im;
Aw love mi mother tho' shoo's deeaf,
An tho' her een are dim;
Aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walk
Its crucken'd streets amang;
For thear it is aw hear fooak tawk
Mi own, mi native twang.

Aw like to hear hard-workin' fowk
Say boldly what they meean;
For tho' ther hands are smeared wi' muck,
May be ther hearts are cleean,
An' them 'at country fowk despise,
Aw say, "Why, let' em hang;"
They'll niver rob mi sympathies
Throo thee, mi native twang,

Aw like to see grand ladies,
When they're donn'd i' silks soa fine;
Aw like to see ther dazzlin' e'en
Throo th' carriage winders shine:
Mi mother wor a woman,
An' tho' it may be wrang,
Aw love 'em all, but mooastly them
'At tawk mi native twang.

Aw wish gooid luck to ivery one;
Gooid luck to them 'ats brass;
Gooid luck an' better times to come
To them 'ats poor--alas!
An' may health, wealth, an' sweet content
For iver dwell amang
True, honest-hearted, Yorkshire fowk,
At tawk mi native twang.

Shoo's thi Sister

(Written on seeing a wealthy townsman rudely push
a poor little girl off the pavement.)

Gently, gently, shoo's thi sister,
Tho' her clooas are nowt but rags;
On her feet ther's monny a blister:
See ha painfully shoo drags
Her tired limbs to some quiet corner:
Shoo's thi sister--dunnot scorn her.

Daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin,
Shoo's been shov'd aside befoor;
Used to scoffs, an' sneers, an'shunnin--
Shoo expects it, coss shoo's poor;
Schooil'd for years her grief to smother,
Still shoos human--tha'rt her brother.

Tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin,
A kid glove o' awther hand,
Dunnot touch her roughly, loathin--
Shoo's thi sister, understand:
Th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters,
Poor lost pilgrim!--but what matters?

Lulk ha sharp her elbow's growin,
An' ha pale her little face,
An' her hair neglected, showin
Her's has been a sorry case;
O, mi heart felt sad at th' seet,
When tha shov'd her into th' street

Ther wor once a "Man," mich greater
Nor thisen wi' all thi brass,
Him, awr blessed Mediator,--
Wod He scorn that little lass?
Noa, He called 'em, an' He blessed 'em,
An' His hands divine caress'd 'em.

Goa thi ways I an' if tha bears net
Some regret for what tha's done,
If tha con pass on, an' cares net
For that sufferin' little one;
Then ha'iver poor shoo be,
Yet shoos rich compared wi' thee.

Oh! 'at this breet gold should blind us,
To awr duties here below!
For we'