ad.

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,
'At wod'nt disgrace one o'th' nobs,
'At booasts better blooid in his veins.

See that child thear! 'at's working away,
An' sweepin that crossin i'th' street:
He's been thear iver sin it coom day,
An' yo'll find him thear far into th' neet.

See what hundreds goa thowtlessly by,
An' ne'er think o' that child wi' his broom!
What care they tho' he smothered a sigh,
Or wiped off a tear as they coom.

But luk! thear's a man wi' a heart!
He's gien th' poor child summat at last:
Ha his een seem to twinkle an' start,
As he watches th' kind gentleman past!

A