler,— But then, th' color might'nt stand." An for a while he swilled an slopt, Wol shoo wor oinmost smoor'd; An when he wrung it aght an stopt, He varry near wor floored.

For wol thrang workin wi' her yure, He'd been soa taen wi' th' case, He'd nivver gein a thowt befooar, Abaat her neck an face. But nah he saw his sad mistak, Yet net a word he sed; Her skin wor all a deep blue black, Her yure, a dark braan red.

He gate her hooam sooin as he could, Shoo slyly slipt up stairs; An chuckled to think ha shoo should Tak all th' fowk unawares. Shoo slept that neet just like a top, Next morn shoo rose content, Shoo rubb'd some tutty on her nop, An then daan stairs shoo went.

All th' childer screamed as if they'd fits,— Th' old fowk they stared like mad;— "Nay, Sally! has ta lost thi wits? Or has ta seen th' Old Lad?" Shoo smil'd an sed, "Well, what's to do?" "Gooid gracious! whear's ta been? Thi face has turned a breet sky blue, Thi yure's a bottle green!"

Shoo flew to th' lukkin glass to see, An then her heart stood still; "That villan sed 'he'd dee for me,' Aw'll swing for him, aw will!" An then shoo set her daan o'th flooar, As if her heart wod braik; An th' childer gethered raand to rooar, But th' old fowk nivver spaik.

I' time her grief grew less, ov course, Shoo raased hersen at last; Shoo weshed, an swill'd, but things lukt worse, For th' color still proved fast. They sent a bobby after th' chap, He browt him in a crack; Says he, "It's been a slight mishap, Aw've made a small mistak.

But just to prove aw meant noa ill, Mi offer, friends, is this; If shoo'll consent to say 'I will,' Aw'll tak her as shoo is. Tho' shoo luks black befooar we're wed, That's sewer to wear away; Aw'd like to own her yure soa red, Until time turns it grey."

Says shoo, "awm feeard tha nobbut mocks, Tha'rt strivin to misleead." "Nay lass," he sed, "aw've turned thy locks, But tha's fair turned my heead." "Aw think yo'd better far agree," Sed th' old fowk in a breeath; "Will ta ha me?" "Will ta ha me?" "An nah we'll stick till deeath."

Sooin after that th' law made 'em one, An sin that time awm sewer; He ne'er regretted th' job he'd done, Nor shoo her ruddy yure. An when fowk ax'd her ha to get Sich joy as hers, shoo sed, "If anxious for some gradely wit, Just goa an boil thi heead."

Try a Smile.

This world's full o' trubbles fowk say, but aw daat it, Yo'll find as mich pleasure as pain; Some grummel at times when they might do withaat it, An oft withaat reason complain. A fraan on a face nivver adds to its beauty, Then let us forget for a while Theas small disappointments, an mak it a duty, To try the effect ov a smile. Though the sun may be claaded he'll shine aght agean, If we nobbut have patience an wait, An its sewer to luk breeter for th' shadda ther's been; Then let's banish all fooilish consait, If we'd nivver noa sorrow joys on us wod pall, Soa awr hearts let us all reconcile To tak things as they come, makkin th' best on 'em all, An cheer up a faint heart wi' a smile.

Growin Old.

Old age, aw can feel's creepin on, Aw've noa taste for what once made me glad; Mi love ov wild marlocks is gooan, An aw know awm noa longer a lad. When aw luk back at th' mile stooans aw've pass'd, As aw've thowtlessly stroll'd o'er life's track, Awm foorced to acknowledge at last, 'At its mooastly been all a mistak.

Aw know aw can ne'er start agean, An what's done aw can nivver undo, All aw've gained has been simply to leearn Ha mi hooaps, one bi one's fallen throo. When a lad, wi' moor follies nor brains, Aw thowt what awd do as a man; An aw caanted mi profits an gains, As a lad full ov hooap only can.

An aw thowt when mi beard 'gan to grow, Aw could leead all this world in a string, Yet it tuk but a few years to show 'At aw couldn't do onny sich thing. But aw tewd an aw fowt neet an day, An detarmined awd nivver give in, Hooap still cheered me on wi' her ray, An awd faith 'at i'th' long run awst win.

A fortun aw felt wor for me, An joy seem'd i'th' grasp o' mi list; An aw laffd as aw clutched it wi' glee, But someha or other it miss'd. Still, aw pluckt up mi courage once moor, An aw struggled wi' might an wi' main, But awd noa better luck nor befooar, An mi harvest wor sorrow an pain.

An nah, when mi best days are passed, An mi courage an strength are all spent; Aw've to stand o' one side an at last, Wi' mi failures an falls rest content, In this world some pleasures to win, Aw've been trubbled an tried an perplext, An aw've thowtlessly rushed into sin, An ne'er cared for a treasure i'th' next.

As mi limbs get moor feeble an waik, An aw know sooin mi race will be run; Mi heart ommost feels fit to braik, When aw think what aw've left all undone. Nah, aw've nobbut th' fag end o' mi days To prepare for a world withaat end; Soa its time aw wor changin mi ways. For ther's noa time like the present to mend

Gooid Bye, Old Lad.

Ge me thi hand, mi trusty friend, Mi own is all aw ha to gie thi; Let friendship simmer on to th' end;— God bless thi! I an gooid luck be wi' thi!

Aw prize thee just for what tha art;— Net for thi brass, thi clooas, or station; But just becoss aw know thi heart, Finds honest worth an habitation.

Ther's monny a suit ov glossy black, Worn bi a chap 'at's nowt to back it: Wol monny a true, kind heart may rack, Lapt in a tattered fushten jacket.

Ther's monny a smilin simperin knave, Wi' oppen hand will wish 'gooid morrow,' 'At wodn't gie a meg to save A luckless mate, or ease his sorrow.

Praichers an taichers seem to swarm, But sad to tell,—th' plain honest fact is, They'd rayther bid yo shun all harm, Nor put ther taichin into practice.

But thee,—aw read thee like a book,— Aw judge thi booath bi word an action; An th' mooar aw know, an th' mooar aw look, An th' mooar awm fill'd wi' satisfaction.

Soa once agean, Gooid bye, old lad! An till we meet agean, God bless thi! May smilin fortun mak thi glad, An may noa ills o' life distress thi.

That Drabbled Brat.

Goa hooam,—tha little drabbled brat, Tha'll get thi deeath o' cold; Whear does ta live? Just tell me that, Befooar aw start to scold.

Thart sypin weet,—dooant come near me! Tha luks hawf pined to deeath; An what a cough tha has! dear me! It ommost taks thi breeath.

Them een's too big for thy wee face,— Thi curls are sad neglected; Poor child! thine seems a woeful case, Noa wonder tha'rt dejected.

Nah, can't ta tell me who tha art? Tha needn't think aw'll harm thi; Here, tak this sixpence for a start, An find some place to warm thi.

Tha connot spaik;—thi een poor thing, Are filled wi' tears already; Tha connot even start to sing, Thi voice is soa unsteady.

It isn't long tha'll ha to rooam, An sing thi simple ditty; Tha doesn't seem to be at hooam, I' this big bustlin city.

It's hard to tell what's best to be When seets are soa distressin; For to sich helpless bairns as thee, Deeath seems to be a blessin.

Some hear thi voice an pass thi by, An feel noa touch o' sorrow; An, maybe, them at heave a sigh, Laff it away to-morrow.

For tha may sing, or sigh, or cry; Nay,—tha may dee if needs be; An th' busy craads 'at hurries by, Streeams on an nivver heeds thee.

But ther is One, hears ivvery grooan, We needn't to remind Him; An He'll net leeav thi all alooan; God give thee grace to find Him!

An may be send His angels daan, Thi feet throo dangers guidin; Until He sets thee in His craan,— A gem, in light abidin.

Song for th' Hard Times, (1879.)

Nah chaps, pray dooant think it's a sarmon awm praichin, If aw tell yo some nooations at's entered mi pate; For ther's nubdy should turn a cold shoulder to taichin, If th' moral be whoalsum an th' matter be reight. We're goin throo a time o' bad trade an depression, An scoors o' poor crayturs we meet ivvery day, 'At show bi ther faces they've had a hard lesson:— That's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way.

Aw couldn't but think as throo th' streets aw wor walkin, An lukt i' shop winders whear fin'ry's displayed, If they're able to sell it we're fooils to keep tawkin, An liggin all th' blame on this slackness o' trade. Tho times may be hard, yet ther's wealth, aye, an plenty, An if fowk do ther duty aw'll venter to say, Ther's noa reason a honest man's plate should be empty:— That's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way.

When it's freezin an snowin, an cold winds are blowin, Aw see childer hawf covered wi two or three rags; As they huddle together to shelter throo th' weather, An think thersen lucky to find some dry flags; Wol others i' carriages, gay wi fine paintin, Lapt up i' warm furs, they goa dashin away; Do they think o' them poor little childer at's faintin?— That's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way.

All honor to them who have proved thersen willin, To help the unfortunate ones from their stooar; An if freely bestowed, be it pence, pound, or shillin, They shall nivver regret what they've given to th' poor. An if we all do what we can for our naybor, We shall sooin drive this bitter starvation away; Till th' time when gooid wages reward honest labor:— That's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way.

But theas trubbles an trials may yet prove a blessin, If when th' sun shines agean we all strive to mak hay; An be careful to waste nowt o' drinkin an dressin, But aght ov fair wages put summat away. When adversity's claad agean hangs o'er the nation, We can wait for th' return ov prosperity's ray; An noa mooar find awr land i' this sad situation:— That's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way.

An ther's one matter mooar, at aw cannot but mention, For it points aght a moral at shouldn't be missed; Can't yo see ha they use ivvery aid an invention, To grind daan yor wage when yo cannot resist. If yo strike, they dooant care, for yor foorced to knock under, Yor net able to live if they stop off yer pay; Will it bring workin men to ther senses aw wonder?— That's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way.

Some are lukkin for help from this chap or tother, An pinnin ther faith on pet parliament men; But to feight ther own battles finds them lots o' bother, An if help's what yo want yo mun luk to yorsen. If we're blessed wi gooid health, an have brains, booans, an muscle, An keep a brave heart, we shall yet win the fray; An be wiser an stronger for havin this tussle:— That's a nooation held then, an it holds to this day.

Stir thi Lass!

Come lassie be stirrin, for th' lark's up ith' lift, An th' dew drops are hastin away; An th' mist oth' hillside is beginnin to shift, An th' flaars have all wakkened for th' day. Tha promised to meet me beside this thorn tree, An darlin, thi sweet face awm langing to see; When tha arn't here ther's noa beauty for me; Soa stir thi lass, stir thi, Or else awst come for thi, For tha knows what tha tell'd me last neet tha wod be.

Come lassie be stirrin, awm here all alooan; Tha'rt sewerly net slumb'rin still; Th' lark's finished his tune an th' dewdrops have gooan, An th' mist's rolled away ovver th' hill. Net a wink have aw slept sin aw left thee last neet, Lukkin forrad to th' time when tha sed we should meet; But it's past, an mi sweetheart is still aght oth' seet; But its cappin, lass, cappin, 'At tha should be nappin, When tha knows what tha promised at th' end o' awr street.

Awm weary o' waitin, aw'll off to mi wark, Awst be bated a quarter,—that's flat;— If tha's nobbut been fooilin me just for a lark, Tha may find thi mistak when to lat. Aw wanted to mak thi mi wife, for aw thowt, Tha'd prove thisen just sich a mate as aw sowt; But it seems tha'rt a false-hearted, young gooid-for-nowt! But aw see thi, lass, see thi! God bless thi! forgie me! For tha'rt truer an fairer an dearer nor owt.

Tother Day.

As awm sittin enjoyin mi pipe, An tooastin mi shins beside th' hob, Aw find ther's a harvest quite ripe, O' thowts stoored away i' mi nob. An aw see things as plainly to-neet, 'At long years ago vanished away,— As if they'd but just left mi seet, Tother day.

Aw remember mi pranks when at schooil, When mischievous tricks kept me soa thrang; An mi maister declared me a fooil,— An maybe, he wor net soa far wrang. Ha mi lessons awd skip throo, or miss, To give me mooar chonces for play; An aw fancy aw went throo all this, Tother day.

Aw remember mi coortin days too,— What a felly aw fancied misen; An aw swore at mi sweetheart wor true,— For mi faith knew noa falterin then. Aw remember ha jealous an mad, Aw felt, when shoo turned me away, An left a poor heartbrokken lad, Tother day.

Aw remember when hung o' mi arm, To th' church went mi blushin' young bride; Ha aw glooated o'er ivvery charm, An swell'd like a frog i' mi pride. An th' world seem'd a fooitball to me, To kick when inclined for a play; An life wor a jolly gooid spree,— Tother day.

Aw remember mi day dreeams o' fame, An aw reckoned what wealth aw should win But alas! aw confess to mi shame,— Aw leeav offwhear aw thowt to begin, Mi chief joy is to dreeam o' what's pass'd, For mi future, one hope sheds its ray, An awm driftin along varry fast, To that day.

Happy Sam's Song.

Varry monny years ago, when this world wor rather young, A varry wicked sarpent, wi' a varry oily tongue, Whispered summat varry nowty into Mistress Adam's ear; An shoo pluckt a little apple 'at soa temptingly hung near. Then shoo ait this dainty fruit shoo'd been tell'd shoo mudn't touch, An shoo gave some to her husband, but it wornt varry much:— But sin that fatal day, he wor tell'd, soa it wor sed, 'At henceforth wi' a sweeaty broo, he'd have to earn his breead. An all awr lords an princes, an ladies great an grand, Have all sprung off that common stock a laborer i' the land; Soa aw think ther airs an graces are little but a sham, An aw wodn't change 'em places wi' hardworkin, Happy Sam.

Awm contented wi' mi share, Rough an ready tho' mi fare, An aw strive to do mi duty to mi naybor; If yo wonder who aw am, Well,—mi name is Happy Sam; Awm a member ov the multitude who labor.

When aw've worked throo morn to neet for a varry little brass, Yet a smilin welcome greets me from mi buxom, bonny lass; An two tiny little toddles come to meet me at mi door, An they think noa less ov daddy's kiss becoss that daddy's poor; An as aw sit to smook mi pipe, mi treasures on mi knee; Aw think ther's net a man alive 'at's hawf as rich as me; Aw wodn't change mi station wi' a king upon his throne, For ivvery joy araand me, honest labor's made mi own. An we owe noa man a penny 'at we're net prepared to pay, An we're tryin hard to save a bit agean a rainy day. Soa aw cry a fig for care! Awm contented as aw am,— An bless the fate 'at made me plain, hardworkin, Happy Sam.

Awm contented wi' mi share, Rough an ready tho' mi fare, An aw strive to do mi duty to mi naybor; If yo wonder who aw am, Well, mi name is Happy Sam, Awm a member ov the multitude who labor.

Gradely Weel off.

Draw thi cheer nigher th' foir, put th' knittin away, Put thi tooas up o'th' fender to warm: We've booath wrought enuff, aw should think, for a day, An a rest willn't do us mich harm. Awr lot's been a rough en, an tho' we've grown old, We shall have to toil on to its end; An altho' we can booast nawther silver nor gold, Yet we ne'er stood i'th' want ov a Friend.

Soa cheer up, old lass, Altho' we've grown grey, An we havn't mich brass, Still awr hearts can be gay: For we've health an contentment an soa we can say, 'At we're gradely weel off after all.

As aw coom ovver th' moor, a fine carriage went by, An th' young squire wor sittin inside; An wol makkin mi manners aw smothered a sigh, As for th' furst time aw saw his young bride. Shoo wor white as a sheet, an soa sickly an sad, Wol aw could'nt but pity his lot; Thinks aw, old an grey, yet awm richer to-day, For aw've health an content i' mi cot. Soa cheer up, old lass, &c.

Gie me th' pipe off o'th' hob, an aw'll tak an odd whiff, For aw raillee feel thankful to-neet; An altho' mi booans wark, an mi joints are all stiff, Yet awm able to keep mi heart leet. If we've had a fair share ov th' world's trubble an care, We mun nivver forget i' times past, Ther wor allus one Friend, His help ready to lend, An He'll nivver forsake us at last. Soa cheer up, old lass, &c.

Tho' we've noa pew at th' church, an we sit whear we can, An th' sarmon we dooant understand; An th' sarvice is all ov a new fangled plan, An th' mewsic's suppooased to be grand,— We can lift up awr hearts when we come hooam at neet, As we sing th' old psalms ovver agean; An tho' old crackt voices dooant saand varry sweet, He knows varry weel what we mean.

Soa cheer up, old lass, Altho' we've grown grey, An we havn't mich brass, Still awr hearts can be gay; For we've health an contentment, an soa we can say, 'At we're gradely weel off after all.

Is it Reight?

Awm noa radical, liberal nor toory, Awm a plain spokken, hard-workin man; Aw cooart nawther fame, wealth nor glory, But try to do th' best 'at aw can. But when them who hold lofty positions, Are unmindful of all but thersen,— An aw know under what hard conditions, Thaasands struggle to prove thersen men, It sets me a thinkin an thinkin, Ther's summat 'at wants setting reight; An wol th' wealthy all seem to be winkin, Leeavin poor fowk to wonder an wait,— Is it cappin to find one's hooap sickens? Or at workers should join in a strike? When they see at distress daily thickens, Till despairin turns into dislike? Is it strange they should feel discontented, An repine at ther comfortless lot, When they see lux'ry rife in the mansion, An starvation at th' door ov the cot? Is it reight 'at theas hard-handed workers Should wear aght ther life day bi day, An find 'at th' reward for ther labors Is ten per cent knockt off ther pay? But we're tell'd 'at we owt to be thankful If we've plenty to ait an to drink; An its sinful to question one's betters,— We wor sent here to work, net to think. Then lets try to appear quite contented, For this maathful o' summat to ait; Its for what us poor fowk wor invented,— But awm blowed if aw think at its reight.

A Yorksher Bite.

Bless all them bonny lasses, I' Yorksher born an bred! Ther beauty nooan surpasses, Complete i'th' heart an th' heead. An th' lads,—tho aw've seen monny lands, Ther equal aw ne'er met; For honest hearts an willin hands, They nivver can be bet. Aw nivver hold mi heead soa heigh, Or feel sich true delight, As when fowk point me aght an say, "Thear gooas a Yorksher Bite."

Lily's Gooan.

"Well, Robert! what's th' matter! nah mun, Aw see 'at ther's summat nooan sweet; Thi een luk as red as a sun— Aw saw that across th' width of a street; Aw hope 'at yor Lily's noa war— Surelee—th' little thing is'nt deead? Tha wod roor, aw think, if tha dar— What means ta bi shakin thi heead? Well, aw see bi thi sorrowful e'e At shoo's gooan, an' aw'm soory, but yet, When youngens like her hap ta dee, They miss troubles as some live to hit. Tha mun try an' put up wi' thi loss, Tha's been praad o' that child, aw mun say, But give over freatin, becoss It's for th' best if shoo's been taen away." "A'a! Daniel, it's easy for thee To talk soa, becoss th' loss is'nt thine; But its ommost deeath-blow to me, Shoo wor prized moor nor owt else 'at's mine; An' when aw bethink me shoo's gooan, Mi feelins noa mortal can tell; Mi heart sinks wi' th' weight ov a stooan, An' aw'm capped 'at aw'm livin mysel. Aw shall think on it wor aw to live To be th' age o' Methusla or moor; Tho' shoo said 'at aw had'nt to grieve, We should booath meet agean, shoo wor sure: An' when shoo'd been dreamin one day, Shoo said shoo could hear th' angels call; But shoo could'nt for th' life goa away Till they call'd for her daddy an' all. An' as sooin as aw coom thro' my wark, Shoo'd ha' me to sit bi her bed; An' thear aw've watched haars i'th' dark, An' listened to all 'at shoo's said; Shoo's repeated all th' pieces shoo's learnt, When shoo's been ov a Sundy to th' schooil, An ax'd me what dift'rent things meant, Woll aw felt aw wor nobbut a fooill An' when aw've been gloomy an' sad, Shoo's smiled an' taen hold o' mi hand, An whispered, 'yo munnot freat, dad; Aw'm gooin to a happier land; An' aw'll tell Jesus when aw get thear, 'At aw've left yo here waitin his call; An' He'll find yo a place, niver fear, For ther's room up i' heaven for all.' An' this mornin, when watchin th' sun rise, Shoo said, 'daddy, come nearer to me, Thers a mist comin ovver mi eyes, An' aw find at aw hardly can see.— Gooid bye!—kiss yor Lily agean,— Let me pillow mi heead o' yor breast! Aw feel now aw'm freed thro' mi pain; Then Lily shoo went to her rest."

What aw Want.

Gie me a little humble cot, A bit o' garden graand, Set in some quiet an' sheltered spot, Wi' hills an' trees all raand;

An' if besides mi hooam ther flows A little mumuring rill, At sings sweet music as it gooas, Awst like it better still.

Gie me a wife 'at loves me weel, An' childer two or three, Wi' health to sweeten ivery meal, An' hearts brimful o' glee.

Gie me a chonce, wi' honest toil Mi efforts to engage, Gie me a maister who can smile When forkin aght mi wage.

Gie me a friend 'at aw can trust, 'An tell mi secrets to; One tender-hearted, firm an' just, Who sticks to what is true.

Gie me a pipe to smook at neet, A pint o' hooam-brew'd ale, A faithful dog 'at runs to meet Me wi a waggin tail.

A cat to purr o'th' fender rims, To freeten th' mice away; A cosy bed to rest mi limbs Throo neet to commin day.

Gie me all this, an' aw shall be Content, withaat a daat, But if denied, then let me be Content to live withaat.

For 'tisn't th' wealth one may possess Can purchase pleasures true; For he's th' best chonce o' happiness, Whose wants are small an' few.

Latter Wit.

Awm sittin o' that old stooan seeat, Wheear last aw set wi' thee; It seems long years sin' last we met, Awm sure it must be three.

Awm wond'rin what aw sed or did, Or what aw left undone: 'At made thi hook it, an' get wed, To one tha used to shun.

Aw dooant say awm a handsom chap, Becoss aw know awm net; But if aw wor 'ith' mind to change, He isn't th' chap, aw'll bet.

Awm net a scoller, but aw know A long chawk moor ner him; It couldn't be his knowledge box 'At made thi change thi whim.

He doesn't haddle as mich brass As aw do ivery wick: An' if he gets a gradely shop, It's seldom he can stick.

An' then agean,—he goes on th' rant; Nah, that aw niver do;— Aw allus mark misen content, Wi' an odd pint or two.

His brother is a lazy lout,— His sister's nooan too gooid,— Ther's net a daycent 'en ith' bunch,— Vice seems to run ith' blooid.

An yet th'art happy,—soa they say, That caps me moor ner owt! Tha taks a deal less suitin, lass, Nor iver awst ha' thowt.

Aw saw yo walkin aat one neet, Befoor yo'd getten wed; Aw guess'd what he wor tawkin, tho Aw dooant know what he sed.

But he'd his arm araand thi waist, An tho' thi face wor hid, Aw'll swear aw saw him kuss thi:— That's what aw niver did.

Aw thowt tha'd order him away, An' mak a fearful row, But tha niver tuk noa nooatice, Just as if tha didn't know.

Awm hawf inclined to think sometimes, Aw've been a trifle soft, Aw happen should a' dun't misen? Aw've lang'd to do it oft.

Thar't lost to me, but if a chonce Should turn up by-an-by, If aw get seck'd aw'll bet me booits, That isn't t'reason why.

A Millionaire.

Aw wodn't gie a penny piece To be a millionaire, For him 'at's little cattle, is The chap wi' little care. Jewels may flash o'er achin broos, An silken robes may hide Bosoms all fair to look upon, Whear braikin hearts abide.

Gie me enuff for daily needs, An just a bit to spend; Enuff to pay mi honest way, An help a strugglin friend. Aw'll be contented it aw keep The wolf from off mi door; Aw'll envy nubdy o' ther brass, An nivver dream awm poor.

Dewdrops 'at shine i'th' early morn Are diamons for me. An jewels glint i' ivvery tint, On th' hill or daan i'th' lea. My sweet musicianers are burds At tune their joyous lay, Araand mi cottage winder, An nivver strike for pay.

Aw lang for noa fine carriages To drag me raand about! Shanks galloway my purpose fits Far better, beyond daat. An when at times aw weary grow, An fain wod have a rest; Aw toddle hooam an goa to bed,— That allus answers best.

"Insomnia;" ne'er bothers me,— It's tother way abaght; Aw sleep throo tummelin into bed, Wol th' time to tummel aght. Aw nivver want a "pick-me-up," To tempt mi appetite; Aw ait what's set anent me, An aw relish ivvery bite.

What pleasure has a millionaire 'At aw've net one to match? Awd show 'em awm best off o'th' two, If they'd come up to th' scratch. Ov one thing aw feel sartin sewer, They've mooar nor me to bear; Yo bet! its net all "Lavender," To be a millionaire.

Mi Fayther's Pipe.

AW'VE a treasure yo'd laff if yo saw, But its mem'ries are dear to mi heart; For aw've oft seen it stuck in a jaw, Whear it seem'd to form ommost a part. Its net worth a hawpny, aw know, But its given mooar pleasure maybe, Nor some things at mak far mooar show, An yo can't guess its vally to me.

Mi fayther wor fond ov his pipe, An this wor his favorite clay; An if mi ideas wor ripe, Awd enshrine it ith' folds ov a lay; But words allus fail to express What aw think when aw see its old face; For aw know th' world holds one friend the less, An mi hearth has one mooar vacant place.

Ov trubbles his life had its share, But he kept all his griefs to hissen; Tho aw've oft seen his brow knit wi care, Wol he tried to crack jooaks nah an then. But one comfort he'd ivver i' stooar, An he'd creep to his favorite nook, An seizin his old pipe once mooar, All his trubbles would vanish i' smook.

If his fare should be roughish or scant, He nivver repined at his lot; He seem'd to have all he could want, If he knew he'd some bacca ith' pot. An he'd fill up this little black clay, An as th' reek curled away o'er his heead, Ivvery trace ov his sorrow gave way, An a smile used to dwell thear asteead.

He grew waiker as years rolled along, An his e'eseet an hearin gave way; An his limbs at had once been soa strong, Grew shakier day after day. Yet his heart nivver seem'd to grow old, Tho life's harvest had long been past ripe For his ailments wor allus consoled, When he'd getten a whiff ov his pipe,

Aw'll keep it as long as aw can, For its all aw've been able to save, To bind mi heart still to th' old man, At's moulderin away in his grave. He'd noa strikin virtues to booast, Noa vices for th' world to condemn; To be upright an honest an just, In his lifetime he ne'er forgate them,

As a fayther, kind, patient and true, His mem'ry will allus be dear; For he acted soa far as he knew, For th' best to all th' fowk he coom near. An aw ne'er see this blackened old clay, But aw find mi een dimmed wi a tear; An aw ne'er put th' old relic away But aw wish mi old fayther wor here.

Let th' Lasses Alooan!

What a lot ov advice ther is wasted;— What praichin is all thrown away;— Young fowk lang for pleasures untasted, An its little they'll heed what yo say. Old fowk may have wisdom i' plenty, But they're apt to forget just one thing; What suits sixty will hardly fit twenty, An youth ivver will have its fling.

__________

Old Jenny sat silently freeatin,— Sed Alec, "Pray lass, what's to do?" But his old wife went on wi her knittin, As if shoo'd a task to get throo. Then shoo tuk off her specs, and sed sadly, "Awm capt ha blind some fowk can be; Ther's reason for me lukkin badly, But nowt maks a difference to thee."

Ther's awr Reuben, he's hardly turned twenty, An awr Jim isn't nineteen wol May;— Aw provide for em gooid things i plenty, An ne'er a wrang word to em say; But they've noa sooiner swoller'd ther drinkin, Nor they're don'd, an away off they've gooan, An awm feared,—for aw connot help thinkin, At they dunnot let th' lasses alooan.

Ther's that forrad young hussy, Sal Sankey, Awm thankful shoo's noa child o' mine:— When awr Reuben's abaat shoo's fair cranky;— An shoo's don'd like some grand lady fine. An Reuben's soa soft he can't see it, An aw mud as weel praich to a stooan, He does nowt but grin when aw tell him, To mind, an let th' lasses alooan.

Awr Jim follers Reuben's example, He hasn't a morsel o' wit! An yond lass o' Braans,—shoo's a sample Ov a gigglin, young impitent chit. An he'd cheek to tell me shoo wor bonny,— One like her!!—Why, shoo's just skin an booan Awd have better nor her if awd onny, But he'd better let th' lasses alooan.

"All th' four went to th' meetin last Sundy,— Aw dursn't think what they'll do next; An ther worrit one on em at Mundy Could tell what th' chap tuk for his text. Tha may laff, like a child at a bubble, But thi laff may yet end in a grooan; For they're sartin to get into trubble, If they dunnot lei th' lasses alooan."

"Aw connot help laffin, old beauty! Tho' aw know at tha meeans to do reight; Tha's nivver neglected thi duty, An tha's kept thi lads honest an straight. Just think ha ther father behaved when He met thee i'th' days at are gooan; Tha knows ha aw beg'd, an aw slaved, then To win th' lass at aw ne'er let alooan."

"Aw've nivver regretted that mornin, When aw made thi mi bonny young bride, An although we're nah past life's turnin, We still jog along, side bi side. We've shared i' booath pleasures an bothers, An ther's noa reason why we should mooan; An its folly to try to stop others, For lads willn't let th' lasses alooan,"

A Breet Prospect.

As aw passed Wit'orth chapel 'twor just five o'clock, Aw'd mi can full o' teah, an a bundle o' jock; An aw thowt th' bit o' bacca aw puffed on mi way Wor sweeter nor ivver aw'd known it that day. An th' burds sang soa sweetly, An th' sun shone soa breetly, An th' trees lukt soa green;—it wor th' furst day i' May.

Aw wor lazy that mornin, an could'nt help thinkin, As aw'd getten booath braikfast, an dinner, an drinkin, An bacca, an matches,—'at just a odd day For a stroll, could'nt braik monny squares onnyway, But it tuk me noa little, To screw up mi mettle, For if th' wife gate to know aw'd a guess what shoo'd say.

Soa aw thowt aw'll let wark goa to pot for a bit, Its net once i'th' year 'at aw get sich a treeat; But aw'll have a day aght just bi th' way ov a change, For aw've moped i' yond miln wol aw raylee feel strange: For mi heead's full o'th' whirlin, O'th' twistin an twirlin;— Mun aw'm feeard aw'st goa crackt if aw've nivver a change.

Then aw thowt o' mi wife an mi childer at hooam, An says aw, aw shall loise a day's wage if aw rooam; Green fields an wild flaars wor ne'er meant for me, Aw mun tew ivvery day wol mi time comes to dee; An then fowk 'll mutter, As aw'm tossed into th' gutter, "It's nobbut a wayver;—oh, fiddle-de-dee!"

Missin Yor Way.

It wor dark an mi way wor across a wild mooar, An noa signs could aw find ov a track, 'Twor a place whear aw nivver had rambled befooar; An aw eearnestly wished misen back. As aw went on an on mooar uneven it grew, An farther mi feet seem'd to stray, When a chap made me start, as he shaated "Halloa! Maister, yor missin yor way!"

Wi' his help aw contrived to land safely back hooam, An aw thowt as o'th' hearthstun aw set, What a blessin 'twod be if when other fowk rooam, They should meet sich a friend as aw'd met. An aw sat daan to write just theas words ov advice, Soa read 'em young Yorksher fowk, pray; An aw'st think for mi trubble aw'm paid a rare price, If aw've saved one throo missin ther way.

Yo lads 'at's but latly begun to wear hats, An fancy yor varry big men; Yo may fancy yor sharps when yor nowt nobbut flats,— Be advised an tak care o' yorsen. Shun that gin palace door as yo'd shun a wild beast, Nivver heed what yor comrades may say, Tho' they call yo a fooil, an they mak yo ther jest, Stand stedfast,—they're missin ther way.

Shun them lasses, (God help 'em!) 'at wander throo th' streets, An cut sich a dash an a swell,— Who simper an smirk at each chap 'at they meet, Flingin baits to drag victims to Hell. They may laff, they may shaat, they may join in a dance, They may spooart ther fine clooas an seem gay; But ther's sorrow within,—yo may see at a glance,— Poor crayturs! they're missin ther way.

Luk at yond,—but a child,—what's shoo dooin thear? Shoo sewerly is innocent yet? Her face isn't brazen,—an see, ther's a tear In her ee an her checks are booath wet, They are tears ov despair, for altho' shoo's soa young, Shoo has sunk deep i' sin to obtain Fine feathers an trinkets, an nah her heart's wrung Wi' remorse, an shoo weeps wi' her pain.

But shoo's gooin away,—let us follo an see Whear her journey soa hurried can tend; Some danger it may be shoo's tryin to flee, Or maybe shoo's i' search ov a friend. Her hooam, once soa happy, shoo durs'nt goa thear, For shoo's fill'd it wi' sorrow an grief; An shoo turns her een upward, as if wi' a fear, Even Heaven can give noa relief.

Nah shoo's takken a turn, an we've lost her,—but Hark! What's that cry? It's a cry o' distress! An o'th' bridge we discover when gropin i'th' dark, A crushed bonnet, a mantle an dress. An thear shines the river, soa quiet an still, O'er its bed soa uncertain an deep; Can it be? sich a thowt maks one's blooid to run chill,— Has that lass gooan for ivver to sleep?

Alas! soa it is. For shoo's takken a bound, An rashly Life's river shoo's crost; An th' wind seems to whisper wi' sorrowful sound, "Lost,—lost,—another one lost!" O, lads, an O, lasses! tak warnin i' time, Shun theas traps set bi Satan, whose bait May seem temptin; beware! they're but first steps to crime, Act to-day,—lest to-morrow's too late.

Heather Bells.

Ye little flowrets, wild an free, Yo're welcome, aye as onny! Ther's but few seets 'at meet mi ee 'At ivver seem as bonny. Th' furst gift 'at Lizzie gave to me, Wor a bunch o' bloomin heather, Shoo pluckt it off o'th' edge o'th' lea, Whear we'd been set together.

An when shoo put it i' mi hand, A silent tear wor wellin Within her ee;—it fell to th' graand, A doleful stooary tellin. "It is a little gift," shoo sed, "An sooin will fade an wither, Yet, still, befooar its bloom is shed, We two mun pairt for ivver."

I tried to cheer her trubbled mind, Wi' tender words endearin; An raand her neck mi arms entwined, But grief her breast wor tearin. "Why should mi parents sell for gold, Ther dowter's life-long pleasure? Noa charm 'at riches can unfold, Can match a true love's treasure."

"But still, aw mun obey ther will,— It isn't reight to thwart it; But mi heart's love clings to thee still, An nowt but deeath can part it, Forgie me if aw cause a pang,— Aw'll love thee as a brother,— Mi heart is thine, an oh! its wrang, Mi hand to give another."

"Think on me when theas fields grow bare, An cold winds kill the flowers, Ov bitterness they have a share; Their lot is like to awrs. An if aw'm doomed to pine away, Wi' pleasure's cup untasted, Just drop a tear aboon the clay, 'At hides a young life wasted."