t dew up i' London. Bud we hed monny
a good singer beside him i' t'neighbourhood. Nah what is thur grander
ner a lot o' local singers at Kersmas time chanting i' t'streets; it's
ommost like bein' i' heaven, especially when you're warm i' bed. But
there's another thing at's varry amusing abaght our local singers, when
they meet together ther is some demi-semi-quavering, when ther's sharps,
flats, an' naturals;--an' t'best ale an' crotchets mix'd, that's the time
fer music.]

Come, gi' us a wag o' thy paw, Jim Wreet,
Come, gi' us a wag o' thy paw;
I knew thee when thy heead wor black,
Bud nah it's white as snow;
A Merry Kersmas to thee, Jim,
An' all thy kith an' kin;
An' hoping tha'll ha' monny more,
For t'sake o' ould long sin'--
Jim Wreet,
For t'sake o' ould long sin'.

It's so monny year to-day, Jim Wreet,
Sin owd Joe Constantine--
An' Daniel Acroyd, thee, an' me,
An other friends o' thine,
Went up ta sing at Squire's house,
Not a hauf-a-mile fra here;
An' t'Squire made us welcome
To his brown October beer--
Jim Wreet,
To his brown October beer.

An' owd Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet,
'At kept the Old King's Arms;
Whear all t'church singers used ta meet,
When they hed sung ther Psalms;
An' thee an' me amang 'em, Jim,
Sometimes hev chang'd the string,
An' with a merry chorus join'd,
We've made yon tavern ring,
Jim Wreet,
We've made yon tavern ring.

But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet,
Hev past away sin' then;
Then Keighley in Appolo's Art,
Could boast her trusty men;
But music nah means money, Jim,
An' that tha's sense to knaw;
But just fer owd acquaintance sake.
Come gi' us a wag o' thy paw,
Jim Wreet,
Come gi' us a wag o' thy paw.

Full o' Doubts and Fears.

Sweet sing the birds in lowly strain,
All mingled in their song;
For lovely Spring is here again,
And Winter's cold is gone.

All things around seem filled with glee,
And joy swells every breast;
The buds are peeping from each bush,
Where soon the birds will rest.

The meadows now are fresh and green,
The flowers are bursting forth,
And nature seems to us serene,
And shows her sterling worth.

The lark soars high up in the air,
We listen to his lays;
He knows no sorrow, no, nor care,
Nor weariness o' days.

But man, though born of noble birth,
Assigned for higher spheres,
Walks his sad jour