A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass!
Then th' parsons'll know where yo' live:
If yo'r' poor, it's mooast likely they'll pass,
An' call where fowk's summat to give.
Yo' may have a trifle o' sense,
An' yo' may be both upright an' true
But that's nowt, if yo' can't stand th' expense
Ov a hoal or a pairt ov a pew.

A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass!
An' to them fowk at's getten a hoard,
This world seems as smooth as a glass,
An' ther's flaars o' boath sides o'th' road;
But him 'at's as poor as a maase,
Or, happen, a little i' debt,
He mun point his noas up to th' big haase,
An' be thankful for what he can get.

A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' chink!
But doan't let it harden yor heart:
Yo' 'at's blessed wi' abundance should think
An' try ta do gooid wi' a part!
An' then, as yor totterin' daan,
An' th' last grains o' sand are i'th glass,
Yo' may find 'at yo've purchased a craan
Wi' makkin gooid use o' yor brass.

Th' Little Stranger.

Little bonny, bonny babby,
How tha stares, an' weel tha may,
For its but an haar, or hardly,
Sin' tha furst saw th' leet o' day.

A'a! tha little knows, young moppet,
Ha aw'st have to tew for thee;
May be when aw'm forced to drop it,
'At tha'll do a bit for me.

Are ta maddled, mun, amang it?
Does ta wonder what aw mean?
Aw should think tha does, but dang it!
Where's ta been to leearn to scream?

That's noa sooart o' mewsic, bless thee!
Dunnot peawt thi lip like that!
Mun, aw hardly dar to nurse thee,
Feared awst hurt thee, little brat.

Come, aw'll tak thee to thi mother;
Shoo's moor used to sich nor me:
Hands like mine worn't made to bother
Wi sich ginger-breead as thee.

Innocent an' helpless craytur,
All soa pure an' undefiled!
If ther's ought belangs to heaven
Lives o'th' eearth, it is a child.

An its hard to think, 'at some day,
If tha'rt spared to weather throo,
'At tha'll be a man, an' someway
Have to feight life's battles too.

Kings an' Queens, an' lords an' ladies,
Once wor nowt noa moor to see;
An' th' warst wretch 'at hung o'th' gallows,
Once wor born as pure as thee.

An' what tha at last may come to,
God aboon us all can tell;
But aw hope 'at tha'll be lucky,
Even tho aw fail mysel.

Do aw ooin thee? its a pity!
Hush! nah prathi dunnot freat!
Goa an' snoozle to thi titty
Tha'rt too young for trouble yet.

Babby Burds.

Aw wander'd aght one summer's morn,
Across a meadow newly shorn;
Th' sun wor shinin' breet and clear,
An' fragrant scents rose up i'th' air,
An' all wor still.
When, as my steps wor idly rovin,
Aw coom upon a seet soa lovin!
It fill'd mi heart wi' tender feelin,
As daan aw sank beside it, kneelin
O'th' edge o'th' hill.

It wor a little skylark's nest,
An' two young babby burds, undrest,
Wor gapin wi' ther beaks soa wide,
Callin' for mammy to provide
Ther mornin's meal;
An' high aboon ther little hooam,
Th' saand o' daddy's warblin coom,
Ringin' soa sweetly o' mi ear,
Like breathins thro' a purer sphere,
He sang soa weel.

Ther mammy, a few yards away,
Wor hoppin' on a bit o' hay,
Too feard to come, too bold to flee;
An' watchin me wi' troubled e'e,
Shoo seem'd to say:
"Dooant touch my bonny babs, young man!
Ther daddy does the best he can
To cheer yo with his sweetest song;
An' thoase 'll sing as weel, ere long,
Soa let 'em stay."

"Tha needn't think aw'd do 'em harm—
Come shelter 'em and keep 'em warm!
For aw've a little nest misel,
An' two young babs, aw'm praad to tell,
'At's precious too;
An' they've a mammy watching thear,
'At howds them little ens as dear,
An' dearer still, if that can be,
Nor what thease youngens are to thee,
Soa come,—nah do!

"A'a well!—tha'rt shy, tha hops away,—
Tha doesn't trust a word aw say;
Tha thinks aw'm here to rob an' plunder,
An' aw confess aw dunnot wonder—
But tha's noa need;
Aw'll leave yo to yorsels,—gooid bye!
For nah aw see yor daddy's nigh;
He's dropt that strain soa sweet and strong;
He loves yo better nor his song—
He does indeed."

Aw walk'd away, and sooin mi ear
Caught up the saand o' warblin clear;
Thinks aw, they're happy once agean;
Aw'm glad aw didn't prove so mean
To rob that nest;
For they're contented wi ther lot,
Nor envied me mi little cot;
An' in this world, as we goa throo,
It is'nt mich gooid we can do,
An' do awr best.

Then let us do as little wrong
To ony as we pass along,
An' never seek a joy to gain
At's purchased wi another's pain,
It isn't reet.
Aw shall goa hooam wi' leeter heart,
To mend awr Johnny's little cart:
(He allus finds me wark enough
To piecen up his brocken stuff,
For every neet.)

An' Sally—a'a! if yo could see her!
When aw sit daan to get mi teah,
Shoo puts her dolly o' mi knee,
An' maks me sing it "Hush a bee,"
I'th' rocking chear;
Then begs some sugar for it too;
What it can't ait shoo tries to do;
An' turnin up her cunnin e'e,
Shoo rubs th' doll maath, an says, "yo see,
It gets its share.",

Sometimes aw'm rayther cross? aw fear!
Then starts a little tremblin tear,
'At, like a drop o' glitt'rin dew
Swimmin within a wild flaar blue,
Falls fro ther e'e;
But as the sun in April shaars
Revives the little droopin flaars,
A kind word brings ther sweet smile back:
Aw raylee think mi brain ud crack
If they'd ta dee.

Then if aw love my bairns soa weel,
May net a skylark's bosom feel
As mich consarn for th' little things
'At snooze i'th' shelter which her wings
Soa weel affoards?
If fowk wod nobbut bear i' mind
How mich is gained by bein' kind,
Ther's fewer breasts wi' grief ud swell,
An' fewer fowk ud thoughtless mell
Even o'th' burds.

Wayvin Mewsic.

Ther's mewsic i'th' shuttle, i'th' loom, an i'th frame,
Ther's melody mingled i'th' noise,
For th' active ther's praises, for th' idle ther's blame,
If they'd hearken to th' saand of its voice;
An' when flaggin a bit, ha refreshin to feel
As yo pause an luk raand on the throng,
At the clank o' the tappet, the hum o' the wheel,
Sing this plain unmistakable song:—
Nick a ting, nock a ting;
Wages keep pocketing;
Workin for little is better nor laiking;
Twist an' twine, reel an' wind;
Keep a contented mind;
Troubles are oft ov a body's own making.

To see workin fowk wi' a smile o' ther face
As they labor