limbs throo th' cold?

It may be soa,--aw'll net contend, &c,

When gazin at th' fine palaces,
Whear live the favoured few;
Aw cant help wonderin sometimes
If th' inmates nobbut knew,
At th' buildins next to their's i' size
Are workhaases for th' poor,
An if they'd net feel some surprise
At th' misery raand ther door?

It may be soa,--aw'll net contend, &c.

Sometimes aw wonder what chaps think
When shiverin wi' th' cold,
Abaat th' brass at they've spent i' drink,
Whear th' landlords caant ther gold.
They couldn't get a shillin lent,
To buy a bit o' breead,
Whear all ther wages have been spent,--
They'd get kickt aght asteead.

It may be soa,--aw'll net contend, &c.

Aw wonder if they'll leearn some day,
At th' best friend they can find,
When th' shop's shut daan, an stopt ther pay,
Is ther own purse snugly lined?
Aw wonder, will th' time ivver come,
When th' darkest day is done,
When they can sing of Home Sweet Home.
An know they've getten one?

It may be soa, aw hooap it will,
For then we'st all be free;
When ivvery man's his own best friend,--
Gooid by to poverty.

A Safe Investment.

Yo fowk 'at's some brass to invest,
Luk sharp an mak th' best ov yor chonce!
Aw'll gie yo a tip,--one o'th' best,
Whear ther's profit an safety for once.
Yo needn't be feeard th' bank 'll brust,
Or at onny false 'Jabez' will chait,--
Depend on't its one yo can trust,
For th' balance sheet's sewer to be reight.

Yo've heeard on it oftimes befooar,--
But mooast fowk are apt to forget;--
Yet yo know if yo give to the poor,
At yo're gettin the Lord i' yor debt.
Its as plain as is th' nooas o' yor face,
An its true too,--believe it or net,--
It's a bargain God made i' this case,
An He'll nivver back aght on't,--yo bet.

All th' wealth yo may have can't prevent
Grim Deeath commin to yo some day;
An yo'll have to give up ivvery cent,
When yor time comes for gooin away.
But yo'll dee wi' a leetsomer heart,
An for what yo leeav care net a straw,
Earth's losses will cause yo noa smart,
If i' Heaven yo've summat to draw.

Its useless to pray an to praich,--
Yo can't fill fowk's bellies wi' wynd;
Put summat to ait i' ther raich,
An then lectur em all yo've a mind;
Ther's poor folk on ivvery hand,
Yo can't shut yor ears to ther cry;--
A wail ov woe's sweepin throo th' land,
Which may turn to a r