He loves his mother withaat daat, Tho' shoo gies him monny a claat; An he says, "Aw'll tell mi Dad," Which ov coorse maks mother mad; Then he snoozles on her knee, For shoo loves him 'coss shoo loves me.

He's a bother aw'll admit, But he'll alter in a bit; An when older grown, maybe, He'll a comfort prove to me, An mi latter days mak glad, For aw know he's Daddy's lad.

If he's aght o' sect a minnit, Ther's some mischief, an he's in it, When he's done it then he'll flee; An for shelter comes to me. What can aw do but shield my lad? For he's my pet an aw'm his Dad.

After a day's hard toil an care, Sittin in mi rockin chair; Nowt mi wearied spirit charms, Like him nestlin i' mi arms, An noa music is as sweet, As his patt'rin, clatt'rin feet.



Willie's Weddin.

A'a, Willie, lad, aw'm fain to hear Tha's won a wife at last; Tha'll have a happier time next year, Nor what tha's had i'th' past. If owt can lend this life a charm, Or mak existence sweet, It is a lovin woman's arm Curled raand yor neck at neet.

An if shoo's net an angel, Dooant grummel an find fault, For eearth-born angels, lad, tha'll find Are seldom worth ther salt. They're far too apt to flee away, To spreead ther bonny wings; They'd nivver think o'th' weshin day Nor th' duties wifehood brings.

A wife should be a woman, An if tha's lucky been; Tha'il find a honest Yorksher lass, Is equal to a Queen. For if her heart is true to thee, An thine to her proves true,— Tha's won th' best prize 'at's under th' skies, An tha need nivver rue.

Tha'll have to bite thi lip sometimes, When mooar inclined to sware; But recollect, no precious things Bring joy unmixed wi' care. An when her snarlin turns to smiles, An bitterness to bliss, Tha'll yield fresh homage to her wiles, An mak up wi' a kiss.

Tha'll happen think 'at shoo's a fooil, An thy superior wit Will allus win, an keepin cooil Tha'll triumph in a bit. Shoo's happen thinkin th' same o' thee An holds thi in Love's tether, Well, nivver heed,—they best agree When two fooils mate together.



Somdy's Chonce.

What's a poor lass like me to do, 'At langs for a hooam ov her own? Aw'm a hale an bonny wench too, An nubdy can say aw'm heigh-flown. Aw want nawther riches nor style, Just a gradely plain felly will do; But aw'm waitin a varry long while An ov sweethearts aw've getten but two.

But th' trubble's just this,—let me tell, What aw want an will have if aw can, To share wedded life wi' misel, Is a man 'at's worth callin a man. But Harry's as stiff as a stoop, An Jack, onny lass wod annoy,— Harry's nobbut a soft nin-com-poop, An Jack's just a hobble-de-hoy.

If caarin at th' hob ov a neet, Wi' a softheeaded twaddlin fooil; Aw should order him aght o' mi seet, Or be cooamin his yure wi' a stooil. His wage,—what it wor,—couldn't bring Joy enuff to mak up for life's pains, If aw fan misen teed to a thing, At could work, ait an live, withaat brains.

"But ther's love," yo may say,—Hi that's it! But aw nivver could love a machine; An aw'll net wed a chap 'at's baat wit, Net if he could mak me a queen. Aw'd like one booath hansum an strong, An honest, truehearted an kind, But aw'm sewer aw could ne'er get along, Wi' a felly 'at had'nt a mind.

Soa Harry will ha to be seckt, For a nin-com-poop's nowt i' mi line; As for Jack,—he could nivver expect To win sich a true heart as mine. Ther's lasses enuff to be had, 'At'll jump at sich chonces wi' joy, They'll tak owt at's i'th' shape ov a lad, Quite content wi' a hobble-de-hoy.

Aw dooant want to spend all mi life, Like a saar, neglected old maid; Aw'd rayther bi th' hawf be a wife, Nor to blossom an wither i'th' shade. Soa if onny young chap wants a mate, Tho' he may net be hansum nor rich, If he's getten some sense in his pate, Aw'm his chonce.—An he need'nt have mich.



To a True Friend.

Here'sa song to mi brave old friend, A friend who has allus been true; His day's drawin near to its end, When he'll leeav me, as all friends mun do. His teeth have quite wasted away, He's grown feeble an blind o' one ee, His hair is all sprinkled wi' gray, But he's just as mich thowt on bi me.

When takkin a stroll into th' taan, He's potterin cloise at mi heels; Noa matter whearivver aw'm baan, His constancy nivver once keels. His feyts an his frolics are o'er, But his love nivver offers to fail; An altho' some may fancy us poor, They could'nt buy th' wag ov his tail.

If th' grub is sometimes rayther rough, An if prospects for better be dark; He nivver turns surly an gruff, Or shows discontent in his bark. Ther's nubdy can tice him away,— He owns but one maister,—that's me, He seems to know all 'at aw say, An maks th' best ov his lot, what it be.

Aw've towt him a trick, nah an then, Just when it has suited mi whim; But aw'm foorced to admit to misen, At aw've leearned far mooar lessons throo him. He may have noa soul to be saved, An when life ends i' this world he's done; But aw wish aw could say aw'd behaved Hawf as weel, when my life's journey's run.

Yo may call it a fooilish consait,— But to me he's soa faithful an dear, 'At whativver mi futer estate, Aw'st feel looansum if Dick isn't thear. But if foorced to part, once for all, An his carcase to worms aw mun give, His mem'ry aw oft shall recall, For he nivver can dee wol aw live.



Warmin Pan.

That old warmin pan wi' it's raand, brazzen face, Has hung thear for monny a day; 'Twor mi Gronny's, an th' haase wodn't luk like th' same place, If we tuk th' owd utensil away.

We ne'er use it nah,—but aw recollect th' time, When at neet it wor filled wi' red cowks; An ivvery bed gate weel warmed, except mine, For they sed it wornt meant for young fowks.

When old Gronny deed, t'wornt mich shoo possest, An mi mother coom in for all th' lot; An shoo raised up a duzzen, misen amang th' rest, An shoo lived wol shoo deed i'th' same cot.

Aw'm th' maister here nah, but aw see plain enuff, Things willn't goa long on th' old plan; Th' young ens turn up ther nooases at old-fashioned stuff, An mak gam o' mi old warmin pan.

But aw luk at it oft as it glimmers i'th' leet, An aw seem to live ovver once mooar; Them days when mi futer wor all seemin breet, An aw thowt nowt but joy wor i' stooar.

Aw'm summat like th' pan, aw've aght lasted mi day, An aw'st sooin get mi nooatice to flit; But aw've this consolation,—aw think aw may say, Aw'st leeav some 'at aw've warmed up a bit.



It may be Soa.

This world's made up ov leet an shade, But some things strange aw mark; One class live all on th' sunny side, Wol others dwell i'th' dark. Wor it intended some should grooap, Battlin with th' world o' care, Wol others full ov joy an hooap Have happiness to spare?

It may be soa,—aw'll net contend, Opinions should be free;— Aw'm nobbut spaikin as a friend,— But it seems that way to me.

Should one class wear ther lives away, To mak another great; Wol all their share will hardly pay, For grub enuff to ait? An is it reight at some should dress I' clooas bedeckt wi' gold, Wol others havn't rags enuff, To keep ther limbs throo th' cold?

It may be soa,—aw'll net contend, &c,

When gazin at th' fine palaces, Whear live the favoured few; Aw cant help wonderin sometimes If th' inmates nobbut knew, At th' buildins next to their's i' size Are workhaases for th' poor, An if they'd net feel some surprise At th' misery raand ther door?

It may be soa,—aw'll net contend, &c.

Sometimes aw wonder what chaps think When shiverin wi' th' cold, Abaat th' brass at they've spent i' drink, Whear th' landlords caant ther gold. They couldn't get a shillin lent, To buy a bit o' breead, Whear all ther wages have been spent,— They'd get kickt aght asteead.

It may be soa,—aw'll net contend, &c.

Aw wonder if they'll leearn some day, At th' best friend they can find, When th' shop's shut daan, an stopt ther pay, Is ther own purse snugly lined? Aw wonder, will th' time ivver come, When th' darkest day is done, When they can sing of Home Sweet Home. An know they've getten one?

It may be soa, aw hooap it will, For then we'st all be free; When ivvery man's his own best friend,— Gooid by to poverty.



A Safe Investment.

Yo fowk 'at's some brass to invest, Luk sharp an mak th' best ov yor chonce! Aw'll gie yo a tip,—one o'th' best, Whear ther's profit an safety for once. Yo needn't be feeard th' bank 'll brust, Or at onny false 'Jabez' will chait,— Depend on't its one yo can trust, For th' balance sheet's sewer to be reight.

Yo've heeard on it oftimes befooar,— But mooast fowk are apt to forget;— Yet yo know if yo give to the poor, At yo're gettin the Lord i' yor debt. Its as plain as is th' nooas o' yor face, An its true too,—believe it or net,— It's a bargain God made i' this case, An He'll nivver back aght on't,—yo bet.

All th' wealth yo may have can't prevent Grim Deeath commin to yo some day; An yo'll have to give up ivvery cent, When yor time comes for gooin away. But yo'll dee wi' a leetsomer heart, An for what yo leeav care net a straw, Earth's losses will cause yo noa smart, If i' Heaven yo've summat to draw.

Its useless to pray an to praich,— Yo can't fill fowk's bellies wi' wynd; Put summat to ait i' ther raich, An then lectur em all yo've a mind; Ther's poor folk on ivvery hand, Yo can't shut yor ears to ther cry;— A wail ov woe's sweepin throo th' land, Which may turn to a rooar by-an-bye.

Yo can't expect chaps who have wives, An childer at's clammin i'th' cold, To be patient an quiet all ther lives, When they see others rollin i' gold. When th' workers are beggin for jobs, An th' helpless are starvin to deeath, It's just abaat time some o'th' nobs Wor reminded they dooant own all th' eearth.

If ther duties they still will neglect, An ther pomps an ther pleasurs pursue, They may find when they little expect, 'At they've getten thersen in a stew. Yo may trample a worm wol it turns,— An ther's danger i' starvin a rat;— A man's passion inflamed wol it burns, Is a danger mooar fearful nor that.

But why should ther be sich distress, When ther's plenty for all an to spare? Sewerly them at luck's blest can't do less Nor to help starvin fowk wi' a share. Rich harvests yo'll win from the seed When theas welcome words fall on yor ear,— "What yo did to th' leeast brother i' need, Yo did unto Me;—Come in here."



Red Stockin.

Shoo wor shoeless, an shiverin, an weet,— Her hair flyin tangled an wild: Shoo'd just been browt in aght o'th street, Wi drink an mud splashes defiled. Th' poleece sargent stood waitin to hear What charge agean her wod be made, He'd scant pity for them they browt thear, To be surly wor pairt ov his trade. "What name?" an he put it i'th' book,— An shoo hardly seemed able to stand; As shoo tottered, he happened to luk saw summat claspt in her hand. "What's that? Bring it here right away! You can't take that into your cell;" "It's nothing." "Is that what you say? Let me have it and then I can tell." "Nay, nay! yo shall nivver tak this! It's dearer nor life is to me! Lock me up, if aw've done owt amiss, But aw'll stick fast to this wol aw dee!" "No nonsense!" he sed wi a frown, An two officers speedily came; Shoo seem'd to have soberer grown, But shoo fowt like a fiend, just the same. "Is it money or poison?" he sed,— An unfolded it quickly to see; When sum in at fell aght,—soft an red, An it rested across ov his knee. 'Twor a wee babby's stockin,—just one, But his hard face grew gentle and mild, As he sed in his kindliest tone, "This stockin was worn by your child?" "Yes, sir,—an its all at aw have To remind me ov when aw wor pure, For mi husband an child are i'th' grave;— Yo'll net tak it throo me, aw'm sewer!" "No, not for the world would I take Your treasure round which love has grown; Pray keep it for poor baby's sake;— I once lost a child of my own." And he folded it up wi much care As he lukt at her agonized face;— A face at had once been soa fair, But nah bearin th' stamp ov disgrace. "You seem soberer now,—do you think You could find your way home if you tried?" "Oh! yes, sir! God help me! It's Drink At has browt me to this, sir," shoo cried. "God help you! Be sure that He will; If you seek Him, He'll come to your aid; He is longing and waiting there still To receive you;—none need be afraid. The mother whose heart still retains The love for her babe pure and bright, May have err'd, but the hope still remains That she yet will return. Now, Good night."

—————

With his kindly words still in her ears, An that little red sock in her breast; Shoo lukt up to Heaven through her tears; An her faith, in Christ's love did the rest.



Plain Jane.

Plain Jane—plain Jane; This wor owd Butterworth's favourite strain: For wealth couldn't buy, Such pleasur an joy. As he had wi his owd plain Jane. Ther wor women who oft, Maybe, thinkin him soft, Who endeavoured to 'tice him away, But tho ther breet een, An ther red cheeks had been Quite enuffto lead others astray,— All ther efforts wor lost, For he knew to his cost, 'At th' pleasur they promised browt pain, Soa he left em behind, Wol he went hooam to find, Purer pleasures i'th' arms o' plain Jane.

Plain Jane,—plain Jane,— Owd Butterworth sed he'd noa cause to complain: Shoo wor hearty an strong, An could troll aght a song, An trubbles shoo held i' disdain, He'd not sell her squint For all th' brass i'th' mint, Nor pairt wi her blossomin nooas; He's no rival to fear, Soa he keeps i' gooid cheer, An cares nowt ha th' world comes or it gooas. Cats are all gray at neet, Soa when puttin aght th' leet, As he duckt under th' warm caanterpain, He sed, "Beauty breeds strife Oft between man an wife, But it ne'er trubbles me nor awr Jane."

Plain Jane,—plain Jane,— To cuddle and coddle him allus wor fain; Shoo wod cook, stew or bake, Wesh and scaar for his sake, An could doctor his ivvery pain. Tho his wage wor but small Shoo ne'er grummeld at all, An if th' butter should chonce to run short; Her cake shoo'd ait dry, If axt why? shoo'd reply, Becoss aw know weel ther's nowt for't. But th' harstun wor cleean, Tho th' livin wor meean, An her karacter hadn't a stain; An owd Butterworth knows, As his bacca he blows, Ther's war wimmen ith' world nor owd Jane.



Cash V. Cupid.

Aw dooat on a lass wi' a bonny face, Wi' a twinkle ov fun in her ee;— An aw like a lass 'at's some style an grace, An aw'm fond o' one winnin an shy. An ther's one 'at's a lot o' curly hair, An a temptinly dimpled chin, An one 'at's sedate an cold tho' fair, But shoo wod'nt be easy to win.

Ther's one 'at's a smile ivvery time we meet, An ther's one 'at seems allus sad; Yet ther's sum mat abaat 'em all seems sweet,— Just a sum mat aw wish aw had. But somha aw connot mak up mi mind, Which one to seek for a wife; An its wise to be careful if love is blind, For a weddin oft lasts for a life.

Ther's one 'at has nawther beauty nor wit,— Just a plain lukkin, sensible lass; But shoo's one thing 'at adds to her vally a bit,— An that is 'at shoo's plenty o' brass. An beauty will fade an een will grow dim, Ther's noa lovin care can help that; An th' smartest young woman, tho' stylish an slim, May i' time grow booath clumsy an fat.

Soa aw think aw shall let thowts o' beauty slide by, For a workin chap must be a crank, 'At sees mooar in a dimple or twinklin eye, Nor in a snug sum in a bank. Some may say ther's noa love in a weddin like this, An its nowt but her brass 'at aw want, Well, maybe they can live on a smile or a kiss, If they can,—why, they may,—but aw cant.



Mary's Bonnet.

Have yo seen awr Mary's bonnet? It's a stunner,—noa mistak! Ther's a bunch o' rooasies on it, An a feather daan her back. Yollo ribbons an fine laces, An a cock-a-doodle-doo, An raand her bonny face is A string o' pooasies blue.

When shoo went to church last Sundy, Th' parson could'nt find his text; An fat old Mistress Grundy Sed, "A'a, Mary! pray what next!" Th' lads wink'd at one another,— Th' lasses snikered i' ther glee, An th' whooal o'th' congregation Had her bonnet i' ther ee.

Sooin th' singers started singin, But they braik daan one bi one, For th' hymn wor on "The flowers Of fifty summers gone." But when they saw awr Mary, They made a mullock on it, For they thowt 'at all them flaars Had been put on Mary's bonnet.

Then th' parson sed mooast kindly, "Ther wor noa offence intended; But flaar shows wor aght o' place, I'th' church whear saints attended. An if his errin sister wished To find her way to glory; Shoo should'nt carry on her heead, A whooal consarvatory."

Nah, Mary is'nt short o' pluck,— Shoo jumpt up in a minnit, Shoo lukt as if shoo'd swollo th' church, An ivverybody in it. "Parson," shoo sed, "yor heead is bare,— Nowt in it an nowt on it; Suppooas yo put some flaars thear, Like theas 'at's in my bonnet."



Prime October.

Ther's some fowk like watter, An others like beer; It doesn't mich matter, If ther heead is kept clear. But to guzzle an swill, As if aitin an drinkin Wor all a chap lives for, Is wrang to my thinkin.

Ivvery gooid thing i' life Should be takken i' reason; Even takkin a wife Should be done i'th' reight season. Tho' i' that case to give Advice is noa use, Aw should ne'er win fowk's thanks But might get some abuse.

But if ther's a fault 'At we owt to luk ovver, It's when a chap's tempted Wi' "prime old October." An to cheer up his spirits As nowt else on earth could, He keeps testin its merits, An gets mooar nor he should.

Ov coorse he'll be blamed If he gets ovver th' mark; An noa daat he'll feel shamed When he's throo wi' his lark. An he'll promise "it nivver Shall happen agean," Tho' he's feelin all th' time Just as dry as a bean.

But who can resist, When it sparkles an shines; An his nooas gets a whif At's mooar fragrant nor wines? Aw'd forgie a teetotaller At sich times, if he fell;— For aw know ha it is, 'Coss aw've been thear mysel.



Old Dave to th' New Parson.

"Soa, yo're th' new parson, are yo? Well, awm fain to see yo've come; Yo'll feel a trifle strange at furst, But mak yorsen at hooam.

Aw hooap yo'll think nor war o' me, If aw tell what's in mi noddle, Remember, if we dooant agree, It's but an old man's twaddle.

But aw might happen drop a hint, 'At may start yo to thinkin; Awd help yo if aw saw mi way, An do it too, like winkin.

Awm net mich up o' parsons,— Ther's some daycent ens aw know; They're smart enuff at praichin, But at practice they're too slow.

For dooin gooid nooan can deny Ther chonces are mooast ample; If they'd give us fewer precepts, An rayther moor example.

We need a friend to help waik sheep, Oe'r life's rough ruts an boulders;— Ther's a big responsibility Rests on a parson's shoulders.

But oft ther labor's all in vain, Noa matter ha persistent; Becoss ther taichin an ther lives Are hardly quite consistent.

Ther's nowt can shake ther faith in God, When bad is growing worse; An nowt abate ther trust, unless It chonce to touch ther purse.

They say, "Who giveth to the poor, Lends to the Lord," but yet, They all seem varry anxious, Net to get the Lord in debt.

But wi my fooilish nooations Mayhap yo'll net agree,— Its like enuff 'at awm mistaen,— But it seems that way to me.

If yo hear a clivver sarmon, Yor attention it command's, If yo know at th' praicher's heart's as white As what he keeps his hands.

Ther's too mich love ov worldly ways, An too mich affectation; They work i'th' vinyard a few days, Then hint abaat vacation.

He has to have a holiday Because he's worked soa hard;— Well, aw allus think 'at labor Is desarvin ov reward.

What matters, tho' his little flock A shepherd's care is wantin: Old Nick may have his run o'th' fold Wol he's off galavantin.

Aw dooant say 'at yo're sich a one, Yo seem a gradely sooart; But if yo' th' Gospel armour don, Yo'll find it isn't spooart.

Dooant sell yor heavenly birthright, For a mess ov worldly pottage: But spend less time i'th' squire's hall An moor i'th' poor man's cottage.

Point aght the way an walk in it, They'll follow, one bi one, An when yo've gained yor journey's end, Yo'll hear them words, "Well done."

A Christian soldier has to be, Endurin, bold an brave; Strong in his faith he'll sewerly win, As sewer as my name's Dave."



Tom Grit.

He'd a breet ruddy face an a laffin e'e, An his shoolders wer brooad as brooad need be; For each one he met he'd a sally o' wit, For a jovjal soul wor this same Tom Grit. He climb'd up to his waggon's heigh seeat wi' pride, For he'd bowt a new horse 'at he'd nivver tried; But he had noa fear, for he knew he could drive As weel, if net better, nor th' best man alive. Soa he sed, as he gethered his reins in his hand, An prepared to start off on a journey he'd planned; But some 'at stood by shook ther heeads an lukt grave, For they'd daats ha that mettlesum horse might behave. It set off wi' a jerk when Tom touched it wi' th' whip, But his arms they wor strong, an like iron his grip, An he sooin browt it daan to a nice steady gait, But it tax'd all his skill to mak it run straight. Two miles o' gooid rooad to the next taan led on, An ov things like to scare it he knew ther wor none; Soa he slackened his reins just to give it a spin,— Then he faand 'at he couldn't for th' world hold it in. It had th' bit in its teeth an its een fairly blazed, An it plunged an reared madly,—an then as if crazed It dashed along th' rooad like a fury let lawse, Woll Tom tried his utmost to steady his course. Wi' the reins raand his hands, an feet planted tight He strained ivvery muscle,—but saw wi' affright 'At the street o' the taan 'at he'd entered wor fill'd, Wi' fowk fleein wildly for fear they'd be kill'd, "Let it goa! Let it goa!" they cried aght as it pass'd, An Tom felt his strength givin way varry fast; His hands wor nah helpless its mad rush to check, But he duckt daan his heead an lapt th' reins raand his neck. That jerk caused the horse to loise hold o' the bit, An new hooap an new strength seem'd to come to Tom Grit, An tho' blooid throo his ears an his nooas 'gan to spurt, Th' horse wor browt to a stand, an ther'd nubdy been hurt. Then chaps went to hold it, an help poor Tom daan, For Tom's wor a favorite face i' that taan; "Tha should ha let goa," they all sed, "an jumpt aght, Thy life's worth a thaasand sich horses baght daat!" But Tom wiped his face an he sed as he smiled, "I'th' back o' that waggon yo'll find ther's a child, An aw couldn't goa back to its mother alooan, For he's all th' lad we have. Have yo nooan o' yer own?"



Th' Demon o' Debt.

We read ov a man once possessed ov a devil, An pity his sorrowful case; But at this day we fancy we're free from sich evil, An noa mooar have that trubble to face. But dooan't be deceived, for yo're nooan aght o' danger, Ther's a trap for yor feet ready set, An if to sich sorrow yo'd still be a stranger, Be careful to keep aght o' debt.

For debt is a demon 'at nivver shows pity, An when once yor fast in his grip, Yo may try to luk wise or appear to be witty, But he'll drive yo to wreck wi' his whip. He tempts yo to start wi' a little at furst, An then deeper an deeper yo get, Till at last yo find aght 'at yor life is accurst, An yo grooan under th' burden o' debt.

Then sweet sleep forsakes yo an tossin wi' care, Yo wearily wear neet away; An yor joys an yor hopes have all turned to despair, An yo tremmel at th' commin o' day. Yor een are daancast as yo walk along th' street, An yo shun friends yo once gladly met, The burden yo carry yo fancy they see 't;— That soul-crushin burden o' debt.

Tak an old man's advice, if yo'd keep aght o' trubble, An let 'pay as yo goa,' be yor plan; Tho' yor comforts are fewer, yor joys will be double, An yo'll hold up yor heead like a man, Better far wear a patch on yor elbow or knee, Till yo're able a new suit to get, Nor be dressed like a prince, an whearivver yo be, To be dog'd wi' that Demon o' Debt.



Th' Lad 'at Loves his Mother.

Aw like to see a lot o' lads All frolicsome an free, An hear ther noisy voices, As they run an shaat wi' glee; But if ther's onny sooart o' lad Aw like better nor another, 'At maks mi heart mooast truly glad, It's th' lad 'at loves his Mother.

He may be rayther dull at schooil, Or rayther slow at play; He may be rough an quarrelsome,— Mischievous in his way; He may be allus in a scrape, An cause noa end o' bother; But ther's summat gooid an honest In the lad 'at loves his Mother.

He may oft do what isn't reight, But conscience will keep prickin; He dreeads far mooar his mother's grief, Nor what he'd fear a lickin. Her trubbled face,—her tearful een, Her sighs shoo tries to smother, Are coals ov foir on the heead Ov th' lad 'at loves his Mother.

When years have passed, an as a man He faces toil an care; An whear his mother used to sit Is but a empty chair;— When bi his side sits her he loves, Mooar dear nor onny other, He still will cherish, love an bless, The mem'ry ov his Mother.

A guardian angel throo life's rooad, Her spirit still will be; An in the shadow ov her wings, He'll find security. A better husband he will prove, A father or a brother; For th' lad 'at maks the noblest man, Is th' lad 'at loves his Mother.



Matilda Jane.

Matilda Jane wor fat an fair, An nobbut just sixteen; Shoo'd ruddy cheeks an reddish hair, An leet blue wor her een. Shoo weighed abaat two hundred pund, Or may be rayther mooar, Shoo had to turn her sideways When shoo went aght o'th' door.

Shoo fairly dithered as shoo walked, Shoo wor as brooad as long; But allus cheerful when shoo tawk'd, An liked to sing a song; An some o'th' songs shoo used to sing, Aw weel remember yet; Aw thowt it sich a funny thing, Shoo pickt soa strange a set,

"Put me in my little bed," Aw knew they couldn't do; For onny bed to put her in, Must be big enuff for two. "Aw wish aw wor a burd," shoo sang, Aw nivver could tell why,— For it wod be a waste o' wings Becoss shoo couldn't fly.

"I'd choose to be a Daisy," Aw didn't wonder at, For it must ha made her crazy To hug that looad o' fat. Then "Flitting like a Fairy;"— To hear it gave me pain, For ther wor novvt soa airy Abaat Matilda Jane.

Last time aw heeard her singin, Shoo sang "You'll remember me," An mi arm crept pairtly raand her, As aw held her on mi knee. Ther's noa fear aw shall forget her, Tho' shoo's ne'er set thear agean, But if shoo will, aw'll let her, For aw like Matilda Jane.



Modest Jack o' Wibsey Slack.

At Wibsey Slack lived modest Jack, No daat yo knew him weel; His cheeks wor red, his een wor black, His limbs wor strong as steel. His curly hair wor black as jet, His spirits gay an glad, An monny a lass her heart had set On Jack the Wibsey lad.

Sal Simmons kept a little shop, An bacca seld, an spice, An traitle drink, an ginger pop, An other things as nice. Shoo wor a widow, fat an fair, An allus neat an trim; An Jack seem'd fairly stuck on her; An shoo wor sweet on him.

But other lasses thowt they had A claim on Jack's regard; A widow to win sich a lad, They thowt wor very hard; They called her a designin jade, An one an all cried "Shame!" But Sally kept on wi her trade, An Jack went just the same.

One neet when commin hooam throo wark, They stopt him on his way, An pluckt up courage, as 't wor dark, To say what they'd to say. They sed they thowt a widow should Let lasses have a share, An net get ivvery man shoo could; They didn't think it fair,

Jack felt his heart goa pit-a-pat, His face wor burnin red; His heart wor touched,—noa daat o' that, But this wor what he sed. "Awd like to wed yo ivvery one, An but for th' law aw wod, But weel yo know if th' job wor done, They'd put me into quod."

"As aw can mak but one mi wife,— Sal Simmons suits me weel; For aw wor ne'er wed i' mi life, An dooan't know ha awst feel. But if aw wed a widow, an Aw fail mi pairt to play; Shoo'll varry likely understand, An put me into th' way.



Work Lads!

Work if tha can, it's thi duty to labor; If able, show willin,—ther's plenty to do, Ther's battles to feight withaat musket or sabre, But if tha'll have pluck tha'll be safe to pool throo.

Ther's noa use sittin still wishin an sighin, An waitin for Fortun to gie yo a lift; For ther's others i'th' struggle an time keeps on flyin, An him who wod conquer mun show he's some shift.

Ther's nobbut one friend 'at a chap can depend on, If he's made up his mind to succeed in the strife; A chap's but hissen 'at he can mak a friend on, Unless he be blest wi' a sensible wife.

But nivver let wealth, wi' its glamour an glitter, Be th' chief end o' life or yo'll find when too lat, 'At th' fruits ov yor labor will all have turned bitter, An th' pleasures yo hoped for are all stale an flat.

Do gooid to yorsen, win wealth, fame, or power, But i'th' midst ov it all keep this object i' view; 'At the mooar yo possess, let yor self-love sink lower, An pure pleasur will spring from the gooid yo can do.



Bonny Yorksher.

Bonny Yorksher! how aw love thi! Hard an rugged tho' thi face is; Ther's an honest air abaat thi, Aw ne'er find i' other places. Ther's a music i' thi lingo, Spreeads a charm o'er hill an valley, As a drop ov Yorksher stingo Warms an cheers a body's bally. Ther's noa pooasies 'at smell sweeter, Nor thy modest moorland blossom, Th' violet's een ne'er shone aght breeter Nor on thy green mossy bosom. Hillsides deckt wi' purple heather, Guard thy dales, whear plenty dwellin Hand i' hand wi' Peace, together Tales ov sweet contentment tellin. On the scroll ov fame an glory, Names ov Yorksher heroes glisten; History tells noa grander stooary, An it thrills me as aw listen. Young men blest wi' brain an muscle, Swarm i' village, taan an city, Nah as then prepared to tussle, Wi' the brave, the wise, the witty. An thy lasses,—faithful,—peerless,— Matchless i' ther bloom an beauty,— Modest, lovin, brave an fearless, Praad ov Hooam an firm to Duty. Aw've met nooan i' other places Can a cannle hold beside 'em; Rich i' charms an winnin graces;— Aw should know becoss aw've tried 'em. Balmy breezes, blow yer mildest! Sun an shaars yer blessins shed! Thrush an blackburd pipe yor wildest Skylarks trill heigh ovverheead! Robin redbreast,—little linnet, Sing yor little songs wi' glee; Till wi' melody each minnit, Makin vocal bush an tree. Wild flaars don yer breetest dresses, Breathe sweet scents on ivvery gale; Stately trees wave heigh yer tresses, Flingin charms o'er hill an dale. Dew fall gently,—an sweet Luna, Keep thy lovin watch till morn;— All unite to bless an prosper, That dear spot whear aw wor born.



Sixty an Sixteen.

We're older nor we used to be, But that's noa reason why We owt to mope i' misery, An whine an grooan an sigh.

We've had awr shares o' ups an daans, I' this world's whirligig; An for its favors or its fraans We needn't care a fig.

Let them, at's enterin on life Be worried wi' its cares; We've tasted booath its joys an strife, They're welcome nah to theirs.

To tak things easy owt to be An old man's futer plan, Till th' time comes when he has to dee,— Then dee as weel's he can.

It's foolish nah to brood an freeat, Abaat what might ha been; At sixty we dooant see wi' th' een, We saw wi at sixteen.

Young shoolders worn't meant to bear Old heeads, an nivver will; Youth had its fling when we wor thear, An soa it will have still.

Aw wodn't live life o'er agean, Unless 'at aw could start Quite free throo knowledge o' this world, Quite free in heead an heart.

That perfect trust 'at childer have, Gives life its greatest charm; Noa wisdom after years can give, Will keep ther hearts as warm.

When nearin th' bottom o' life's hill, If we, when lukkin back, Can see some seeds ov gooid we've sown, Are bloomin on awr track;

Wol th' evil deeds we did shall be All trampled aght o' seet; Awr journey's end will peaceful be, An deeath itsen be sweet.

Then let's give thanks for mercies past, That've kept awr hearts still green; For thar't just as dear at sixty, lass, As when tha wor sixteen.



Come thi Ways in.

Come thi ways in, an God bless thi, lad! Come thi ways in, for thar't welcome, joy! A'a! tha'rt a shockin young taistrel, lad, But tha artn't as bad as they call thi, doy.

Tha'rt thi father upheeaped an daanthrussen, lad, It's his mother 'at knows what a glaid wor he;— But thi britches' knees are booath brussen, lad, An thi jacket, its raillee a shame to see.

It's weel for thee tha's a gronny, lad,— If it wornt for me tha'd be lost i' muck! Tha'rt wild, but tha'rt better ner monny, lad, An aw think 'at tha'll yet bring thi gronny gooid luck.

Nah, pool up to th' table an dry thi nooas;— (Awd nooan leearn mi appron to onny but thee,) Wol tha'rt fillin thi belly aw'll patch up thi clooas, Then aw'll send thi hooam daycent an cleean tha'll see.

Nah, what are ta dooin wi' th' pussy cat, pray? If tha'll leeav it alooan it'll mell nooan o' thee, Put th' mustard spooin daan! Does ta hear what aw say! Let goa that cat tail! Ha tha aggravates me!

Tha mooant dip thi finger i'th' traitle pot, doy, (Tho' aw reckon tha follers th' example tha's set,) Mothers, nah days, dooan't know ha to train childer, joy, But tha'll heed what thi gronny says,—willn't ta, pet?

A'a, dear! nah tha's upset thi basin o' stew! All ovver thisen an mi cleean scarrd flooar:— Tha clumsy young imp; what next will ta do? Tha'd wear aght job's patience, an twice as mich mooar!

Hold thi din! or aw'll gie thi a taste o' that strap! Tha maks it noa better wi' yellin like that! Come, whisht nah,—'twor nobbut a little mishap;— Nah, whisht,—an tha'll see ha we'll leather yond cat.

Nah, dooan't touch mi thimel or needle an threead; Sit daan like a gooid little child as tha art; Wol aw wipe up this mess, an side th' butter an breead, Then aw'll gie thi a penny to buy thi a tart.

For tha puts me i' mind ov a time long ago, When thi father wor just sich a jockey as thee; An tho' aw'm a widdy, an poor as a crow, Ther'll be allus a bite an a sup for thee.

Tak thi booits off that fender! Tha's made it fair black; Just see ha tha's scratched it! Aw'm sewer it's a sin! Jump into theas clooas an fly hooam in a crack, Or aw'll braik ivvery booan 'at tha has i' thi skin!

An stop hooam, until tha knows ha to behave, Tha'd worrit my life aght i' less nor a wick! Tell thi mother aw'm net gooin to be just a slave To a taistrel like thee! soa nah, off tha gooas—Quick!



Horton Tide.

Wor yo ivver at Horton Tide? It wor thear 'at aw won mi bride; An the joy o' mi life, Is mi dear little wife, An we've three little childer beside.

Aw wor donn'd in a new suit o'clooas, A cigar wor stuck under mi nooas, Aw set aght for a spree, An some frolics to see, Full o' fun throo mi heead to mi tooas.

Aw met Lijah an Amos, an Bill, An ov coorse wi' each one aw'd a gill; Till aw felt rayther mazy, But net at all crazy, For aw didn't goa in for mi fill.

As a lad aw'd been bashful an shy, An aw blushed if a woman went by, But this day bi gooid luck, Aw felt chock full o' pluck, Soa to leet on aw sattled to try.

As aw wandered abaat along th' street, Who, ov all i' this world should aw meet! But Mary o' Jooas, Lukkin red as a rooas, A'a! but shoo wor bonny an sweet.

Aw nodded an walked bi her side, To mak misen pleasant aw tried, But shoo smiled as shoo sed, 'Aw wor wrang i' mi heead,' An aw'm sewer aw dooan't think 'at shoo lied.

Then aw bowt her some parkin an spice, An owt else 'at shoo fancied lukt nice, Then we tuk a short walk, An we had a long tawk; Then aw axt if shoo thowt we should splice.

What happen'd at after yo'll guess,— It wor heaven to me, an nowt less;— For aw left Horton Tide, Wi' a promised fair bride, Soa mi frolic wor craand wi' success.

For shoo's one i' ten thaasand yo see; An shoo shows 'at shoo's suited wi' me, An yo chaps 'at want wives 'At will gladden yer lives, Up at Horton yo'll find 'em to be.



Mi Old Slippers.

Aw'm wearily trudgin throo mire an weet, For aw've finished another day's wark; An welcome to me is that flickerin leet, 'At shines throo mi winder i'th' dark. Aw know ther's mi drinkin just ready o'th' hob, An a hearthstun as cleean as can be, For that old wife o' mine allus maks it her job, To have ivverything gradely for me.

It isn't mich time aw can spend wi' th' old lass, For aw'm tewin throo early till lat, An its all aw can do just to get as mich brass As we need, an sometimes hardly that. But we keep aght o' debt, soa mi heart's allus leet, An aw sweeten mi wark wi' a song; An we try to mak th' best ov what trubbles we meet, An contentedly struggle along.

Two trusty old friends anent th' foir are set, They are waitin thear ivvery neet; They're nobbut a pair o' old slippers, but yet, They give comfort an rest to mi feet. Like misen an mi wife, they're fast wearin away,— They've been shabby for monny a year; They have been a hansum pair once, aw can say, Yet to me they wor nivver mooar dear.

Aw hooap they may last wol aw'm summon'd away, An this life's journey peacefully ends; For to part wod feel hard, for at this time o'th' day, It's too lat to be makkin new friends. Aw know varry weel 'at ther end must be near, For aw see ha they're worn daan at th' heel; But they've sarved me reight weel, an aw'st ha nowt to fear, If aw've sarved His purpose as weel



A Friend to Me.

Poor Dick nah sleeps quietly, his labor is done, Deeath shut off his steam tother day; His engine, long active, has made its last run, An his boiler nah falls to decay. Maybe he'd his faults, but he'd vartues as well, An tho' dearly he loved a gooid spree; If he did onny harm it wor done to hissel:— He wor allus a gooid friend to me.

His heart it wor tender,—his purse it wor free, To a friend or a stranger i' need; An noa matter ha humble or poor they might be, At his booard they wor welcome to feed. Wi' his pipe an his glass bi his foirside he'd sit, Yet some fowk wi' him couldn't agree, An tho' monny's the time 'at we've differed a bit, He wor allus a gooid friend to me.

His word wor his bond, for he hated a lie, An sickophants doubly despised; He wor ne'er know to cringe to a rich fly-bi-sky, It wor worth an net wealth 'at he prized. Aw shall ne'er meet another soa honest an true, As aw write ther's a tear i' mi ee; Nah he's gooan to his rest, an aw'll give him his due,— He wor allus a gooid friend to me.



A Pair o' Black Een.

One neet as aw trudged throo mi wark, Thinks aw, nah mi labor is done, Aw feel just inclined for a lark, For its long sin aw had onny fun.

An ov coorse awd mi wife i' mi mind, Shoo's a hot en, but then, what bi that! For when on a spree aw'm inclined, Aw could nivver get on baght awr Mat.

Sally Slut wor a croney o' hers, A bonny an warm-hearted lass, An shoo'd latly been wed to a chap, 'At could booast booath some brains an some brass.

But someha, awr Mat seemed to think, 'At Sally, soa hansum an trim; For a partner throo life owt to luk Wi' somdy mich better nor him.

An shoo profiside trubble an care, Wor i' stoor at noa far distant day, An shoo muttered "poor Sal, aw declare, Tha's thrown thisen reight cleean away."

As sooin as aw gate hold o'th' sneck, Aw walked in wi' a sorrowful face, Then aw sank like a hawf empty seck Into th' furst seeat aw coom to i'th' place.

"Gooid gracious, alive! What's to do?" Says Matty, "whativver's amiss?" "A'a, lass! tha'll nooan think at its true,— It's a tarrible come-off is this,"

"Tha knows Sally Slut,—A'a dear me! To-day as aw went across th' green, Aw met her,—an what should aw see,— Why, shoo'd getten a pair o' black een,"

"That scamp! But aw'll sattle wi' him!" Says Mat, as shoo threw on her shawl,— "Aw warned her agean weddin Tim,— But aw'll let him see;—sharply an all!"

Off shoo flew an left me bi misen, An aw swoller'd mi teah in a sniff, An aw crept up to bed, thear an then,— For aw knew shoo'd come back in a tiff.

An shoo did, in a few minnits mooar; An worn't shoo mad? nivver fear! An th' laader aw reckoned to snooar, An th' laader shoo skriked i' mi ear.

Tha thowt tha'd put me in a stew,— But aw treeat sich like conduct wi' scorn! But tha didn't fooil me, for aw knew, Shoo'd black een ivver sin shoo wor born.

Shoo can booast ov her een,—that shoo can! But shoo's nowt at aw envy,—net me! Unless it's her bavin a man, Asteead ov a hawbuck like thee.



A Screw Lawse.

When rich fowk are feastin, an poor fowk are grooanin, Ther's summat 'at connot be reight. Wol one lot are cheerin, another lot's mooanin For want ov sufficient to ait. Ther must be a screw lawse i'th' social machine, An if left to goa on varry long, Ther'll as sewer be a smash as befoortime ther's been, When gross wrangs ov thooas waik mak em strong. Discontent may long smolder, but aght it'll burst, In a flame 'at ther efforts will mock; An they'll leearn when too lat, 'at they've met the just fate, Ov thooas who rob th' poor o' ther jock.



A Sad Mishap.

"Come, John lad, tell me what's to do, Tha luks soa glum an sad; Is it becoss tha'rt short o' brass? Or are ta poorly, lad? Has sombdy been findin fault, Wi' owt tha's sed or done? Or are ta bothered wi' thi loom, Wi' th' warp tha's just begun?

Whativver 'tis, lad, let me know,— Aw'll help thi if aw can; Sometimes a woman's ready wit Is useful to a man. Tha allus let me share thi joys,— Let's share when grief prevails; Tha knows tha sed aw should, John, I'th' front o'th' alter rails.

We've just been wed a year, lad, Come Sundy next but three; But if tha sulks an willn't spaik, Aw'st think tha'rt stawld o' me. Aw've done mi best aw'm sewer, John, To be a wife to thee; Come tell me what's to do, John, Wol aw caar o' thi knee."

—————

"Aw've brass enuff to pay mi way,— Aw'm hearty as needs be;— Ther's noabdy been findin fault, An aw'm nooan stawl'd o' thee. But aw'm soa mad aw connot bide,— For commin hooam to-neet, Mi pipe slipt throo between mi teeth, An smashed to bits i'th' street. Aw cant think what aw could be doin, To let the blam'd thing drop! An a'a! it wor a beauty, An colored reight to th' top."



If.

Dear Jenny, if fortun should favour mi lot, Mi own bonny wife tha shall be; For trubbles an worries we'll care net a jot, For we'll rout 'em wi' frolic an glee.

We'll have a snug cot wi' a garden at th' back, An aw'll fix peearks i'th' cellar for hens; Then a fresh egg for braikfast tha nivver need lack, When thi fancy to sich a thing tends.

Some cheers an a table, an two-o'-three pans, Some pots an a kettle for tea; A bed an a creddle an smart kist o' drawers, An a rockin-cheer, lass,—that's for thee.

Some books, an some picters to hing up o'th' wall, To mak th' place luk nobby an neat; An a rug up o'th' harstun to keep thi tooas warm, An some slippers to put on thi feet.

An when Sundy comes,—off to th' chapel or church, An when we get back we'll prepare, Some sooart ov a meal,—tho its hooamly an rough, If its whooalsum we nivver need care.

If we're blest wi' a bairn, we mun ne'er be put aght, If it shows us its tempers an tiffs; Soa Jenny, have patience, for th' change i' thi state, Depends varry mich on theas "Ifs."



A True Tale.

Ther's a Squire lives at th' Hall 'at's lukt up to, As if he wor ommost a god. He's hansum, he's rich, an he's clivver, An fowk's praad if he gives 'em a nod. He keeps carriages, horses an dogs, For spooartin, or fancy, or labor, He's a pew set apart in a church, An he's reckoned a varry gooid naybor.

Ther's a woman bedrabbled an weet, Crouched daan in a doorhoil to rest; Her een strangely breet,—her face like a sheet, An her long hair hings ovver her breast. Want's shrivell'd her body to nowt, An vice has set th' stamp on her face; An her heart's grown soa callous an hard, 'At it connot be touched wi' disgrace.

Ther's a child bundled up i' some rags, 'At's whinin its poor life away; Neglected an starvin on th' flags, On this wild, cold an dree winter's day. An its father is dinin at th' Hall, An its mother is deein wi' th' cold, Withaat even a morsel o' breead, Yet its father is rollin i' gold.

Ther's a grey heeaded man an his wife, Who are bow'd daan wi' grief,—net wi' years:— Ivver mournin a dowter they've lost, Ivver silently dryin ther tears. Shoo wor th' hooap an pride o' ther life, Till a Squire put strange thowts in her heead; Then shoo fled an they ne'er saw her mooar, Soa they mourn her as if shoo wor deead.

Ther's One up aboon sees it all; He values noa titles nor brass, He cares noa mooar for a rich Squire, Nor He does for a poor country lass, His messengers now hover near, Till that mother an child yield ther breath, An th' Squire has noa longer a fear, For his secret is lockt up in death.



Peter's Prayer.

His face wor varry thin an pale, His een wor strangely breet; His old rags flapt i'th' wintry gale, An shooless wor his feet. His teeth they chattered in his heead, His hands had lost ther use, He humbly begg'd a bite o' breead, But nobbut gate abuse.

A curse wor tremblin on his tongue, But with a mad despair, He curbed it wi' an effort strong, An changed it for a prayer. "Oh, God!" he cried, "spare,—spare aw pray! Have mercy an forgive; Befooar too lat, show me some way My wife an bairns can live!"

"Aw read i'th' papers ivvery day, Ov hundreds,—thaasands spent For shot an shell, an things to swell This nation's armament. Into fowk's hearts, oh, God! instil A love ov peace, an then, Maybe we'st have some better times, An men can help thersen.

Aw nobbut want a chonce to live, One cannot wish for less; Wars fill this world wi' misery,— Peace gives us happiness. If monarchs dooant get quite as mich, Ther joys need not decrease;— Pray think o'th' poor as weel as th' rich;— We've but one soul apiece."



Mak th' Best Ont.

Mak th' best on't,—mak th' best on't,—tho' th' job be a bad en, God bless mi life! childer, its useless to freeat! This world's reight enuff, but it wod be a sad en, If we all started rooarin for what we cant get.

Who knows but what th' things we mooast wish for an covet, Are th' varry warst things we could ivver possess; Let's shak hands wi' awr luck, an try soa to love it, 'At noa joy ov awr life shall be made onny less.

Mak th' best on't,—mak th' best on't,—ne'er heed if yor naybor Can live withaat workin wol yo have to slave; Ther's nowt sweetens life like some honest hard labor, An it's th' battles yo feight 'at proves yo are brave.

Ne'er heed if grim poverty pays yo a visit, 'Twill nivver stop long if yo show a bold front; It's noa sin to be poor, if yo cant help it,—is it? Soa keep up yor pecker an gie sorrow a shunt.

Mak th' best on't,—mak th' best on't,—if Fortune should favor, An a big share o' blessins pour into yor lap, 'Twill give to yor pleasures a mich better flavor, If yo share yor gooid luck wi' some other poor chap.

Depend on't, ther's nowt tends to mak life as jolly, As just to mak th' best ov what falls to yor lot; For freeatin at best is a waste an a folly, An it nivver will help to mend matters a jot.



On Strike.

He wandered slipshod through the street, His clothes had many a rent; His shoes seemed dropping from his feet, His eyes were downward bent. His face was sallow, pale and thin, His beard neglected grew, Upon his once close shaven chin, Like bristles sticking through.

I'd known him in much better state, As "old hard-working Mike," I asked, would he the cause relate? Said he, "Awm aght on th' strike. Yo're capt, noa daat, to see me thus, Aw'm shamed to meet a friend; It's varry hard on th' mooast on us, We wish 't wor at an end.

Aw cannot spend mi time i'th' haase, An see mi childer pine; They havn't what'll feed a maase, But that's noa fault o' mine. Th' wife's varry nearly brokken daan,— Shoo addles all we get, Wol aw goa skulkin all throo th' taan, I' sorrow, rags an debt.

But then yo know it has to be, Th' committee tells us that; They owt to know,—but as for me, Aw find it's hard,—that's flat. They say 'at th' miaisters suffer mooar Nor we can ivver guess;— But th' sufferin they may endure, Maks mine noa morsel less.

But then th' committee says it's reight; Soa aw mun rest content, An we mun still, goa on wi' th' feight, What comes o' jock or rent. Aw dooant like to desart mi mates, But one thing aw dooant like; When th' table shows but empty plates It's hard to be on th' strike.

Gooid day,—for cake awst ha to fend, Them childer's maaths to fill; Th' committee say th' strike sooin will end; Aw hooap to God it will."



Be Happy.

Some fowk ivverlastinly grummel, At th' world an at th' fowk ther is in it; If across owt 'at's pleasant they stummel, They try to pick faults in a minnit.

We all have a strinklin o' care, An they're lucky 'at ne'er meet a trubble, But aw think its unkind, an unfair, To mak ivvery misfortun seem double.

Some grummel if th' sun doesn't shine,— If it does they find cause for complainin; Discontented when th' weather wor fine, They start findin fault if its rainin.

Aw hate sich dissatisfied men, An fowk 'at's detarmined to do soa, Aw'd mak 'em goa live bi thersen, Aght o'th' world,—like a Robinson Crusoe.

To mak th' pleasures surraandin us less, Ivvery reight-minded man must think sinful; When ther's soa mich to cheer us an bless, Ov happiness let's have a skinful.

Aw truly mooast envy that man, Who's gladly devotin his leisure, To mak th' world as breet as he can, An add to its stock ov pure pleasure.

It's true ther's hard wark to be done, An mooast on us drop in to share it; But if sprinkled wi' innocent fun, Why, we're far better able to bear it.

May we live long surraanded wi' friends, To enjoy what is healthful an pure; An at last when this pilgrimage ends, We shall nivver regret it aw'm sure.



Its True.

Ther's things i'plenty aw despise;— False pride an wild ambition; Tho' ivvery man should strive to rise, An better his condition. Aw hate a meean an grovlin soul, I' breast ov peer or ploughman, But what aw hate the mooast ov all, Is th' chap 'at strikes a woman.

For let ther faults be what they may, He proves 'at he's a low man, Who lifts his hand bi neet or day, An strikes a helpless woman.

Ther taunts may oft be hard to bide,— Ther tempers may be fiery, But passions even dwell inside The convent an the priory. An all should think where'er we dwell, Greek, Saxon, Gaul or Roman; We're net sich perfect things ussel, As to despise a woman.

For let ther faults, &c.

It's true old Eve first made a slip, An fill'd this world wi' bother; But Adam had to bite his lip,— He couldn't get another. An tho' at th' present day they swarm, That chap proves his own foeman, Who doesn't tak his strong reight arm, An twine it raand a woman.

For let ther faults, &c.

A chap may booast he's number one, An lord it o'er creation; May spaat an praich, but when he's done, He'll find his proper station. He may be fast when at his best, But age maks him a slow man, An as he sinks, he's fain to rest, On some kind-hearted woman.

For let ther faults, &c.

Aw wodn't gie a pinch o' salt, For that cold-hearted duffer, Who glories o'er a woman's fault, An helps to mak her suffer. Ther's net a cock e'er flapt a wing, 'At had th' same reight to crow, man; As th' chap who wi' a weddin ring, Has made a happy woman.

Then let ther faults be what they will, Ther net for me to show, man; But if yo seek for comfort, still, Yo'll find it in a woman.



Natty Nancy.

"Mooar fowk get wed nor what do weel," A've heeard mi mother say; But mooast young lads an lasses too, Think just th' contrary way. An lasses mooar nor lads it seems, To wed seem nivver flaid; For nowt they seem to dreead as mich As deein an old maid. But oft for single life they sigh, An net withaat a cause, When wi' ther tongue they've teed a knot, Ther teeth's too waik to lawse. Days arn't allus weddin days, They leearn that to ther sorrow, When panics come an th' brass gets done, An they've to try to borrow. When th' chap at th' strap shop's lukkin glum, An hardly seems to know yo; An gooas on sarvin other fowk As if he nivver saw yo. An when yo're fain to pile up th' foir, Wi' bits o' cowks an cinders;— When poverty says, "here' aw've come," Love hooks it aght o'th' winders. Friends yo once had are far too thrang To ax yo to yer drinkin; They happen dunnot meean owt wrang,— But one cannot help for thinkin. An when yo're lukkin seedy like, Wi' patched an tattered clooas; Yo'll find when yer coit elbows gape, Sich friends oft shut ther doors. Ther are poor fowk 'at's happier far, Nor rich ens,—ther's noa daat on't, For brass cannot mak happiness, But sewerly it's a pairt on't. Aw'll tell yo ov a tale aw heeard,— It's one 'at tuk mi fancy,— Abaat a young chap an his wife, They called her Natty Nancy. They called her Natty, yo mun know Becoss shoo wor soa clivver, At darnin, cookin, weshin clooas Or onny job whativver. Well, they began as monny do 'At arn't blest wi' riches; He hugg'd all th' fortun he possessed I'th' pocket ov his britches. It worn't mich, it wodn't raich Aboon a two-o'-three shillin; But they wor full ov hooap an health, An they wor strong an willin. An fowk wor capt to see ha sooin Ther little cot grew cooasy; Shoo'd allus summat cheerful like, If't nobbut wor a pooasy. Soa time slipt on, an all went weel When Dick sed, "Natty, lass, A-latly aw've begun to feel Aw'st like a bigger haase. For when aw tuk this cot for thee, We'd nubdy but ussen; But sin that lad wor born ther's three, An ther'll sooin be four, an then?" "Why, Dick," shoo sed, "just suit thisen, Here's raam enuff for me; But if tha'rt anxious for a change, Aw'm willin to agree." Soa sooin they tuk a bigger haase, They tew'd throo morn to neet, To mak it smart, an varry sooin 'Twor th' nicest haase i'th' street. An when a little lass wor born They thowt ther pleasur double; But Dick, alas! had nah to taste A little bit o' trubble. For times wer growin varry hard, An wark kept gettin slacker; He'd furst to goa withaat his ale, An then to stop his bacca. But even that did net suffice To keep want at a distance, An they'd noa whear i'th' world to turn, To luk for some assistance. An monny a time he left his meal Untouched, tho' ommost pinin; An trail'd abaat, i' hooaps to find Some breeter fortun shinin. For long he sowt, but sowt in vain, Although his heart wor willin To turn or twist a hundred ways, To get an honest shillin. One day his wife coom back throo th' shop, Her heart seem'd ommost brustin; Shoo sob'd, "Oh, Dick,—what mun we do, Th' shop keeper's stall'd o' trustin. We've nowt to ait, lad, left i'th' haase,— Aw know th' fault isn't thine, But th' childer's bellies mun be fill'd Tho' thee an me's to pine." Dick seized his hat an aght o'th' door He flew like somdy mad, Detarmined 'at he'd get some brass, If brass wor to be had. He furst tried them he thowt his friends, An tell'd his touchin stooary; They button'd up ther pockets As they sed, "We're varry sooary." They tell'd him to apply to th' taan, Or sell his goods an chattels; Dick felt at last 'at he'd to feight One o' life's hardest battles. For when he'd tried 'em ivvery one He fan aght to his sorrow, 'At fowk wi' brass have far mooar friends, Nor them 'at wants to borrow. Wi' empty hands, hooamwards he went, An thear on th' doorstep gleamin, Wor ligg'd a shillin, raand an white;— He thowt he must be dreamin. He rub'd his een, an eyed it o'er, A-feeard lest it should vanish, He sed, "some angel's come aw'm sewer, Awr misery to banish." He pickt it up an lifted th' sneck, Then gently oppen'd th' door, An thear wor Nancy an his bairns, All huddled up o'th' flooar. "Cheer up!" he sed, "gooid luck's begun, Here,—tak this brass an spend it; It isn't mine, lass, but aw'm sewer Aw think the Lord has sent it." A'a! ha her heart jumpt up wi' joy! Shoo felt leet as a feather; An off shoo went an bowt some stuff, Then they set daan together. Befooar they'd weel begun, at th' door, They heeard a gentle tappin, "Goa Dick," shoo sed, "luk sharp,—awm sewer Aw heead sombody rappin." It wor a poor old beggar man Who ax'd for charity; "Come in!" sed Dick, "it's borrow'd stuff, But tha shall share wi' me. Soa set thi jaws a waggin lad,— It's whooalsum, nivver heed it, An if tha ivver has a chonce, Pay back to them 'at need it." Wi' th' best they had th' old chap wor plied, An but few words wor spokken, Till th' old chap pushed his plate aside, An silence then wor brokken. "Aw'm varry old an worn," he sed, This life's soa full o' cares, Yet have aw sometimes entertained An angel unawares. Ther's One aboon reads ivvery heart, An them 'at he finds true, Altho' He tries 'em sooar,—at last, He minds to pool 'em throo. Then nivver let yor faith grow dim, Altho yo've hard to feight; Just let yer trust all rest o' Him, An He'll put all things straight, He quietly sydled aght o'th' door, An when they lukt araand, A purse they'd nivver seen befooar Wor liggin up o'th' graand. Dick pickt it up—what could it be? He hardly dar to fancy;— "Why, its addressed to thee an me! To Dick an Natty Nancy!"

—————

They oppened it wi' tremblin hands, An when they saw the treasure; 'Twor hard to say which filled 'em mooast, Astonishment or pleasur. Ther wor a letter for 'em too, An this wor ha it ended,— "You once helped me, may this help you,— From one you once befriended,"

————-

They nivver faand aght who he wor, Altho' they spared noa labor; But for his sake they ne'er refuse To help ther needy naybor.



Fugitive poems.

By John Hartley.

Not written in the Yorkshire Dialect.



Angels of Sunderland. In Memoriam, June 16th, 1893.

On the sixteenth of June, eighteen eighty-three, The children of Sunderland hastened to see, Strange wonders performed by a mystic man, Believing,—as only young children can. And merry groups chattered, as hand in hand, They careered through the streets of Sunderland.

In holiday dress, and with faces clean, And hearts as light as the lightest, I ween;— The hall was soon crowded, and wondering eyes, Expressed their delight at each fresh surprise; The sight of their bright, eager faces was grand,— Such a mass of fair blossoms of Sunderland.

With wonder and laughter the moments fly, And the wizard at last bade them all good-bye, But not till he promised that each one there, In his magical fortune should have a share;— Such a wonderful man with such liberal hand, Had never before been in Sunderland.

They danced, and they shouted, and full of glee, They rushed to find out what these presents could be, And the sea of young faces was borne along, Until checked by a barrier, stout and strong; And then the bright current was brought to a stand, And a heart piercing shriek rang through Sunderland.

Then the hearts of the little ones filled with fear, With a sickening sense of a danger near; And with frantic efforts they strove to flee, To the homes where they knew there would safety be; And deaf alike to request or command, Rushed to death,—the sweet flowers of Sunderland.

Swift flew the alarm from street to street, And swiftly responded the hurrying feet. Fathers and mothers with grief gone wild, Cried as they ran, "Oh, my child! my child!" Women half fainting, and men all unmanned,— 'Twas a sad, sad day for Sunderland.

Pen cannot tell what keen anguish wrung, Their bleeding hearts, as the fair and young, Were dragged from the struggling, groaning mass, Mangled, disfigured and dead, Alas! And offers of help came from every hand, For they were the children of Sunderland.

Quickly and tenderly, one by one, They were brought to light, till the task was done; The wounded were tended with kindness and skill; Side by side lay the dead,—all so ghastly and still;— What a terrible tale told that silent band, As the Sabbath sun rose over Sunderland.

In the promise of beauty and strength cut down, Two hundred spirits from earth had flown; Two hundred frail caskets that love could not save, Awaiting their last earthly home in the grave; And a crowd of white angels expectant stand, To welcome the angels from Sunderland.

Woe in the cottage, and woe in the hall;— Woe in the hearts of the great and the small;— Woe in the streets,—in the houses of prayer; Woe had its dwelling place everywhere. Suffering and sorrow on every hand,— Woe-woe-woe throughout Sunderland.

Who can give comfort in grief such as this? Man's arm is helpless,—no power is his. There is but One unto whom we can flee, One who in mercy cries, "Come unto me." One who in pity outstretches His hand, To the heart-broken mourners of Sunderland.

Sad will the homes be for many a day, Where the light of the household has been snatched away; But through the dull cloud of our sorrow and pain, Shines the hope that at last we may meet them again; For on the bright shores of the 'better land,' Are gathered the treasures of Sunderland.



Trusting Still.

When shall we meet again? One more year passed; One more of grief and pain;— Maybe the last. Are the years sending us Farther apart? Or love still blending us Heart into heart? Do love's fond memories Brighten the way, Or faith's fell enemies Darken thy day? Oh! could the word unkind Be recalled now, Or in the years behind Buried lie low, How would my heart rejoice As round it fell, Sweet cadence of thy voice, Still loved so well. Sometimes when sad it seems Whisperings say: "Cherish thy baseless dreams, Yet whilst thou may, Try not to pierce the veil, Lest thou should'st see, Only a dark'ning vale Stretching for thee." But Hope's mist-shrouded sun Once more breaks out, Chasing the shadows dim, Heavy with doubt. And far ahead I see, Two rays entwine; One faint, as soul of me, One bright like thine. And in that welcome sign, Clearly I view, Proof of this trust of mine,— Thou art still true.



Shiver the Goblet.

Shiver the goblet and scatter the wine! Tempt me no more with the sight! I care not though brightly as ruby it shine, Like a serpent I know it will bite. Give me the clustering fruit of the vine,— Heap up my dish if you will,— But banish the poison that lurks in the wine, That dulls reason and fetters the will.

Oft has it lured me to deeds I detest,— Filled me with passions debased; Robbed me of all that was dearest and best, And left scars that can ne'er be effaced. Oh! that the generous rich would but think, As they scatter their wealth far and wide, Of the evil that lives in the ocean of drink, Of the thousands that sink in its tide.

They give of their substance to help the poor wretch, The victim of custom and laws; But never attempt the strong arm to outstretch, To try to abolish the cause. The preacher as well may his eloquence spare, Nor his tales of "glad tidings" need tell, If by precepts he urge them for heaven to prepare, Whilst his practice leads downward to hell.

Erect new asylums and hospitals raise,— Build prisons for creatures of sin;— Can these be a means to improve the world's ways? Or one soul from destruction e'er win? No!—License the cause and encourage the sale Of the evil one's strongest ally, And in vain then lament that the curse should prevail,— And in vain o'er the fallen ones sigh.

Strike the black blot from the laws of the land! And take the temptation away; Then give to the struggling and weak one's a hand, To pilot them on the safe way. Can brewers, distillers, or traffickers pray For the blessing of God, on the seed Which they sow for the harvest of men gone astray? Of ruin, the fruit of their greed?

No bonds can be forged the drink-demon to bind, That will hinder its power for ill; For a way to work mischief it surely will find, Let us watch and contrive as we will. Then drive out the monster! The plague-breathing pest; And so long as our bodies have breath, Let us fight the good fight, never stopping for rest, Till at last we rejoice o'er its death.



Little Sunshine.

Winsome, wee and witty, Like a little fay, Carolling her ditty All the livelong day, Saucy as a sparrow In the summer glade, Flitting o'er the meadow Came the little maid. A youth big and burly, Loitered near the stile, He had risen early, Just to win her smile. And she came towards him Trying to look grave, But she couldn't do it, Not her life to save. For the fun within her, Well'd out from her eyes, And the tell-tale blushes To her brow would rise. Then he gave her greeting, And with bashful bow, Said in tones entreating, "Darling tell me now, You are all the sunshine, This world holds for me; Be my little valentine, I have come for thee." But she only tittered When he told his love, And the gay birds twittered On the boughs above; He continued pleading, Calling her his sun— Said his heart was bleeding,— Which seemed famous fun. Then he turned to leave her. But she caught his hand, And its gentle pressure Made him understand, That in spite of teasing, He her heart had won, And through life hereafter, She would be his sun.

—————

Now they have been married Twenty years or more, But she's just as wilful As she was before. And she's just as winsome In his eyes to-day, As when first be met her, Mischievous and gay. Will the years ne'er tame her? Will she ne'er grow old? Does the grave man blame her? Does he never scold? Does he never weary Of her ready tongue? Does he love her dearly As when he was young? Yes—she was the sunshine Of his youthful day, And her light laugh cheers him Now he's growing gray. Happy little woman, That time cannot tame; Happy sober husband, Loving still the same. Happy in her lightness When life's morn was bright, Happy in her brightness As draws on the night.



Passing Events.

Passing events,—tell, what are they I pray? Are they some novelty?—Nay, nay, nay! Ever since the world its course began, Since the breath of life was breathed into man, Still rolling on with the wane of time, Through every nation, in every clime; In every spot where man has his home, Ever they long for events to come.

Hours or days or years it may be, Before hopes realization they see; And no sooner it comes than it hastes away, And others rush after no longer to stay. And there scarcely is time to know its in sight, E'er its found to be leaving with marvellous flight, And what had been longed for with eager intent, Is chronicled but as a passing event.

Hope's joys are uncertain;—anxiety rules, Expectancy's paradise, peopled by fools; And the present has oft so much bustle and care, That the joys spread around we have no time to share. He is surer of peace who leaves future to fate, And the present joy snatches before it's too late; But he's safest by far, who in mem'ry holds fast, The sweet tastes and joys of events that are past.



Those Days have Gone.

Those days have gone, those happy days, When we two loved to roam, Beside the rivulet that strays, Near by my rustic home. Yes, they have fled, and in the past, We've left them far behind, Yet dear I hold, those days of old, When you were true and kind.

You dreamed not then of wealth or fame, The world was bright and fair, I seldom knew a grief or game, That you, too, did not share. And though I mourn my hapless fate, In mem'ry's store I find, And dearly hold those days of old, When you were true and kind.

Say, can the wealth you now possess, Such happiness procure, As did our youthful pleasures bless, When both our hearts were pure? No,—and though wandering apart, I strive to be resigned; And dearer hold those days of old, When you were true and kind.

And if your thoughts should turn to me, With one pang of regret, Know that this heart, still beats for thee, And never will forget; Those tender links of long ago Are round my heart entwined, And dear I hold those days of old, When you were true and kind.



I'd a Dream.

I'd a dream last night of my boyhood's days, And the scenes where my youth was spent; And I roamed the old woods where the squirrel plays, Full of frolicsome merriment. And I walked by the brook, and its silvery tone, Seemed to soothe me again as of yore; And I stood by the cottage with moss overgrown And the woodbine that trailed round the door.

No change could I see in the garden plot, The flowers bloomed brightly around, And one little bed of forget-me-not In its own little corner I found. The sky had a home-look, the breeze seemed to sigh, In the strain I remembered so well, And the little brown sparrows looked cunning and shy, As though anxious some story to tell.

But as quietness reigned and a loneliness fell, O'er the place that had once been so gay; Its sunlight had saddened since I bade farewell, And left it for lands far away. The door stood ajar and I sought for a face, Of the dear ones I longed so to see; But others I knew not were now in the place, And their presence was painful to me.

A pang of remorse seemed to shoot through my heart, As I left with a sorrowing tread, From all the familiar objects to part; For I knew that the loved ones were dead. The home once my own, now knows me no more, The treasures that bound me all gone, And I woke with cheeks tear-stained, and heart sadly sore, To find that a home I had none.



To my Harp.

Wake up my harp! thy strings begin to rust! Has the soul fled that once within thee dwelt? Idle so long, shake off that coat of dust! Are there no souls to cheer, no hearts to melt? Are there no victims under tyrants' yoke, Whose wrongs thy stirring music should proclaim? Or have the fetters of mankind been broke? Or are there none deserving songs of fame?

Awake! awake! thy slumber has been long! And let thy chords once more arouse the heart; And teach us in thy most impassioned song, How in our sphere we best may play our part. Tell the down-trodden, who with daily toil, Wear out their lives, another's greed to fill; That they have rights and interests in the soil, And they can win them if they have the will.

Tell the high-born that chance of birth ne'er gave To them a right to carve another's fate; Nor yet to make the humbler born a slave, Whose heart with goodness may be doubly great. Tell the hard-handed poor, yet honest man, That though through roughest ways of life he plod, Nature hath placed upon his birth no ban,— All men are equal in the sight of God.

And yet a softer, pitying strain let pour, To soothe the anguish of the troubled soul, And fill the heart bereaved, with hope once more, And from the brow the heavy grief-cloud roll. Cheer on the brave who struggle in the fight,— And warn oppression of the gathering storm, And drag the deeds of false ones to the light,— And herald in the day of true reform.

Nor leave the gentler, loving themes, unsung, Compassionate the maiden's tender woes, Revive the faint who are with fears unstrung, And solace them who writhe in suffering's throes. Awake! awake! there's need enough of thee, Nor let again such sloth enchain thy tongue, And may thy constant effort henceforth be, To plant the right, and to uproot the wrong.



Backward Turn, Oh! Recollection.

Backward turn, oh! recollection! Far, far back to childhoods' days; To those treasures of affection, 'Round which loving memory plays Show to me the loving faces Of my parents, now no more,— Fill again the vacant places With the images of yore.

Conjure up the home where comfort Seemed to make its cosy nest; Where the stranger's only passport, Was the need of food and rest. Show the schoolhouse where with others, I engaged in mental strife, And the playground, where as brothers Running, jumping, full of life.

Now I see the lovely maiden, That my young heart captive led; Like a sylph, with gold curls laden, And her lips of cherry red. Now fond voices seem to echo, Tones as when I heard them last; And my heart sighs sadly, Heigh, ho! For the joys for ever past.

From the past back to the present, Come, ye wandering thoughts again; Memories however pleasant, Will not rid to-day of pain, Now we live, the past is buried,— We are midway in life's stream; Onward, onward! ever hurried,— And the futures but a dream.



Alice.

Dear little Alice lay dying;— I see her as if 'twas to-day, And we stood round her snowy bed, crying, And watching her life ebb away.

'Twas a beautiful day in the spring, The sun shone out warmly and clear; And the wee birds, their love songs to sing Came and perched on the trees that grew near.

In the distance, the glistening sea, Could be heard in a deep solemn tone, As if murmuring in sad sympathy, For our griefs and our hopes that had flown.

The windows, wide open, allowed The soft wind to fan her white cheek, As with uncovered heads, mutely bowed, We stood watching, not daring to speak.

We were only her playmates,—no tie Of relationship drew us that way, We'd been told that dear Alice must die, And she'd begg'd she might see us that day.

We were all full of sorrow, and tears We all shed,—but not one showed surprise; Of her future we harboured no fears, For we knew she was fit for the skies.

Ever gentle and kind as a dove, To each one she knew she had been; She had ruled her dominion by love, And we all paid her homage as Queen.

Her strange beauty, now, as I look back, I can see as I ne'er saw it then; But words to describe it I lack, It could never be told by a pen.

Half asleep, half awake, as she lay, With her golden curls round her pale face; A smile round her lips 'gan to play, And her eyes gazed intently on space.

With an effort she half raised her head, And looked lovingly round us on all, Then she motioned us nearer the bed; And we silently answered her call.

Then she put out her tiny white hand, The friend nearest her took it in his; And so faintly she whispered "Good-bye," As he printed upon it a kiss.

One by one, boy and girl, did the same, And she bade them 'farewell' as they passed Calling everyone by their name, 'Till it came to my turn;—I was last,

"Good-bye, Harry," she breathed very low, And her eyes to my soul seemed to speak; And she strove not to let my hand go, Till I stooped down and kissed her pale cheek.

Then she wearily laid down her head, And she closed her blue eyes with a sigh;— "Don't forget me, dear Harry, when dead, But meet me in Heaven by-and-bye."

And that whisper I never forgot, And her hand's dying clasp I feel still; For I swore, that whatever my lot, I'd be true to that child,—and I will.

It may be a foolish conceit, But it oft is a solace for me, To think, when life's troubles I meet, There's an angel in Heaven cares for me.

Friends deplore my lone bachelor state, Some may pity, and others deride; But they know not for Alice I wait, Who took with her my heart when she died.



Looking Back.

I've been sitting reviewing the past, dear wife, From the time when a toddling child,— Through my boyish days with their joys and strife,— Through my youth with its passions wild. Through my manhood, with all its triumph and fret, To the present so tranquil and free; And the years of the past that I most regret, Are the years that I passed without thee.

It was best we should meet as we did, dear wife,— It was best we had trouble to face; For it bound us more closely together through life, And it nerved us for running the race. We are nearing the end where the goal is set, And we fear not our destiny, And the only years that I now regret, Are the years that I passed without thee.

'Twas thy beauty attracted my eye, dear wife, But thy goodness that kept me true; 'Twas thy sympathy soothed me when cares were rife, 'Twas thy smile gave me courage anew. Thy bloom may be faded by time, but yet, Thou hast still the same beauty to me, And no part of my past do I now regret, Save the years that I passed without thee.

We have struggled and suffered our share, dear wife, But our joys have been many and sweet; And our trust in each other has taken from life, The heartaches and pangs others meet. I still bless the day, long ago, when we met, And my prayer for the future shall be, That when the call comes and thy life's sun has set, I may never be parted from thee.



I Know I Love Thee.

I shall never forget the day, Annie, When I bid thee a fond adieu; With a careless good bye I left thee, For my cares and my fears were few. True that thine eyes seemed brightest;— True that none had so fair a brow,— I thought that I loved thee then, Annie, But I knew that I love thee now.

I had neither wealth nor beauty, Whilst thou owned of both a share, I bad only a honest purpose And the courage the Fates to dare. To all others my heart preferred thee, And 'twas hard to part I know; For I thought that I loved thee then, Annie, But I know that I love thee now.

Oh! what would I give to-night, love, Could I clasp thee once again, To my heart that is aching with loving,— To my heart where my love does reign. Could I hear thy voice making music, So gentle, so sweet and so low, I thought that I loved thee then, Annie, But I know that I love thee now.

I have won me wealth and honour,— I have earned a worldly regard, But alas they afford me no pleasure, Nor lighten my lot so hard. Oh come for my bosom yearneth, All its burden of love to bestow,— Once I thought that I really loved thee, But I know that I love thee now.

Canst thou ever forgive me the folly, Of failing to capture the prize, Of thy maiden heart, trustful and loving, That shone thro' thy tear bedimmed eyes. But I knew not until we had parted, How fiercely love's embers could glow; Or how truly I loved thee then, Annie, Or how madly I'd love thee now.



Bachelors Quest.

She may be dark or may be fair, If beauty she possesses; But she must have abundant hair— I doat on flowing tresses. Her skin must be clear, soft and white Her cheeks with health's tints glowing, Her eyes beam with a liquid light,— Red lips her white teeth showing. She must be graceful as a fawn, With bosom gently swelling, Her presence fresh as early dawn,— A heart for love to dwell in. She must be trusting, yet aware That flatterer's honey'd phrases Are often but a wily snare, To catch her in love's mazes. Accomplishments she must possess, These make life worth the having; And taste, especially in dress Yet still inclined to saving. In cookery she must excel, To this there's no exception, And serve a frugal meal as well As manage a reception. Untidyness she must abhor, In every household matter; And resolutely close the door To any gossip's chatter. She must love children, for a home Ne'er seems like home without 'em. And women seldom care to roam, Who love their babes about 'em, Should she have wealth, she must not boast Or tell of what she brought me; Content that I should rule the roost,— (That's what my father taught me.) If I can find some anxious maid Who all these charms possesses, I shall be tempted, I'm afraid, To pay her my addresses.



Waiting at the Gate.

Draw closer to my side to-night, Dear wife, give me thy hand, My heart is sad with memories Which thou canst understand, Its twenty years this very day, I know thou minds it well, Since o'er our happy wedded life The heaviest trouble fell.

We stood beside the little cot, But not a word we said; With breaking hearts we learned, alas, Our little Claude was dead, He was the last child born to us, The loveliest,—the best, I sometimes fear we loved him more Than any of the rest.

We tried to say "Thy will be done," We strove to be resigned; But all in vain, our loss had left Too deep a wound behind. I saw the tears roll down thy cheek, And shared thy misery, But could not speak a soothing word, I could but grieve with thee.

He looked so calm, so sweet, so fair Why should we stand and weep? Death had but paused a moment there, And put our pet to sleep. The weary hours crept sadly on, Until the burial day; Then in the deep, cold, gravel grave, We saw him laid away.

His little bed was taen apart, His toys put out of sight; His brother and his sister soon Grew gay again and bright. But we, dear wife, we ne'er threw off, The sorrow o'er us cast; And even yet, at times, we grieve, Though twenty years have passed.

We know he's in a better land, A heaven where all is bliss; Nor would we try if we'd the power To bring him back to this. Draw closer to my side, dear wife, And wipe away that tear, Heaven does not seem so far away, I seem to feel him near.

He'll come no more with us to dwell, For our life's lamp burns dim; But He who doeth all things well, Will draw us up to Him. Come closer, wife, let us not part, We have not long to wait; A something whispers to my heart, "Claude's waiting at the Gate."



Love.

Love—love—love—love,— A tiny hand in a tiny glove; A witching smile that means,—well,—well, Whether little or much its hard to tell. A tiny foot and a springy tread, Short curls running riot all over her head; A waist that invites a fond embrace, Yet by modesty girt seems a holy place; Not a place where an arm should be idly thrown, But should gently rest, as would rest my own. An angel whose wings are but hid from view, Whose charms are many and faults so few, As near perfection as mortal can be, Is the one that I love and that loves but me. They tell me that love is blind,—.oh, no! They can never convince a lover so; Love cannot be blind for it sees much more, Then others have ever discovered before. Oh, the restless night with its pleasing dreams, Sweet visions through which her beauty beams; The pleasant pains that find vent in sighs,— And the hopes of a earthly paradise Where we shall dwell and heart to heart In unison beat. Of the world a part Yet so full of our love for each other that we Shall sail all alone on life's troublesome sea, In a charmed course, of perpetual calm, Away from all danger, sccure from harm.

Ah, yes,—such is love to the maiden and youth, That have implicit trust in each others truth;— Such love was mine, but alas, alas! The things I had hoped for ne'er came to pass. But I thank the star of my destiny, That guided a true plain woman to me; That amid the bustle and worry and strife, Has proved a good mother and faithful wife, Though the fates did not grant me an angel to wed, They gave me a woman for helpmate instead.



Do your Best and Leave the Rest.

As through life you journey onward Many a hill you'll have to climb; Many a rough and dang'rous pathway, You'll encounter time and time. Now and then a gleam of sunshine, Will bring hope to cheer your breast; Then press onward,—ever trusting,— Do your best and leave the rest.

Though your progress may be hindered, By false friends or bitter foes; And the goal for which you're striving, Seems so far away,—who knows? You may yet have strength to reach it, E'er the sun sinks in the west; Ever striving,—still undaunted;— Do your best and leave the rest.

If you fail, as thousands must do, You will still have cause for pride; You will have advanced much further, Than if you had never tried. Never falter, but remember, Life is not a foolish jest; You all are in the fight to win it;— Do your best and leave the rest.

If at last your strength shall fail you, And your struggles have proved vain; There is One who will sustain you;— Soothe your sorrow,—ease your pain, He has seen your earnest striving, And your efforts shall be blest; For He knows, that you, though failing, Did your best,—He'll do the rest.



To my Daughter on her Birthday.

Darling child, to thee I owe, More than others here will know; Thou hast cheered my weary days, With thy coy and winsome ways. When my heart has been most sad, Smile of thine has made me glad; In return, I wish for thee, Health and sweet felicity. May thy future days be blest, With all things the world deems best. If perchance the day should come, Thou does leave thy childhood's home; Bound by earth's most sacred ties, With responsibilities, In another's life to share, Wedded joys and worldly care; May thy partner worthy prove,— Richest in thy constant love. Strong in faith and honour, just,— With brave heart on which to trust. One, to whom when troubles come, And the days grow burdensome, Thou canst fly, with confidence In his love's plenipotence. And if when some years have flown, Sons and daughters of your own Bless your union, may they be Wellsprings of pure joy to thee. And when age shall line thy brow, And thy step is weak and slow,— And the end of life draws near May'st thou meet it without fear; Undismayed with earth's alarms,— Sleeping,—to wake in Jesus' arms.



Remorse.

None ever knew I had wronged her, That secret she kept to the end. None knew that our ties had been stronger, Than such as should bind friend to friend. Her beauty and innocence gave her Such charms as are lavished on few; And vain was my earnest endeavour To resist,—though I strove to be true.

She had given her heart to my keeping,— 'Twas a treasure more precious than gold; And I guarded it, waking or sleeping, Lest a strange breath should make it grow cold. And I longed to be tender, yet honest,— Alas! loved,—where to love was a sin,— And passion was deaf to the warning, Of a still small voice crying within.

I feasted my eyes on her beauty,— I ravished my ears with her voice,— And I felt as her bosom rose softly, That my heart had at last found its choice. 'Twas a wild gust of passion swept o'er us,— Just a flash of tumultuous bliss;— Then life's sunlight all vanished before us, And we stood by despair's dark abyss.

'Tis past,—and the green grass grows over, The grave that hides her and our shame; None ever knew who was her lover, For her lips never uttered his name. But at night when the city is sleeping, I steal with a tremulous tread, And spend the dark solemn hours weeping, O'er the grave of the deeply wronged dead.



My Queen

Annie—Oh! what a weary while It seems since that sad day; When whispering a fond "good bye," I tore myself away. And yet, 'tis only two short years; How has it seemed to thee? To me, those lonesome years appear Like an eternity.

We loved,—Ah, me! how much we loved; How happy passed the day When pouring forth enraptured vows, The charmed hours passed away. In every leaf we beauty saw,— In every song and sound, Some sweet entrancing melody, To soothe our hearts we found.

And now it haunts me as a dream,— A thing that could not be!— That one so pure and beautiful Could ever care for me. But I still have the nut-brown curl, Which tells me it is true; And in my fancy I can see The brow where once it grew.

Those eyes, whose pensive, loving light, Did thrill me through and through: Still follow me by day and night, As they were wont to do. Thy smile still haunts me, and thy voice, At times I seem to hear; And when the scented zephyrs pass I fancy thou art near.

'Twill not be long, dear heart, (although It will seem long to me;) Until I clasp thee once again; To part no more from thee. Though storms may roar, and oceans rage And furies vent their spleen;— There's naught shall keep me from my love; My beautiful;—my queen!



Now and Then.

Did we but know what lurks beyond the NOW; Could we but see what the dim future hides; Had we some power occult that would us show The joy and sorrow which in THEN abides; Would life be happier,—or less fraught with woe, Did we but know?

I long, yet fear to pierce those clouds ahead;— To solve life's secrets,—learn what means this death. Are fresh joys waiting for the silent dead? Or do we perish with am fleeting breath? If not; then whither will the spirit go? Did we but know.

'Tis all a mist. Reason can naught explain, We dream and scheme for what to-morrow brings; We sleep, perchance, and never wake again, Nor taste life's joys, or suffer sorrow's stings. Will the soul soar, or will it sink below? How can we know.

"You must have Faith!"—How can a mortal weak, Pin faith on what he cannot comprehend? We grope for light,—but all in vain we seek, Oblivion seems poor mortal's truest friend. Like bats at noonday, blindly on we go, For naught we know.

Yet, why should we repine? Could we but see Our lifelong journey with its ups and downs! Ambition, hope and longings all would flee, Indifferent alike to smiles and frowns. 'Tis better as it is. It must be so. We ne'er can know.



The Open Gates.

My heart was sad when first we met; 'Yet with a smile,— A welcome smile I ne'er forget, Thou didst beguile My sighs and sorrows;-and a sweet delight Shed a soft radiance, where erst was night.

I dreamed not we should meet again;— But fate was kind, Once more my heart o'er fraught with pain, To joy inclined. It seemed thy soul had power to penetrate My inmost self, changing at will my state.

Then sprang the thought:—Be thou my Queen! I will be slave; Make here thy throne and reign supreme, 'Tis all I crave. Let me within thy soothing influence dwell, Content to know, with thee all must be well.

I knew not that another claimed By prior right, Those charms that had my breast inflamed With fancies bright. Ah! then I recognized my loneliness:— My dreams dispelled;—still I admired no less.

Time wearily dragged on its way,— We met once more, And thou wert free! Oh, happy day! As sight of shore Cheers the worn mariner;—so sight of thee, Made my heart beat with sweet expectancy.

Is it too much to hope,—someday This heart of mine, That beats alone for thee,—yet may Thy love enshrine? All things are said to come to him who waits, I'm waiting, darling.—Love, opes wide the gates.



Blue Bells.

Bonny little Blue-bells Mid young brackens green, 'Neath the hedgerows peeping Modestly between; Telling us that Summer Is not far away, When your beauties blend with Blossoms of the May.

Sturdy, tangled hawthorns, Fleck'd with white or red, Whilst their nutty incense, All around is shed. Bonny drooping Blue-bells, Happy you must be With your beauties sheltered 'Neath such fragrant tree.

You need fear no rival,— Other blossoms blown, With their varied beauties But enhance your own. Steals the soft wind gently, 'Round th' enchanted spot, Sets your bells a-ringing Though we hear them not.

Idle Fancy wanders As you shake and swing, Our hearts shape the message We would have you bring. Dreams of happy Springtimes We hope yet to share; Vague, but pleasant visions All to melt in air.

Children's merry voices Break your witching spells, Chubby hands are clasping Languishing Blue-bells. Gay and happy children Hop and skip along, With their ringing laughter, Sweet as skylark's song.

Slowly soon I follow Through the rustic lane, But the sight that greets me Gives me pang of pain. Strewed upon the pathway, Fairy Blue-bells lie, Trampled, crushed and wilted, Cast away to die.

Yet they lived not vainly Though their life was brief, Shedding gleams of gladness O'er a world of grief. And they taught a lesson,— Rightly understood; By their mute endeavour Striving to do good.



A Song of the Snow

Oh the snow,—the bright fleecy snow! Isn't it grand when the north breezes blow? Isn't it bracing the ice to skim o'er, With a jovial friend or the one you adore? How the ice crackles, and how the skates ring, How friends flit past you like birds on the wing. How the gay laugh ripples through the clear air, How bloom the roses on cheeks of the fair! Few are the pleasures that life can bestow, To equal the charms of the beautiful snow.

Oh, the snow,-the pitiless snow! Cruel and cold, as the shelterless know; Huddled in nooks on the mud or the flags, Wrapp'd in a few scanty, fluttering rags. Gently it rests on the roof and the spire, And filling the streets with its slush and the mire, Freezing the life out of poor, starving souls, Wild whirling and drifting as Boreas howls. Hard is their lot who have no where to go, To shelter from storm and the merciless snow.

Oh, the snow,-the treacherous snow! Up in a garret on pallet laid low! Dying of hunger,—oh, sad is her fate;— No food in the cupboard,—no fire in the grate. A widening streak of frost crystals are shed, Through the window's broke pane on the comfortless bed, And the child that she clasps to her chill milkless breast, Has ended its troubles, and gone to its rest. Husbandless,—childless, and friendless.—Go slow,— She sleeps with her babe, and their shroud is the snow.

Oh, the snow, the health-giving snow! Setting the cheeks of the children aglow, Father and mother,—well fed and well clad, Join in the frolic like young lass and lad. Little they dream of the suffering and woe, Of those shivering outcasts with nowhere to go. Then they read from their paper with quivering breath, Accounts of poor wand'rers found frozen to death, And their hearts with pure pity perchance overflow, But it vanishes soon, like the beautiful snow.



Hide not thy Face.

Hide not Thy face,—and though the road Be dark and long and rough, With cheerfulness I'll bear my load, Thy smile will be enough. All other helps I can forego, If with Faith's eye I trace, Through earthly clouds of grief and woe, The presence of Thy face.

Hide not Thy face;—weak, worn and Oppressed with doubt and fear; Still will I utter no complaint,— Content if Thou art near. Thy loving hand my steps shall guide, And set my doubts at rest; In loving trust, whate'er betide, For Thou, Lord, knowest best.

Hide not Thy face;—the tempter's wiles Around my feet are spread; The world's applause,-the wanton's smiles, Beset the path I tread. Alone, too weak to fight the host Of Pleasure's vicious train, 'Tis then I need Thy succour most;— Let me not seek in vain.

Hide not Thy face, but day by day, Shine out more clearly bright; Until this narrow, thorny way, Shall end in Death's dark night. Then freed from all the taints of sin, Through Thine abundant Grace; The crown of righteousness I win, And see Thee face to face.



In my Garden of Roses.

Oh! Come to me, darling! My Sweet! Here where the sunlight reposes; Pink petals lie thick at my feet, Here in my garden of rose's.

Oh! come to my bower! My Queen! Sweet with the breath of the flow'rs; Shaded with curtains of green;— Here let us dream through the hours.

The sky is unfleck'd overhead,— Trees languish in Sol's fervid ray,— The earth to the heavens is wed, And robin is piping his lay.

Lost is their sweetness upon me; Vainly their beauties displaying;— Cheerless I wander, and lonely,— Hoping and longing and praying.

Oh! come to me, Queenliest flower! Reign in my garden of roses; Humbly we bow to thy power, Loving the sway thou imposes.

Hark! 'Tis her tinkling footfall! Robin desist from thy singing; Mar not those sounds that enthrall,— Faint as a fairy bell's ringing.

She cometh! My lily! my rose! Queenlier,—purer, and sweeter! Haste, every blossom that blows, Pour out your perfumes to greet her!

Panting she rests in my arms;— Now is my bower enchanted! Essence of all this world's charms;— My heart has won all that it wanted.



The Match Girl.

Merrily rang out the midnight bells, Glad tidings of joy for all; As crouched a little shiv'ring child, Close by the churchyard wall. The snow and sleet were pitiless, The wind played with her rags, She beat her bare, half frozen feet Upon the heartless flags; A tattered shawl she tightly held With one hand, round her breast; Whilst icicles shone in her hair, Like gems in gold impressed, But on her pale, wan cheeks, the tears That fell too fast to freeze, Rolled down, as soft she murmured, "Do buy my matches, please."

Wee, weak, inheritor of want! She heard the Christmas chimes, Perchance, her fancy wrought out dreams, Of by-gone, better times, The days before her mother died, When she was warmly clad; When food was plenty, and her heart From morn to night was glad.

Her father now is lying sick, She soon may be alone; He cannot use his spade and pick, As once he could have done. The workhouse door stands open wide, But should he enter there, They'd tear his darling from his side And place her anywhere. They'd call it charitable help, Though breaking both their hearts; But then, when in adversity Folks have to bear the smarts.

Some carriages go rolling by, Gay laughter greets her ears; She envies not their better lot, She only sheds more tears, And now and then a passing step, Will cause the tears to cease; As fainter, fainter, comes the plaint, "Do buy my matches, please."

Darker the sky, colder the wind,— The bells are silent now;— She creeps still closer to the wall, And sinks upon the snow. The sound of revelry no more Disturbs her weary ear, Sleep conquers cold and pain and grief;— Oblivion shuts out fear. The snow drifts to the churchyard wall, The graves with white are spread; But those gray walls do not enclose All of the near-by dead.

The wind has ta'en the snowflakes, And gently as it might, Has spread a shroud o'er one more lost And hid it from the sight.

I would not wake her if I could, 'Twas well for her she died; Her spirit floated out upon The bells of Christmastide, She breathed no prayer, nor thought of Heaven,— Her last faint words were these;— As time merged in eternity, "Do buy my matches, please."

But surely angels would be there, To shield her from all harm; And in Christ's loving bosom, She could nestle and get warm.

The wifeless, childless, stricken man, Lies moaning in his pain— "Come, let me bless thee e'er I die!" But she never came again.



De Profundis.

Down in the deeps of dark despair and woe;— Of Death expectant;—Hope I put aside; Counting the heartbeats, slowly, yet more slow,— Marking the lazy ebb of life's last tide. Sweet Resignation, with her opiate breath, Spread a light veil, oblivious, o'er the past, And all unwilling handmaid to remorseless Death, Shut out the pain of life's great scene,—the last.

When, lo! from out the mist a slender form Took shape and forward pressed and two bright eyes Shone as two stars that gleam athwart the storm, Grandly serene, amid the cloud-fleck'd skies. "Not yet," she said, "there are some sands to run, Ere he has reached life's limit, and no grain Shall lie unused. Then, when his fight is done, Pronounce the verdict,—be it loss or gain."

I felt her right hand lightly smooth my brow, Her left hand on my heart; and a sweet thrill Swept all the strings of being, and the flow Of a full harmony aroused the dormant will. Death slunk away, sweet Resignation paled, And Hope's bright star made all the future bright; The clouds were rent;—a woman's love prevailed, And dragged a sinking soul once more to love and light.