it all;
He values noa titles nor brass,
He cares noa mooar for a rich Squire,
Nor He does for a poor country lass,
His messengers now hover near,
Till that mother an child yield ther breath,
An th' Squire has noa longer a fear,
For his secret is lockt up in death.

Peter's Prayer.

His face wor varry thin an pale,
His een wor strangely breet;
His old rags flapt i'th' wintry gale,
An shooless wor his feet.
His teeth they chattered in his heead,
His hands had lost ther use,
He humbly begg'd a bite o' breead,
But nobbut gate abuse.

A curse wor tremblin on his tongue,
But with a mad despair,
He curbed it wi' an effort strong,
An changed it for a prayer.
"Oh, God!" he cried, "spare,--spare aw pray!
Have mercy an forgive;
Befooar too lat, show me some way
My wife an bairns can live!"

"Aw read i'th' papers ivvery day,
Ov hundreds,--thaasands spent
For shot an shell, an things to swell
This nation's armament.
Into fowk's hearts, oh, God! instil
A love ov peace, an then,
Maybe we'st have some better times,
An men can help thersen.

Aw nobbut want a chonce to live,
One cannot wish for less;
Wars fill this world wi' misery,--
Peace gives us happiness.
If monarchs dooant get quite as mich,
Ther joys need not decrease;--
Pray think o'th' poor as weel as th' rich;--
We've but one soul apiece."

Mak th' Best Ont.

Mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--tho' th' job be a bad en,
God bless mi life! childer, its useless to freeat!
This world's reight enuff, but it wod be a sad en,
If we all started rooarin for what we cant get.

Who knows but what th' things we mooast wish for an covet,
Are th' varry warst things we could ivver possess;
Let's shak hands wi' awr luck, an try soa to love it,
'At noa joy ov awr life shall be made onny less.

Mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--ne'er heed if yor naybor
Can live withaat workin wol yo have to slave;
Ther's nowt sweetens life like some honest hard labor,
An it's th' battles yo feight 'at proves yo are brave.

Ne'er heed if grim poverty pays yo a visit,
'Twill nivver stop long if yo show a bold front;
It's noa sin to be poor, if yo cant help it,--is it?
Soa keep up yor pecker an gie sorrow a shunt.

Mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--if Fortune should favor,
An a big share o' blessins pour into yor lap,
'Twill give to yor pleasures a mich better flavor,