ay have a trifle o' sense,
An' yo' may be both upright an' true
But that's nowt, if yo' can't stand th' expense
Ov a hoal or a pairt ov a pew.

A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass!
An' to them fowk at's getten a hoard,
This world seems as smooth as a glass,
An' ther's flaars o' boath sides o'th' road;
But him 'at's as poor as a maase,
Or, happen, a little i' debt,
He mun point his noas up to th' big haase,
An' be thankful for what he can get.

A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' chink!
But doan't let it harden yor heart:
Yo' 'at's blessed wi' abundance should think
An' try ta do gooid wi' a part!
An' then, as yor totterin' daan,
An' th' last grains o' sand are i'th glass,
Yo' may find 'at yo've purchased a craan
Wi' makkin gooid use o' yor brass.

Th' Little Stranger

Little bonny, bonny babby,
How tha stares, an' weel tha may,
For its but an haar, or hardly,
Sin' tha furst saw th' leet o' day.

A'a! tha little knows, young moppet,
Ha aw'st have to tew for thee;
May be when aw'm forced to drop it,
'At tha'll do a bit for me.

Are ta maddled, mun, amang it?
Does ta wonder what aw mean?
Aw should think tha does, but dang it!
Where's ta been to leearn to scream?

That's noa sooart o' mewsic, bless thee!
Dunnot peawt thi lip like that!
Mun, aw hardly dar to nurse thee,
Feared awst hurt thee, little brat.

Come, aw'll tak thee to thi mother;
Shoo's moor used to sich nor me:
Hands like mine worn't made to bother
Wi sich ginger-breead as thee.

Innocent an' helpless craytur,
All soa pure an' undefiled!
If ther's ought belangs to heaven
Lives o'th' eearth, it is a child.

An its hard to think, 'at some day,
If tha'rt spared to weather throo,
'At tha'll be a man, an' someway
Have to feight life's battles too.

Kings an' Queens, an' lords an' ladies,
Once wor nowt noa moor to see;
An' th' warst wretch 'at hung o'th' gallows,
Once wor born as pure as thee.

An' what tha at last may come to,
God aboon us all can tell;
But aw hope 'at tha'll be lucky,
Even tho aw fail mysel.

Do aw ooin thee? its a pity!
Hush! nah prathi dunnot freat!
Goa an' snoozle to thi titty
Tha'rt too young for trouble yet.

Babby Burds

Aw wander'd aght one summer's morn,
Across a meadow newly shorn;
Th' sun wor shinin' breet and clear,
An' fragrant scents rose up i'th' air,
An' all wor still.
When, as my steps wor idly rovin,
Aw coom upon a seet soa lovin!
It fill'd mi