Aw'm slopt throo mi waist to mi fit;

An' th' floor's in' a pond, as if th' peggy-tub run,

An' mi back warks as if it 'ud split.

Aw fancied aw'st manage at breead-bakin' best;

Soa one day aw bethowt me to try,

But aw gate soa flustered, aw ne'er thowt o'th' yeast,

Soa aw mud as weel offered to fly.

Aw did mak a dumplin', but a'a! dear a me!

Abaght that lot aw hardly dar think;

Aw ne'er fan th' mistak' till aw missed th' sooap, yo see,

An' saw th' suet i'th' sooap-box o'th' sink.

But a new-year's just startin', an' soa aw declare

Aw'll be wed if a wife's to be had;

For mi clooas is soa ragg'd woll aw'm ommost hauf bare,

An' thease mullucks, they're drivin' me mad.

Soa, if yo should know, or should chonce to hear tell,

Ov a lass 'at to wed is inclined,

Talegraft me at once, an' aw'll see her misel

Afoor shoo can alter her mind."

The Old Bachelor's Story.

It was an humble cottage,

Snug in a rustic lane,

Geraniums and fuschias peep'd

From every window-pane;

The dark-leaved ivy dressed its walls,

Houseleek adorned the thatch;

The door was standing open wide,

They had no need of latch.

And close besides the corner

There stood an old stone well,

Which caught a mimic waterfall,

That warbled as it fell.

The cat, crouched on the well-worn steps,

Was blinking in the sun;

The birds sang out a welcome

To the morning just begun.

An air of peace and happiness

Pervaded all the scene;

The tall trees formed a back ground

Of rich and varied green;

And all was steeped in quietness,

Save nature's music wild,

When all at once, methought I heard

The sobbing of a child.—

I listened, and the sound again

Smote clearly on my ear:

"Can there,"—I wondering asked myself—

"Can there be sorrow here?"—

I looked within, and on the floor

Was sat a little boy,

Striving to soothe his sister's grief

By giving her a toy.

"Why weeps your sister thus?" I asked;

"What is her cause of grief?

Come tell me, little man," I said,

"Come tell me, and be brief."

Clasping his sister closer still,

He kissed her tear-stained face,

And thus, in homely Yorkshire phrase,

He told their mournful case.

———

"Mi mammy, sir, shoos liggin thear,

I' th' shut-up bed i' th' nook;

An' tho aw've tried to wakken her,

Shoo'll nawther spaik nor look.

Mi sissy wants her poridge,

An' its time shoo had em too,

But th' foir's gooan aght an' th' mail's all done—

Aw dooant know what to do.

An' O, my mammy's varry cold—

Just come an' touch her arm:

Aw've done mi best to hap her up,

But connot mak her warm.

Mi daddy he once fell asleep,

An' niver wakken'd moor:

Aw saw 'em put him in a box,

An' tak him aght o' th' door.

He niver comes to see us nah,

As once he used to do,

An' let'mi ride upon his back—

Me, an' mi sissy too.

An' if they know mi mammy sleeps,

Soa cold, an' white, an' still,

Aw'm feeard they'll come an' fotch her, sir;

O, sir, aw'm feard they will!

Aw happen could get on misen,

For aw con work a bit,

But little sissy, sir, yo see,

Shoo's' varra young as yet.

Oh! dunnot let fowk tak mi mam!

Help me to rouse her up!

An' if shoo wants her physic,

See,—it's in this little cup.

Aw know her heead war bad last neet,

When putting us to bed;

Shoo said, 'God bless yo, little things!'

An' that wor all shoo said.

Aw saw a tear wor in her e'e—

In fact, it's seldom dry:

Sin daddy went shoo allus cries,

But niver tells us why.

Aw think it's coss he isn't here,

'At maks her e'en soa dim;

Shoo says, he'll niver come to us,

But we may goa to him.

But if shoo's gooan an' left us here,

What mun we do or say?—

We cannot follow her unless,

Somebody 'll show us th' way."

——

My heart was full to bursting,

When I heard the woeful tale;

I gazed a moment on the face

Which death had left so pale;

Then clasping to my heaving breast

The little orphan pair,

I sank upon my bended knees,

And offered up a prayer,

That God would give me power to aid

Those children in distress,

That I might as a father be

Unto the fatherless.

Then coaxingly I led them forth;

And as the road was long,

I bore them in my arms by turns—

Their tears had made me strong.

I took them to my humble home,

Where now they may be seen,

The lad,—a noble-minded youth,—

His "sissy,"—beauty's queen.

And now if you should chance to see,

Far from the bustling throng,

An old man, whom a youth and maid

Lead tenderly along;—

And if you, wondering, long to know

The history of the three,—

They are the little orphan pair—

The poor old man is me:

And on the little grassy mound

'Neath which their parents sleep,

They bend the knee, and pray for me;

I pray for them and weep.

Aght o' Wark.

Aw've been laikin for ommost eight wick,

An' aw can't get a day's wark to do!

Aw've trailed abaght th' streets wol awm sick

An' aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost through.

Aw've a wife an' three childer at hooam,

An' aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock,

For they think it's high time aw should come,

An' bring 'em a morsel 'o jock.

A'a dear! it's a pitiful case

When th' cubbord is empty an' bare;

When want's stamped o' ivery face,

An' yo hav'nt a meal yo can share.

Today as aw walked into th' street,

Th' squire's carriage went rattlin past;

An' aw thout 'at it hardly luk'd reet,

For aw had'nt brokken mi fast.

Them horses, aw knew varry weel,

Wi' ther trappins all shinin i' gold,

Had nivver known th' want of a meal,

Or a shelter to keep 'em thro' th' cold.

Even th' dogs have enuff an' to spare,

Tho' they ne'er worked a day i' ther life;

But ther maisters forget they should care

For a chap 'at's three bairns an' a wife.

They give dinners at th' hall ivery neet,

An' ther's carriages stand in bi'th scoor,

An' all th' windows are blazin wi leet,

But they seldom give dinners to th' poor.

I' mi pocket aw hav'nt a rap,

Nor a crust, nor a handful o' mail;

An' unless we can get it o'th strap,

We mun pine, or mun beg, or else stail.

But hoamwards aw'll point mi owd clogs

To them three little lambs an' ther dam;—

Aw wish they wor horses or dogs,

For its nobbut poor fowk 'at's to clam.

But they say ther is One 'at can see,

An' has promised to guide us safe through;

Soa aw'll live on i'hopes, an' surelee,

He'll find a chap summat to do.

Another Babby.

Another!—well, my bonny lad,

A'w wodn't send thee back;

Altho' we thowt we hadn't raam,

Tha's fun some in a crack.

It maks me feel as pleased as punch

To see thi pratty face;

Ther's net another child i'th bunch

Moor welcome to a place

Aw'st ha' to fit a peark for thee,

I' some nook o' mi cage;

But if another comes, raylee!

Aw'st want a bigger wage.

But aw'm noan feard tha'll ha' to want—

We'll try to pool thee throo,

For Him who has mi laddie sent,

He'll send his baggin too.

He hears the little sparrows chirp,

An' answers th' raven's call;

He'll never see one want for owt,

'At's worth aboon 'em all.

But if one on us mun goa short,

(Although it's hard to pine,)

Thy little belly shall be fill'd

Whativer comes o' mine.

A chap con nobbut do his best,

An' that aw'll do for thee,

Leavin to providence all th' rest,

An' we'st get help'd, tha'll see.

An' if thi lot's as bright an' fair

As aw could wish it, lad,

Tha'll come in for a better share

Nor iver blessed thi dad.

Aw think aw'st net ha' lived for nowt,

If, when deeath comes, aw find

Aw leave some virtuous lasses

An' some honest lads behind.

An' tho' noa coat ov arms may grace

For me, a sculptor'd stooan,

Aw hope to leave a noble race,

Wi arms o' flesh an' booan.

Then cheer up, lad, tho' things luk black,

Wi' health, we'll persevere,

An' try to find a brighter track—

We'll conquer, niver fear!

An may God shield thee wi' his wing,

Along life's stormy way,

An' keep thi heart as free throo sin,

As what it is to-day.

Th' Little Black Hand.


Ther's a spark just o'th tip o' mi pen,

An' it may be poetical fire;

An' suppoase 'at it is'nt—what then?

Wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire?


Aw'm detarmined to scribble away—

Soa's them 'at's a fancy con read;

An' tho aw turn neet into day,

If aw'm suitin an odd en, neer heed!


Aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life;

But then ther's abundance o' care,

An' them 'at's contented wi' strife

May allus mak sure o' ther share.


But aw'll laff woll mi galluses braik,

Tho mi bed's net as soft as spun silk;

An' if butter be aght o' mi raik,

Aw'll ma' th' best ov a drop o' churn milk.


It's nooan them 'at's getten all th' brass

'At's getten all th' pleasure, net it!

When aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd lass,

Aw con thoil 'em whativer they get.


But sometimes when aw'm walkin throo th' street,

An' aw see fowk hauf-clam'd, an' i' rags,

Wi noa bed to lig daan on at neet

But i'th' warkus, or th' cold-lukkin flags;


Then aw think, if rich fowk nobbut' knew

What ther brothers i' poverty feel,

They'd a trifle moor charity show,

An' help 'em sometimes to a meal.


But we're all far too fond of ussen,

To bother wi' things aght o'th' seet;

An' we leeav to ther fate sich as them

'At's noa bed nor noa supper' at neet.


But ther's mony a honest heart throbs,

Tho' it throbs under rags an' i' pains,