n' thear in his little black hand
He sees a gold sovereign shine!
He thinks he ne'er saw owt soa grand,
An' he says, "Sure it connot be mine!"

An' all th' lads cluther raand him i' glee,
An' tell him to cut aght o'th seet;
But he clutches it fast,--an' nah see
Ha he's threedin his way along th' street,

Till he comes to that varry same man,
An' he touches him gently o'th' back,
An' he tells him as weel as he can,
'At he fancies he's made a mistak.

An' th' chap luks at that poor honest lad,
With his little naked feet, as he stands,
An' his heart oppens wide--he's soa glad
Woll he taks one o'th little black hands,

An' he begs him to tell him his name:
But th' child glances timidly raand--
Poor craytur! he connot forshame
To lift up his een off o'th graand.

But at last he finds courage to spaik,
An' he tells him they call him poor Joa;
'At his mother is sickly an' waik;
An' his father went deead long ago;

An' he's th' only one able to work
Aght o' four; an' he does what he can,
Thro' early at morn till it's dark:
An' he hopes 'at he'll sooin be a man.

An' he tells him his mother's last word,
As he starts for his labour for th' day,
Is to put 'all his trust in the Lord,
An' He'll net send him empty away.--

See that man! nah he's wipin his een,
An' he gives him that bright piece o' gowd;
An' th' lad sees i' that image o'th Queen
What 'll keep his poor mother thro' th' cowd.

An' mony a time too, after then,
Did that gentleman tak up his stand
At that crossing an' watch for hissen
The work ov that little black hand.

An' when-years had gone by, he expressed
'At i'th' spite ov all th' taichin he'd had,
An' all th' lessons he'd leearn'd, that wor th' best
'At wor towt by that poor little lad.

Tho' the proud an' the wealthy may prate,
An' booast o' ther riches and land,
Some o'th' laadest ul sink second-rate
To that lad with his little black hand.

Lilly's Gooan

"Well, Robert! what's th' matter! nah mun,
Aw see 'at ther's summat nooan sweet;
Thi een luk as red as a sun--
Aw saw that across th' width of a street;
Aw hope 'at yor Lily's noa war--
Surelee--th' little thing is'nt deead?
Tha wod roor, aw think, if tha dar--
What means ta bi shakin thi heead?
Well, aw see bi thi sorrowful e'e
At shoo's gooan, an' aw'm soory, but yet,
When youngens like her hap ta dee,
They miss troubles as some live to hit.
Tha mun try an' put up wi' thi loss,
Tha's been praad o' that child, aw mun say,