Good Meaester Collins! aye, how mild he spoke
Woone day o' Mercy to zome cruel vo'k.
"No, no. Have Mercy on a helpless head,
An' don't be cruel to a zoul," he zaid.
"When Babylon's king woonce cast 'ithin
The viery furnace, in his spite,
The vetter'd souls whose only sin
Wer prayer to the God o' might,
He vound a fourth, 'ithout a neaeme,
A-walken wi' em in the fleaeme.

An' zoo, whenever we mid hurt,
Vrom spite, or vrom disdain,
A brother's soul, or meaeke en smert
Wi' keen an' needless pain,
Another that we midden know
Is always wi' en in his woe.
Vor you do know our Lord ha' cried,
"By faith my bretheren do bide
In me the liven vine,
As branches in a liven tree;
Whatever you've a-done to mine
Is all a-done to me.
Oh! when the new-born child, the e'th's new guest,
Do lie an' heave his little breast,
In pillow'd sleep, wi' sweetest breath
O' sinless days drough rwosy lips a-drawn;
Then, if a han' can smite en in his dawn
O' life to darksome death,
Oh! where can Pity ever vwold
Her wings o' swiftness vrom their holy flight,
To leaeve a heart o' flesh an' blood so cwold
At such a touchen zight?
An' zoo mid meek-soul'd Pity still
Be zent to check our evil will,
An' keep the helpless soul from woe,
An' hold the hardened heart vrom sin.
Vor they that can but mercy show
Shall all their Father's mercy win."

JOHN BLOOM IN LON'ON.

(_All true._)

John Bloom he wer a jolly soul,
A grinder o' the best o' meal,
Bezide a river that did roll,
Vrom week to week, to push his wheel.
His flour wer all a-meaede o' wheat;
An' fit for bread that vo'k mid eat;
Vor he would starve avore he'd cheat.
"'Tis pure," woone woman cried;
"Aye, sure," woone mwore replied;
"You'll vind it nice. Buy woonce, buy twice,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

Athirt the chest he wer so wide
As two or dree ov me or you.
An' wider still vrom zide to zide,
An' I do think still thicker drough.
Vall down, he coulden, he did lie
When he wer up on-zide so high
As up on-end or perty nigh.
"Meaeke room," woone naighbour cried;
"'Tis Bloom," woone mwore replied;
"Good morn t'ye all, bwoth girt an' small,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

Noo stings o' conscience ever broke
His rest, a-twiten o'n wi' wrong,
Zoo he did sleep till mornen broke,
An' birds did call en wi'