Year's Parties.
Smiles, Tears, Getting on.
Mysterious Disappearance.
Sam it up.
Fooils.
Cleanin' Daan Month.
Hay-making.
Hollingworth Lake.
Plagues.
End o'th' Year.
Scientific.
Valentine Dream.

Poetry.

Bite Bigger.

As aw hurried throo th' taan to mi wark,
(Aw wur lat, for all th' whistles had gooan,)
Aw happen'd to hear a remark,
'At ud fotch tears throo th' heart ov a stooan—
It wur raanin, an' snawin, and cowd,
An' th' flagstoans wur covered wi' muck,
An' th' east wind booath whistled an' howl'd,
It saanded like nowt but ill luck;
When two little lads, donn'd i' rags,
Baght stockins or shoes o' ther feet,
Coom trapesin away ower th' flags,
Booath on 'em sodden'd wi th' weet.—
Th' owdest mud happen be ten,
Th' young en be hauf on't,—noa moor;
As aw luk'd on, aw sed to misen,
God help fowk this weather 'at's poor!
Th' big en sam'd summat off th' graand,
An' aw luk'd just to see what 't could be;
'Twur a few wizend flaars he'd faand,
An' they seem'd to ha fill'd him wi glee:
An' he sed, "Come on, Billy, may be
We shall find summat else by an by,
An' if net, tha mun share thease wi me
When we get to some spot where its dry."
Leet-hearted they trotted away,
An' aw follow'd, coss 'twur i' mi rooad;
But aw thowt awd nee'er seen sich a day—
It worn't fit ta be aght for a tooad.
Sooin th' big en agean slipt away,
An' sam'd summat else aght o'th' muck,
An' he cried aght, "Luk here, Bill! to-day
Arn't we blest wi' a seet o' gooid luck?
Here's a apple! an' th' mooast on it's saand:
What's rotten aw'll throw into th' street—
Worn't it gooid to ligg thear to be faand?
Nah booath on us con have a treat."
Soa he wiped it, an' rubb'd it, an' then
Sed, Billy, "thee bite off a bit;
If tha hasn't been lucky thisen
Tha shall share wi' me sich as aw get."
Soa th' little en bate off a touch,
T'other's face beamed wi' pleasur all throo,
An' he said, "Nay, tha hasn't taen much,
Bite agean, an' bite bigger; nah do!"
Aw waited to hear nowt noa moor,—
Thinks aw, thear's a lesson for me!
Tha's a heart i' thi breast, if tha'rt poor:
Th' world wur richer wi' moor sich as thee!
Tuppince wur all th' brass aw had,
An' awd ment it for ale when coom nooin,
But aw thowt aw'll goa give it yond lad,
He desarves it for what he's been dooin;
Soa aw sed, "Lad, here's tuppince for thee,
For thi sen,"—an' they stared like two geese,
But he sed, woll th' tear stood in his e'e,
"Nah, it'll just be a penny a piece."
"God bless thi! do just as tha will,
An' may better days speedily come;
Tho' clam'd, an' hauf donn'd, mi lad, still
Tha'rt a deal nearer Heaven nur some."

To th' Swallow.

Bonny burd! aw'm fain to see thee,
For tha tells ov breeter weather;
But aw connot quite forgi thee,
Connot love thee altogether.

'Tisn't thee aw fondly welcome—
'Tis the cheerin news tha brings,
Tellin us fine weather will come,
When we see thi dappled wings.

But aw'd rayther have a sparrow,
Rayther hear a robin twitter;
Tho' they may net be thi marrow,
May net fly wi' sich a glitter;

But they niver leeav us, niver—
Storms may come, but still they stay;
But th' first wind 'at ma's thee shiver,
Up tha mounts an' flies away.

Ther's too mony like thee, swallow,
'At when fortun's sun shines breet,
Like a silly buzzard follow,
Doncin raand a bit o' leet.

But ther's few like Robin redbreast,
Cling throo days o' gloom an' care;
Soa aw love mi old tried friends best—
Fickle hearts aw'll freely spare.

Plenty o' Brass.

A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass!
It's grand to be able to spend
A trifle sometimes on a glass
For yorsen, or sometimes for a friend
To be able to bury yor neive
Up to th' shackle i' silver an' gowd
An', 'baght pinchin', be able to save
A wee bit for th' time when yor owd.

A'a! it's grand to ha', plenty o' brass!
To be able to set daan yor fooit
Withaght ivver thinkin'—bith' mass!
'At yor wearin' soa mitch off yor booit;
To be able to walk along th' street,
An' stand at shop windows to stare,
An' net ha' to beat a retreat
If yo' scent a "bum bailey" i' th' air.

A'a I it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass!
To be able to goa hoam at neet,
An' sit i'th' arm-cheer bith' owd lass,
An' want nawther foir nor leet;
To tak' th' childer a paper o' spice,
Or a pictur' to hing up o' th' wall;
Or a taste ov a summat 'at's nice
For yor friends, if they happen to call.