garret to th' kitchen below.

One day when a cab drove to th' gate,
Th' new tenant stept aght, an his wife,
(An tawk abaat fashion an state!
Yo ne'er saw sich a spreead i' yor life.)

Ther war sarvents to curtsey 'em in,
An aw could'nt help sayin, "bi th' mass;"
As th' door shut when they'd booath getten in,
"A'a, it's grand to ha plenty o' brass."

Ther wor butchers, an bakers, an snobs,
An grocers, an milkmen, an snips,
All seekin for orders an jobs,
An sweetenin th' sarvents wi' tips.

Aw sed to th' milk-chap 'tother day,
"Ha long does ta trust sich fowk, Ike?
Each wick aw'm expected to pay,"
"Fine fowk," he says, "pay when they like."

Things went on like this, day bi day,
For somewhear cloise on for a year;
Wol aw ne'er thowt o' lukkin that way,
Altho' aw wor livin soa near.

But one neet when aw'd finished mi wark,
An wor tooastin mi shins anent th' fire,
A chap rushes in aght 'o'th' dark
Throo heead to fooit plaistered wi' mire.

Says he, "does ta know whear they've gooan?"
Says aw, "Lad, pray, who does ta meean?"
"Them at th' hall," he replied, wi a grooan,
"They've bolted an diddled us cleean."

Aw tell'd him aw'd ne'er heeard a word,
He cursed as he put on his hat,
An he sed, "well, they've flown like a burd,
An paid nubdy owt, an that's what."

He left, an aw crept off to bed,
Next day aw'd a visit throo Ike,
But aw shut up his maath when aw sed,
"Fine fowk tha knows pay when they like."

Ther's papers i'th' winders, "to let,"
An aw know varry weel ha 't 'll be;
They'll do th' same for th' next tenant awl bet,
Tho they ne'er do a hawpoth for me.

But aw let 'em do just as they pleease,
Aw'm content tho' mi station is low,
An awm thankful sich hard times as thease
If aw manage to pay what aw owe.

This precept, friends, nivver forget,
For a wiser one has not been sed,
Be detarmined to rise aght o' debt
Tho' yo go withaat supper to bed.

Lost Love.

Shoo wor a bonny, bonny lass,
Her e'en as black as sloas;
Her hair a flyin thunner claad,
Her cheeks a blowin rooas.
Her smile coom like a sunny gleam
Her cherry lips to curl;
Her voice wor like a murm'ring stream
'At flowed throo banks o' pearl.

Aw long'd to claim her for mi own,
But nah mi love is crost;
An aw mun wander on alooan,
An mourn for her aw've lost.

Aw could'nt ax her to be mine,
Wi' poverty at th' door:
Aw nivver thowt breet e'en could shine
Wi' love fo