Repentant.
Sunset.
Poetry and Prose.
Years Ago.
Somebody's.
Claude.
All on a Christmas Morning.
Once Upon a Time.
Nearing Home.
Those Tiny Fingers.
Lilly-White Hand.
Shut Out.
Charming May.
Who Cares?

Mi Darling Muse.

Mi darlin' Muse, aw coax and pet her,
To pleeas yo, for aw like nowt better;
An' if aw find aw connot get her
         To lend her aid,
Into foorced measure then aw set her,
         The stupid jade!

An' if mi lines dooant run as spreetly,
Nor beam wi gems o' wit soa breetly,
Place all the blame,—yo'll place it reightly,
         Upon her back;
To win her smile aw follow neetly,
         Along her track.

Maybe shoo thinks to stop mi folly,
An let me taste o' melancholy;
But just to spite her awl be jolly,
         An say mi say;
Awl fire away another volley
         Tho' shoo says "Nay."

We've had some happy times together,
For monny years we've stretched our tether,
An as aw dunnot care a feather
         For fowk 'at grummel,
We'll have another try. Aye! whether
         We stand or tummel.

Sometimes th' reward for all us trubble,
Has been a crop o' scrunty stubble,
But th' harvest someday may be double,
         At least we'll trust it;
An them 'at say it's but a bubble,
         We'll leeav to brust it.

To a Daisy, Found blooming March 7th.

A'a awm feeared tha's come too sooin,
         Little daisy!
Pray, whativer wor ta doin?
         Are ta crazy?
Winter winds are blowin' yet,—
Tha'll be starved, mi little pet.

Did a gleam o' sunshine warm thee,
         An' deceive thee?
Niver let appearance charm thee,
         For believe me,
Smiles tha'll find are oft but snares,
Laid to catch thee unawares.

Still aw think it luks a shame,
         To tawk sich stuff;
Aw've lost faith, an' tha'll do th' same,
         Hi, sooin enuff.
If tha'rt happy as tha art
Trustin' must be th' wisest part.

Come, aw'll pile some bits o' stooan,
         Raand thi dwellin';
They may screen thee when aw've gooanm,
         Ther's no tellin';
An' when gentle spring draws near
Aw'll release thee, niver fear.

An' if then thi pretty face,
         Greets me smilin';
Aw may come an' sit bith' place,
         Time beguilin';
Glad to think aw'd paar to be,
Of some use, if but to thee.

Mi Bonny Yorksher Lass.

Aw've travelled East, West, North, an South,
   An led a rooamin' life;
Aw've met wi things ov stirlin' worth,
   Aw've shared wi joy an strife;
Aw've kept a gooid stiff upper lip,
   Whativver's come to pass:
But th' captain of mi Fortun's ship,
   Has been mi Yorksher Lass.

Storm-tossed, sails rent, an reckonin' lost,
   A toy for wind an wave;
Mid blindin' fog an snow an frost,
   Aw've thowt noa power could save;
But ivver in the darkest day,
   Wi muscles strong as brass,
To some safe port shoo's led the way,—
   Mi honest Yorksher Lass.

Shoo's fair,—all Yorksher lasses are,—
   Shoo's bonny as the rest,
Her brow ne'er shows a line o' care,
   Shoo thinks what is, is best.
Shoo's lovin', true, an full o' pluck,
   An it seems as clear as glass,
'At th' lad is sewer to meet gooid luck
   'At weds a Yorksher Lass.

Ther's oriental beauties, an'
   Grand fowk ov ivvery grade,
But when it comes to honest worth,
    Shoo puts 'em all ith' shade,
For wi her charms an virtues,
   Shoo stands at top o'th' class;
Ther's nooan soa rare as can compare,
   Wi a bonny Yorksher Lass,

Then here's to th' Yorksher lasses!
   Whearivver they may be;
Ther worth ther's nooan surpasses,
    An ther's nooan as brave an free!
If awd to live life o'er ageean,
    Awd think misen an ass,
If aw didn't tak for company,
    A bonny Yorksher lass.

Give it 'em Hot.

Give it 'em hot, an be hanged to ther feelins!
   Souls may be lost wol yor choosin' yor words!
Out wi' them doctrines 'at taich o' fair dealins!
   Daan wi' a vice tho' it may be a lord's!
What does it matter if truth be unpleasant?
   Are we to lie a man's pride to exalt!
Why should a prince be excused, when a peasant
   Is bullied an' blamed for a mich smaller fault?

O, ther's too mich o' that sneakin and bendin;
   An honest man still should be fearless and bold;
But at this day fowk seem to be feeared ov offendin,
   An' they'll bow to a cauf if it's nobbut o' gold.
Give me a crust tho' it's dry, an' a hard 'en,
   If aw know it's my own aw can ait it wi' glee;
Aw'd rayther bith hauf work all th' day for a farden,
   Nor haddle a fortun wi' bendin' mi knee.

Let ivery man by his merit be tested,
   Net by his pocket or th' clooas on his back;
Let hypocrites all o' ther clooaks be divested,
   An' what they're entitled to, that let em tak.
Give it 'em hot! but remember when praichin,
   All yo 'at profess others failins to tell,
'At yo'll do far moor gooid wi' yor tawkin an' taichin,
   If yo set an example, an' improve yorsel.

A Tale for th' Childer, on Christmas Eve.

Little childer,—little childer;
   Harken to an old man's ditty;
Tho yo live ith' country village,—
   Tho yo live ith' busy city.
Aw've a little tale to tell yo,—
   One 'at ne'er grows stale wi' tellin,—
It's abaat One who to save yo,
   Here amang men made His dwellin.
Riches moor nor yo can fancy,—
   Moor nor all this world has in it,—
He gave up becoss He loved yo,
   An He's lovin yo this minnit.
All His power, pomp and glory,
   Which to think on must bewilder,—
All He left,—an what for think yo?
   Just for love ov little childer.
In a common, lowly stable
   He wor laid, an th' stars wor twinklin,
As if angel's 'een wor peepin
   On His face 'at th' dew wor sprinklin.
An one star, like a big lantern,
   Shepherds who ther flocks wor keepin,
Saw, an foller'd till it rested
   Just aboon whear He wor sleepin.
Then strange music an sweet voices
   Seem'd to sing reight aght o' Heaven,
"Unto us a child is born!
   Unto us a son is given!"
Then coom wise men thro strange nations,—
   Young men an men old an hoary,—
An they all knelt daan befoor Him,
   An araand Him shone a glory.
Then a King thowt he wod kill Him,
   Tho he reckoned net to mind Him,
But they went to a strange country,
   Whear this bad King couldn't find Him.