oments are flying,
Let us catch the bright fugitives ere they depart;
For O, thou knaws not what pleasures supplyin'
Thy bonny soft image hes nah geen my heart.
The miser that wanders besides buried treasure,
Wi' his eyes ever led to the spot in despair;
How different to him is my rapture and pleasure
Near the dear little cot on the Benks o' the Aire.

But sooin may the day come, if come it will ivver;
The breetest an' best to me ivver knawn,
When fate may ordain us no longer to sever,
Then, sweet girl of my heart, I can call thee my own.
For dear unto me wor one moment beside thee,
If it wor in the desert, Mary, wi' me;
But sweeter an' fairer, whate'er betide thee,
In ahr sweet little cot on the Benks o' the Aire.

In Memory of
J. W. PECKOVER,
_Died July 10th_, _1888_.

He was a man, an upright man
As ever trod this mortal earth,
And now upon him back we scan,
Whose greatest fault was honest mirth.

But never more his friends will see
The smiling face and laughing eye,
Nor hear his jokes with heartfelt glee,
Which made dull care before them fly.

Nor ever more the friend shall find,
When labour lacks, the shake of hand
That oft was wont to leave behind
What proved a Brother and a Friend.

In winter's bitter, biting frost,
Or hail, or snow, or rain, or sleet,
The wretch upon life's tempest toss'd
In him found shelter from the street.

The unemployed, the aged poor,
The orphan child, the lame and blind,
The stranger never crossed his floor
But what a friend in him did find.

But now the hand and heart are gone,
Which were so noble, kind and true,
And now his friends, e'en every one,
Are loth to bid a last adieu.

The Fugitive:
A Tale of Kersmas Time.

We wor snugly set arahnd the hob,
'Twor one wet Kersmas Eve,
Me an ahr Kate an' t'family,
All happy I believe:
Ahr Kate hed Harry on her knee,
An' I'd ahr little Ann,
When there com rappin' at the door
A poor owd beggar man.

Sleet trickl'd dahn his hoary locks,
That once no daht wor fair;
His hollow cheeks wor deadly pale,
His neck an' breast wor bare;
His clooas, unworthy o' ther name,
Wor ragg'd an' steepin' wet;
His poor owd legs wor stockingless,
An' badly shooed his feet.

"Come into t'haase," said t'wife to him,
An' get thee up ta t'fire;
Shoo then browt aght wur humble fare,
T'wor what he did desire;
And when he'd getten what