Then let us do as little wrong To onny as we pa.s.s 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 enuff To piecen up his brocken stuff, For ivvery 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 n.o.bbut bear i' mind How mich is gained by bein kind; Ther's fewer b.r.e.a.s.t.s wi' grief ud swell, An fewer fowk ud thoughtless mell Even o'th' burds.

Queen ov Skircoit Green.

Have yo seen mi bonny Mary, Shoo lives at Skircoit Green; An old fowk say a fairer la.s.s Nor her wor nivver seen.

An th' young ens say shoo's th' sweetest flaar, 'At's bloomin thear to-day; An one an all are scared to deeath, Lest shoo should flee away.

Shoo's health an strength an beauty too, Shoo's grace an style as weel: An what's moor precious far nor all, Her heart is true as steel.

Shoo's full ov tenderness an love, For onny in distress; Whearivver sorrows heaviest prove, Shoo's thear to cheer an bless.

Her fayther's growin old an gray, Her mother's wellny done; But in ther child they find a stay, As life's sands quickly run.

Her smilin face like sunshine comes, To chase away ther cares, An peeace an comfort allus dwells, In that dear hooam ov theirs.

Each Sundy morn shoo's off to schooil, To taich her Bible cla.s.s; An meets a smilin welcome, From ivvery lad an la.s.s; An when they sing some old psalm tune, Her voice rings sweet an clear, It saands as if an angel's tongue, Had joined in worship thear.

Aw sometimes see her safely hooam, An oft aw've tried to tell, That precious saycret ov a hooap 'At in mi heart does dwell.

But when aw've seen the childlike trust, 'At glances throo her e'e, To spaik ov love aw nivver durst;-- Shoo's far too gooid for me.

But to grow worthy ov her love, Is what aw meean to try; An time may my affection prove,-- An win her bye-an-bye.

Then aw shall be the happiest chap 'At Yorksher's ivver seen, An some fine day aw'll bear away, The Queen ov Skircoit Green.

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, ne'er 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 b.u.t.ter 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' bra.s.s 'At's getten all th' pleasure, net it!

When aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd la.s.s, Aw con thoil 'em whativver they get.

But sometimes when aw'm walkin throo th' street, An aw see fowk hawf-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 n.o.bbut 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 monny a honest heart throbs, Tho' it throbs under rags an' i' pains, 'At wod'nt disgrace one o'th' n.o.bs, 'At booasts better blooid in his veins.

See that child thear! 'at's workin away, An sweepin that crossin i'th' street: He's been thear ivver 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 e'en 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 nak'd 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 e'en 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, Throo 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 labor 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 e'en, 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 throo th' cowd.

An monny 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 gooan 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.

My Native Tw.a.n.g.

They tell me aw'm a vulgar chap, An ow't 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 tw.a.n.g.