Tha'll be starved, mi little pet.
Did a gleam'o' sunshine warm thee,
An deceive thee?
Niver let appearance charm thee,
For believe me,
Smiles tha'll find are oft but snares,
Laid to catch thee unawares.
Still aw think it luks a shame,
To tawk sich stuff;
Aw've lost faith, an tha'll do th' same,
Hi, sooin enuff:
If tha'rt happy as tha art
Trustin' must be th' wisest part.
Come, aw'll pile some bits o' stooan,
Raand thi dwellin';
They may screen thee when aw've gooan
Ther's no tellin';
An' when gentle spring draws near
Aw'll release thee, niver fear.
An' if then thi pratty face,
Greets me smilin';
Aw may come an' sit bith' place,
Time beguilin';
Glad to think aw'd paar to be,
Ov some use, if but to thee.
A Bad Sooart.
Aw'd raythur face a redwut brick,
Sent flyin' at mi heead;
Aw'd raythur track a madman's steps,
Whearivei they may leead;
Aw'd raythur ventur in a den,
An' stail a lion's cub:
Aw'd raythur risk the foamin wave
In an old leaky tub;
Aw'd raythur stand i'th' midst o'th fray,
Whear bullets thickest shower;
Nor trust a mean, black hearted man,
At's th' luck to be i' power.
A redwut brick may miss its mark,
A madman change his whim;
A lion may forgive a theft;
A leaky tub may swim;
Bullets may pass yo harmless by,
An' leave all safe at last;
A thaasand thunders shake the sky,
An' spare yo when they've past;
Yo' may o'ercome mooast fell disease;
Make poverty yo'r friend;
But wi' a mean, blackhearted man,
Noa mortal can contend.
Ther's malice in his kindest smile,
His proffered hand's a snare;
He's plannin deepest villany,
When seemingly mooast fair;
He leads yo' on wi' oily tongue,
Swears he's yo're fastest friend.
He get's yo' once within his coils,
An' crushes yo' ith' end.
Old Nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin' aat,
An' seeks whom to devour;
But he's a saint, compared to some,
'At's th' luk to be i' power.
All we Had.
It worn't for her winnin ways,
Nor for her bonny face
But shoo wor th' only lass we had,
An that quite alters th'
case.
We'd two fine lads as yo need see,
An' weel we love 'em
still;
But shoo war th' only lass we had,
An' we could spare her
ill.
We call'd her bi mi mother's name,
It saanded sweet to me;
We little thowt ha varry sooin
Awr pet wod have to dee.
Aw used to watch her ivery day,
Just like a oppenin bud;
An' if aw couldn't see her change,
Aw fancied' at aw could.
Throo morn to neet her little tongue
Wor allus on a stir;
Awve heeard a deeal o' childer lisp,
But nooan at lispt like
her.
Sho used to play all sooarts o' tricks,
'At childer shouldn't
play;
But then, they wor soa nicely done,
We let her have her way.
But bit bi bit her spirits fell,
Her face grew pale an'
thin;
For all her little fav'rite toys
Shoo didn't care a pin.
Aw saw th' old wimmin shak ther heeads,
Wi monny a doleful nod;
Aw knew they thowt shoo'd goa, but still
Aw couldn't think shoo
wod.
Day after day my wife an' me,
Bent o'er that suff'rin
child,
Shoo luk'd at mammy, an' at me,
Then shut her een an'
smiled.
At last her spirit pass'd away;
Her once breet een wor
dim;
Shoo'd heeard her Maker whisper 'come,'
An' hurried off to Him.
Fowk tell'd us t'wor a sin to grieve,
For God's will must be
best;
But when yo've lost a child yo've loved,
It puts yor Faith to th'
test.
We pick'd a little bit o' graand,
Whear grass and daisies
grew,
An' trees wi spreeadin boughs aboon
Ther solemn shadows
threw.
We saw her laid to rest, within
That deep grave newly
made;
Wol th' sexton let a tear drop fall,
On th' handle ov his
spade.
It troubled us to walk away,
An' leeav her bi hersen;
Th' full weight o' what we'd had to bide,
We'd niver felt till
then.
But th' hardest task wor yet to come,
That pang can ne'er be
towld;
'Twor when aw feszend th' door at nee't,
An' locked her aat i'th'
cowld.
'Twor then hot tears roll'd daan mi cheek,
'Twor then aw felt
mooast sad;
For shoo'd been sich a tender plant,
An' th' only lass we had.
But nah we're growin moor resign'd,
Although her face we
miss;
For He's blest us wi another,
An we've hopes o' rearin
this,
Give it 'em Hot.
Give it 'em hot, an be hanged to ther feelins!
Souls may be lost wol
yor choosin' yor words!
Out wi' them doctrines 'at taich o' fair dealins!
Daan wi' a vice tho' it
may be a lord's!
What does it matter if truth be unpleasant?
Are we to lie a man's
pride to exalt!
Why should a prince be excused, when a peasant
Is bullied an' blamed
for a mich smaller fault?
O, ther's too mich o' that sneakin and bendin;
An honest man still
should be fearless and bold;
But at this day fowk seem to be feeared ov offendin,
An' they'll bow to a
cauf if it's nobbut o' gold.
Give me a crust tho' it's dry, an' a hard 'en,
If aw know it's my own
aw can ait it wi' glee;
Aw'd rayther bith hauf work all th' day for a farden,
Nor haddle a fortun wi'
bendin' mi knee.
Let ivery man by his merit be tested,
Net by his pocket or th'
clooas on his back;
Let hypocrites all o' ther clooaks be divested,
An' what they're
entitled to, that let em tak.
Give it 'em hot! but remember when praichin,
All yo 'at profess
others failins to tell,
'At yo'll do far moor gooid wi' yor tawkin an' taichin,
If yo set an example,
an' improve yorsel.
Th' Honest Hard Worker.
It's hard what poor fowk mun put u'p wi'!
What insults an' snubs
they've to tak!
What bowin an' scrapin's expected,
If a chap's a black coit
on his back.
As if clooas made a chap ony better,
Or riches improved a
man's heart,
As if muck in a carriage smell'd sweeter
Nor th' same muck wod
smell in a cart.
Give me one, hard workin, an' honest,
Tho' his clooas may be
greasy and coorse;
If it's muck 'ats been getten bi labor,
It does'nt mak th' man
ony worse.
Awm sick o' thease simpering dandies,
'At think coss they've
getten some brass,
They've a reight to luk daan at th' hard workers,
An' curl up their nooas
as they pass.
It's a poor sooart o' life to be leadin,
To be curlin an' partin
ther hair;
An' seekin one's own fun and pleasure,
Niver thinkin ha others
mun fare.
It's all varry weel to be spendin
Ther time at a hunt or a
ball,
But if th' workers war huntin an' doncin,
Whativer wad come on us
all?
Ther's summat beside fun an' frolic
To live for, aw think,
if we try;
Th' world owes moor to a honest hard worker
Nor it does to a rich
fly-bi-sky.
Tho' wealth aw acknowledge is useful,
An' awve oft felt a want
on't misen,
Yet th' world withaat brass could keep movin,
But it wodn't do long
withaat men.
One truth they may put i' ther meersham,
An' smoke
it—that is if they can;
A man may mak hooshuns o' riches,
But riches can ne'er mak
a man.
Then give me that honest hard worker,
'At labors throo marnin
to neet,
Tho' his rest may be little an' seldom,
Yet th' little he gets
he finds sweet.
He may rank wi' his wealthier brother,
An' rank heigher, aw
fancy, nor some;
For a hand 'at's weel hoofed wi' hard labor
Is a passport to th'
world 'at's to come.
For we know it's a sin to be idle,
As man's days i' this
world are but few;
Then let's all wi' awr lot 'be contented,
An' continue to toil an'
to tew.
For ther's one thing we all may be sure on,
If we each do awr best
wol we're here,
'At when, th' time comes for reckonin, we're called on,
We shall have varry
little to fear.
An' at last, when, we throw daan awr tackle,
An' are biddin farewell
to life's stage,
May we hear a voice whisper at partin,
"Come on, lad! Tha's
haddled thi wage;"
Niver Heed.
Let others boast ther bit o' brass,
That's moor nor aw can
do;
Aw'm nobbut one o'th' working class,
'At's strugglin to pool
throo;
An' if it's little 'at aw get,
It's littie 'at aw need;
An' if sometimes aw'm pinched a bit,
Aw try to niver heed.
Some fowk they tawk o' brokken hearts,
An' mourn ther sorry
fate,
Becoss they can't keep sarvent men,
An' dine off silver
plate;
Aw think they'd show more gradely wit
To listen to my creed,
An' things they find they cannot get,
Why, try to niver heed.
Ther's some 'at lang for parks an' halls,
An' letters to ther name;
But happiness despises walls,
It's nooan a child o'
fame.
A robe may lap a woeful chap,
Whose heart wi grief may
bleed,
Wol rags may rest on joyful breast,
Soa hang it! niver heed!
Th' sun shines as breet for me as them,
An' th' meadows smell as
sweet,
Th' larks sing as sweetly o'er mi heead,
An' th' flaars smile at
mi feet,
An' when a hard day's wark is done,
Aw ait mi humble feed,
Mi appetite's a relish fun,
Soa hang it, niver heed.
Sing On.
Sing on, tha bonny burd, sing on, sing on;
Aw cannot sing;
A claad hings ovver me, do what aw con
Fresh troubles spring.
Aw wish aw could, like thee, fly far away,
Aw'd leave mi cares an be a burd to-day.
Mi heart war once as full o' joy as thine,
But nah it's sad;
Aw thowt all th' happiness i'th' world wor mine,
Sich faith aw
had;—
But he who promised aw should be his wife
Has robb'd me o' mi ivery joy i' life.
Sing on: tha cannot cheer me wi' thi song;
Yet, when aw hear
Thi warblin' voice, 'at rings soa sweet an' strong,
Aw feel a tear
Roll daan mi cheek, 'at gives mi heart relief,
A gleam o' comfort, but it's varry brief.
This little darlin', cuddled to mi breast,
It little knows,
When snoozlin' soa quietly at rest,
'At all mi woes
Are smothered thear, an' mi poor heart ud braik
But just aw live for mi wee laddie's sake.
Sing on; an' if tha e'er should chonce to see
That faithless swain,
Whose falsehood has caused all mi misery,
Strike up thy strain,
An' if his heart yet answers to thy trill
Fly back to me, an' aw will love him still.
But if he heeds thee not, then shall aw feel
All hope is o'er,
An' he that aw believed an' loved soa weel
Be loved noa more;
For that hard heart, bird music cannot move,
Is far too cold a dwellin'-place for love.
What aw Want.
Gie me a little humble cot,
A bit o' garden graand,
Set in some quiet an' sheltered spot,
Wi' hills an' trees all
raand;
An' if besides mi hooam ther flows
A little mumuring rill,