Just think ha helpless once tha wor,-- A tiny little tot; But tha wor given th' cosiest nook I' all that little cot.

Thy ivvery want wor tended to, An soothed thy ivvery pain, They didn't spare love, toil or care, An they'd do it o'er ageean.

An all they crave for what they gave, Is just a kindly word;-- A fond "G.o.d bless yo parents,"

Wod be th' sweetest saand they've heard.

Then dooant forget the old fowks, &c.

Tha's entered into business nah,-- Tha'rt dooin pratty weel; Tha's won an tha desarves success,-- Aw know tha'rt true as steel.

Tha'rt growin rich, an lives i' style, Tha's sarvents at thi call; But dooant forget thi mother, lad, To her tha owes it all.

Thi father totters in his walk, His hair is growin grey; He cannot work as once he did, He's ommost had his day.

But th' heart 'at loved thi when a child, Is still as warm an true; His pride is in his lad's success,-- He hopes tha loves him too.

But what they long for mooast ov all, Is just that kindly word, "G.o.d bless yo, my dear parents!"

Wod be th' sweetest saand they've heard.

Then dooant forget the old fowks, &c,

Soa Bonny.

Aw've travell'd o'er land, an aw've travell'd o'er sea, An aw've seen th' grandest la.s.ses 'at ivver can be; But aw've nivver met one 'at could mak mi heart glad, Like her,--for oh! shoo wor bonny mi lad.

Shoo wornt too gooid, for her temper wor hot, An when her tongue started, shoo wag'd it a lot; An it worn't all pleasant, an some on it bad, But oh! shoo wor bonny!--soa bonny mi lad.

Consaited and c.o.c.ky, an full o' what's nowt, An shoo'd say nasty things withaat ivver a thowt; An shood try ivvery way, just to mak me get mad;--- For shoo knew shoo wor bonny,--soa bonny mi lad.

Fowk called me a fooil to keep hingin araand, But whear shoo'd once stept aw could worship the graand; For th' seet ov her face cheer'd mi heart when 'twor sad, For shoo wor soa bonny,--soa bonny mi lad.

But shoo wor like th' rest,--false,--false in her heart; Shoo made me to love her,--an Cupid's sharp dart Wor n.o.bbut her fun,--wi' decait it wor clad;-- But then, shoo wor bonny;--soa bonny mi lad.

Shoo sooin wed another,--noa better nor me, An aw hooap shoo'll be happy, though my life is dree; An aw'll try to submit, though shoo treated me bad, But oh! mi poor heart is nigh brokken mi lad.

Ther may come a time when her pa.s.sion has cooiled, Shoo may think ov a chap shoo unfeelingly fooiled; Shoo may seek me agean;--if shoo does,--well, by gad!

Aw'll welcome her back. Shoo's soa bonny mi lad.

The Linnet.

Little linnet,--stop a minnit,-- Let me have a tawk with thee: Tell me what this life has in it, Maks thee seem so full o' glee?

Why is pleasure i' full measure, Thine throo rooasy morn to neet, Has ta fun some wondrous treasure, Maks thi be for ivver breet?

Sang the linnet,--"wait a minnit, Let me whisper in thine ear; Life has lots o' pleasure in it, Though a shadow's oftimes near.

Ivvery shoolder has its burden, Ivvery heart its weight o' care; But if bravely yo accept it, Duty finds some pleasure thear.

Lazy louts dooant know what rest is,-- Those who labor find rest sweet; Grumling souls ne'er know what best is,-- Blessins wither 'neath ther feet.

Sorrow needs noa invitation,-- Joy is shy an must be sowt; Grief seeks onny sitiwation,-- Willin to accept for nowt.

All pure pleasure is retirin, Allus modest,--shrinkin,--shy,-- Like a violet,--but goa seek it, An yo'll find it by-an-bye.

Birds an blossoms,--shaars an sunshine, Strive to cheer man on his way; An its n.o.bbut them 'at willn't, 'At cant taste some joy each day.

Awm a teeny little songster,-- All mi feathers plainly grave; But aw wish noa breeter plumage, Awm content wi' what aw have.

An mi mate is just as lovin, An he sings as sweet to me,-- An his message nivver varies,-- 'Love me love, as aw love thee.'

An together, o'er awr nestlins, We keep watch, i' hooaps to see, They may sooin share in awr gladness Full ov love,--from envy free.

Grumbler,--cast a look araand thi;-- Is this world or thee to blame?

Joys an blessins all surraand thi,-- Dar to grummel?--fie,--for shame!"

An that linnet, in a minnit, Flitted off, the trees among; An those joys its heart had in it, Ovverflowed i' limpid song.

An it left me sittin, blinkin, As it trill'd its nooats wi glee;-- An truly,--to my way o' thinkin, Th' linnet's far moor sense nor me.

Mary Jane.

One Easter Mundy, for a spree, To Bradforth, Mary Jane an me, Decided we wod tak a jaunt, An have a dinner wi mi hont; For Mary Jane, aw'd have yo know, Had promised me, some time ago, To be mi wife,--an soa aw thowt Aw'd introduce her, as aw owt.

Mi hont wor pleeased to see us booath,-- To mak fowk welcome nivver looath,-- An th' table grooaned wi richest fare, An one an all wor pressed to share, Mi sweetheart made noa moor to do.

Shoo buckled on an sooin gate throe; Mi hont sed, as shoo filled her gla.s.s,-- "Well, G.o.d bless thi belly, la.s.s!"

Mi Mary Jane is quite genteel, Shoo's fair an slim, an dresses weel; Shoo luks soa delicate an fair, Yo'd fancy shoo could live on air.

But thear yo'd find yor judgment missed, For shoo's a mooast uncommon twist; Whear once shoo's called to get a snack, It's seldom at they've axt her back.

To a cookshop we went one neet, An th' stuff at vanished aght o'th' seet, Made th' chap at sarved us gape an grin, But shoo went on an tuckt it in; An when aw axt ha mich we'd had, He sed, "It's worth five shillin, lad."

Aw sighed as aw put daan mi bra.s.s,-- "Well, G.o.d bless thi belly la.s.s!"

But when a la.s.s's een shine bright, Yo ne'er think ov her appet.i.te; Her love wor what aw lang'd to gain, Nor did mi efforts prove in vain, For we wor wed on Leeds Fair Day, An started life on little pay.

But aw've noa reason to regret, Her appet.i.te shoo keeps up yet.

Eight years have pa.s.sed sin shoo wor mine, An nah awr family numbers nine.

A chap when wedded life begins, Seldom expects a brace o' twins; But Mary Jane's browt that for me,-- Shoo's nursin th' last pair on her knee; An as aw th' bowls o' porrige pa.s.s, Aw say, "G.o.d bless thi belly la.s.s!"

We have noa wealth i' gold or lands, But cheerful hearts, an willin hands; Altho soa monny maaths to fill, We live i' hooaps an labor still.

Ther little limbs when stronger grown, Will be a fortun we shall own.

We're in a mooild thro morn to neet, But rest comes to us doubly sweet, An fowk learn patience, yo can bet, When they've to care for sich a set.

But we can honestly declare, Ther isn't one at we can spare.

Ther little tricks cause monny a smile, An help to leeten days o' toil.

An joyfully aw say, "Bith' ma.s.s!

Well, G.o.d bless thi childer, la.s.s."

My La.s.s.

Fairest la.s.s amang the monny, Hair as black as raven, O.

Net another la.s.s as bonny, Lives i'th' dales ov Craven, O.

City la.s.ses may be fairer, May be donned i' silks an laces, But ther's nooan whose charms are rarer, Nooan can show sich bonny faces.

Yorksher minstrel tune thy lyre, Show thou art no craven, O; In thy strains 'at mooast inspire, Sing the praise ov Craven, O.