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."

"Why should awr lot soa bitter be, Theas burds 'at sing together, When storms are commin off they flee, To lands ov sunny wreather? An nah, when trubbles threaten thee What should prevent thee gooin, An linkin on thi fate wi' me, Withaat thi parents knowin?"

"Tha knows my love is soa sincere, Noa risk can mak it falter, Soa put aside all daat an fear, An goa wi' me to th' altar I' one month's time my wife tha'll be,— Or less if tha'll but shorten it." "Well then," says Lizzy, "aw'll agree, Tha'st have me in a fortnit."

Shoo laft an cried,—aw laft as weel, Aw feear'd shoo did'nt meean it; But Lizzie proved as true as steel,— Her fowk sed nowt ageean it. An who that wealthy chap could be, Aw nivver shall detarmin, For if aw ax shoo glints wi' glee. An says, "Thee mind thi farmin."

An soa aw till mi bit o' graand, An oft when aght together, I'th' cooil o'th' day we saunter raand An pluck a sprig o' heather. Soa sweethearts nooat theas simple facts, An trust i' one another; A lass i' love ne'er stops to ax, Her fayther or her mother.



A Lucky Dog.

Tha'rt a rough en;—aye tha art,—an aw'll bet Just as ready. Tha ne'er lived as a pet, Aw can tell. Ther's noa mistress weshed thi skin, cooam'd thi heead; Net mich pettin; kicks an cuffins oft asteead, Like mysel.

Tha'rt noa beauty;—nivver wor;—nivver will; Ther's lots like thee amang men,—but then still, Sich is fate; An its fooilish for to be discontent At a thing we've noa paar to prevent. That's true mate.

Why tha's foller'd one like me aw cant tell; If tha'rt seekin better luck,—its a sell, As tha'll find; Nay, tha needn't twitch thi tail aght o' seet, Aw'll nooan hurt thi, tho' aw own tha'rt a freet. Nivver mind.

Here's mi supper, an aw'll spare thee a part,— Gently, pincher! Tak thi time. Here tha art; That's thy share. Are ta chooakin? Sarve thi reight! Tak thi time! Why it's wasted, owt 'at's gien thee 'at's prime. Aw declare.

Are ta lukkin for some mooar? Tha's a cheek Tha mud nivver had a taste for a week, Tha'rt soa small; Aw've net tasted sin this nooin,—soa tha knows! Thi maath watters,—awm a fooil,—but here gooas, Tak it all.

Tha luks hungry even yet,-aw believe Tha'd caar thear as long as awd owt to give, But it's done. Are ta lost? Aw'll tell thi what tha'd best do Draand thisen! or let's toss up which o'th' two, Just for fun.

Come, heead or tail? If its heead then its thee, But net furst time,—we'll have two aght o' three,— One to me. Nah, it's tail,—one an one,—-fairly tost,— If its tail a second time, then aw've lost; Two to thee.

Soa it's sattled, an tha's won;—aw've to dee, But aw think it weant meean mich to thee If aw dull; For if awm poor, life is still sweet to all, Deeath's walkin raand, he's pratty sewer to call, Sooin enuff.

Aw'll toss noa moor, awm aght o' luck to neet, Aw'll goa to bed, an tha can sleep baght leet Aw expect. If tha'd ha lost, as sewer as here's a clog, Tha'd had to draand, but thart a lucky dog, Recollect.



My Doctrine.

Aw wodn't care to live at all, Unless aw could be jolly! Let sanctimonious skinflints call All recreation folly.

Aw still believe this world wor made For fowk to have some fun in; An net for everlastin trade, An avarice an cunnin.

Aw dooant believe a chap should be At th' grinnel stooan for ivver; Ther's sewerly sometime for a spree, An better lat nor nivver.

It's weel enuff for fowk to praich An praise up self denial; But them 'at's forradest to praich, Dooant put it oft to trial.

They'd rayther show a thaasand fowk A way, an point 'em to it; Nor act as guides an stop ther tawk, An try thersens to do it.

Aw think this world wor made for me, Net me for th' world's enjoyment; An to mak th' best ov all aw see Will find me full employment.

"My race," they say, "is nearly run, It mightn't last a minnit;" But if ther's pleasure to be fun, Yo bet yor booits awm in it.

Aw wodn't care to live at all, Weighed daan wi' melancholy; My doctrine is, goa in for all, 'At helps to mak life jolly.



That Lass.

Awm nobbut a poor workin man, An mi wage leeavs me little to spare; But aw strive to do th' best 'at aw can, An tho' poor, yet aw nivver despair. 'At aw live bi hard wark is mi booast, Tho' mi clooas may be shabby an meean; But th' one thing awm langin for mooast, Is that grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.

They may call me a fooil or a ass, To tawk abaat wantin a wife; But there's nowt like a true hearted lass, To sweeten a workinman's life. An love is a feelin as pure In a peasant as 'tis in a queen, An happy aw could be awm sewer, Wi' that grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.

Aw dreeam ov her ivvery neet, An aw think o' nowt else durin th' day; An aw lissen for th' saand ov her feet, But its melted i'th' distance away. At mi lot aw cant help but repine, When aw think ov her bonny black een, For awm feeard shoo can nivver be mine; That grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.



Mi Old Umberel

What matters if some fowk deride, An point wi' a finger o' scorn? Th' time wor tha wor lukt on wi' pride, Befooar mooast o'th' scoffers wor born. But aw'll ne'er turn mi back on a friend, Tho' old-fashioned an grey like thisen; But aw'll try to cling to thi to th' end, Tho' thart nobbut an old umberel.

Whear wod th' young ens 'at laff be to-day, But for th' old ens they turn into fun? Who wor wearm thersen bent an grey, When their days had hardly begun. Ther own youth will quickly glide past; If they live they'll ail grow old thersel; An they'll long for a true friend at last, Tho' its nobbut an old umberel.

Tha's grown budgey, an faded, an worn, Yet thi inside is honest an strong; But thi coverin's tattered an torn, An awm feeard 'at tha cannot last long. But when th' few years 'at's left us have run, An to th' world we have whispered farewells; May they say at my duty wor done, As weel as mi old umberel's



What it Comes to.

Young Alick gate wed, as all gradely chaps do, An tuk Sally for better or war; A daycenter felly ne'er foller'd a ploo,— Th' best lad ov his mother's bi far.

An shoo wor as nice a young lass as yo'll see In a day's march, aw'll wager mi hat; But yo know unless fowk's dispositions agree, Tho' they're bonny,—noa matter for that.

They'd better bi hawf have a hump o' ther rig, Or be favvor'd as ill as old Flew; If ther temper is sweet, chaps 'll net care a fig, Tho' his wife may have one ee or two.

Young Sally had nivver been used to a farm, An shoo seem'd to know nowt abaat wark; Shoo set wi' her tooas up o'th' fender to warm, Readin novels throo mornin to dark.

Alick saw 'at sich like gooins on wod'nt do, Soa one neet when they'd getten to bed, He tell'd her he thowt shoo'd best buckle too, Or else we'st be ruined, he sed.

Says Sally, "its cappin to hear thi awm sewer, For tha tell'd me befooar we wor wed, Tha'd be happy wi me, an tha wanted nowt mooar If aw nivver stirred aght o' mi bed."

"Tha sed aw wor bonny, an th' leets o' mi een Wor enuff for thi sunshine throo life; An tha tell'd me tha wanted to mak me a queen,— But it seems 'at tha wanted a wife."

"Aw'm willin to own love's all reight in its way, An aw'm glad aw've discovered soa sooin 'At love withaat labor sooin dwindles away,— For fowk can't live o' billin an cooin."

"That's my nooation too,—but aw thowt tha should try, What a wife as a laikon could be; Noa daat tha's fan livin o' love rayther dry, For aw'll own aw'd grown sickened o' thee."



Hold up yer Heeads.

Hold up yer heeads, tho' at poor workin men Simple rich ens may laff an may scorn; Maybe they ne'er haddled ther riches thersen, Somdy else lived befooar they wor born. As noble a heart may be fun in a man, Who's a poor ragged suit for his best, (An who knows he mun work or else he mun clam,) As yo'll find i' one mich better drest. Soa here's to all th' workers whearivver they be, I'th' land or i'th' loom or i'th' saddle; An the dule tak all them who wod mak us less free, Or rob us o'th' wages we haddle!



A Quiet Day.

A'a! its grand to have th' place to yorsen! To get th' wimmen fowk all aght o'th' way! Mine's all off for a trip up to th' Glen, An aw've th' haase to misen for a day.

If aw'd mi life to spend ovver ageean, Aw'd be bothered wi' nooan o' that mak; What they're gooid for aw nivver could leearn, Except to spooart clooas o' ther back.

Nah, aw'll have a quiet pipe, just for once, Aw'm soa thankful to think 'at they're shut; An its seldom a chap has a chonce;— Whear the dickens has th' matches been put?

Well, nah then, aw've th' foir to leet,— It will'nt tak long will'nt that, An as sooin as its gotten burned breet, Aw'il fry some puttates up i' fat.

Aw know aw'm a stunner to cook,— Guys-hang-it! this kinlin's damp! It does nowt but splutter an smook, An this Hue's ov a varry poor stamp.

It's lukkin confaandedly black,— Its as dismal an dull as mi hat; Nah, Sal leets a foir in a crack,— Aw will give her credit for that.

Ther's nowt nicer nor taties when fried,— Aw could ait em to ivvery meal; Aw can't get 'em, altho' aw've oft tried,— Its some trouble aw know varry weel.

Th' foirs aght! an it stops aght for me! Aw'il bother noa mooar wi' th' old freet! Next time they set off for a spree, They'st net leeav me th' foir to leet.

Aw dooant care mich for coffee an teah, Aw can do wi' some milk an a cake; An fried taties they ne'er seem to me, Worth th' bother an stink 'at they make.

Whear's th' milk? Oh, its thear, an aw'm blest, That cat has its heead reight i'th' pot; S'cat! witta! A'a, hang it aw've missed! If aw hav'nt aw owt to be shot!

An th' pooaker's flown cleean throo a pane; It wor fooilish to throw it, that's true; Them 'at keep sich like cats are insane, For aw ne'er see noa gooid 'at they do.

Aw think aw'il walk aght for a while, But, bless us! mi shooin isn't blackt! Aw'm net used to be sarved i' this style, An aw think at ther's somdy gooan crackt.

It doesn't show varry mich thowt, When aw'm left wi' all th' haasewark to do, For fowk to set off an do nowt, Net soa mich as to blacken a shoe.

It'll be dinner time nah varry sooin,— An ther's beefsteaks i'th' cubbord aw know; But aw can't leet that foir bi nooin, An aw can't ait beefsteak when its raw.

Aw tell'd Sal this morn 'at shoo'd find, A rare appetite up i' that Glen; An aw think if aw dooant change mi mind, Aw shall manage to find one misen.

Aw wor fooilish to send 'em away, But they'll ha to do th' best at they can; But aw'st feel reight uneasy all th' day,— Wimmen's net fit to goa baght a man.

They've noa nooation what prices to pay, An they dooant know th' best places to call; Aw'il be bun it'll cost 'em to-day, What wod pay my expences an all.

It luks better, aw fancy, beside, When a chap taks his family raand; Nah, suppooas they should goa for a ride, An be pitched ovver th' brig an be draand.

Aw ne'er should feel happy ageean, If owt happen'd when aw wor away; An to leeav 'em i' danger luks meean, Just for th' sake o' mi own quiet day.

Aw could catch th' train at leeavs abaat nooin; E'e, gow! that'll be a gooid trick! An aw'st get a gooid dinner for gooin, An th' foir can goa to old Nick.

Its a pity to miss mi quiet day, But its better to do that 'at's reight; An it matters nowt what fowk may say, But a chap mun ha summat to ait,



Lass o'th Haley Hill.

O winds 'at blow, an flaars 'at grow, O sun, an stars an mooin! Aw've loved yo long, as weel yo know, An watched yo neet an nooin. But nah, yor paars to charm all flee, Altho' yor bonny still, But th' only beauty i' mi e'e, Is th' lass o'th Haley Hill.

Her een's my stars,—her smile's my sun, Her cheeks are rooases bonny; Her teeth like pearls all even run, Her brow's as fair as onny. Her swan-like neck,—her snowy breast,— Her hands, soa seldom still; Awm fain to own aw love her best,— Sweet lass o'th' Haley Hill.

Aw axt her i' mi kindest tone, To grant mi heart's desire; A tear upon her eyelid shone,— It set mi heart o' foir. Wi' whispers low aw told mi love, Shoo'd raised her droopin heead; Says shoo, "Awm sooary for thi lad, But awm already wed; An if awr Isaac finds thee here,— As like enuff he will,— Tha'll wish 'at tha wor onnywhear, Away throo th' Haley Hill.



Ditherum Dump.

Ditherum dump lived i'th' haase behund th' pump, An he grummel'd throo mornin to neet, On his rig he'd a varry respectable hump, An his nooas end wor ruddy an breet. His een wor askew an his legs knock-a-kneed, An his clooas he could don at a jump; An th' queerest old covey 'at ivver yo seed, Wor mi naybor old Ditherum Dump.

Ditherum Dump he lived behund th' pump, An he grummel'd throo mornin to neet; An he sed fowk neglect one they owt to respect, An blow me, if aw think 'at its reet!

Yo mun know this old Ditherum lived bi hissen, For he nivver had met wi' a wife; An th' lasses all sed they'd have nooan sich like men, For he'd worrit 'em aght o' ther life. But he grinned as he caanted his guineas o' gold, An he called hissen "Jolly old trump!" An he sed, "tho' awm ugly, an twazzy, an old, Still ther's lots wod bi Mistress Dump."

Ditherum Dump,—Jolly old trump! Tho' tha'rt net varry hansum to th' seet, Yet ther's monny a lass wod be fain o' mi brass, For mi guineas are bonny an breet.

Soa he gethered his gold till he grew varry old, Wi' noa woman to sweeten his life; Till one day a smart lass chonced his winder to pass. An he cried, "That's the wench for my wife!" Soa he show'd her his bags runnin ovver wi' gold, An he axt her this question reight plump; "Tho' awm ugly an waspish, an getten soa old, Will ta come an be my Mistress Dump?"

"For Mistress Dump shall have gold in a lump, If tha'll tak me for better or worse;" Soa shoo says, "Awm yor lass, if yo'll leeav me yor brass, An aw'll promise to mak a gooid nurse."

Soa Ditherum Dump an this young lass gate wed, An th' naybors cried, "Shame! Fie,—for—shame!" But shoo cared net a button for all at they sed, For shoo fancied shoo'd played a safe game. Then Ditherum sickened an varry sooin deed, An he left her as rich as a Jew, An shoo had a big tombstun put ovver his heead, An shoo went into black for him too.

Nah, Mistress Dump, soa rooasy an plump, In a carriage gooas ridin up th' street; An th' lasses sin then all luk aght for old men, An they're crazy to wed an old freet.



My Polly.

My Polly's varry bonny, Her een are black an breet; They shine under her raven locks, Like stars i'th' dark o'th' neet.

Her little cheeks are like a peach, 'At th' sun has woo'd an missed; Her lips like cherries, red an sweet, Seem moulded to be kissed.

Her breast is like a drift o' snow, Her little waist's soa thin, To clasp it wi' a careless arm Wod ommost be a sin.

Her little hands an tiny feet, Wod mak yo think shoo'd been Browt up wi' little fairy fowk To be a fairy queen.

An when shoo laffs, it saands as if A little crystal spring, Wor bubblin up throo silver rocks, Screened by an angel's wing.

It saands soa sweet, an yet soa low, One feels it forms a part Ov what yo love, an yo can hear Its echoes in yor heart.

It isn't likely aw shall win, An wed soa rich a prize; But ther's noa tellin what strange things Man may do, if he tries.



Love one Another.

Let's love one another, it's better bi far; Mak peace wi yor Brother—it's better nor war! Life's rooad's rough enuff,—let's mak it mooar smooth, Let's sprinkle awr pathway wi kindness an love. Ther's hearts at are heavy, and een at are dim, Ther's deep cups o' sorrow at's full up to th' brim; Ther's want an misfortun,—ther's crime an ther's sin; Let's feight 'em wi Love,—for Love's sarten to win.

Give yor hand,—a kind hand,—to yor brother i' need, Dooant question his conduct, or ax him his creed,— Nor despise him becoss yo may think he's nooan reight, For, maybe, some daat whether yo're walkin straight. Dooant set up as judge,—it's a dangerous plan, Luk ovver his failins,—he's nobbut a man; Suppooas at he's one at yo'd call 'a hard case,' What might yo ha been if yo'd been in his place?

Fowk praich abaat 'Charity,'—'pity the poor,' But turn away th' beggar at comes to ther door;— "Indiscriminate Charity's hurtful," they say, "We hav'nt got riches to throw em away!" Noa! but if that Grand Book,—th' Grandest Book ivver writ, (An if ther's a true Book aw think at that's it,) Says "What yo have done to th' leeast one o' theas Yo did unto Me;"—Reckon that if yo pleeas.

Awm nooan findin fault,—yet aw cant help but see Ha some roll i' wealth, wol ther's some, starvin, dee; They grooan "it's a pity;—Poverty is a curse!" But they button ther pockets, an shut up ther purse. Ther's few fowk soa poor, but they could if they wod, Do summat for mankind.—Do summat for God. It wor Jesus commanded 'To love one another,' Ther's no man soa lost but can claim thee as Brother.

Then let us each one, do what little we can, To help on to comfort a less lucky man; Remember, some day it may fall to thy lot To feel poverty's grip, spite o' all at tha's got. But dooant help another i' hooaps at some day. Tha'll get it all back.—Nay, a thaasand times Nay! Be generous an just and wi th' futer ne'er bother;— Tha'll nivver regret bein a friend to thi Brother.



Dick an Me.

Two old fogies,—Dick an me,— Old, an grey as grey can be. A'a,-but monny a jolly spree We have had;— An tha ne'er went back o' me;— Bonny lad!

All thi life, sin puppy days We've been chums:—tha knows mi ways;— An noa matter what fowk says, On we jog. 'Spite what tricks dame Fortun plays,— Tha'rt my dog.

Th' world wod seem a dreary spot,— All mi joys wod goa to pot;— Looansum be mi little cot, Withaat thee; A'a, tha knows awst freeat a lot If tha'd to dee.

Once on a time we rammeld far O'er hills an dales, an rugged scar; Whear fowk, less ventersum, ne'er dar To set ther feet; An nowt wor thear awr peace to mar;— Oh, it wor sweet!

But nah, old chap, thi limbs are stiff;— Tha connot run an climb—but if Tha wags thi tail,—why, that's eniff To cheer me yet; An th' fun we've had o'er plain an cliff, Awst ne'er forget.

If aw, like Burns, could sing thi praise; Could touch the strings to tune sich lays— Tha'd be enshrined for endless days I' deathless song; But Fate has will'd it otherways. Yet, love is strong.

Blest be that heart 'at finds i' me What nubdy else could ivver see;— Summat to love.—Aye! even thee, Tha knows its true; We've shared booath wealth an poverty, An meean to do.

When fowk wi kindly hearts aglow, Say, "Poor old fogies," they dooant know 'At all they own is far below Thy worth to me; An all the wealth at they could show Wod ne'er tempt thee,

Time's creepin on,—we wait a chonce, When we shall quit life's mazy donee; But, please God! Tak us booath at once, Old Dick an me; When's time to quit,—why—that announce When best suits Thee.



Briggate at Setterdy Neet.

Sin Leeds wor a city it puts on grand airs, An aw've noa wish to bother wi' others' affairs; 'At they've mich to be praad on aw freely admit, But aw think thier's some things they mud alter a bit. They've raised some fine buildings 'at's worth lookin at,— They're a credit to th' city, thers noa daat o' that; But ther's nowt strikes a stranger soa mich as a seet O'th' craad 'at's i' Briggate at Setterdy neet.

Aw've travelled a bit i' booath cities an taans, An aw've oft seen big craads when they've stept aght o' baands;— Well,—excitement sometimes will lead fowk astray, When they dooant meean owt wrang, but just rollikin play, But Leeds is a licker,—for tumult an din,— For bullies an rowdies an brazzen-faced sin. Aw defy yo to find me another sich street,— As disgraceful, as Briggate at Setterdy neet.

Poleecemen are standin i' twos an i' threes, But they must be stooan blinnd to what other fowk sees; It must be for ornaments they've been put thear,— It cant be nowt else, for they dooant interfere. Young lads who imagine it maks 'em seem men If they hustle an shaat and mak fooils o' thersen. Daycent fowk mun leeav th' cawsey for th' middle o'th' street For its th' roughs at own Briggate at Setterdy neet.

An if yo've a heart 'at can feel, it must ache When yo hear ther faal oaths an what coorse jests they make; Yet once they wor daycent an wod be soa still, But they've takken th' wrang turnin,—they're gooin daan hill. Them lasses, soa bonny, just aght o' ther teens, Wi' faces an figures 'at's fit for a queen's. What is it they're dooin? Just watch an yo'll see 't, What they're hawkin i' Briggate at Setterdy neet.

They keep sendin praichers to th' heathen an sich, But we've heathen at hooam at require 'em as mich: Just luk at that craad at comes troopin along, Some yellin aght th' chorus o'th' new comic song; Old an young,—men an wimmen,—some bummers, some swells, Turned aght o' some dnnkin an singin room hells;— They seek noa dark corners, they glory i'th' leet, This is Briggate,—their Briggate, at Setterdy neet.

Is it axin too mich ov "the powers that be," For a city's main street from sich curse to be free? Shall Morality's claims be set all o' one side, Sich a market for lewdness an vice to provide? Will that day ivver come when a virtuous lass, Alone, withaat insult, in safety may pass? Its time for a change, an awm langin to see 't,— A respectable Briggate at Setterdy neet.

Them well-meeanin parents, at hooam at ther ease, Are oft wilfully blind to sich dangers as theas; Their sons an their dowters are honest an pure,— That may be,—an pray God it may ivver endure. But ther's noa poor lost craytur, but once on a time, Wor as pure as ther own an wod shudder at crime. The devil is layin his snares for ther feet,— An they're swarmin i' Briggate at Setterdy neet.



Awr Annie.

Saw yo that lass wi' her wicked een? That's awr Annie. Shoo's th' pet o'th' haase, we call her 'queen,' Shoo's th' bonniest wench wor ivver seen; Shoo laffs an frolics all th' day throo,— Shoo does just what shoo likes to do,— But then shoo's loved,—an knows it too;— That's awr Annie.

If ivver yo meet wi' a saucy maid,— That's awr Annie. Shoo's sharp as onny Sheffield blade, Shoo puts all others into th' shade. At times shoo'll sing or laff or cry, An nivver give a reason why: Sometimes shoo's cheeky, sometimes shy; That's awr Annie.

Roamin throo meadows green an sweet, That's awr Annie; Trippin away wi' fairy feet, Noa fairer flaar yo'll ivver meet; Or in some trees cooil shade shoo caars Deckin her golden curls wi' flaars; Singin like happy burd for haars, That's awr Annie.

Chock full o' mischief, aw'll admit, That's awr Annie;— But shoo'li grow steadier in a bit, Shoo'll have mooar wisdom, an less wit. But could aw have mi way i' this, Aw'd keep her ivver as shoo is,— Th' same innocent an artless miss, That's awr Annie.

Child ov mi old age, dearest, best! That's awr Annie; Cloise to mi weary bosom prest, Far mooar nor others aw feel blest;— Jewels an gold are nowt to me, For when shoo's sittin o' mi knee, Ther's nubdy hawf as rich as me, Unless it's Annie.



Peter Prime's Principles.

"Sup up thi gill, owd Peter Prime, Tha'st have a pint wi' me; It's worth a bob at onny time To have a chat wi' thee. Aw like to see thi snowy hair, An cheeks like apples ripe,— Come squat thi daan i'th' easy cheer, Draw up, an leet thi pipe. Tho' eighty years have left ther trace, Tha'rt hale an hearty yet, An still tha wears a smilin face, As when th' furst day we met. Pray tell me th' saycret if tha can What keeps thi heart soa leet, An leeavs thi still a grand owd man, At we're all praad to meet?"

"Why lad, my saycret's plain to see, An th' system isn't hard; Just live a quiet life same as me, An tha'll win th' same reward. Be honest i' thi dealins, lad, That keeps a easy mind; Shun all thi conscience says is bad, An nivver be unkind. If others laff becoss tha sticks To what tha knows is reight, Why, let 'em laff, dooant let their tricks Prevent thee keepin straight. If blessed wi' health, an strong to work Dooant envy them at's rich; If duty calls thi nivver shirk, Tha'rt happier far nor sich. Contentment's better wealth nor gold, An labor sweetens life,— Ther's nowt at maks a chap grow old, Like idleness an strife. Dooant tawk too mich, but what tha says Be sewer it's allus true; An let thi ways be honest ways, An that'll get thi throo. If tha's a wife, pray dooant forget Shoo's flesh an blooid like thee; Be kind an lovin, an aw'll bet A helpmate true shoo'll be. Dooant waste thi brass i' rants an sprees, Or maybe when tha'rt old,— Wi' body bent an tott'rin knees, Tha'll be left aght i'th' cold. Luk at th' breet side o' ivverything An varry sooin tha'll see, Whear providence has placed thi, Is whear tha owt to be. Dooant live as if this world wor all, For th' time will come someday, When that grim messenger will call, An tha mun goa away. Tha'll nivver need to quake or fear, If tha carries aght this plan, An them tha's left behind shall hear 'Thear lies an honest man.'"



Cuckoo!

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Just a word i' thi ear,— Aw hooap we shall net disagree; But aw'm foorced to admit as aw watch thi each year, At tha seems a big humbug to me.

We know at tha brings us glad tidins ov Spring, An for that art entitled to thanks; But tha maks a poor fist when tha offers to sing, An tha plays some detestable pranks.

Too lazy to build a snug hooam for thisel, Tha lives but a poor vagrant life; An thi mate is noa better aw'm sooary to tell, Shoo's unfit to be onny burd's wife.

Shoo drops her egg into another burd's nest, An shirks what's her duty to do; Noa love for her offspring e'er trubbles the breast, Ov this selfish, hard-hearted Cuckoo.

Some other poor burd mun attend to her young, An work hard to find 'em wi' grubs, An all her reward, is to find befooar long At her foster child treeats her wi' snubs.

Tha lives throo all th' sunshine, but th' furst chilly wind 'At ruffles thi feathers a bit, Yo gather together an all i' one mind Turn yor tails,—fly away, an forget.

Ther's some men just like yo, soa selfish an base, They dooant care what comes or what gooas; If they can just manage to live at ther ease, Ait an drink, an be donn'd i' line clooas,

Cuckoo, thar't a type ov a lot at aw've met,— Aw'm nooan sooary when th' time comes to Part;— An i' spite ov all th' poets 'at's lauded thi, yet, Tha'rt a humbug!—That's just what tha art.



Fowk Next Door.

Said Mistress Smith to Mistress Green, Aw'm feeard we'st ha to flit; Twelve year i' this same haase we've been, An should be stoppin yet, I'th' same old spot, we thowt to spend If need be twelve year mooar; But all awr comfort's at an end, Sin th' fowk moved in next door.

Yo know aw've nivver hurt a flea, All th' years at aw've been here; An fowk's affairs are nowt to me,— Aw nivver interfere. We've had gooid naybors all this while,— All honest fowk tho' poor; But aw can't tolerate sich style As they put on next door.

Aw dooant know whear they get ther brass, It's little wark they do;— Ther's eight young bairns, an th' owdest lass Is gaddin raand th' day throo. They dress as if they owned a mint, Throo th' owdest to th' youngest brat, Noa skimpin an noa sign o' stint, But aw've nowt to do wi' that.

Ther's th' maister wears a silk top hat, An sometimes smooks cigars!— An owd clay pipe or sich as that Is gooid enuff for awrs. When th' mistress stirs shoo has to ride I' cabs or else i'th' buss; But aw mun walk or caar inside; Ov coorse that's nowt to us.

Aw wonder if they've paid ther rent? Awr landlord's same as theirs; If we should chonce to owe a cent, He'll put th' bums in he swears. An th' butcher wodn't strap us mait, Noa, net if we'd to pine, Aw daat at their accaant's nooan straight, But it's noa affair o' mine.

One can't help havin thowts yo know, When one meets sich a case; An nivver sin we lived i'th' row Did such like things tak place. Wi' business when it isn't mine, Aw nivver try to mell, An if they want to cut a shine They're like to pleas thersel.

But stuck up fowk aw ne'er could bide,— An pride will have a fall. Aw connot match 'em, tho' aw've tried, Aw wish aw could, that's all! Aw dunnot envy 'em a bit, Aw'm quite content, tho' poor, But one on us will ha to flit, Us or them fowk next door.



Dad's Lad.

Little patt'rin, clatt'rin feet, Runnin raand throo morn to neet; Banishin mi mornin's nap,— Little bonny, noisy chap,— But aw can't find fault yo see,— For he's Dad's lad an he loves me.