ooas,

Cuckoo, thar't a type ov a lot at aw've met,--
Aw'm nooan sooary when th' time comes to Part;--
An i' spite ov all th' poets 'at's lauded thi, yet,
Tha'rt a humbug!--That's just what tha art.

Fowk Next Door.

Said Mistress Smith to Mistress Green,
Aw'm feeard we'st ha to flit;
Twelve year i' this same haase we've been,
An should be stoppin yet,
I'th' same old spot, we thowt to spend
If need be twelve year mooar;
But all awr comfort's at an end,
Sin th' fowk moved in next door.

Yo know aw've nivver hurt a flea,
All th' years at aw've been here;
An fowk's affairs are nowt to me,--
Aw nivver interfere.
We've had gooid naybors all this while,--
All honest fowk tho' poor;
But aw can't tolerate sich style
As they put on next door.

Aw dooant know whear they get ther brass,
It's little wark they do;--
Ther's eight young bairns, an th' owdest lass
Is gaddin raand th' day throo.
They dress as if they owned a mint,
Throo th' owdest to th' youngest brat,
Noa skimpin an noa sign o' stint,
But aw've nowt to do wi' that.

Ther's th' maister wears a silk top hat,
An sometimes smooks cigars!--
An owd clay pipe or sich as that
Is gooid enuff for awrs.
When th' mistress stirs shoo has to ride
I' cabs or else i'th' buss;
But aw mun walk or caar inside;
Ov coorse that's nowt to us.

Aw wonder if they've paid ther rent?
Awr landlord's same as theirs;
If we should chonce to owe a cent,
He'll put th' bums in he swears.
An th' butcher wodn't strap us mait,
Noa, net if we'd to pine,
Aw daat at their accaant's nooan straight,
But it's noa affair o' mine.

One can't help havin thowts yo know,
When one meets sich a case;
An nivver sin we lived i'th' row
Did such like things tak place.
Wi' business when it isn't mine,
Aw nivver try to mell,
An if they want to cut a shine
They're like to pleas thersel.

But stuck up fowk aw ne'er could bide,--
An pride will have a fall.
Aw connot match 'em, tho' aw've tried,
Aw wish aw could, that's all!
Aw dunnot envy 'em a bit,
Aw'm quite content, tho' poor,
But one on us will ha to flit,
Us or them fowk next door.

Dad's Lad.

Little patt'rin, clatt'rin feet,
Runnin raand throo morn to neet;
Banishin mi mornin's nap,--
Little bonny, noisy chap,--
But aw can't find fault yo see,--
For he's Dad's lad an he loves me.

He loves his mother withaat daat,
Tho' shoo g