Front matter (continued 2)

What wod aw give could aw once agean be, Innocent, spotless an trustin as thee; May noa grief give thee occasion to weep, Blessins attend thee!—Sleep, beauty, sleep. Sleep little beauty, Angels thee keep, Grondad is watchin, Sleep, beauty, sleep.

Sixty, Turned, To-day.

Aw'm turned o' sixty, nah, old lass, Yet weel aw mind the time, When like a young horse turned to grass, Aw gloried i' mi prime. Aw'st ne'er forget that bonny face 'At stole mi heart away; Tho' years have hurried on apace:— Aw'm sixty, turned, to-day.

We had some jolly pranks an gams, E'en fifty year ago, When sportive as a pair o' lambs, We nivver dreeamed ov woe. When ivvery morn we left us bed, Wi' spirits leet an gay,— But nah, old lass, those days have fled:— Aw'm sixty, turned, to-day.

Yet we've noa reason to repine, Or luk back wi' regret; Those youthful days ov thine an mine, Live sweet in mem'ry yet. Thy winnin smile aw still can see, An tho' thi hair's turned grey; Tha'rt still as sweet an dear to me, Tho' sixty, turned, to-day.

We've troubles had, an sickness too, But then in spite ov all, We've somha managed to pool throo, Whativver might befall. Awr pleasurs far outweighed the pain We've met along life's way; An losses past aw caant as gain,— When sixty, turned, to-day.

Awr childer nah are wed an gooan, To mak hooams for thersels; But we shall nivver feel alooan, Wol love within us dwells. We're drawin near awr journey's end, We can't much longer stay; Yet still awr hearts together blend, Tho' sixty, turned, to-day.

Then let us humbly bow the knee, To Him, whose wondrous love, Has helpt an guided thee an me, On th' pathway to above. His mercies we will ne'er forget, Then let us praise an pray, To Him whose wings protect us yet; Tho' sixty, turned, to-day.

That Lad Next Door.

Aw've nowt agean mi naybors, An aw wod'nt have it sed 'At aw wor cross an twazzy, For aw'm kind an mild asteead. But ther's an end to patience, E'en Job knew that aw'm sewer;— An he nivver had noa dealins Wi' that lad 'at lives next door.

It wod'nt do to tell 'em What aw think abaat that lad, One thing aw'm sarten sewer on, Is, he's ivverything 'at's bad. He's nivver aght o' mischief, An he nivver stops his din,— He's noa sooiner aght o' one scrape, Nor he's another in.

If he wor mine aw'd thresh him, Wol th' skin coom off his back; Aw'd cure him teein door-snecks, Then givin th' door a whack. Aw'd leearn him to draw th' shape o' me Wi' chalk on th' nessy door, An mak mud pies o' awr front steps An leeav 'em thear bi th' scooar.

He's been a trifle quieter For this last day or two; He's up to some new devilment,— Aw dooant know what he'll do. But here's his father comin, He's lukkin awful sad,— Noa wonder,—aw'st be sad enuff If aw had sich a lad.

Aw nivver thowt 'at aw could feel Sich sorrow, or should grieve, But little Dick is varry sick, They dunnot think he'll live. Aw'd nivver nowt agean him! Aw liked that lad aw'm sure! Pray God, be merciful, an spare That lad 'at lives next door.

A Summer Shaar.

It nobbut luks like tother day, Sin Jane an me first met; Yet fifty years have rolled away, But still aw dooant forget. Th' Sundy schooil wor ovver, An th' rain wor teemin daan An shoo had nowt to cover Her Sundy hat an gaan. Aw had an umberella, Quite big enuff for two, Soa aw made bold to tell her, Shoo'd be sewer to get weet throo, Unless shoo'd share it wi' me. Shoo blushed an sed, "Nay, Ben, If they should see me wi' thi, What wod yo're fowk say then?" "Ne'er heed," says aw, "Tha need'nt care What other fowk may say; Ther's room for me an some to spare, Soa let's start on us way." Shoo tuk mi arm wi' modest grace, We booath felt rayther shy; But then aw'm sewer 'twor noa disgrace, To keep her new clooas dry. Aw tried to tawk on different things, But ivvery thowt aw'd had, Seem'd to ha flown as if they'd wings, An left me speechless mad. But when we gate cloise to her door, Aw stopt an whispered, "Jane, Aw'd like to walk wi' thee some moor, When it doesn't chonce to rain." Shoo smiled an blushed an sed, "For shame!" But aw tuk courage then. Aw cared net if all th' world should blame, Aw meant to pleas misen, For shoo wor th' grandest lass i'th' schooil An th' best,—noa matter what;— Aw should ha been a sackless fooil, To miss a chonce like that. Soa oft we met to stroll an tawk, Noa matter, rain or shine; An one neet as we tuk a walk, Aw ax't her to be mine. Shoo gave consent, an sooin we wed:— Sin' then we've had full share Ov rough an smooth, yet still we've led A life ov little care. An monny a time aw say to Jane, If things luk dull an bad;— Cheer up! tha knows we owe to th' rain All th' joys o' life we've had.

Awr Lad.

Beautiful babby! Beautiful lad! Pride o' thi mother and joy o' thi dad! Full ov sly tricks an sweet winnin ways;— Two cherry lips whear a smile ivver plays; Two little een ov heavenly blue,— Wonderinly starin at ivverything new, Two little cheeks like leaves of a rooas,— An planted between em a wee little nooas. A chin wi' a dimple 'at tempts one to kiss;— Nivver wor bonnier babby nor this. Two little hands 'at are seldom at rest,— Except when asleep in thy snug little nest. Two little feet 'at are kickin all day, Up an daan, in an aght, like two kittens at play. Welcome as dewdrops 'at freshen the flaars, Soa has thy commin cheered this life ov awrs. What tha may come to noa mortal can tell;— We hooap an we pray 'at all may be well. We've other young taistrels, one, two an three, But net one ith' bunch is moor welcome nor thee. Sometimes we are tempted to grummel an freeat, Becoss we goa short ov what other fowk get. Poverty sometimes we have as a guest, But tha needn't fear, tha shall share ov the best. What are fowks' riches to mother an me? All they have wodn't buy sich a babby as thee. Aw wor warned i' mi young days 'at weddin browt woe, 'At labor an worry wod keep a chap low,— 'At love aght o' th' winder wod varry sooin flee, When poverty coom in at th' door,—but aw see Old fowk an old sayins sometimes miss ther mark, For love shines aght breetest when all raand is dark. Ther's monny a nobleman, wed an hawf wild, 'At wod give hawf his fortun to have sich a child. Then why should we envy his wealth an his lands, Tho' sarvents attend to obey his commands? For we have the treasures noa riches can buy, An aw think we can keep 'em,—at leeast we can try; An if it should pleeas Him who orders all things, To call yo away to rest under His wings,— Tho' to part wod be hard, yet this comfort is giv'n, We shall know 'at awr treasures are safe up i' Heaven, Whear no moth an noa rust can corrupt or destroy, Nor thieves can braik in, nor troubles annoy. Blessins on thi! wee thing,—an whativver thi lot, Tha'rt promised a mansion, tho' born in a cot, What fate is befoor thi noa mortal can see, But Christ coom to call just sich childer as thee. An this thowt oft cheers me, tho' fortun may fraan, Tha may yet be a jewel to shine in His craan.

Bonny Mary Ann.

When but a little toddlin thing, I'th' heather sweet shoo'd play, An like a fay on truant wing, Shoo'd rammel far away; An even butterflees wod come Her lovely face to scan, An th' burds wod sing ther sweetest song, For bonny Mary Ann.

Shoo didn't fade as years flew by, But added day bi day, Some little touch ov witchery,— Some little winnin way. Her lovely limbs an angel face, To paint noa mortal can; Shoo seemed possessed ov ivvery grace, Did bonny Mary Ann.

To win her wod be heaven indeed, Soa off aw went to woo; Mi tale o' love shoo didn't heed, Altho' mi heart spake too. Aw axt, "what wants ta, onnyway?" Shoo sed, "aw want a man," Then laffin gay, shoo tript away,— Mi bonny Mary Ann.

Thinks aw, well, aw'll be man enough To leeav thi to thisen, Some day tha'll net be quite as chuff, Aw'll wait an try thi then. 'Twor hard,—it ommost braik mi heart To carry aght mi plan; But honestly aw played mi part, An lost mi Mary Ann.

For nah shoo's wed an lost yo see, But oh! revenge is sweet; Her husband's less bi th' hawf nor me, His face is like a freet; An what enticed her aw must own, To guess noa mortal can; For what it is, is nobbut known,— To him an Mary Ann.

That Christmas Puddin.

Ha weel aw remember that big Christmas puddin, That puddin mooast famous ov all in a year; When each lad at th' table mud stuff all he could in, An ne'er have a word ov refusal to fear. Ha its raand speckled face, craand wi' sprigs o' green holly Seem'd sweeatin wi' juices ov currans an plums; An its fat cheeks made ivvery one laff an feel jolly, For it seem'd like a meetin ov long parted chums, That big Christmas pudding,—That rich steamin puddin,— That scrumptious plum puddin, mi mother had made.

Ther wor father an mother,—awr Hannah an Mary, Uncle Tom an ont Nancy, an smart cussin Jim; An Jim's sister Kitty, as sweet as a fairy,— An Sam wi' his fiddle,—we couldn't spare him. We'd rooast beef an mutton, a gooise full o' stuffin, Boil'd turnips an taties, an moor o' sich kind; An fooamin hooam brewed,—why,—aw think we'd enuff in, To sail a big ship if we'd been soa inclined. An then we'd that puddin—That thumpin big puddin— That rich Christmas puddin, mi mother had made.

Sam sat next to Mary an Jim tuk awr Hannah, An Kitty ov coorse had to sit next to me,— An th' stuff wor sooin meltin away in a manner, 'At mi mother declared 't wor a pleasur to see. They wor nowt could be mended, we sed when it ended, An all seem'd as happy as happy could be; An aw've nivver repented, for Kitty consented, An shoo's still breet an bonny an a gooid wife to me. An aw think o' that puddin,—That fateful plum puddin,— That match makkin puddin mi mother had made.

A Bad Sooart.

Aw'd rayther face a redwut brick, Sent flyin at mi heead; Aw'd rayther track a madman's steps, Whearivver they may leead; Aw'd rayther ventur in a den, An stail a lion's cub; Aw'd rayther risk the foamin wave In an old leaky tub. Aw'd rayther stand i'th' midst o'th' fray, Whear bullets thickest shower; Nor trust a mean, black hearted man, At's th' luck to be i' power.

A redwut brick may miss its mark, A madman change his whim; A lion may forgive a theft; A leaky tub may swim. Bullets may pass yo harmless by, An leeav all safe at last; A thaasand thunders shake the sky, An spare yo when they've past. Yo may o'ercome mooast fell disease; Mak poverty yo're friend; But wi' a mean, blackhearted man, Noa mortal can contend.

Ther's malice in his kindest smile, His proffered hand's a snare; He's plannin deepest villany, When seemingly mooast fair. He leads yo on wi' oily tongue, Swears he's yo're fastest friend; He get's yo once within his coils, An crushes yo i'th' end. Old Nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin aght, An seeks whom to devour; But he's a saint, compared to some, 'At's th' luk to be i' power.

Fairly Weel-off.

Ov whooalsum food aw get mi fill,— Ov drink aw seldom want a gill; Aw've clooas to shield me free throo harm, Should winds be cold or th' sun be warm.

Aw rarely have a sickly spell,— Mi appetite aw'm fain to tell Ne'er plays noa scurvy tricks on me, Nowt ivver seems to disagree.

Aw've wark, as mich as aw can do,— Sometimes aw laik a day or two,— Mi wage is nobbut small, but yet, Aw manage to keep aght o' debt.

Mi wife, God bless her! ivvery neet Has slippers warmin for mi feet; An th' hearthstun cleean, an th' drinkin laid, An th' teah's brew'd an th' tooast is made.

An th' childer weshed, an fairly dressed, Wi' health an happiness are blest; An th' youngest, tho' aw say't misen, Is th' grandest babby ivver seen.

Aw've friends, tho' humble like misen, They're gradely, upright, workin-men, They're nooan baght brains oth' sooart they're on;— They do what's reight as near's they con.

Aw tak small stock i' politics, For lib'ral shams an tooary tricks, Have made me daat 'em one an all;— Ther words are big, but deeds are small.

Aw goa to th' chapil, yet confess Aw'm somewhat daatful, moor or less, For th' chaps at cracks up gloory soa, Ne'er seem in onny haste to goa.

To me, religion seems quite plain;— Aw cause noa fellow-mortal pain, Aw do a kind act when aw can, An hooap to dee an honest man.

Aw hooap to live till old an gray, An when th' time comes to goa away, Aw feel convinced some place ther'll be, Just fit for sich a chap as me.

Green fields, an trees, an brooks, an flaars, Are treasures we can all call awrs, An when hooam is earth's fairest spot One should be thankful for his lot.

Aw'm nooan contented,—nay, net aw! Aw nivver con be tho' aw try; But aw enjoy th' gooid things aw have, An if aw for moor blessins crave, It's more for th' sake o'th' wife an bairns, To spare them my life's ups an daans.

Well, yo may laff, an sneerin say, Aw'm praad an selfish i' mi way;— Maybe aw am,—but yo'll agree, Ther's few fowk better off nor me.

A Warnin.

A'a dear, what it is to be big! To be big i' one's own estimation, To think if we shake a lawse leg, 'At th' world feels a tremblin sensation. To fancy 'at th' nook 'at we fill, Wod be empty if we worn't in it, 'At th' universe wheels wod stand still, If we should neglect things a minnit.

To be able to tell all we meet, Just what they should do or leeav undone; To be crammed full o' wisdom an wit, Like a college professor throo Lundun. To show statesmen ther faults an mistaks,— To show whear philosifers blunder; To prove parsons an doctors all quacks, An strike men o' science wi' wonder.

But aw've nooaticed, theas varry big men, 'At strut along th' streets like a bantam, Nivver do mich 'at meeans owt thersen, For they're seldom at hand when yo want 'em. At ther hooam, if yo chonce to call in, Yo may find 'em booath humble an civil, Wol th' wife tries to draand th' childer's din, Bi yellin an raisin the devil.

A'a dear, what it is to be big! But a chap 'at's a fooil needn't show it, For th' rest o'th' world cares net a fig, An a thaasand to one doesn't know it. Consait, aw have often heeard say, Is war for a chap nor consumption, An aw'll back a plain chap onny day, To succeed, if he's nobbut some gumpshun.

My advice to young fowk is to try To grow honestly better an wiser; An yo'll find yor reward by-an-by,— True merit's its own advertiser. False colors yo'll seldom find fast, An a mak-believe is but a bubble, It's sure to get brussen at last, An contempt's all yo'll get for yor trouble.

To W. F. Wallett. The Queen's Jester. Born at Hull, November, 1806. Died at Beeston, near Nottingham, March 13th, 1892.

Wallett, old friend! Thy way's been long;— Few livin can luk farther back; But tha has left, bi jest an song, A sunny gleam along thy track. Aw'm nursin nah, mi childer's bairns, Yet aw remember when a lad, Sittin an listnin to thy yarns, An thank thi nah, for th' joys aw had.

Full monny a lesson, quaintly towt, Wi' witty phrase, sticks to me still; Nor can aw call to mind ther's owt Tha sed or did, to work me ill! Noa laff tha raised do aw regret,— Wit mixed wi' wisdom wor thy plan, Which had aw heeded, aw admit, Aw should ha been a better man.

Aw'd like to meet thee once agean, An clink awr glasses as of yore, An hear thi rail at all things meean, An praise an cheer the honest poor. Aw'd like to hear th' owd stooaries towld, 'At nobbut tha knows ha to tell;— Unlike thisen they ne'er grow old;— A'a dear! Aw'm growin owd misel.

We'st miss thee, Wallett, when tha goas, (May that sad time be far away; For when tha doffs thi motley clooas, An pays that debt we all mun pay,) We'st feel ther's one link less to bind, Us to this 'vain an fleetin show,' An we'st net tarry long behind,— We may goa furst for owt we know.

Well,—if noa moor aw clasp thi hand,— Noa moor enjoy thy social chat,— Aw send thi from this distant land, True friendship's greetin,—This is that. May ivvery comfort earth can give, Be thine henceforward to the end, An tho' the sea divides, believe Ther's one who's proud to call thee friend.

Lads an Lasses.

Lads an lasses lend yor ears Unto an old man's rhyme, Dooant hurry by an say wi' sneers, It's all a waste o' time. Some little wisdom yo may gain, Some trewth yo'll ne'er forget: Soa blame me net for spaikin plain, Yo'll find it's better net.

For yo, life's journey may be long, Or it may end to-day; Deeath gethers in the young an strong, Along wi' th' old an gray. Then nivver do an unkind thing, Which yo will sure regret, Nor utter words 'at leeav a sting,— Yo'll find it's better net.

If yo've a duty to get throo, Goa at it with a will, Dooant shirk it 'coss it's hard to do, That mak's it harder still. Dooant think to-morn is time enuff For what to-day is set, Nor trust to others for ther help, Yo'll find it's better net.

If little wealth falls to yor share, Try nivver to repine; But struggle on wi' thrift an' care,— Some day the sun will shine. It's better to be livin poor, Than running into debt, An bavin duns coom to yor door;— Yo'll find it's better net.

When tempted bi some jolly friend, To join him in a spree, Remember sich things sometimes end I' pain an misery. Be firm an let temptations pass As if they'd ne'er been met, An nivver drain the sparklin glass;— Yo'll find it's better net.

Mak trewth an honesty yor guide, Tho' some may laff an rail, Fear net, whativver ills betide, At last yo must prevail. Contented wi' yor portion be Nor let yor heart be set, On things below 'at fade an dee,— Yo'll find it's better net.

A New Year's Gift.

A little lad,—bare wor his feet, His 'een wor swell'd an red, Wor sleepin, one wild New Year's neet,— A cold doorstep his bed. His little curls wor drippin weet, His clooas wor thin an old, His face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,— His limbs wor numb wi' cold.

Th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street, An snowflakes whirled abaat,— It wor a sorry sooart o' neet, For poor souls to be aght. 'Twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin, Could shine throo sich a storm;— Unless some succour turns up sooin, God help that freezin form!

A carriage stops at th' varry haase,— A sarvent oppens th' door; A lady wi' a pale sad face, Steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor. Her 'een fell on that huddled form, Shoo gives a startled cry; Then has him carried aght o'th' storm, To whear its warm an dry.

Shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands, An monny a tear shoo shed; For shoo'd once had a darlin lad But he, alas! wor dead. This little waif seemed sent to cheer, An fill her darlin's place; An to her heart shoo prest him near, An kissed his little face.

Matty's Reason.

"Nah, Matty! what meeans all this fuss? Tha'rt as back'ard as back'ard can be; Ther must be some reason, becoss It used to be diff'rent wi' thee.

Aw've nooaticed, 'at allus befoor If aw kussed thi, tha smiled an lukt fain; Ther's summat nooan reight, lass, aw'm sewer, Tha seems i' soa gloomy a vein.

If tha's met wi' a hansomer chap, Aw'm sewer aw'll net stand i' thi way; But tha mud get a war, lass, bi th' swap,— If tha'rt anxious aw'll nivver say nay.

But tha knows 'at for monny a wick Aw've been savin mi brass to get wed; An aw'd meant thee gooin wi' me to pick Aght some chairs an a table an bed.

Aw offer'd mi hand an mi heart; An tha seemed to be fain to ha booath; But if its thi wish we should part, To beg on thi, nah, aw'd be looath.

An th' warst wish aw wish even yet,— Is tha'll nivver get treeated soa meean;— Gooid neet, Matty lass, nivver freeat, Tha'll kuss me when aw ax thi agean."

"Nah, Jimmy lad, try to be cooil,— Mi excuse tha may think is a funny en; Aw've nowt agean thee, jaylus fooil, But thi breeath savoors strongly o' oonion." Wi' wonderin 'een he luk't abaat, Dazzled wi' th' blaze o' leet, Then drooped his heead, reight wearied aght Wi' cold an wind an weet. Then tenderly shoo tuckt him in A little cosy bed, An kissed once moor his cheek soa thin, An stroked his curly head.

Noa owner coom to claim her prize, Tho' mich shoo feear'd ther wod, It seem'd a blessin dropt throo th' skies A New Year's gift throo God. An happiness nah fills her heart, 'At wor wi' sorrow cleft; Noa wealth could tempt her nah to part, Wi' her Heaven sent New Year's gift. A New Year's Gift.

A little lad,—bare wor his feet, His 'een wor swell'd an red, Wor sleepin, one wild New Year's neet,— A cold doorstep his bed. His little curls wor drippin weet, His clooas wor thin an old, His face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,— His limbs wor numb wi' cold.

Th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street, An snowflakes whirled abaat,— It wor a sorry sooart o' neet, For poor souls to be aght. 'Twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin, Could shine throo sich a storm;— Unless some succour turns up sooin, God help that freezin form!

A carriage stops at th' varry haase,— A sarvent oppens th' door; A lady wi' a pale sad face, Steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor. Her 'een fell on that huddled form, Shoo gives a startled cry; Then has him carried aght o'th' storm, To whear its warm an dry.

Shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands, An monny a tear shoo shed; For shoo'd once had a darlin lad But he, alas! wor dead. This little waif seemed sent to cheer, An fill her darlin's place; An to her heart shoo prest him near, An kissed his little face.

Wi' wonderin 'een he luk't abaat, Dazzled wi' th' blaze o' leet, Then drooped his heead, reight wearied aght Wi' cold an wind an weet. Then tenderly shoo tuckt him in A little cosy bed, An kissed once moor his cheek soa thin, An stroked his curly head.

Noa owner coom to claim her prize, Tho' mich shoo feear'd ther wod, It seem'd a blessin dropt throo th' skies A New Year's gift throo God. An happiness nah fills her heart, 'At wor wi' sorrow cleft; Noa wealth could tempt her nah to part, Wi' her Heaven sent New Year's gift.

Uncle Ben.

A gradely chap wor uncle Ben As ivver lived i'th' fowd: He made a fortun for hissen, An lived on't when he'r owd. His yed wor like a snow drift, An his face wor red an breet, An his heart wor like a feather, For he did the thing 'at's reet.

He wore th' same suit o' fustian clooas He'd worn sin aw wor bred; An th' same owd booits, wi' cappel'd tooas, An th' same hat for his yed; His cot wor lowly, yet he'd sing Throo braik o' day till neet; His conscience nivver felt a sting, For he did the thing 'at's reet.

He wod'nt swap his humble state Wi' th' grandest fowk i'th' land; He nivver wanted silver plate, Nor owt 'at's rich an grand; He did'nt sleep wi' curtained silk Drawn raand him ov a neet, But he slept noa war for th' want o' that, For he'd done the thing 'at's reet.

Owd fowk called him "awr Benny," Young fowk, "mi uncle Ben,"— An th' childer, "gronfather," or "dad," Or what best pleased thersen. A gleam o' joy coom o'er his face When he heeard ther patterin feet, For he loved to laik wi th' little bairns An he did the thing 'at's reet.

He nivver turned poor fowk away Uncared for throo his door; He ne'er forgate ther wor a day When he hissen wor poor; An monny a face has turned to Heaven, All glistenin wi' weet, An prayed for blessins on owd Ben, For he did the thing 'at's reet.

He knew his lease wor ommost spent, He'd sooin be called away; Yet he wor happy an content, An waited th' comin day. But one dark neet he shut his e'en, An slept soa calm an sweet, When mornin coom, th' world held one less, 'At did the thing 'at's reet.

A Hawporth.

Whear is thi Daddy, doy? Whear is thi mam? What are ta cryin for, poor little lamb? Dry up thi peepies, pet, wipe thi wet face; Tears o' thy little cheeks seem aght o' place. What do they call thi, lad? Tell me thi name; Have they been ooinion thi? Why, its a shame. Here, tak this hawpny, an buy thi some spice, Rocksticks or humbugs or summat 'at's nice. Then run of hooam agean, fast as tha can; Thear,—tha'rt all reight agean; run like a man.

He wiped up his tears wi' his little white brat, An he tried to say summat, aw couldn't tell what; But his little face breeten'd wi' pleasure all throo:— A'a!—its cappin, sometimes, what a hawpny can do.

Th' Better Part.

A poor owd man wi' tott'ring gait, Wi' body bent, an snowy pate, Aw met one day;— An daan o'th' rooad side grassy banks He sat to rest his weary shanks; An aw, to while away mi time, O'th' neighbourin hillock did recline, An bade "gooid day."

Said aw, "Owd friend, pray tell me true, If in your heart yo nivver rue Th' time 'at's past? Does envy nivver fill yor breast When passin fowk wi' riches blest? An do yo nivver think it wrang At yo should have to trudge along, Soa poor to th' last?"

"Young man," he sed, "aw envy nooan; But ther are times aw pity some, Wi' all mi heart; To see what trubbl'd lives they spend, What cares upon their hands depend; Then aw in thowtfulness declare 'At 'little cattle little care' Is th' better part.

Gold is a burden hard to carry, An tho' Dame Fortun has been chary O' gifts to me; Yet still aw strive to feel content, An think what is, for th' best is meant; An th' mooast ov all aw strive for here, Is still to keep mi conscience clear, From dark spots free.

An while some tax ther brains to find What they'll be foorced to leeav behind, When th' time shall come; Aw try bi honest word an deed, To get what little here aw need, An live i' hopes at last to say, When breeath gooas flickerin away, 'Aw'm gooin hooam.'"

Aw gave his hand a hearty shake, It seem'd as tho' the words he spake Sank i' mi heart: Aw walk'd away a wiser man, Detarmined aw wod try his plan I' hopes at last 'at aw might be As weel assured ov Heaven as he; That's th' better part.

Th' Lesser Evil.

Young Harry wor a single chap, An wod have lots o' tin, An monny a lass had set her cap, This temptin prize to win. But Harry didn't want a wife, He'd rayther far be free; An soa escape all care an strife 'At wedded couples see. But when at last his uncle deed, An left him all his brass, 'Twor on condition he should wed, Some honest Yorksher lass. Soa all his dreamin day an neet Abaat what sprees he'd have; He had to bury aght o'th' seet, Deep in his uncle's grave. To tak a wife at once, he thowt Wor th' wisest thing to do, Soa he lukt raand until he browt His choice daan between two. One wor a big, fine, strappin lass, Her name wor Sarah Ann, Her height an weight, few could surpass, Shoo'r fit for onny man. An t'other wor a little sprite, Wi' lots o' bonny ways, An little funny antics, like A kitten when it plays. An which to tak he could'nt tell, He rayther liked 'em booath; But if he could ha pleased hissen, To wed one he'd be looath. A wife he thowt an evil thing, An sewer to prove a pest; Soa after sometime studyin He thowt th' least wod be th' best. They sooin wor wed, an then he faand He'd quite enuff to do, For A'a! shoo wor a twazzy haand, An tongue enuff for two. An if he went aght neet or day, His wife shoo went as weel; He gat noa chonce to goa astray;— Shoo kept him true as steel. His face grew white, his heead grew bald, His clooas hung on his rig, He grew like one 'at's getten stall'd, Ov this world's whirligig. One day, he muttered to hissen, "If aw've pickt th' lesser evil, Th' poor chap 'at tackles Sarah Ann, Will wish he'd wed the D—-l."

Take Heart!

Roughest roads, we often find, Lead us on to th' nicest places; Kindest hearts oft hide behind Some o'th' plainest-lukkin faces.

Flaars whose colors breetest are, Oft delight awr wond'ring seet; But ther's others, humbler far, Smell a thaasand times as sweet.

Burds o' monny color'd feather, Please us as they skim along, But ther charms all put together, Connot equal th' skylark's song.

Bonny women—angels seemin,— Set awr hearts an brains o' fire; But its net ther beauties; beamin, Its ther gooidness we admire.

Th' bravest man 'at's in a battle, Isn't allus th' furst i'th' fray; He best proves his might an' mettle, Who remains to win the day.

Monkey's an vain magpies chatter, But it doesn't prove 'em wise; An it's net wi noise an clatter, Men o' sense expect to rise.

'Tis'nt them 'at promise freely, Are mooast ready to fulfill; An 'tis'nt them 'at trudge on dreely 'At are last at top o'th' hill.

Bad hauf-craans may pass as payment, Gaudy flaars awr e'en beguile; Women may be loved for raiment, Show may blind us for a while;

But we sooin grow discontented, An for solid worth we sigh, An we leearn to prize the jewel, Tho' it's hidden from the eye.

Him 'at thinks to gether diamonds As he walks along his rooad, Nivver need be tired wi' huggin, For he'll have a little looad.

Owt 'at's worth a body's winnin Mun be toiled for long an hard; An tho' th' struggle may be pinnin, Perseverance wins reward.

Earnest thowt, an constant strivin, Ever wi' one aim i'th' seet; Tho' we may be late arrivin, Yet at last we'st come in reet.

He who WILL succeed, he MUST, When he's bid false hopes farewell, If he firmly fix his trust In his God, and in hissel.

They all do it.

They're all buildin nests for thersen, One bi one they goa fleetin away; A suitable mate comes,—an then, I'th' old nest they noa longer can stay. Well,—it's folly for th' old en's to freeat, Tho' it's hard to see loved ones depart,— An we sigh,—let a tear drop,—an yet, We bless 'em, an give 'em a start.

They've battles to feight 'at we've fowt, They've trubbles an trials to face; I'th' futer they luk an see nowt 'At can hamper ther coorse i' life's race. Th' sun's shinin soa breetly, they think Sorrow's claads have noa shadow for them, They walk on uncertainty's brink, An they see in each teardrop a gem.

Happy dreams 'at they had long ago, Too sweet to believe—-could be true, Are realized nah, for they know Th' world's pleasures wor made for them two. We know 'at it's all a mistak, An we pity, an yet we can pray, 'At when th' end comes they'll nivver luk back Wi' regret to that sweet weddin day.

God bless 'em! may happiness dwell, I' ther hearts, tho' they beat in a cot; An if in a palace,—well,—well,— Shall ther young love be ever forgot. Nay,—nay,—tho' old Time runs his plough, O'er fair brows an leaves monny a grove; May they cloiser cling, th' longer they grow, Till two lives blend i' one sacred love.

Bless th' bride! wi' her bonny breet e'en! Bless th' husband, who does weel his part; Aye! an bless those old fowk where they've been, The joy an the pride ov ther heart. May health an prosperity sit At ther table soa long as they live! An accept th' gooid wishes aw've writ, For they're all 'at aw'm able to give.

To Let.

Aw live in a snug little cot, An' tho' poor, yet aw keep aght o' debt, Cloise by, in a big garden plot, Stands a mansion, 'at long wor "to let."

Twelve month sin or somewhear abaat, A fine lukkin chap donned i' black, Coom an luk'd at it inside an aght An decided this mansion to tak.

Ther wor whiteweshers coom in a drove An masons, an joiners, an sweeps, An a blacksmith to fit up a cove, An bricks, stooans an mortar i' heaps.

Ther wor painters, an glazzeners too, To mend up each bit ov a braik, An a lot 'at had nowt else to do, But to help some o'th t'others to laik.

Ther wor fires i' ivvery range, They nivver let th' harston get cooiled, Throo th' cellar to th' thack they'd a change, An ivverything all in a mooild.

Th' same chap 'at is th' owner o'th' Hall, Is th' owner o'th' cot whear aw dwell, But if aw ax for th' leeast thing at all; He tells me to do it mysel.

This hall lets for fifty a year, Wol five paand is all 'at aw pay; When th' day come mi rent's allus thear, An that's a gooid thing in its way.

At th' last all th' repairers had done, An th' hall wor as cleean as a pin, Aw wor pleased when th' last lot wor gooan, For aw'd getten reight sick o' ther din.

Then th' furnitur started to come, Waggon looads on it, all spankin new, Rich crimson an gold covered some, Wol some shone i' scarlet an blue.

Ov sofas aw think hauf a scoor, An picturs enuff for a show? They fill'd ivvery corner aw'm sure, Throo th' garret to th' kitchen below.

One day when a cab drove to th' gate, Th' new tenant stept aght, an his wife, (An tawk abaat fashion an state! Yo ne'er saw sich a spreead i' yor life.)

Ther war sarvents to curtsey 'em in, An aw could'nt help sayin, "bi th' mass;" As th' door shut when they'd booath getten in, "A'a, it's grand to ha plenty o' brass."

Ther wor butchers, an bakers, an snobs, An grocers, an milkmen, an snips, All seekin for orders an jobs, An sweetenin th' sarvents wi' tips.

Aw sed to th' milk-chap 'tother day, "Ha long does ta trust sich fowk, Ike? Each wick aw'm expected to pay," "Fine fowk," he says, "pay when they like."

Things went on like this, day bi day, For somewhear cloise on for a year; Wol aw ne'er thowt o' lukkin that way, Altho' aw wor livin soa near.

But one neet when aw'd finished mi wark, An wor tooastin mi shins anent th' fire, A chap rushes in aght 'o'th' dark Throo heead to fooit plaistered wi' mire.

Says he, "does ta know whear they've gooan?" Says aw, "Lad, pray, who does ta meean?" "Them at th' hall," he replied, wi a grooan, "They've bolted an diddled us cleean."

Aw tell'd him aw'd ne'er heeard a word, He cursed as he put on his hat, An he sed, "well, they've flown like a burd, An paid nubdy owt, an that's what."

He left, an aw crept off to bed, Next day aw'd a visit throo Ike, But aw shut up his maath when aw sed, "Fine fowk tha knows pay when they like."

Ther's papers i'th' winders, "to let," An aw know varry weel ha 't 'll be; They'll do th' same for th' next tenant awl bet, Tho they ne'er do a hawpoth for me.

But aw let 'em do just as they pleease, Aw'm content tho' mi station is low, An awm thankful sich hard times as thease If aw manage to pay what aw owe.

This precept, friends, nivver forget, For a wiser one has not been sed, Be detarmined to rise aght o' debt Tho' yo go withaat supper to bed.

Lost Love.

Shoo wor a bonny, bonny lass, Her e'en as black as sloas; Her hair a flyin thunner claad, Her cheeks a blowin rooas. Her smile coom like a sunny gleam Her cherry lips to curl; Her voice wor like a murm'ring stream 'At flowed throo banks o' pearl.

Aw long'd to claim her for mi own, But nah mi love is crost; An aw mun wander on alooan, An mourn for her aw've lost.

Aw could'nt ax her to be mine, Wi' poverty at th' door: Aw nivver thowt breet e'en could shine Wi' love for one so poor; */ 92 */ But nah ther's summat i' mi breast, Tells me aw miss'd mi way: An lost that lass I loved the best Throo fear shoo'd say me nay.

Aw long'd to claim her for, &c.

Aw saunter'd raand her cot at morn, An oft i'th' dark o'th' neet, Aw've knelt mi daan i'th' loin to find Prints ov her tiny feet. An under th' window, like a thief, Aw've crept to hear her spaik; An then aw've hurried hooam agean For fear mi heart wod braik.

Aw long'd to claim her for, &c.

Another bolder nor misen, Has robb'd me o' mi dear; An nah aw ne'er may share her joy, An ne'er may dry her tear. But tho' aw'm heartsick, lone, an sad, An tho' hope's star is set; To know shoo's lov'd as aw'd ha lov'd Wod mak me happy yet.

Aw long'd to claim her for mi own, &c.

Drink.

When yo see a chap covered wi' rags, An hardly a shoe to his fooit, Gooin sleawshin along ovver th' flags, Wi' a pipe in his maath black as sooit; An he tells yo he's aght ov a job, An he feels wellny likely to sink,— An he hasn't a coin in his fob, Yo may guess what he's seekin—it's Drink.

If a woman yo meet, poorly dressed, Untidy, an spoortin black e'en; Wi' a babby hawf clammed at her breast, Neglected an shame-to-be-seen; If yo ax, an shoo'll answer yo true, What's th' cause of her trouble? Aw think, Yo'll find her misfortuns are due To that warst o' all enemies,—Drink.

Ax th' wretches convicted o' crime, What caused 'em to plunge into sin, An they'll say ommost ivvery time, It's been th' love o' rum, whisky or gin. Even th' gallus, if it could but tell Ov its victims dropt ovver life's brink; It wod add a sad lot moor to swell The list ov those lost throo strong Drink.

Yet daily we thowtlessly pass, The hell-traps 'at stand like a curse; Bedizened wi' glitter an glass, To mak paupers, an likely do worse. Some say 'at th' millenium's near, But they're reckonin wrang aw should think, When they fancy the King will appear, In a world soa besotted wi' Drink.

Duffin Johnny. (A Rifleman's Adventure.)

Th' mooin shone breet wi' silver leet, An th' wind wor softly sighin; Th' burds did sleep, an th' snails did creep, An th' buzzards wor a flying; Th' daisies donned ther neet caps on, An th' buttercups wor weary, When Jenny went to meet her John, Her Rifleman, her dearie.

Her Johnny seemed as brave a lad As iver held a rifle, An if ther wor owt in him bad, 'Twor nobbut just a trifle. He wore a suit o' sooity grey, To show 'at he wor willin To feight for th' Queen and country When perfect in his drillin.

His heead wor raand, his back wor straight, His legs wor long an steady, His fist wor fully two pund weight, His heart wor true an ready; His upper lip wor graced at th' top Wi' mustache strong an bristlin, It railly wor a spicy crop; Yo'd think to catch him whistlin.

His buzzum burned wi' thowts o' war, He long'd for battles' clatter, He grieved to think noa foeman dar To cross that sup o' watter; He owned one spot,—an nobbut one, Within his heart wor tender, An as his darlin had it fun, He'd be her bold defender.

At neet he donn'd his uniform, War trials to endure, An helped his comrades brave, to storm A heap ov horse manure! They said it wor a citidel, Fill'd wi' some hostile power, They boldly made a breach, and well They triumph'd in an hour.

They did'nt wade to th' knees i' blooid, (That spoils one's britches sadly,) But th' pond o' sypins did as gooid, An scented 'em as badly; Ther wor noa slain to hug away, Noa heeads, noa arms wor wantin, They lived to feight another day, An spend ther neets i' rantin.

Brave Johnny's rooad wor up a loin Where all wor dark an shaded, Part grass, part stooans, part sludge an slime But quickly on he waded; An nah an then he cast his e'e An luk'd behund his shoulder. He worn't timid, noa net he! He crack'd, "he knew few bolder."

But once he jumped, an sed "Oh dear!" Becoss a beetle past him; But still he wor unknown to fear, He'd tell yo if yo asked him. He could'nt help for whispering once, "This loin's a varry long un, A chap wod have but little chonce Wi thieves, if here amang 'em."

An all at once he heeard a voice Cry out, "Stand and deliver! Your money or your life, mak choice, Before your brains I shiver;" He luk'd all raand, but failed to see A sign of livin craytur, Then tremlin dropt upon his knee, Fear stamp'd on ivvery faytur.

"Gooid chap," he said, "mi rifle tak, Mi belts, mi ammunition, Aw've nowt but th' clooas 'at's o' mi back Oh pity mi condition; Aw wish aw'd had a lot o' brass, Aw'd gie thi ivvery fardin; Aw'm nobbut goin to meet a lass, At Tate's berry garden."

"Aw wish shoo wor, aw dooant care where, Its her fault aw've to suffer;" Just then a whisper in his ear Said, "Johnny, thar't a duffer," He luk'd, an' thear cloise to him stuck Wor Jenny, burst wi' lafter; "A'a, John," shoo says, "Aw've tried thi pluck, Aw'st think o' this at after."

"An when tha tells what things tha'll do, An booasts o' manly courage, Aw'st tell thi then, as nah aw do, Go hooam an get thi porrige." "Why Jenny wor it thee," he sed, "Aw fancied aw could spy thi, Aw nobbut reckoned to be flaid, Aw did it but to try thi."

"Just soa," shoo says, "but certain 'tis Aw hear thi heart a beatin, An tak this claat to wipe thi phiz, Gooid gracious, ha tha'rt sweeatin. Thar't brave noa daat, an tha can crow Like booastin cock-a-doodle, But nooan sich men for me, aw vow, When wed, aw'll wed a 'noodle.'"

Plenty o' Brass.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! It's grand to be able to spend A trifle sometimes on a glass For yorsen, or sometimes for a friend. To be able to bury yor neive Up to th' shackle i' silver an' gowd, An, 'baght pinchin, be able to save A wee bit for th' time when yo're owd.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! To be able to set daan yor fooit Withaat ivver thinkin—bi'th' mass! 'At yo're wearin' soa much off yor booit. To be able to walk along th' street, An stand at shop windows to stare, An net ha to beat a retreat If yo scent a "bum bailey" i'th' air.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! To be able to goa hooam at neet, An sit i'th' arm-cheer bi'th' owd lass, An want nawther foir nor leet. To tak th' childer a paper o' spice, Or a pictur' to hing up o' th' wall; Or a taste ov a summat 'at's nice For yor friends, if they happen to call.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! Then th' parsons'll know where yo live; If yo're poor, it's mooast likely they'll pass, An call where fowk's summat to give. Yo may have a trifle o' sense, An yo may be booath upright an trew, But that's nowt, if yo can't stand th' expense Ov a whole or a pairt ov a pew.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! An to them fowk 'at's getten a hooard, This world seems as smooth as a glass, An ther's flaars o' booath sides o'th' rooad; But him 'at's as poor as a maase, Or, happen, a little i' debt, He mun point his nooas up to th' big haase, An be thankful for what he can get.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' chink! But dooan't let it harden yor heart: Yo 'at's blessed wi' abundance should think An try to do gooid wi' a part! An then, as yo're totterin' daan, An th' last grains o' sand are i'th glass, Yo may find 'at yo've purchased a craan Wi' makkin gooid use o' yor brass.

The New Year's Resolve.

Says Dick, "ther's a nooation sprung up i' mi yed, For th' furst time i'th' whole coorse o' mi life, An aw've takken a fancy aw'st like to be wed, If aw knew who to get for a wife.

Aw dooant want a woman wi' beauty, nor brass, For aw've nawther to booast on misel; What aw want is a warm-hearted, hard-workin lass, An ther's lots to be fun, aw've heeard tell.

To be single is all weel enuff nah an then, But it's awk'ard when th' weshin day comes; For aw nivver think sooapsuds agree weel wi' men; They turn all mi ten fingers to thumbs.

An aw'm sure it's a fact, long afoor aw get done, Aw'm slopt throo mi waist to mi fit; An th' floor's in a pond, as if th' peggy-tub run, An mi back warks as if it 'ud split.

Aw fancied aw'st manage at breead-bakin best; Soa one day aw bethowt me to try, But aw gate soa flustered, aw ne'er thowt o'th' yeast, Soa aw mud as weel offered to fly.

Aw did mak a dumplin, but a'a! dear a me! Abaght that lot aw hardly dar think; Aw ne'er fan th' mistak till aw missed th' sooap, yo see, An saw th' suet i'th' sooap-box o'th' sink.

But a new-year's just startin, an soa aw declare Aw'll be wed if a wife's to be had; For mi clooas is soa ragg'd woll aw'm ommost hauf bare, An thease mullucks, they're drivin me mad.

Soa, if yo should know, or should chonce to hear tell, Ov a lass 'at to wed is inclined, Talegraft me at once, an aw'll see her misel, Afoor shoo can alter her mind."

A Strange Stooary.

Aw know some fowk will call it crime, To put sich stooaries into ryhme, But yet, contentedly aw chime Mi simple ditty: An if it's all a waste o' time, The moor's the pity.

———-

O'er Wibsey Slack aw coom last neet, Wi' reekin heead and weary feet, A strange, strange chap, aw chonced to meet; He made mi start; But pluckin up, aw did him greet Wi' beatin heart.

His dress wor black as black could be, An th' latest fashion aw could see, But yet they hung soa dawderly, Like suits i' shops; Bi'th' heart! yo mud ha putten three Sich legs i'th' slops.

Says aw, "Owd trump, it's rayther late For one 'at's dress'd i' sich a state, Across this Slack to mak ther gate: Is ther some pairty? Or does ta allus dress that rate— Black duds o'th' wairty?"

He twisted raand as if to see What sooart o' covy aw could be, An grinned wi' sich a maath at me, It threw me sick! "Lor saves!" aw cried, "an is it thee 'At's call'd owd Nick?"

But when aw luk'd up into th' place, Whear yo'd expect to find a face; A awful craytur met mi gaze, It took mi puff: "Gooid chap," aw sed, "please let me pass, Aw've seen enuff!"

Then bendin cloise daan to mi ear, He tell'd me 'at aw'd nowt to fear, An soa aw stop't a bit to hear What things he'd ax; But as he spake his teeth rang clear, Like knick-a-nacks.

"A'a, Jack," he sed, "aw'm cap't wi' thee Net knowin sich a chap as me; For oft when tha's been on a spree, Aw've been thear too; But tho' aw've reckon'd safe o' thee, Tha's just edged throo.

Mi name is Deeath—tha needn't start, An put thi hand upon thi heart, For tha may see 'at aw've noa dart Wi' which to strike; Let's sit an tawk afoor we part, O'th edge o'th dyke."

"Nay, nay, that tale wea'nt do, owd lad, For Bobby Burns tells me tha had A scythe hung o'er thi shoulder, Gad! Tha worn't dress'd I' fine black clooath; tha wore a plad Across thi breast!"

"Well, Jack," he said, "thar't capt no daat To find me wanderin abaght; But th' fact is, lad, 'at aw'm withaat A job to do; Mi scythe aw've had to put up th' spaat, Mi arrows too."

"Yo dunnot mean to tell to me, 'At fowk noa moor will ha to dee?" "Noa, hark a minnit an tha'll see When th' truth aw tell! Fowk do withaat mi darts an me, Thev kill thersel.

They do it too at sich a rate Wol mi owd system's aght o' date; What we call folly, they call fate; An all ther pleasur Is ha to bring ther life's estate To th' shortest measur.

They waste ther time, an waste ther gains, O' stuff 'at's brew'd throo poisoned grains, Throo morn to neet they keep ther brains, For ivver swimmin, An if a bit o' sense remains, It's fun i'th wimmen.

Tha'll find noa doctors wi ther craft, Nor yet misen wi' scythe or shaft, E'er made as monny deead or daft, As Gin an Rum, An if aw've warn'd fowk, then they've lafft At me, bi gum!

But if they thus goa on to swill, They'll not want Wilfrid Lawson's bill, For give a druffen chap his fill, An sooin off pops he; An teetotal fowk moor surely still, Will dee wi' th' dropsy.

It's a queer thing 'at sich a nation Can't use a bit o' moderation; But one lot rush to ther damnation Throo love o'th' bottle: Wol others think to win salvation Wi' bein teetotal."

Wi' booany neive he stroked mi heead, "Tak my advice, young chap," he sed, "Let liquors be, sup ale asteead, An tha'll be better, An dunnot treat th' advice tha's heard Like a deead letter."

"Why Deeath," aw sed, "fowk allus say, Yo come to fotch us chaps away! But this seems strange, soa tell me pray, Ha wor't yo coom? Wor it to tell us keep away, Yo hav'nt room?"

"Stop whear tha art, Jack, if tha dar But tha'll find spirits worse bi far Sarved aght i' monny a public bar, 'At's thowt quite lawful; Nor what tha'll find i'th' places parsons call soa awful."

"Gooid bye!" he sed, an off he shot, Leavin behind him sich a lot O' smook, as blue as it wor hot! It set me stewin! Soa hooam aw cut, an' gate a pot Ov us own brewin.

————-

If when yo've read this stooary throo, Yo daat if it's exactly true, Yo'll nobbut do as others do, Yo may depend on't. Blow me! aw ommost daat it too, So thear's an end on't.

What Wor it?

What wor it made me love thee, lass? Aw connot tell; Aw know it worn't for thi brass;— Tho' poor misel Aw'd moor nor thee, aw think, if owt, An what aw had wor next to nowt.

Aw didn't love thi 'coss thi face Wor fair to see: For tha wor th' plainest lass i'th' place, An as for me, They called me "nooasy," "long-legs," "walkin prop," An sed aw freetened customers throo th' shop.

Aw used to read i' Fairy books Ov e'en soa breet, Ov gowden hair, angelic looks, An smiles soa sweet; Aw used to fancy when aw'd older grown, Aw'd claim some lovely Fairy for mi own.

An weel aw recollect that neet,— 'Twor th' furst o'th' year, Aw tuk thi hooam, soaked throo wi' sleet, An aw'd a fear Lest th' owd man's clog should give itsen a treat, An be too friendly wi' mi britches seeat.

What fun they made, when we went in;— They cried, "Yo're catched!" An then thi mother sed i'th' midst o'th' din "They're fairly matched, An beauty's in th' beholder's e'e they say, An they've booath been gooid childer, onyway."

An then aw saw a little tear, Unbidden flow, That settled it!—for then an thear Aw seemed to know, 'At we wor meant to share each others lot, An Fancy's Fairies all could goa to pot.

Full thirty years have rolled away, Sin that rough time; What won mi love aw connot say, But this is mine, To know, mi greatest prize on earth is thee, But pray, whativver made thee fancy me?

Billy Bumble's Bargain.

Young Billy Bumble bowt a pig, Soa aw've heeard th' neighbors say; An monny a mile he had to trig One sweltin' summer day; But Billy didn't care a fig, He sed he'd mak it pay; He knew it wor a bargain, An he cared net who said nay.

He browt it hooam to Ploo Croft loin, But what wor his surprise To find all th' neighbors standing aght, We oppen maaths an eyes; "By gow!" sed Billy, to hissen, "This pig must be a prize!" An th' wimmen cried, "Gooid gracious fowk But isn't it a size?"

Then th' chaps sed, "Billy, where's ta been? Whativver has ta browt? That surely isn't crayture, lad, Aw heeard 'em say tha'd bowt? It luks moor like a donkey, Does ta think 'at it con rawt?" But Billy crack'd his carter's whip. An answered 'em wi' nowt.

An reight enuff it wor a pig, If all they say is true, Its length wor five foot eight or nine, Its height wor four foot two; An when it coom to th' pig hoil door, He couldn't get it throo, Unless it went daan ov its knees, An that it wodn't do.

Then Billy's mother coom to help, An hit it wi' a mop; But thear it wor, an thear it seem'd Detarmined it 'ud stop; But all at once it gave a grunt, An oppen'd sich a shop; An finding aght 'at it wor lick'd, It laup'd cleean ovver th' top.

His mother then shoo shook her heead, An pool'd a woeful face; "William," shoo sed, "tha should'nt bring Sich things as theas to th' place. Aw hooap tha art'nt gooin to sink Thi mother i' disgrace; But if tha buys sich things as thease Aw'm feared it will be th' case!"

"Nah, mother, nivver freat," sed Bill, "Its one aw'm gooin to feed, Its rayther long i'th' legs, aw know, But that's becoss o'th' breed; If its a trifle long i'th' grooin, Why hang it! nivver heed! Aw know its net a beauty, But its cheap, it is, indeed!"

"Well time 'ul try," his mother sed,— An time at last did try; For nivver sich a hungry beeast Had been fed in a sty. "What's th' weight o'th' long legged pig, Billy!" Wor th' neighbors' daily cry; "Aw connot tell yo yet," sed Bill, "Aw'll weigh it bye an bye."

An hard poor Billy persevered, But all to noa avail, It swallow'd all th' mait it could get, An wod ha swallow'd th' pail; But Billy tuk gooid care to stand O'th' tother side o'th' rail; But fat it didn't gain as mich As what 'ud greeas its tail.

Pack after pack o' mail he bowt, Until he'd bowt fourteen; But net a bit o' difference I'th' pig wor to be seen: Its legs an snowt wor just as long As ivver they had been; Poor Billy caanted rib bi rib An heaved a sigh between.

One day he mix'd a double feed, An put it into th' troff; "Tha greedy lukkin beeast," he sed, "Aw'll awther stawl thee off, Or else aw'll brust thi hide—that is Unless 'at its to toff!" An then he left it wol he went His mucky clooas to doff.

It worn't long befoor he coom To see hah matters stood; He luk'd at th' troff, an thear it wor, Five simple bits o' wood, As cleean scraped aght as if it had Ne'er held a bit o' food; "Tha slotch!" sed Bill, "aw do believe Tha'd ait me if tha could."

Next day he browt a butcher, For his patience had been tried, An wi a varry deeal to do, Its legs wi' rooap they tied; An then his shinin knife he drew An stuck it in its side— It mud ha been a crockadile, Bi th' thickness ov its hide.

But blooid began to flow, an then Its long legg'd race wor run; They scalded, scraped, an hung it up, An when it all wor done, Fowk coom to guess what weight it wor, An monny a bit o' fun They had, for Billy's mother sed, "It ought to weigh a ton."

Billy wor walkin up an daan, Dooin nowt but fume an fidge! He luk'd at th' pig—then daan he set, I'th nook o'th' window ledge, He saw th' back booan wor stickin aght, Like th' thin end ov a wedge; It luk'd like an owd blanket Hung ovver th' winterhedge.

His mother rooar'd an th' wimmen sigh'd, But th' chaps did nowt but laff; Poor Billy he could hardly bide, To sit an hear ther chaff— Then up he jumped, an off he run, But whear fowk nivver knew; An what wor th' war'st, when mornin coom, Th' deead pig had mizzled too.

Th' chaps wander'd th' country far an near, Until they stall'd thersen; But nawther Billy nor his pig Coom hooam agean sin then; But oft fowk say, i'th' deead o'th' neet, Near Shibden's ruined mill, The gooast o' Billy an his pig May be seen runnin still.

MORAL.

Yo fowk 'at's tempted to goa buy Be careful what yo do; Dooant be persuaded 'coss "it's cheap," For if yo do yo'll rue; Dooant think its lowerin to yor sen To ax a friend's advice, Else like poor Billy's pig, 't may be Bowt dear at onny price.

Aght o' Wark.

Aw've been laikin for ommost eight wick, An aw can't get a day's wark to do! Aw've trailed abaat th' streets, wol aw'm sick An aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost throo.

Aw've a wife an three childer at hooam, An aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock, For they think it's high time aw should come, An bring 'em a morsel 'o jock.

A'a dear! it's a pitiful case When th' cubbord is empty an bare; When want's stamped o' ivvery face, An yo hav'nt a meal yo can share.

Today as aw walked into th' street, Th' squire's carriage went rattlin past; An aw thowt 'at it hardly luk'd reet, For aw had'nt brokken mi fast.

Them horses, aw knew varry weel, Wi' ther trappins all shinin i' gold, Had nivver known th' want of a meal, Or a shelter to keep 'em throo th' cold.

Even th' dogs have enuff an to spare, Tho' they ne'er worked a day i' ther life; But ther maisters forget they should care For a chap 'at's three bairns an a wife.

They give dinners at th' hall ivvery neet, An ther's carriages standin bi'th' scooar, An all th' windows are blazin wi' leet, But they seldom give dinners to th' poor.

I' mi pocket aw hav'nt a rap, Nor a crust, nor a handful o' mail; An unless we can get it o'th' strap, We mun pine, or mun beg, or else stail.

But hooam'ards aw'll point mi owd clogs To them three little lambs an ther dam;— Aw wish they wor horses or dogs, For its nobbut poor fowk 'at's to clam.

But they say ther is One 'at can see, An has promised to guide us safe throo; Soa aw'll live on i'hopes, an' surelee, He'll find a chap summat to do.

That's a Fact.

"A'a Mary aw'm glad 'at that's thee! Aw need thy advice, lass, aw'm sure;— Aw'm all ov a mooild tha can see, Aw wor nivver i' this way afoor. Aw've net slept a wink all th' neet throo; Aw've been twirlin abaat like a worm, An' th' blankets gate felter'd, lass, too— Tha nivver saw cloas i' sich form. Aw'll tell thee what 't all wor abaght— But promise tha'll keep it reight squat; For aw wod'nt for th' world let it aght, But aw can't keep it in—tha knows that. We'd a meetin at th' schooil yesterneet, An Jimmy wor thear,—tha's seen Jim? An he hutch'd cloise to me in a bit, To ax me for th' number o'th' hymn; Aw thowt 't wor a gaumless trick, For he heeard it geen aght th' same as me; An he just did th' same thing tother wick,— It made fowk tak nooatice, dos't see. An when aw wor gooin towards hooam, Aw heeard som'dy comin behund: 'Twor pitch dark, an aw thowt if they coom, Aw should varry near sink into th' graund. Aw knew it wor Jim bi his traid, An aw tried to get aght ov his gate; But a'a! tha minds, lass, aw wor flaid, Aw wor nivver i' sich en a state. Then aw felt som'dy's arm raand my shawl, An aw said, "nah, leeav loise or aw'll screeam! Can't ta let daycent lasses alooan, Consarn thi up! what does ta mean?" But he stuck to mi arm like a leach, An he whispered a word i' mi ear; It tuk booath mi breeath an mi speech, For aw'm varry sooin thrown aght o' gear. Then he squeezed me cloise up to his sel, An he kussed me, i' spite o' mi teeth: Aw says, "Jimmy, forshame o' thisel!" As sooin as aw'd getten mi breeath. But he wod'nt be quiet, for he sed 'At he'd loved me soa true an soa long— Aw'd ha geen a ear off o' my ye'd To get loise—but tha knows he's soa strong.— Then he tell'd me he wanted a wife, An he begged 'at aw wodn't say nay;— Aw'd ne'er heeard sich a tale i' mi life, Aw wor fesen'd whativver to say; 'Coss tha knows aw've a likin for Jim; But yo can't allus say what yo meean; For aw tremb'ld i' ivvery limb, Wol he kussed me agean an agean. But at last aw began to give way, For, raylee, he made sich a fuss, An aw kussed him an all—for they say, Ther's nowt costs mich less nor a kuss. Then he left me at th' end o' awr street, An aw've felt like a fooil all th' neet throo; But if aw should see him to neet, What wod ta advise me to do? But dooant spaik a word—tha's noa need, For aw've made up mi mind ha to act, For he's th' grandest lad ivver aw seed, An aw like him th' best too—that's a fact!"

Babby Burds.

Aw wander'd aght one summer's morn, Across a meadow newly shorn; Th' sun wor shinin breet and clear, An fragrant scents rose up i'th' air, An all wor still. When, as my steps wor idly rovin, Aw coom upon a seet soa lovin! It fill'd mi heart wi' tender feelin, As daan aw sank beside it, kneelin O'th' edge o'th' hill.

It wor a little skylark's nest, An two young babby burds, undrest, Wor gapin wi' ther beaks soa wide, Callin for mammy to provide Ther mornin's meal; An high aboon ther little hooam, Th' saand o' daddy's warblin coom; Ringin soa sweetly o' mi ear, Like breathins throo a purer sphere, He sang soa weel.

Ther mammy, a few yards away, Wor hoppin on a bit o' hay; Too feeard to coom, too bold to flee; An watchin me wi' troubled e'e, Shoo seem'd to say: "Dooant touch my bonny babs, young man! Ther daddy does the best he can To cheer yo with his sweetest song; An thoase 'll sing as weel, ere long, Soa let 'em stay."

"Tha needn't think aw'd do 'em harm— Come shelter 'em and keep 'em warm! For aw've a little nest misel, An two young babs, aw'm praad to tell, 'At's precious too; An they've a mammy watching thear, 'At howds them little ens as dear, An dearer still, if that can be, Nor what thease youngens are to thee, Soa come,—nah do!

"A'a well!—tha'rt shy, tha hops away,— Tha doesn't trust a word aw say; Tha thinks aw'm here to rob an plunder, An aw confess aw dunnot wonder— But tha's noa need; Aw'll leave yo to yorsels,—gooid bye! For nah aw see yor daddy's nigh; He's dropt that strain soa sweet and strong; He loves yo better nor his song— He does indeed."

Aw walk'd away, and sooin mi ear Caught up the saand o' warblin clear; Thinks aw, they're happy once agean; Aw'm glad aw didn't prove so meean To rob that nest; For they're contented wi' ther lot, Nor envied me mi little cot; An in this world, as we goa throo, It is'nt mich gooid we can do, An do awr best.

Then let us do as little wrong To onny as we pass along, An never seek a joy to gain 'At's purchased wi' another's pain, It isn't reet. Aw shall goa hooam wi' leeter heart, To mend awr Johnny's little cart: (He allus finds me wark enuff To piecen up his brocken stuff, For ivvery neet.)

An Sally—a'a! if yo could see her! When aw sit daan to get mi teah, Shoo puts her dolly o' mi knee, An maks me sing it "Hush a bee," I'th' rocking chear; Then begs some sugar for it too; What it can't ait shoo tries to do; An turnin up her cunnin e'e, Shoo rubs th' doll maath, an says, "yo see, It gets its share."

Sometimes aw'm rayther cross, aw fear! Then starts a little tremblin tear, 'At, like a drop o' glitt'rin dew Swimmin within a wild flaar blue, Falls fro ther e'e; But as the sun in April shaars Revives the little droopin flaars, A kind word brings ther sweet smile back: Aw raylee think mi brain ud crack If they'd ta dee.

Then if aw love my bairns soa weel, May net a skylark's bosom feel As mich consarn for th' little things 'At snooze i'th' shelter which her wings Soa weel affoards? If fowk wod nobbut bear i' mind How mich is gained by bein kind; Ther's fewer breasts wi' grief ud swell, An fewer fowk ud thoughtless mell Even o'th' burds.

Queen ov Skircoit Green.

Have yo seen mi bonny Mary, Shoo lives at Skircoit Green; An old fowk say a fairer lass Nor her wor nivver seen. An th' young ens say shoo's th' sweetest flaar, 'At's bloomin thear to-day; An one an all are scared to deeath, Lest shoo should flee away.

Shoo's health an strength an beauty too, Shoo's grace an style as weel: An what's moor precious far nor all, Her heart is true as steel. Shoo's full ov tenderness an love, For onny in distress; Whearivver sorrows heaviest prove, Shoo's thear to cheer an bless.

Her fayther's growin old an gray, Her mother's wellny done; But in ther child they find a stay, As life's sands quickly run. Her smilin face like sunshine comes, To chase away ther cares, An peeace an comfort allus dwells, In that dear hooam ov theirs.

Each Sundy morn shoo's off to schooil, To taich her Bible class; An meets a smilin welcome, From ivvery lad an lass; An when they sing some old psalm tune, Her voice rings sweet an clear, It saands as if an angel's tongue, Had joined in worship thear.

Aw sometimes see her safely hooam, An oft aw've tried to tell, That precious saycret ov a hooap 'At in mi heart does dwell. But when aw've seen the childlike trust, 'At glances throo her e'e, To spaik ov love aw nivver durst;— Shoo's far too gooid for me.

But to grow worthy ov her love, Is what aw meean to try; An time may my affection prove,— An win her bye-an-bye. Then aw shall be the happiest chap 'At Yorksher's ivver seen, An some fine day aw'll bear away, The Queen ov Skircoit Green.

Th' Little Black Hand.

Ther's a spark just o'th tip o' mi pen, An it may be poetical fire: An suppoase 'at it is'nt—what then? Wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire?

Aw'm detarmined to scribble away— Soa's them 'at's a fancy con read; An tho' aw turn neet into day, If aw'm suitin an odd en, ne'er heed!

Aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life; But then ther's abundance o' care, An them 'at's contented wi' strife May allus mak sure o' ther share.

But aw'll laff woll mi galluses braik,— Tho mi bed's net as soft as spun silk; An if butter be aght o' mi raik, Aw'll ma' th' best ov a drop o' churn milk.

It's nooan them 'at's getten all th' brass 'At's getten all th' pleasure, net it! When aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd lass, Aw con thoil 'em whativver they get.

But sometimes when aw'm walkin throo th' street, An aw see fowk hawf-clam'd, an i' rags, Wi' noa bed to lig daan on at neet But i'th' warkus, or th' cold-lukkin flags;

Then aw think, if rich fowk nobbut knew What ther brothers i' poverty feel, They'd a trifle moor charity show, An help 'em sometimes to a meal.

But we're all far too fond of ussen, To bother wi' things aght o'th' seet; An we leeav to ther fate sich as them 'At's noa bed nor noa supper at neet.

But ther's monny a honest heart throbs, Tho' it throbs under rags an' i' pains, 'At wod'nt disgrace one o'th' nobs, 'At booasts better blooid in his veins.

See that child thear! 'at's workin away, An sweepin that crossin i'th' street: He's been thear ivver sin it coom day, An yo'll find him thear far into th' neet.

See what hundreds goa thowtlessly by, An ne'er think o' that child wi' his broom! What care they tho' he smothered a sigh, Or wiped off a tear as they coom?

But luk! thear's a man wi' a heart! He's gien th' poor child summat at last: Ha his e'en seem to twinkle an start, As he watches th' kind gentleman past!

An thear in his little black hand He sees a gold sovereign shine! He thinks he ne'er saw owt soa grand, An he says, "Sure it connot be mine!"

An all th' lads cluther raand him i' glee, An tell him to cut aght o'th seet; But he clutches it fast,—an nah see Ha he's threedin his way along th' street.

Till he comes to that varry same man, An he touches him gently o'th' back, An he tells him as weel as he can, 'At he fancies he's made a mistak.

An th' chap luks at that poor honest lad, With his little nak'd feet, as he stands, An his heart oppens wide—he's soa glad Woll he taks one o'th little black hands,

An he begs him to tell him his name: But th' child glances timidly raand— Poor craytur! he connot forshame To lift up his e'en off o'th graand.

But at last he finds courage to spaik, An he tells him they call him poor Joa; 'At his mother is sickly an' waik; An his father went deead long ago;

An he's th' only one able to work Aght o' four; an he does what he can, Throo early at morn till it's dark: An he hopes 'at he'll sooin be a man.

An he tells him his mother's last word, As he starts for his labor for th' day, Is to put all his trust in the Lord, An He'll net send him empty away.—

See that man! nah he's wipin his e'en, An he gives him that bright piece o' gowd; An th' lad sees i' that image o'th Queen What'll keep his poor mother throo th' cowd.

An monny a time too, after then, Did that gentleman tak up his stand At that crossing an watch for hissen The work ov that little black hand.

An when years had gooan by, he expressed 'At i'th' spite ov all th' taichin he'd had, An all th' lessons he'd leearn'd, that wor th' best 'At wor towt by that poor little lad.

Tho' the proud an the wealthy may prate, An booast o' ther riches and land, Some o'th' laadest 'ul sink second-rate To that lad with his little black hand.

My Native Twang.

They tell me aw'm a vulgar chap, An ow't to goa to th' schooil To leearn to talk like other fowk, An net be sich a fooil; But aw've a noashun, do yo see, Although it may be wrang, The sweetest music is to me, Mi own, mi native twang.

An when away throo all mi friends, I' other taans aw rooam, Aw find ther's nowt con mak amends For what aw've left at hooam; But as aw hurry throo ther streets Noa matter tho aw'm thrang, Ha welcome if mi ear but greets Mi own, mi native twang.

Why some despise it, aw can't tell, It's plain to understand; An sure aw am it saands as weel, Tho' happen net soa grand. Tell fowk they're courtin, they're enraged, They call that vulgar slang; But if aw tell 'em they're engaged, That's net mi native twang.

Mi father, tho' he may be poor, Aw'm net ashamed o' him; Aw love mi mother tho' shoo's deeaf, An tho' her e'en are dim; Aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walk Its crucken'd streets amang; For thear it is aw hear fowk tawk Mi own, mi native twang.

Aw like to hear hard-workin fowk Say boldly what they meean; For tho' ther hands are smeared wi' muck, May be ther hearts are cleean. An them 'at country fowk despise, Aw say, "Why, let 'em hang;" They'll nivver rob mi sympathies Throo thee, mi native twang.

Aw like to see grand ladies, When they're donn'd i' silks soa fine; Aw like to see ther dazzlin' e'en Throo th' carriage winders shine; Mi mother wor a woman, An tho' it may be wrang, Aw love 'em all, but mooastly them 'At tawk mi native twang.

Aw wish gooid luck to ivvery one; Gooid luck to them 'ats brass; Gooid luck an better times to come To them 'ats poor—alas! An may health, wealth, an sweet content For ivver dwell amang True, honest-hearted, Yorkshire fowk, 'At tawk mi native twang.

Sing On.

Sing on, tha bonny burd, sing on, sing on; Aw connot sing; A claad hings ovver me, do what aw con Fresh troubles spring. Aw wish aw could, like thee, fly far away, Aw'd leeav mi cares an be a burd to-day.

Mi heart wor once as full o' joy as thine, But nah it's sad; Aw thowt all th' happiness i'th' world wor mine, Sich faith aw had;— But he who promised aw should be his wife Has robb'd me o' mi ivvery joy i' life.

Sing on! tha cannot cheer me wi' thi song; Yet, when aw hear Thi warblin' voice, 'at rings soa sweet an strong, Aw feel a tear Roll daan mi cheek, 'at gives mi heart relief, A gleam o' comfort, but it's varry brief.

This little darlin, cuddled to mi breast, It little knows, When snoozlin' soa quietly at rest, 'At all mi woes Are smothered thear, an mi poor heart ud braik But just aw live for mi wee laddie's sake.

Sing on; an if tha e'er should chonce to see That faithless swain, Whose falsehood has caused all mi misery, Strike up thy strain, An if his heart yet answers to thy trill Fly back to me, an we will love him still.

But if he heeds thee not, then shall aw feel All hope is o'er, An he that aw believed an loved soa weel Be loved noa more; For that hard heart, bird music cannot move, Is far too cold a dwellin-place for love.

Shoo's thi Sister. (Written on seeing a wealthy Townsman rudely push a poor little girl off the pavement.)

Gently, gently, shoo's thi sister, Tho' her clooas are nowt but rags; On her feet ther's monny a blister: See ha painfully shoo drags Her tired limbs to some quiet corner: Shoo's thi sister—dunnot scorn her.

Daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin, Shoo's been shov'd aside befoor; Used to scoffs, an sneers, an shunnin— Shoo expects it, 'coss shoo's poor; Schooil'd for years her grief to smother, Still shoo's human—tha'rt her brother.

Tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin, A kid glove o' awther hand, Dunnot touch her roughly, loathin— Shoo's thi sister, understand: Th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters, Poor lost pilgrim!—but what matters?

Luk ha sharp her elbow's growin, An ha pale her little face; An her hair neglected, showin Her's has been a sorry case; O, mi heart felt sad at th' seet, When tha shov'd her into th' street.

Ther wor once a "Man," mich greater Nor thisen wi' all thi brass; Him, awr blessed Mediator,— Wod He scorn that little lass? Noa, He called 'em, an He blessed 'em, An His hands divine caress'd 'em.

Goa thi ways! an if tha bears net Some regret for what tha's done, If tha con pass on, an cares net For that sufferin little one; Then ha'ivver poor shoo be, Yet shoo's rich compared wi' thee.

Oh! 'at this breet gold should blind us, To awr duties here below! For we're forced to leeav behind us All awr pomp, an all awr show; Why then should we slight another? Shoo's thi sister, unkind brother.

Another Babby.

Another!—well, my bonny lad, Aw wodn't send thee back; Altho' we thowt we hadn't raam, Tha's fun some in a crack.

It maks me feel as pleased as punch To see thi pratty face; Ther's net another child i'th' bunch Moor welcome to a place.

Aw'st ha to fit a peark for thee, I' some nook o' mi cage; But if another comes, raylee! Aw'st want a bigger wage.

But aw'm noan feard tha'll ha to want— We'll try to pool thee throo, For Him who has mi laddie sent, He'll send his baggin too.

He hears the little sparrows chirp, An answers th' raven's call; He'll nivver see one want for owt, 'At's worth aboon 'em all.

But if one on us mun goa short, (Altho' it's hard to pine,) Thy little belly shall be fill'd Whativver comes o' mine.

A chap con nobbut do his best, An that aw'll do for thee, Leavin to providence all th' rest, An we'st get help'd, tha'll see.

An if thi lot's as bright an fair As aw could wish it, lad, Tha'll come in for a better share Nor ivver blessed thi dad.

Aw think aw'st net ha lived for nowt, If, when deeath comes, aw find Aw leeav some virtuous lasses An some honest lads behind.

An tho' noa coat ov arms may grace For me, a sculptor'd stooan, Aw hooap to leeav a noble race, Wi' arms o' flesh an booan.

Then cheer up, lad, tho' things luk black, Wi' health, we'll persevere, An try to find a brighter track— We'll conquer, nivver fear!

An may God shield thee wi' his wing, Along life's stormy way, An keep thi heart as free throo sin, As what it is to-day.

To a Roadside Flower.

Tha bonny little pooasy! aw'm inclined To tak thee wi' me: But yet aw think if tha could spaik thi mind, Tha'd ne'er forgie me; For i' mi jacket button-hoil tha'd quickly dee, An life is short enuff, booath for mi-sen an thee.

Here, if aw leeav thee bi th' rooadside to flourish, Whear scoors may pass thee; Some heart 'at has few other joys to cherish May stop an bless thee: Then bloom, mi little pooasy! Tha'rt a beauty! Sent here to bless: Smile on—tha does thi duty.

Aw wodn't rob another of a joy Sich as tha's gien me; For aw felt varry sad, mi little doy Until aw'd seen thee. An may each passin, careworn, lowly brother, Feel cheered like me, an leeav thee for another.

An Old Man's Christmas Morning.

Its a long time sin thee an' me have met befoor, owd lad,— Soa pull up thi cheer, an sit daan, for ther's noabdy moor welcome nor thee: Thi toppin's grown whiter nor once,—yet mi heart feels glad, To see ther's a rooas o' thi cheek, an a bit ov a leet i' thi e'e.

Thi limbs seem to totter an shake, like a crazy owd fence, 'At th' wind maks to tremel an creak; but tha still fills thi place; An it shows 'at tha'rt bless'd wi' a bit o' gradely gooid sense, 'At i' spite o' thi years an thi cares, tha still wears a smile o' thi face.

Come fill up thi pipe—for aw knaw tha'rt reight fond ov a rick,— An tha'll find a drop o' hooam-brew'd i' that pint up o'th' hob, aw dar say; An nah, wol tha'rt tooastin thi shins, just scale th' foir, an aw'll side thi owd stick, Then aw'll tell thi some things 'at's happen'd sin tha went away.

An first of all tha mun knaw 'at aw havn't been spar'd, For trials an troubles have come, an mi heart has felt well nigh to braik; An mi wife, 'at tha knaws wor mi pride, an mi fortuns has shared, Shoo bent under her griefs, an shoo's flown far, far away aght o' ther raik.

My life's like an owd gate 'at's nobbut one hinge for support, An sometimes aw wish—aw'm soa lonely— at tother 'ud drop off wi' rust; But it hasn't to be, for it seems Life maks me his spooart, An Deeath cannot even spare time, to turn sich an owd man into dust.

Last neet as aw sat an watched th' yule log awd put on to th' fire, As it crackled, an sparkled, an flared up wi sich gusto an spirit, An when it wor touched it shone breeter, an flared up still higher, Till at last aw'd to shift th' cheer further back for aw couldn't bide near it;

Th' dull saand o'th' church bells coom to tell me one moor Christmas mornin, Had come, for its welcome—but ha could aw welcome it when all alooan? For th' snow wor fallin soa thickly, an th' cold wind wor mooanin, An them 'at aw lov'd wor asleep i' that cold church yard, under a stooan.

Soa aw went to bed an aw slept, an then began dreamin, 'At mi wife stood by mi side, an smiled, an mi heart left off its beatin, An aw put aght mi hand, an awoke, an mornin wor gleamin; An its made me feel sorrowful, an aw connot give ovver freatin.

For aw think what a glorious Christmas day 'twod ha' been, If awd gooan to that place, where ther's noa moor cares, nor partin, nor sorrow, For aw know shoo's thear, or that dream aw sud nivver ha seen, But aw'll try to be patient, an maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow.

It's forty long summers an winters, sin tha bade "gooid bye," An as fine a young fella tha wor, as ivver aw met i' mi life; When tha went to some far away land, thi fortune to try, An aw stopt at hooam to toil on, becoss it wor th' wish o' my wife.

An shoo wor a bonny young wench, an better nor bonny,— Aw seem nah as if aw can see her, wi' th' first little bairn on her knee; An we called it Ann, for aw liked that name best ov onny, An fowk said it wor th' pictur o'th' mother, wi' just a strinklin o' me.

An th' next wor a lad, an th' next wor a lad, then a lass came,— That made us caant six,—an six happier fowk nivver sat to a meal, An they grew like hop plants—full o' life—but waikly i'th' frame, An at last one drooped, an Deeath coom an marked her with his seal.

A year or two moor an another seemed longin to goa, An all we could do wor to smooth his deeath bed, 'at he might sleep sweeter— Then th' third seemed to sicken an pine, an we couldn't say "noa," For he said his sister had called, an he wor most anxious to meet her—

An how we watched th' youngest, noa mortal can tell but misen, For we prized it moor, becoss it wor th' only one left us to cherish; At last her call came, an shoo luked sich a luk at us then, Which aw ne'er shall forget, tho' mi mem'ry ov all other things perish.

A few years moor, when awr griefs wor beginnin to lighten, Mi friends began askin my wife, if shoo felt hersen hearty an strong? An aw nivver saw at her face wor beginnin to whiten, Till shoo grew like a shadow, an aw could'nt even guess wrong.

Then aw stood beside th' grave when th' saxton wor shovin in th' gravel, An he sed, "this last maks five, an aw think ther's just room for another," An aw went an left him, lonely an heartsick to travel, Till th' time comes when aw may lig daan beside them four bairns an ther mother.

An aw think what a glorious Christmas day 'twod ha been If aw'd gooan to that place where ther's noa moor cares, nor partin, nor sorrow; An aw knaw they're thear, or that dream aw should nivver ha seen, But aw'll try to be patient, an maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow.

Settin Off.

It isn't 'at aw want to rooam An leeav thi bi thisen: For aw'm content enuff at hooam, Aw'm net like other men. But then ther's thee an childer three, To care for an protect, It's reight 'at yo should luk to me, An wrang should aw neglect.

Aw'm growin older ivvery day, My race is ommost run, Time's growin varry precious, lass, An lots remains undone. If aw wor called away, maybe, Tha'd find some other man, But tha cannot find a father, For them lads,—do th' best tha can.

Another husband might'nt prove As kind as aw have been; An wedded life's a weary thing, When love's shut aght o'th' scene. Aw know aw've faults, aw'll own a lot,— But then, tha must agree, Aw've allus kept a tender spot Within mi heart for thee.

An if aw've spokken nowty words At's made thee cry an freeat; Aw've allus suffered twice as mich, An beg'd thi to forget. Tha'rt th' only woman maks me mad, Then soothes me wi' a smile, Then maks mi fancy aw'm a king, An snubs me all the while,

Nay,—nay,—old lass! it isn't fun Nor frolics that allure,— Aw'm strivin for thisen an bairns, To mak yor futur sure. It's duty at aw think aw owe To them young things an thee, The thowts o' which may cheer mi heart, When aw lay daan to dee.

To th' Swallow.

Bonny burd! aw'm fain to see thee, For tha tells ov breeter weather; But aw connot quite forgie thee,— Connot love thee altogether.

'Tisn't thee aw fondly welcome— 'Tis the cheerin news tha brings, Tellin us fine weather will come, When we see thi dappled wings.

But aw'd rayther have a sparrow,— Rayther hear a robin twitter;— Tho' they may net be thi marrow, May net fly wi' sich a glitter;

But they nivver leeav us, nivver— Storms may come, but still they stay; But th' first wind 'at ma's thee shivver, Up tha mounts an flies away.

Ther's too monny like thee, swallow, 'At when fortun's sun shines breet, Like a silly buzzard follow, Doncin raand a bit o' leet.

But ther's few like Robin redbreast, Cling throo days o' gloom an care; Soa aw love mi old tried friends best— Fickle hearts aw'll freely spare.

A Wife.

Wod yo leead a happy life? Aw can show yo ha,— Get a true an lovin wife,— (Yo may have one nah.) If yo have, remember this, Be a true man to her, An whativver gooas amiss, Keep noa secrets throo her.

Some chaps think a wife's a toy, Just for ther caressin; But sichlike can ne'er enjoy, This world's richest blessin. Some ther are who think 'em slaves, Fit for nowt but drudgin, An if owt ther fancy craves, Give it to 'em grudgin.

Dooant forget yor patient wife, Like yorsen is human, For yo owe yor precious life, To another woman. Mak her equal wi' yorsen, (Ten to one shoo's better,) Tell her all yor plans, an then If shoo'll help yo, let her.

Oft yo'll find her ready wit, An her keen perception, Help yo're slower brains a bit Wi' some new conception. Dooant expect 'at wives should be Like dumb breedin cattle, Spendin life contentedly Wi' ther babby's prattle.

If yo happen to be sick, Then they nurse an tend yo, An when trubbles gether thick, They can best befriend yo. An if sympathy yo need, Thear yo'll sure receive it, Yo accept it, but indeed, Yo but seldom give it.

If life's journey yo'd have breet, Mak yor wife yor treasure, Trustin her booath day an neet, Sharin grief an pleasure. Then yo'll find her smilin face, Ivver thear to cheer yo, An yo'll run a nobler race, Knowin 'at shoo's near yo.

Heart Brokken.

He wor a poor hard workin lad, An shoo a workin lass, An hard they tew'd throo day to day, For varry little brass. An oft they tawk'd o'th' weddin day, An lang'd for th' happy time, When poverty noa moor should part, Two lovers i' ther prime.

But wark wor scarce, an wages low, An mait an drink wor dear, They did ther best to struggle on, As year crept after year. But they wor little better off, Nor what they'd been befoor; It tuk 'em all ther time to keep Grim Want aghtside o'th' door.

Soa things went on, wol Hope at last, Gave place to dark despair; They felt they'd nowt but lovin hearts, An want an toil to share. At length he screw'd his courage up To leeav his native shore; An goa where wealth wor worshipped less, An men wor valued moor.

He towld his tale;—poor lass!—a tear Just glistened in her e'e; Then soft shoo whispered, "please thisen, But think sometimes o' me: An whether tha's gooid luck or ill, Tha knows aw shall be glad To see thee safe at hooam agean, An welcome back mi lad."

"Awl labor on, an do mi best; Tho' lonely aw must feel, But awst be happy an content If tha be dooin weel. But ne'er forget tho' waves may roll, An keep us far apart; Tha's left a poor, poor lass behind, An taen away her heart."

"Dost think 'at aw can e'er forget, Whearivver aw may rooam, That bonny face an lovin heart, Aw've prized soa dear at hooam? Nay lass, nooan soa, be sure o' this, 'At till next time we meet Tha'll be mi first thowt ivvery morn, An last thowt ivvery neet."

He went away an years flew by, But tidins seldom came; Shoo couldn't help, at times, a sigh, But breathed noa word o' blame; When one fine day a letter came, 'Twor browt to her at th' mill, Shoo read it, an her tremblin hands, An beating heart stood still.

Her fellow workers gathered raand An caught her as shoo fell, An as her heead droop'd o' ther arms, Shoo sighed a sad "farewell." Poor lass! her love had proved untrue, He'd play'd a traitor's part, He'd taen another for his bride, An broke a trustin heart.

Her doleful stooary sooin wor known, An monny a tear wor shed; They took her hooam an had her laid, Upon her humble bed; Shoo'd nawther kith nor kin to come Her burial fees to pay; But some poor comrade's undertuk, To see her put away.

Each gave what little helps they could, From aght ther scanty stooar; I' hooaps 'at some 'at roll'd i' wealth Wod give a trifle moor. But th' maisters ordered 'em away, Abaat ther business, sharp! For shoo'd deed withaat a nooatice, An shoo hadn't fell'd her warp.