mich consarn for th' little things
'At snooze i'th' shelter which her wings
Soa weel affoards?
If fowk wod nobbut bear i' mind
How mich is gained by bein kind;
Ther's fewer breasts wi' grief ud swell,
An fewer fowk ud thoughtless mell
Even o'th' burds.

Queen ov Skircoit Green.

Have yo seen mi bonny Mary,
Shoo lives at Skircoit Green;
An old fowk say a fairer lass
Nor her wor nivver seen.
An th' young ens say shoo's th' sweetest flaar,
'At's bloomin thear to-day;
An one an all are scared to deeath,
Lest shoo should flee away.

Shoo's health an strength an beauty too,
Shoo's grace an style as weel:
An what's moor precious far nor all,
Her heart is true as steel.
Shoo's full ov tenderness an love,
For onny in distress;
Whearivver sorrows heaviest prove,
Shoo's thear to cheer an bless.

Her fayther's growin old an gray,
Her mother's wellny done;
But in ther child they find a stay,
As life's sands quickly run.
Her smilin face like sunshine comes,
To chase away ther cares,
An peeace an comfort allus dwells,
In that dear hooam ov theirs.

Each Sundy morn shoo's off to schooil,
To taich her Bible class;
An meets a smilin welcome,
From ivvery lad an lass;
An when they sing some old psalm tune,
Her voice rings sweet an clear,
It saands as if an angel's tongue,
Had joined in worship thear.

Aw sometimes see her safely hooam,
An oft aw've tried to tell,
That precious saycret ov a hooap
'At in mi heart does dwell.
But when aw've seen the childlike trust,
'At glances throo her e'e,
To spaik ov love aw nivver durst;--
Shoo's far too gooid for me.

But to grow worthy ov her love,
Is what aw meean to try;
An time may my affection prove,--
An win her bye-an-bye.
Then aw shall be the happiest chap
'At Yorksher's ivver seen,
An some fine day aw'll bear away,
The Queen ov Skircoit Green.

Th' Little Black Hand.

Ther's a spark just o'th tip o' mi pen,
An it may be poetical fire:
An suppoase 'at it is'nt--what then?
Wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire?

Aw'm detarmined to scribble away--
Soa's them 'at's a fancy con read;
An tho' aw turn neet into day,
If aw'm suitin an odd en, ne'er heed!

Aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life;
But then ther's abundance o' care,
An them 'at's contented wi' strife
May allus mak sure o' ther share.

But aw'll laff woll mi galluses braik,--
Tho mi bed's net as soft as spun silk;