an mistaks,--
To show whear philosifers blunder;
To prove parsons an doctors all quacks,
An strike men o' science wi' wonder.

But aw've nooaticed, theas varry big men,
'At strut along th' streets like a bantam,
Nivver do mich 'at meeans owt thersen,
For they're seldom at hand when yo want 'em.
At ther hooam, if yo chonce to call in,
Yo may find 'em booath humble an civil,
Wol th' wife tries to draand th' childer's din,
Bi yellin an raisin the devil.

A'a dear, what it is to be big!
But a chap 'at's a fooil needn't show it,
For th' rest o'th' world cares net a fig,
An a thaasand to one doesn't know it.
Consait, aw have often heeard say,
Is war for a chap nor consumption,
An aw'll back a plain chap onny day,
To succeed, if he's nobbut some gumpshun.

My advice to young fowk is to try
To grow honestly better an wiser;
An yo'll find yor reward by-an-by,--
True merit's its own advertiser.
False colors yo'll seldom find fast,
An a mak-believe is but a bubble,
It's sure to get brussen at last,
An contempt's all yo'll get for yor trouble.

To W. F. Wallett. The Queen's Jester.
Born at Hull, November, 1806. Died at Beeston, near Nottingham,
March 13th, 1892.

Wallett, old friend! Thy way's been long;--
Few livin can luk farther back;
But tha has left, bi jest an song,
A sunny gleam along thy track.
Aw'm nursin nah, mi childer's bairns,
Yet aw remember when a lad,
Sittin an listnin to thy yarns,
An thank thi nah, for th' joys aw had.

Full monny a lesson, quaintly towt,
Wi' witty phrase, sticks to me still;
Nor can aw call to mind ther's owt
Tha sed or did, to work me ill!
Noa laff tha raised do aw regret,--
Wit mixed wi' wisdom wor thy plan,
Which had aw heeded, aw admit,
Aw should ha been a better man.

Aw'd like to meet thee once agean,
An clink awr glasses as of yore,
An hear thi rail at all things meean,
An praise an cheer the honest poor.
Aw'd like to hear th' owd stooaries towld,
'At nobbut tha knows ha to tell;--
Unlike thisen they ne'er grow old;--
A'a dear! Aw'm growin owd misel.

We'st miss thee, Wallett, when tha goas,
(May that sad time be far away;
For when tha doffs thi motley clooas,
An pays that debt we all mun pay,)
We'st feel ther's one link less to bind,
Us to this 'vain an fleetin show,'
An we'st net tarry long behind,--
We may goa furst for owt we know.

Well,--if noa moor aw c