he thowt,
An' his owd regs wor dry,
We ax'd what distance he hed come,
An' thus he did reply:

"Awm a native of Cheviot Hills,
Some weary miles fra here;
Where I like you this neet hev seen
Full monny a Kersmas cheer;
I left my father's hahse when young,
Determined I wod rooam;
An' like the prodigal of yore,
I'm mackin' tahrds my hooam.

"I soldier'd in the Punjaub lines,
On India's burning sand;
An' nearly thirty years ago
I left my native land;
Discipline bein' ta hard fer me,
My mind wor allus bent;
So in an evil haar aw did
Desert my regiment.

"An' nivver sin' durst aw go see
My native hill an' glen,
Whear aw mud nah as weel hev been
The happiest of all men;
But my blessin'--an' aw wish ye all
A merry Kersmas day;
Fer me, I'll tak my poor owd bones,
On Cheviot Hills to lay."

"Aw cannot say," aw said to t'wife,
"Bud aw feel raather hurt;
What thinks ta lass if tha lukes aght,
An' finds t'owd chap a shirt."
Shoo did an' all, an' stockings too;
An' a tear stood in her ee;
An' in her face the stranger saw
Real Yorkshire sympathy.

Ahr little Jim gav monny a sigh
When he hed heeard his tale,
An' spak o' some owd trousers,
'At hung on t'chamber rail;
Then aght at door ahr Harry runs,
An' back ageean he shogs,
He'd been in t'coit ta fetch a pair
O' my owd ironed clogs.

"It must be fearful cowd ta neet
Fer fowk 'at's aght o' t'door:
Give him yahr owd grey coit an' all,
'At's thrawn on t'chaamer floor:
An' then there's thy owd hat, said Kate,
'At's pors'd so up an' dahn;
It will be better ner his awn,
Tho' it's withaght a crahn."

So when we'd geen him what we cud
(In fact afford to give),
We saw the tears come dahn the cheeks,
O' t'poor owd fugitive;
He thank'd us ower an' ower ageean
An' often he did pray,
'At t'barns wod nivver be like him;
Then travell'd on his way.

The Feather'd Captive.

My little dapple-winged fellow,
What ruffian's hand has made thee wellow?
I heard while down in yonder hollow,
Thy troubled breast;
But I'll return my little fellow,
Back to its nest.

Some ruffian's hand has set a snickle,
An' left thee in a bonny pickle;
Whoe'er he be, I hope owd Nick will
Rise his arm,
An' mak his heead an' ear-hoil tickle
Wi' summat warm.

How glad am I that fate while roaming,
Where milk-white hawthorn's blossom's blooming,
Has sent my footstep