At sings sweet music as it gooas,

Awst like it better still.

Gie me a wife 'at loves me weel,

An' childer two or three,

Wi' health to sweeten ivery meal,

An' hearts brimful o' glee.

Gie me a chonce, wi' honest toil

Mi efforts to engage,

Gie me a maister who can smile

When forkin aght mi wage.

Gie me a friend 'at aw can trust,

'An tell mi secrets to;

One tender-hearted, firm an' just,

Who sticks to what is true.

Gie me a pipe to smook at neet,

A pint o' hooam-brew'd ale,

A faithful dog 'at runs to meet

Me wi a waggin tail.

A cat to purr o'th' fender rims,

To freeten th' mice away;

A cosy bed to rest mi limbs

Throo neet to commin day.

Gie me all this, an' aw shall be

Content, withaat a daat,

But if denied, then let me be

Content to live withaat.

For 'tisn't th' wealth one may possess

Can purchase pleasures true;

For he's th' best chonce o' happiness,

Whose wants are small an' few.

What it is to be Mother.

A'a, dear! what a life has a mother!

At leeast, if they're hamper'd like me,

Thro' mornin' to neet ther's some bother,

An' ther will be, aw guess, wol aw dee.

Ther's mi chap, an misen, an' six childer,

Six o'th' roughest, aw think, under th' sun,

Aw'm sartin sometimes they'd bewilder

Old Joab, wol his patience wor done.

They're i' mischief i' ivery corner,

An' ther tongues they seem niver at rest;

Ther's one shaatin' "Little Jack Horner,"

An' another "The realms o' the blest."

Aw'm sure if a body's to watch 'em,

They mun have een at th' back o' ther yed;

For quiet yo niver can catch 'em

Unless they're asleep an' i' bed.

For ther's somdy comes runnin to tell us

'At one on em's takken wi' fits;

Or ther's two on 'em feightin for th' bellus,

An' rivin' ther clooas all i' bits.

In a mornin' they're all weshed an' tidy'd,

But bi nooin they're as black as mi shoe;

To keep a lot cleean, if yo've tried it,

Yo know 'at ther's summat to do.

When my felly comes hooam to his drinkin',

Aw try to be gradely, an' straight;

For when all's nice an' cleean, to mi thinkin',

He enjoys better what ther's to ait.

If aw tell him aw'm varry near finished

Wi allus been kept in a fuss,

He says, as he looks up astonished,

"Why, aw niver see owt 'at tha does."

But aw wonder who does all ther mendin',

Weshes th' clooas, an cleans th' winders an' flags?

But for me they'd have noa spot to stand in—

They'd be lost i' ther filth an' ther rags.

But it allus wor soa, an' it will be,

A chap thinks' at a woman does nowt;

But it ne'er bothers me what they tell me,

For men havn't a morsel o' thowt.

But just harken to me wol aw'm tellin'

Ha aw tew to keep ivery thing straight;

An' aw'l have yo for th' judge if yor willin',

For aw want nowt but what aw think's reight.

Ov a Monday aw start o' my weshin',

An' if th' day's fine aw get um all dried;

Ov a Tuesday aw fettle mi kitchen,

An' mangle, an' iron beside.

Ov a Wednesday, then aw've mi bakin';

Ov a Thursday aw reckon to brew;

Ov a Friday all th' carpets want shakin',

An' aw've th' bedrooms to clean an' dust throo.

Then o'th' Setterday, after mi markets,

Stitch on buttons, an' th' stockins' to mend,

Then aw've all th' Sundy clooas to luk ovver,

An' that brings a week's wark to its end.

Then o'th' Sundy ther's cooking 'em th' dinner,

It's ther only warm meal in a wick;

Tho' ther's some say aw must be a sinner,

For it's paving mi way to Old Nick.

But a chap mun be like to ha' summat,

An' aw can't think it's varry far wrang,

Just to cook him an' th' childer a dinner,

Tho' it may mak me rayther too thrang.

But if yor a wife an' a mother,

Yo've yor wark an' yor duties to mind;

Yo mun leearn to tak nowt as a bother,

An' to yor own comforts be blind.

But still, just to seer all ther places,

When they're gethred raand th' harston at neet,

Fill'd wi six roosy-red, smilin' faces;

It's nooan a despisable seet.

An, aw connot help thinkin' an' sayin',

(Tho' yo may wonder what aw can mean),

'At if single, aw sooin should be playin'

Coortin tricks, an' be weddin' agean.

What is It.

What is it maks a crusty wife
Forget to scold, an' leeave off strife?
What is it smoothes the rooad throo life?
It's sooap.

What is it maks a gaumless muff
Grow rich, an' roll i' lots o' stuff,
Woll better men can't get enough?
It's sooap.

What is it, if it worn't theear,
Wod mak some fowk feel varry queer,
An' put 'em: i' ther proper sphere?
It's sooap.

What is' it maks fowk wade throo th' snow,
To goa to th' church, becoss they know
'At th' squire's at hooam an' sure to goa?
It's sooap.

What is it gains fowk invitations,
Throo them 'at live i' lofty stations?
What is it wins mooast situations?
It's sooap.

What is it men say they detest,
Yet alus like that chap the best
'At gives 'em twice as mich as th' rest?
It's sooap.

What is it, when the devil sends
His agents raand to work his ends,
What is it gains him lots o' friends?
It's sooap.

What is it we should mooast despise,
An' by its help refuse to rise,
Tho' poverty's befoor awr eyes?
It's sooap.

What is it, when life's wastin' fast,
When all this world's desires are past,
Will prove noa use to us at last?
It's sooap.

Come thi Ways!

Bonny lassie, come thi ways,

An' let us goa together!

Tho' we've met wi stormy days,

Ther'll be some sunny weather:

An' if joy should spring for me,

Tha shall freely share it;

An' if trouble comes to thee,

Aw can help to bear it.

Tho thi mammy says us nay,

An' thi dad's unwillin';

Wod ta have me pine away

Wi' this love 'at's killin'?

Come thi ways, an' let me twine

Mi arms once moor abaght thee;

Weel tha knows mi heart is thine,

Aw couldn't live withaat thee.

Ivery day an' haar 'at slips,

Some pleasure we are missin',

For those bonny rooasy lips

Aw'm niver stall'd o' kissin',

If men wor wise to walk life's track

Withaat sith joys to glad 'em,

He must ha' made a sad mistak

'At gave a Eve to Adam.

Advice to Jenny.

Jenny, Jenny, dry thi ee,

An' dunnot luk soa sad;

It grieves me varry mich to see

Tha freeats abaat yon lad;

For weel tha knows, withaat a daat,

Wheariver he may be,

Tho fond o' rammellin' abaat,

He's allus true to thee.

Tha'll learn mooar sense, lass, in a while,

For wisdom comes wi' time,

An' if tha lives tha'll leearn to smile

At troubles sich as thine;

A faithful chap is better far,

Altho' he likes to rooam,

Nor one 'at does what isn't reight,

An' sits o'th' hearth at hooam.

Tha needn't think 'at wedded life

Noa disappointment brings;

Tha munnot think to keep a chap

Teed to thi appron strings:

Soa dry thi een, they're varry wet,

An' let thi heart be glad,

For tho' tha's wed a rooamer, yet,

Tha's wed a honest lad.

Ther's mony a lady, rich an' great,

'At's sarvents at her call,

Wod freely change her grand estate

For thine tha thinks soa small:

For riches cannot buy content,

Soa tho' thi joys be few,

Tha's one ther's nowt con stand anent,—

A heart 'at's kind an' true.

Soa when he comes luk breet an' gay,

An' meet him wi' a kiss,

Tha'll find him mooar inclined to stay

Wi treatment sich as this;

But if thi een luk red like that,

He'll see all's wrang at once,

He'll leet his pipe, an' don his hat,

An' bolt if he's a chonce.

Ther's mich Expected.

Life's pathway is full o' deep ruts,

An' we mun tak gooid heed lest we stumble;

Man is made up of "ifs" and of "buts,"

It'seems pairt ov his natur to grumble.

But if we'd anxiously tak

To makkin' things smooth as we're able,

Ther'd be monny a better clooath'd back,

An' monny a better spread table.

It's a sad state o' things when a man

Connot put ony faith in his brother,

An' fancies he'll chait if he can,

An' rejoice ovver th' fall ov another.

An' it's sad when yo see some 'at stand

High in social position an' power,

To know at ther fortuns wor plann'd

An' built, aght o'th' wrecks o' those lower.

It's sad to see luxury rife,

An' fortuns being thowtlessly wasted;

While others are wearin' aat life,

With the furst drops o' pleasure untasted.

Some in carriages rollin' away,

To a ball, or a rout, or a revel;

But their chariots may bear 'em some day

Varry near to the gates ov the devil.

Oh! charity surely is rare,

Or ther'd net be soa monny neglected;

For ther's lots wi enuff an' to spare,

An' from them varry mich is expected.

An' tho' in this world they've ther fill

Of its pleasures, an' wilfully blinded,

Let deeath come—as surely it will—

They'll be then ov ther duties reminded.

An' when called on, they, tremblin' wi' fear,

Say "The hungry an' nak'd we ne'er knew,"

That sentence shall fall on their ear—

"Depart from me; I never knew you."

Then, oh! let us do what we can,

Nor with this world's goods play the miser;

If it's wise to lend money to man,

To lend to the Lord must be wiser.

A Strange Stooary.

Aw know some fowk will call it crime,

To put sich stooaries into ryhme,

But yet, contentedly aw chime

Mi simple ditty:

An if it's all a waste o' time,

The moor's the pity.

———

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A'a, Jack," he sed, "aw'm capt 'wi thee
Net knowin sich a chap as me;
For oft when tha's been on a spree,
Aw've been thear too;
But tho' aw've reckon'd safe o' thee,
Tha's just edged throo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take Heart.