An He grew up strong and sturdy,
   An He sooin began His praichin,
An big craads stood raand to listen,
   An they wondered at His taichin.
Then some sed bad things abaat Him,
   Called Him names, laft at an jeered Him;—
Sed He wor a base imposter,
   For they hated, yet they feeard Him.
Some believed in His glad tidins,—
   Saw Him cure men ov ther blindness,—
Saw Him make once-deead fowk livin,
   Saw Him full o' love an kindness.
Wicked men at last waylaid Him,
   Drag'd Him off to jail and tried Him,
Tho noa fault they could find in Him,
   Yet they cursed an crucified Him.
Nubdy knows ha mich He suffered;
   But His work on earth wor ended:—
From the grave whear they had laid Him,
   Into Heaven He ascended.
Love like His may well bewilder,—
   Sinners weel may bow befoor Him;—
Nah He waits for th' little childer,
   Up in Heaven whear saints adore Him.
Think when sittin raand yor hearthstun,
   An the Kursmiss bells are ringing,
Ha He lived an died at yo may
   Join those angels in ther singin.

Words ov Kindness.

'Tis strange 'at fowk will be sich fooils
   To mak life net worth livin',
Fermentin' rows, creatin' mooils,
   Detractin' an' deceivin'.
To fratch an' worry day an' neet,
   Is sewerly wilful blindness,
When weel we know ther's nowt as sweet,
   As a few words spoke i' kindness.

Ther is noa heart withaat its grief,
   The gayest have some sadness;
But oft a kind word brings relief,
   An' sheds a ray ov gladness.
We ought to think of others moor,
   Nor ov ther pains be mindless;
We may bring joy to monny a door
   Wi' a few words spoke i' kindness.

A peevish spaik, a bitin' jest,
   'At may be thowtless spokken,
May be like keen edged dagger prest
   Throo some heart nearly brokken.
Then let love be awr rule o' life,
   This world's cares we shall find less;
For nowt can put an end to strife,
   Like a few words spoke i' kindness.

A Brussen Bubble.

Bet wor a stirrin, strappin lass,
   Shoo lived near Woodus Moor;—
An varry keen shoo wor for brass,
   Tho little wor her stoor.
Shoo'd wed for love—and as luck let,
   It proved a lucky hit;
A finer chap yo've seldom met,
   Or one wi better wit.

His name awm net inclined to tell,
   But he'd been kursend John;
An he wor rayther praad hissel,
   An anxious to get on.
At neet they'd sit an tawk, an plan,
   Some way to mend ther state;
"What one chap's done another can,"
   Sed Bet, "let's get agate."

"This morn wol darnin socks for thee
   This thowt coom i' mi nop,
An do't we will if tha'll agree;—
   Let's start a little shop.
We'll sell all sooarts o' useful things
   'At ivverybody needs;
Like scaarin-stooan, an tape an pins,
   An buttons, sooap, an threeds.

An spice for th' childer,—castor oil,
   An traitle drink, an pies,
An kinlin wood, an maybe coil,
   Fresh yeast an hooks an eyes.
Corn plaisters, Bristol brick, an clay,
   Puttates, rewbub an salt;
An if that can't be made to pay,
   It willn't be my fault."

"Th' idea's a gooid en," John replied,
   "We should ha done 't befoor;
Aw raillee think at if its tried,
   We'st neer luk back noa moor.
But whear's th' stock commin throo, mi lass?
   That's moor nor aw can tell;
Fowk willn't come an spend ther brass,
   Unless yo've stuff to sell."

"Why, wodn't th' maister lend a hand?
   Tha knows he's fond o' me;
A five paand nooat wod do it grand—
   Awd ax if aw wor thee."
An John did ax, an strange to say
   He gat it thear an then;
An Bet wor ne'er i' sich a way—
   Fairly besides hersen.

Soa th' haase wor turned into a shop,
   An praad they wor,—an Bet
Sed to hersen—"It luks tip top,
   Aw'st be a lady yet."
An th' naybors coom throo far an near,
   To buy a thing or two,
What they'd paid tuppence for,—why, here
   Bet made three awpence do.

When John coom home at neet, his wife
   Wor soa uncommon thrang,
At th' furst time in his wedded life,
   His drinkin time coom wrang.
He did his best to seem content,
   Till shuttin up time coom;
"Why, lass, he said, "thar't fairly spent,
   Tha's oppen'd wi a boom."

An ivvery day, to th' end o'th' wick
   Browt customers enuff;
But th' stock wor lukkin varry sick,
   For shoo'd sell'd all her stuff.
But then, shoo'd bowt a new silk gaon,
   An John a silk top hat,
An th' nicest easy chair ith' taan,
   An bits o' this an that.

An th' upshot wor, shoo'd spent all th' brass,
   An shoo'd nowt left to sell;
An what John sed,—aw'll let that pass
   For 'tisn't fit to tell.
Soa th' business brust, but Bet declares,
   'Twor nobbut want o' thowt,
For shoo'd sooin ha made a fortun,
   If th' stock had cost 'em nowt.

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 awst have to tew for thee;
But may be when 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 thi,
Dunnot peawt thi lip like that;
Mun, aw hardly dar to nurse thi,
Feared awst hurt thi, little brat.

Come, aw'll tak thi to thi mother,
Shoo's more 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' earth, it is a child.

An' its hard to think 'at someday,
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 thi? its a pity,
Hush! nah prathi dunnot freat;
Goa an' snoozle to thi titty,
Tha'rt too young for trouble yet.

Th' Traitle Sop.

Once in a little country taan
   A grocer kept a shop,
And sell'd amang his other things,
   Prime traitle-drink and pop;

Teah, coffee, currans, spenish juice,
   Soft soap