old men,
An they're crazy to wed an old freet.

My Polly.

My Polly's varry bonny,
Her een are black an breet;
They shine under her raven locks,
Like stars i'th' dark o'th' neet.

Her little cheeks are like a peach,
'At th' sun has woo'd an missed;
Her lips like cherries, red an sweet,
Seem moulded to be kissed.

Her breast is like a drift o' snow,
Her little waist's soa thin,
To clasp it wi' a careless arm
Wod ommost be a sin.

Her little hands an tiny feet,
Wod mak yo think shoo'd been
Browt up wi' little fairy fowk
To be a fairy queen.

An when shoo laffs, it saands as if
A little crystal spring,
Wor bubblin up throo silver rocks,
Screened by an angel's wing.

It saands soa sweet, an yet soa low,
One feels it forms a part
Ov what yo love, an yo can hear
Its echoes in yor heart.

It isn't likely aw shall win,
An wed soa rich a prize;
But ther's noa tellin what strange things
Man may do, if he tries.

Love one Another.

Let's love one another, it's better bi far;
Mak peace wi yor Brother--it's better nor war!
Life's rooad's rough enuff,--let's mak it mooar smooth,
Let's sprinkle awr pathway wi kindness an love.
Ther's hearts at are heavy, and een at are dim,
Ther's deep cups o' sorrow at's full up to th' brim;
Ther's want an misfortun,--ther's crime an ther's sin;
Let's feight 'em wi Love,--for Love's sarten to win.

Give yor hand,--a kind hand,--to yor brother i' need,
Dooant question his conduct, or ax him his creed,--
Nor despise him becoss yo may think he's nooan reight,
For, maybe, some daat whether yo're walkin straight.
Dooant set up as judge,--it's a dangerous plan,
Luk ovver his failins,--he's nobbut a man;
Suppooas at he's one at yo'd call 'a hard case,'
What might yo ha been if yo'd been in his place?

Fowk praich abaat 'Charity,'--'pity the poor,'
But turn away th' beggar at comes to ther door;--
"Indiscriminate Charity's hurtful," they say,
"We hav'nt got riches to throw em away!"
Noa! but if that Grand Book,--th' Grandest Book ivver writ,
(An if ther's a true Book aw think at that's it,)
Says "What yo have done to th' leeast one o' theas
Yo did unto Me;"--Reckon that if yo pleeas.

Awm nooan findin fault,--yet aw cant help but see
Ha some roll i' wealth, wol ther's some, starvin, dee;
They grooan "it's a pity;--Poverty is a curse!"
But they button ther pockets, an shut up ther purse.
Ther's few fowk soa poor, b