o feight withaat musket or sabre,
But if tha'll have pluck tha'll be safe to pool throo.

Ther's noa use sittin still wishin an sighin,
An waitin for Fortun to gie yo a lift;
For ther's others i'th' struggle an time keeps on flyin,
An him who wod conquer mun show he's some shift.

Ther's nobbut one friend 'at a chap can depend on,
If he's made up his mind to succeed in the strife;
A chap's but hissen 'at he can mak a friend on,
Unless he be blest wi' a sensible wife.

But nivver let wealth, wi' its glamour an glitter,
Be th' chief end o' life or yo'll find when too lat,
'At th' fruits ov yor labor will all have turned bitter,
An th' pleasures yo hoped for are all stale an flat.

Do gooid to yorsen, win wealth, fame, or power,
But i'th' midst ov it all keep this object i' view;
'At the mooar yo possess, let yor self-love sink lower,
An pure pleasur will spring from the gooid yo can do.

Bonny Yorksher.

Bonny Yorksher! how aw love thi!
Hard an rugged tho' thi face is;
Ther's an honest air abaat thi,
Aw ne'er find i' other places.
Ther's a music i' thi lingo,
Spreeads a charm o'er hill an valley,
As a drop ov Yorksher stingo
Warms an cheers a body's bally.
Ther's noa pooasies 'at smell sweeter,
Nor thy modest moorland blossom,
Th' violet's een ne'er shone aght breeter
Nor on thy green mossy bosom.
Hillsides deckt wi' purple heather,
Guard thy dales, whear plenty dwellin
Hand i' hand wi' Peace, together
Tales ov sweet contentment tellin.
On the scroll ov fame an glory,
Names ov Yorksher heroes glisten;
History tells noa grander stooary,
An it thrills me as aw listen.
Young men blest wi' brain an muscle,
Swarm i' village, taan an city,
Nah as then prepared to tussle,
Wi' the brave, the wise, the witty.
An thy lasses,--faithful,--peerless,--
Matchless i' ther bloom an beauty,--
Modest, lovin, brave an fearless,
Praad ov Hooam an firm to Duty.
Aw've met nooan i' other places
Can a cannle hold beside 'em;
Rich i' charms an winnin graces;--
Aw should know becoss aw've tried 'em.
Balmy breezes, blow yer mildest!
Sun an shaars yer blessins shed!
Thrush an blackburd pipe yor wildest
Skylarks trill heigh ovverheead!
Robin redbreast,--little linnet,
Sing yor little songs wi' glee;
Till wi' melody each minnit,
Makin vocal bush an tree.
Wild flaars don yer breetest dresses,
Breathe sweet scents on ivvery gale;