ashamed o' him;
Aw love mi mother tho' shoo's deeaf,
An tho' her een are dim;
Aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walk
Its crucken'd streets amang;
For thear it is aw hear fooak tawk
Mi own, mi native twang.

Aw like to hear hard-workin' fowk
Say boldly what they meean;
For tho' ther hands are smeared wi' muck,
May be ther hearts are cleean,
An' them 'at country fowk despise,
Aw say, "Why, let' em hang;"
They'll niver rob mi sympathies
Throo thee, mi native twang,

Aw like to see grand ladies,
When they're donn'd i' silks soa fine;
Aw like to see ther dazzlin' e'en
Throo th' carriage winders shine:
Mi mother wor a woman,
An' tho' it may be wrang,
Aw love 'em all, but mooastly them
'At tawk mi native twang.

Aw wish gooid luck to ivery one;
Gooid luck to them 'ats brass;
Gooid luck an' better times to come
To them 'ats poor—alas!
An' may health, wealth, an' sweet content
For iver dwell amang
True, honest-hearted, Yorkshire fowk,
At tawk mi native twang.

Shoo's thi Sister.

(Written on seeing a wealthy townsman rudely push a poor little girl off the pavement.)

Gently, gently, shoo's thi sister,
Tho' her clooas are nowt but rags;
On her feet ther's monny a blister:
See ha painfully shoo drags
Her tired limbs to some quiet corner:
Shoo's thi sister—dunnot scorn her.

Daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin,
Shoo's been shov'd aside befoor;
Used to scoffs, an' sneers, an'shunnin—
Shoo expects it, coss shoo's poor;
Schooil'd for years her grief to smother,
Still shoos human—tha'rt her brother.

Tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin,
A kid glove o' awther hand,
Dunnot touch her roughly, loathin—
Shoo's thi sister, understand:
Th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters,
Poor lost pilgrim!—but what matters?

Lulk ha sharp her elbow's growin,
An' ha pale her little face,
An' her hair neglected, showin
Her's has been a sorry case;
O, mi heart felt sad at th' seet,
When tha shov'd her into th' street

Ther wor once a "Man," mich greater
Nor thisen wi' all thi brass,
Him, awr blessed Mediator,—
Wod He scorn that little lass?
Noa, He called 'em, an' He blessed 'em,
An' His hands divine caress'd 'em.

Goa thi ways I an' if tha bears net
Some regret for what tha's done,
If tha con pass on, an' cares net
For that sufferin' little one;
Then ha'iver poor shoo be,
Yet shoos rich compared wi' thee.

Oh! 'at this breet gold should blind us,
To awr duties here below!
For we're forced to leave behind us
All awr pomp, an' all awr show:
Why then should we slight another?
Shoo's thi sister, unkind brother.

Persevere.

What tho' th' claads aboon luk dark,
Th' sun's just waitin to peep throo,
Let us buckle to awr wark,
For ther's lots o' jobs to do:
Tho' all th' world luks dark an' drear,
Let's ha' faith, an' persevere.

He's a fooil 'at sits an' mumps
'Coss some troubles hem him raand!
Man mud allus be i'th dumps,
If he sulk'd coss fortun fraand;
Th' time 'll come for th' sky to clear:—
Let's ha' faith, an' persevere.

If we think awr lot is hard,
Niver let us mak a fuss;
Lukkin raand, at ivery yard,
We'st find others war nor us;
We have still noa cause to fear!
Let's ha' faith, an' persevere.

A faint heart, aw've heeard 'em say,
Niver won a lady fair:
Have a will! yo'll find a way!
Honest men ne'er need despair.
Better days are drawin' near:—
Then ha' faith, an' persevere.

Workin men,—nah we've a voice,
An' con help to mak new laws;
Let us iver show awr choice
Lains to strengthen virtue's cause,
Wrangs to reighten,—griefs to cheer;
This awr motto—'persevere.'

Let us show to foreign empires
Loyalty's noa empty booast;
We can scorn the thirsty vampires
If they dar molest awr cooast:
To awr Queen an' country dear
Still we'll cling an' persevere.

But as on throo life we hurry,
By whativer path we rooam,
Let us ne'er forget i'th' worry,
True reform begins at hooam:
Then, to prove yorsens sincere,
Start at once; an' persevere.

Hard wark, happen yo may find it,
Some dear folly to forsake,
Be detarmined ne'er to mind it!
Think, yor honor's nah at stake.
Th' gooid time's drawin varry near!
Then ha' faith, an' persevere.

To a Roadside Flower.

Tha bonny little pooasy! aw'm inclined
To tak thee wi' me:
But yet aw think if tha could spaik thi mind,
Tha'd ne'er forgie me;
For I' mi jacket button-hoil tha'd quickly dee,
An' life is short enough, boath for mi-sen an' thee.

Here, if aw leeave thee bi th' rooadside to flourish,
Whear scoors may pass thee,
Some heart 'at has few other joys to cherish
May stop an' bless thee:
Then bloom, mi little pooasy! Tha'rt a beauty,
Sent here to bless: Smile on—tha does thi duty.

Aw wodn't rob another of a joy
Sich as tha's gien me;
For aw felt varry sad, mi little doy
Until aw'd seen thee.
An' may each passin', careworn, lowly brother,
Feel cheered like me, an' leave thee for another.

Prose. Hartley's Cream of Wit and Humour.

The New Year.

What a charm ther is abaat owt new; whether it's a new year or a new waist-coit. Aw sometimes try to fancy what sooart ov a world ther'd be if ther wor nowt new.

Solomon sed ther wor nowt new under th' sun; an' he owt to know if onybody did. Maybe he wor reight if we luk at it i' some ways, but aw think it's possible to see it in another leet. If ther wor nowt new, ther'd be nowt to hooap for—nowt to live for but to dee; an' we should lang for that time to come just for th' sake ov a change. Ha anxiously a little child looks forrard to th' time when he's to have a new toy, an' ha he prizes it at furst when he's getten it: but in a while he throws it o' one side an' cries fur summat new. Ha he langs to be as big as his brother, soa's he can have a new bat an' ball; an' his brother langs for th' time when he can leeave schooil an' goa work for his livin'; an' varry likely his fayther's langin' for th' time when he can live withaat workin'—all on 'em langin for summat new. Langill' for things new doesn't prevent us lovin' things at's owd. Who isn't praad ov ther owd fayther, as he sits i' tharm-cheer an' tells long tales abaat what he can remember bein' new? An' who doesn't feel a soothin' kind ov a feelin' come ovver him when his mother's kindly warnin' falls on his ear, as shoo tells him "what-iver he