track—
We'll conquer, niver fear!

An may God shield thee wi' his wing,
Along life's stormy way,
An' keep thi heart as free throo sin,
As what it is to-day.

Th' Little Black Hand.

Ther's a spark just o'th tip o' mi pen,
An' it may be poetical fire;
An' suppoase 'at it is'nt—what then?
Wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire?

Aw'm detarmined to scribble away—
Soa's them 'at's a fancy con read;
An' tho aw turn neet into day,
If aw'm suitin an odd en, neer heed!

Aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life;
But then ther's abundance o' care,
An' them 'at's contented wi' strife
May allus mak sure o' ther share.

But aw'll laff woll mi galluses braik,
Tho mi bed's net as soft as spun silk;
An' if butter be aght o' mi raik,
Aw'll ma' th' best ov a drop o' churn milk.

It's nooan them 'at's getten all th' brass
'At's getten all th' pleasure, net it!
When aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd lass,
Aw con thoil 'em whativer they get.

But sometimes when aw'm walkin throo th' street,
An' aw see fowk hauf-clam'd, an' i' rags,
Wi noa bed to lig daan on at neet
But i'th' warkus, or th' cold-lukkin flags;

Then aw think, if rich fowk nobbut' knew
What ther brothers i' poverty feel,
They'd a trifle moor charity show,
An' help 'em sometimes to a meal.

But we're all far too fond of ussen,
To bother wi' things aght o'th' seet;
An' we leeav to ther fate sich as them
'At's noa bed nor noa supper' at neet.

But ther's mony a honest heart throbs,
Tho' it throbs under rags an' i' pains,
'At wod'nt disgrace one o'th' nobs,
'At booasts better blooid in his veins.

See that child thear! 'at's working away,
An' sweepin that crossin i'th' street:
He's been thear iver sin it coom day,
An' yo'll find him thear far into th' neet.

See what hundreds goa thowtlessly by,
An' ne'er think o' that child wi' his broom!
What care they tho' he smothered a sigh,
Or wiped off a tear as they coom.

But luk! thear's a man wi' a heart!
He's gien th' poor child summat at last:
Ha his een seem to twinkle an' start,
As he watches th' kind gentleman past!

An' thear in his little black hand
He sees a gold sovereign shine!
He thinks he ne'er saw owt soa grand,
An' he says, "Sure it connot be mine!"

An' all th' lads cluther raand him i' glee,
An' tell him to cut aght o'th seet;
But he clutches it fast,—an' nah see
Ha he's threedin his way along th' street,

Till he comes to that varry same man,
An' he touches him gently o'th' back,
An' he tells him as weel as he can,
'At he fancies he's made a mistak.

An' th' chap luks at that poor honest lad,
With his little naked feet, as he stands,
An' his heart oppens wide—he's soa glad
Woll he taks one o'th little black hands,

An' he begs him to tell him his name:
But th' child glances timidly raand—
Poor craytur! he connot forshame
To lift up his een off o'th graand.

But at last he finds courage to spaik,
An' he tells him they call him poor Joa;
'At his mother is sickly an' waik;
An' his father went deead long ago;

An' he's th' only one able to work
Aght o' four; an' he does what he can,
Thro' early at morn till it's dark:
An' he hopes 'at he'll sooin be a man.

An' he tells him his mother's last word,
As he starts for his labour for th' day,
Is to put 'all his trust in the Lord,
An' He'll net send him empty away.—

See that man! nah he's wipin his een,
An' he gives him that bright piece o' gowd;
An' th' lad sees i' that image o'th Queen
What 'll keep his poor mother thro' th' cowd.

An' mony a time too, after then,
Did that gentleman tak up his stand
At that crossing an' watch for hissen
The work ov that little black hand.

An' when-years had gone by, he expressed
'At i'th' spite ov all th' taichin he'd had,
An' all th' lessons he'd leearn'd, that wor th' best
'At wor towt by that poor little lad.

Tho' the proud an' the wealthy may prate,
An' booast o' ther riches and land,
Some o'th' laadest ul sink second-rate
To that lad with his little black hand.

Lilly's Gooan.

"Well, Robert! what's th' matter! nah mun,
Aw see 'at ther's summat nooan sweet;
Thi een luk as red as a sun—
Aw saw that across th' width of a street;
Aw hope 'at yor Lily's noa war—
Surelee—th' little thing is'nt deead?
Tha wod roor, aw think, if tha dar—
What means ta bi shakin thi heead?
Well, aw see bi thi sorrowful e'e
At shoo's gooan, an' aw'm soory, but yet,
When youngens like her hap ta dee,
They miss troubles as some live to hit.
Tha mun try an' put up wi' thi loss,
Tha's been praad o' that child, aw mun say,
But give over freatin, becoss
It's for th' best if shoo's been taen away."
"A'a! Daniel, it's easy for thee
To talk soa, becoss th' loss is'nt thine;
But its ommost deeath-blow to me,
Shoo wor prized moor nor owt else 'at's mine;
An' when aw bethink me shoo's gooan,
Mi feelins noa mortal can tell;
Mi heart sinks wi' th' weight ov a stooan,
An' aw'm capped 'at aw'm livin mysel.
Aw shall think on it wor aw to live
To be th' age o' Methusla or moor;
Tho' shoo said 'at aw had'nt to grieve,
We should booath meet agean, shoo wor sure:
An' when shoo'd been dreamin one day,
Shoo said shoo could hear th' angels call;
But shoo could'nt for th' life goa away
Till they call'd for her daddy an' all.
An' as sooin as aw coom thro' my wark,
Shoo'd ha' me to sit bi her bed;
An' thear aw've watched haars i'th' dark,
An' listened to all 'at shoo's said;
Shoo's repeated all th' pieces shoo's learnt,
When shoo's been ov a Sundy to th' schooil,
An ax'd me what dift'rent things meant,
Woll aw felt aw wor nobbut a fooill
An' when aw've been gloomy an' sad,
Shoo's smiled an' taen hold o' mi hand,
An whispered, 'yo munnot freat, dad;
Aw'm gooin to a happier land;
An' aw'll tell Jesus when aw get thear,
'At aw've left yo here waitin his call;
An' He'll find yo a place, niver fear,
For ther's room up i' heaven for all.
An' this mornin, when watchin th' sun rise,
Shoo said, 'daddy, come nearer to me,
Thers a mist comin ovver mi eyes,
An' aw find at aw hardly can see.—
Gooid bye!—kiss yor Lily agean,—
Let me pillow mi heead o' yor breast!
Aw feel now aw'm freed thro' mi pain;
Then Lily shoo went to her rest."

My Native Twang.

They tell me aw'm a vulgar chap,
An owt to goa to th' schooil
To leearn to talk like other fowk,
An' net be sich a fooil;
But aw've a noashun, do yo see,
Although it may be wrang,
The sweetest music is to me,
Mi own, mi native twang.

An' when away throo all mi friends,
I' other taans aw rooam,
Aw find ther's nowt con mak amends
For what aw've left at hooam;
But as aw hurry throo ther streets
Noa matter tho aw'm thrang,
Ha welcome if mi ear but greets
Mi own, mi native twang.

Why some despise it, aw can't tell,
It's plain to understand;
An' sure aw am it saands as weel,
Tho happen net soa grand.
Tell fowk they're courtin, they're enraged,
They call that vulgar slang;
But if aw tell 'em they're engaged,
That's net mi native twang.

Mi father, tho' he may be poor,
Aw'm net