Roughest roads, we often find,

Lead us on to th' nicest places;

Kindest hearts oft hide behind

Some o'th' plainest-lukkin faces.

Flaars' whose colors breetest are,

Oft delight awr wond'ring seet;

But thers others, humbler far,

Smell a thaasand times as sweet.

Burds o' monny color'd feather,

Please us as they skim along,

But ther charms all put together,

Connot equal th' skylark's song.

Bonny women—angels seemin,—

Set awr hearts an' brains o' fire;

But its net ther beauties; beamin,

Its ther gooidness we admire.

Th' bravest man 'at's in a battle,

Isn't allus th' furst i'th' fray;

He best proves his might an' mettle,

Who remains to win the day.

Monkey's an' vain magpies chatter,

But it doesn't prove em wise;

An it's net wi noise an' clatter,

Men o' sense expect to rise.

'Tisn't them 'at promise freely,

Are mooast ready to fulfill;

An' 'tisn't them 'at trudge on dreely

'At are last at top o'th' hill.

Bad hauf-craans may pass as payment,

Gaudy flaars awr een beguile;

Women may be loved for raiment,

Show may blind us for a while;

But we sooin grow discontented,

An' for solid worth we sigh,

An' we leearn to prize the jewel,

Tho it's hidden from the eye.

Him 'at thinks to gether diamonds

As he walks along his rooad,

Niver need be tired wi' huggin,

For he'll have a little looad.

Owt 'at's worth a body's winnin

Mun be toiled for long an' hard;

An' tho' th' struggle may be pinnin,

Perseverance wins reward.

Earnest thowt, an' constant striving,

Ever wi' one aim i'th' seet;

Tho' we may be late arrivin,

Yet at last we'st come in reight.

He who WILL succeed, he MUST,

When he's bid false hopes farewell.

If he firmly fix his trust

In his God, and in hissel,

Did yo Iver.

Gooid gracious! cried Susy, one fine summer's morn,

Here's a bonny to do! aw declare!

Aw wor niver soa capt sin th' day aw wor born!

Aw near saw sich a seet at a Fair.

Here, Sally! come luk! Ther's a maase made its nest

Reight ith' craan o' mi new Sundy bonnet!

Haiver its fun its way into this chist,

That caps me! Aw'm fast what to mak on it!

Its cut! Sithee thear! It's run reight under th' bed!

An luk here! What's'theas little things stirrin?

If they arn't some young uns at th' gooid-for-nowt's bred,

May aw be as deead as a herrin!

But what does ta say? "Aw mun draand 'em?" nooan soa!

Just luk ha they're seekin ther mother;

Shoo must be a poor little softheead to goa;

For awm nooan baan to cause her noa bother.

But its rayther to bad, just to mak her hooam thear,

For mi old en's net fit to be seen in

An' this new en, awm thinkin, ul luk rayther queer,

After sich a rum lot as thats been in.

But shut up awr pussy, an heed what aw say;

Yo mun keep a sharp e'e or shoo'll chait us;

Ah if shoo sees th' mother shoo'll kill it! An pray

What mun become o' thease poor helpless crayturs?

A'a dear! fowk have mich to be thankful for, yet,

'At's a roof o' ther own to cawer under,

For if we'd to seek ony nook we could get,

Whativer 'ud come on us aw wonder?

We should nooan on us like to be turned aat o' door,

Wi a lot a young bairns to tak 'care on:

Ah' although awm baat bonnet, an think misen poor,

What little aw have yo'st have t'share on.

That poor little maase aw dooant think meant me harm,

Shoo ne'er knew what that bonnet had cost me;

All shoo wanted wor some little nook snug an' warm,

An' a gooid two o'-three shillin its lost me.

Aw should think as they've come into th' world born i' silk,

They'll be aristocratical varmin;

But awm wasting mi time! awl goa get 'em some milk,

An' na daat but th' owd lass likes it warmin.

Bless mi life! a few drops 'll sarve them! If we try,

Awm weel sure we can easily spare 'em,

But as sooin as they're able, awl mak 'em all fly!

Never mind' if aw dooant! harum scarum!

An Old Man's Christmas Morning.

Its a long time sin' thee an' me have met befoor, owd lad,—

Soa pull up thi cheer, an' sit daan, for ther's noabdy moor welcome nor thee:

Thi toppin's grown whiter nor once,— yet mi heart feels glad,

To see ther's a rooas o' thi cheek,an' a bit ov a leet i' thi e'e.

Thi limbs seem to totter an' shake, like a crazy owd fence,

'At th' wind maks to tremel an' creak; but tha still fills thi place;

An' it shows 'at tha'rt bless'd wi' a bit o' gradely gooid sense,

'At i' spite o' thi years an' thi cares, tha still wears a smile o' thi face.

Come fill up thi pipe— for aw knaw tha'rt reight fond ov a rick,—

An' tha'll find a drop o' hooarm-brew'd i' that pint up o'th' hob, aw dar say;

An' nah, wol tha'rt toastin thi shins, just scale th' foir, an' aw'll side thi owd stick,

Then aw'll tell thi some things 'ats happen'd sin tha went away.

An' first of all tha mun knaw 'at aw havn't been spar'd,

For trials an' troubles have come, an' mi heart has felt well nigh to braik;

An' mi wife, 'at tha knaws wor mi pride, an' mi fortuns has shared,

Shoo bent under her griefs, an' shoo's flown far, far away aat o' ther raik.

My life's like an owd gate 'ats nobbut one hinge for support,

An' sometimes aw wish—aw'm soa lonely— at tother 'ud drop off wi' rust;

But it hasn't to be, for it seems Life maks me his spooart,

An' Deeath cannot even spare time, to turn sich an owd man into dust.

Last neet as aw sat an' watched th' yule log awd put on to th' fire,

As it cracked, an' sparkled, an' flared up wi' sich gusto an' spirit,

An' when it wor touch'd it shone breeter, an' flared up still higher,

Till at last aw'd to shift th' cheer further back for aw couldn't bide near it.

Th' dull saand o' th' church bells coom to tell me one moor Christmas mornin',

Had come, for its welcome—but ha could aw welcome it when all aloan?

For th' snow wor fallin soa thickly, an' th' cold wind wor moanin,

An' them 'at aw lov'd wor asleep i' that cold church yard, under a stoan:

Soa aw went to bed an' aw slept, an' then began dreamin,

'At mi wife stood by mi side, an' smiled, an' mi heart left off its beatin',

An' aw put aat mi hand, an' awoke, an' mornin' wor gleamin';

An' its made me feel sorrowful, an aw cannot give ovver freatin.

For aw think what a glorious Christmas day 'twod ha' been,

If awd goan to that place, where ther's noa moor cares,nor partin', nor sorrow,

For aw know shoo's thear, or that dream aw sud nivver ha' seen,

But aw'll try to be patient, an' maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow.

It's forty' long summers an' winters, sin tha bade "gooid bye,"

An' as fine a young fella tha wor, as iver aw met i' mi life;

When tha went to some far away land, thi fortune to try,

An' aw stopt at hooam to toil on, becoss it wor th' wish o' my wife.

An' shoo wor a bonny young wench, an' better nor bonny,—

Aw seem nah as if aw can see her, wi' th' first little bairn on her knee,

An' we called it Ann, for aw liked that name best ov ony,

An' fowk said it wor th' pictur o' th' mother, wi' just a strinklin o' me.

An' th' next wor a lad, an' th' next wor a lad! then a lass came,—

That made us caant six,—an' six happier fowk niver sat to a meal,

An' they grew like hop plants—full o' life—but waikly i' th' frame,

An' at last one drooped, an' Deeath coom an' marked her with his seal.

A year or two moor an' another seemed longin to goa,

An' all we could do wor to smooth his deeath bed, 'at he might sleep sweeter—

Then th' third seemed to sicken an' pine, an' we couldn't say "noa,"

For he said his sister had called, an' he wor most anxious to meet her—

An' how we watched th' youngest, noa mortal can tell but misen,

For we prized it moor, becoss it wor th' only one left us to cherish;

At last her call came, an' shoo luked sich a luk at us then,

Which aw ne'er shall forget, tho mi mem'ry ov all other things perish.

A few years moor, when awr griefs wor beginnin to lighten,

Mi friends began askin my wife, if shoo felt hersen hearty an' strong?

An' aw niver saw at her face wor beginning to whiten,

Till sho grew like a shadow, an' aw couldn't even guess wrong.

Then aw stood beside th' grave when th' saxton wor shovin in th' gravel,

An' he said "this last maks five, an' aw think ther's just room for another,"

An' aw went an' left him, lonely an' heartsick to travel,

Till th' time comes when aw may lig daan beside them four bairns an' ther mother.

An' aw think what a glorious Christmas day 'twod ha been

If aw'd gooan to that place where ther's noa moor cares, nor partin, nor sorrow;

An aw knaw they're thear, or that dream aw should niver ha seen,

But aw'll try to be patient, an' maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow.

Billy Bumble's Bargain.

Young Billy Bumble bowt a pig,

Soa aw've heeard th' neighbors say;

An' mony a mile he had to trig

One sweltin' summer day;

But Billy didn't care a fig,

He said he'd mak it pay;

He 
knew
it wor a bargain,

An' he cared net who said nay.

He browt it hooam to Ploo Croft loin,

But what wor his surprise

To find all th' neighbors standing aat,

We oppen maaths an' eyes;

"By gow!" sed Billy, to hissen,

"This pig must be a prize!"

An' th' wimmen cried, "Gooid gracious fowk!

But isn't it a size?"

Then th' chaps sed, "Billy, where's ta been?

Whativer has ta browt?

That surely isn't crayture, lad,

Aw heeard 'em say tha'd bowt?

It luks moor like a donkey,

Does ta think 'at it con rawt?"

But Billy crack'd his carter's whip.

An' answered' em wi' nowt.

An' reight enuff it war a pig,

If all they say is true,

Its length war five foot eight or nine,

Its height wor four foot two;

An' when it coom to th' pig hoil door,

He couldn't get it through,

Unless it went daan ov its knees,

An' that it wodn't do.

Then Billy's mother coomed to help,

An' hit it wi' a mop;

But thear it wor, an' thear it seem'd

Detarmined it 'ud stop;

But all at once it gave a grunt,

An' oppen'd sich a shop;

An' finding aat 'at it wor lick'd,

It laup'd clean ovver th' top.

His mother then shoo shook her heead,

An' pool'd a woeful face;

"William," shoo sed, "tha shouldn't bring

Sich things as theas to th' place.

Aw hooap tha art'nt gooin to sink

Thi mother i' disgrace;

But if tha buys sich things as thease

Aw'm feared it will be th' case!"

"Nah, mother, niver freat." sed Bill,

"Its one aw'm goin to feed,

Its rayther long i'th' legs, aw know,

But that's becoss o'th' breed;

If its a trifle long i'th' grooin,

Why hang it! niver heed!

Aw know its net a beauty,

But its cheap, it is, indeed!"

"Well time 'ul try," his mother sed,—

An' time at last did try;

For niver sich a hungry beeast

Had been fed in a sty.

"What's th' weight o'th' long legged pig, Billy!"

Wor th' neighbors' daily cry;

"Aw connot tell yo yet," sed Bill,

"Aw'll weigh it bye an' bye."

An' hard poor Billy persevered,

But all to noa avail,

It swallow'd all th' mait it could get,

An' wod ha' swallow'd th' pail;

But Billy took gooid care to stand

O'th' tother side o'th' rail;

But fat it didn't gain as mich

As what 'ud greeas its tail.

Pack after pack o' mail he bowt,

Until he'd bought fourteen;

But net a bit o' difference

I'th' pig wor to be seen:

Its legs an' snowt wor just as long

As iver they had been;

Poor Billy caanted rib bi rib

An' heaved a sigh between.

One day he, mix'd a double feed,

An' put it into th' troff;

"Tha greedy lukkin beeast," he sed,

"Aw'll awther stawl thee off,

Or else aw'll brust thi hide—that is

Unless 'at its to toff!"