If tha'd ha lost, as sewer as here's a clog, Tha'd had to draand, but thart a lucky dog, Recollect.

My Doctrine.

Aw wodn't care to live at all, Unless aw could be jolly!

Let sanctimonious skinflints call All recreation folly.

Aw still believe this world wor made For fowk to have some fun in; An net for everlastin trade, An avarice an cunnin.

Aw dooant believe a chap should be At th' grinnel stooan for ivver; Ther's sewerly sometime for a spree, An better lat nor nivver.

It's weel enuff for fowk to praich An praise up self denial; But them 'at's forradest to praich, Dooant put it oft to trial.

They'd rayther show a thaasand fowk A way, an point 'em to it; Nor act as guides an stop ther tawk, An try thersens to do it.

Aw think this world wor made for me, Net me for th' world's enjoyment; An to mak th' best ov all aw see Will find me full employment.

"My race," they say, "is nearly run, It mightn't last a minnit;"

But if ther's pleasure to be fun, Yo bet yor booits awm in it.

Aw wodn't care to live at all, Weighed daan wi' melancholy; My doctrine is, goa in for all, 'At helps to mak life jolly.

That La.s.s.

Awm n.o.bbut a poor workin man, An mi wage leeavs me little to spare; But aw strive to do th' best 'at aw can, An tho' poor, yet aw nivver despair.

'At aw live bi hard wark is mi booast, Tho' mi clooas may be shabby an meean; But th' one thing awm langin for mooast, Is that grand Yorksher la.s.s 'at aw've seen.

They may call me a fooil or a a.s.s, To tawk abaat wantin a wife; But there's nowt like a true hearted la.s.s, To sweeten a workinman's life.

An love is a feelin as pure In a peasant as 'tis in a queen, An happy aw could be awm sewer, Wi' that grand Yorksher la.s.s 'at aw've seen.

Aw dreeam ov her ivvery neet, An aw think o' nowt else durin th' day; An aw lissen for th' saand ov her feet, But its melted i'th' distance away.

At mi lot aw cant help but repine, When aw think ov her bonny black een, For awm feeard shoo can nivver be mine; That grand Yorksher la.s.s 'at aw've seen.

Mi Old Umberel

What matters if some fowk deride, An point wi' a finger o' scorn?

Th' time wor tha wor lukt on wi' pride, Befooar mooast o'th' scoffers wor born.

But aw'll ne'er turn mi back on a friend, Tho' old-fashioned an grey like thisen; But aw'll try to cling to thi to th' end, Tho' thart n.o.bbut an old umberel.

Whear wod th' young ens 'at laff be to-day, But for th' old ens they turn into fun?

Who wor wearm thersen bent an grey, When their days had hardly begun.

Ther own youth will quickly glide past; If they live they'll ail grow old thersel; An they'll long for a true friend at last, Tho' its n.o.bbut an old umberel.

Tha's grown budgey, an faded, an worn, Yet thi inside is honest an strong; But thi coverin's tattered an torn, An awm feeard 'at tha cannot last long.

But when th' few years 'at's left us have run, An to th' world we have whispered farewells; May they say at my duty wor done, As weel as mi old umberel's

What it Comes to.

Young Alick gate wed, as all gradely chaps do, An tuk Sally for better or war; A daycenter felly ne'er foller'd a ploo,-- Th' best lad ov his mother's bi far.

An shoo wor as nice a young la.s.s as yo'll see In a day's march, aw'll wager mi hat; But yo know unless fowk's dispositions agree, Tho' they're bonny,--noa matter for that.

They'd better bi hawf have a hump o' ther rig, Or be favvor'd as ill as old Flew; If ther temper is sweet, chaps 'll net care a fig, Tho' his wife may have one ee or two.

Young Sally had nivver been used to a farm, An shoo seem'd to know nowt abaat wark; Shoo set wi' her tooas up o'th' fender to warm, Readin novels throo mornin to dark.

Alick saw 'at sich like gooins on wod'nt do, Soa one neet when they'd getten to bed, He tell'd her he thowt shoo'd best buckle too, Or else we'st be ruined, he sed.

Says Sally, "its cappin to hear thi awm sewer, For tha tell'd me befooar we wor wed, Tha'd be happy wi me, an tha wanted nowt mooar If aw nivver stirred aght o' mi bed."

"Tha sed aw wor bonny, an th' leets o' mi een Wor enuff for thi sunshine throo life; An tha tell'd me tha wanted to mak me a queen,-- But it seems 'at tha wanted a wife."

"Aw'm willin to own love's all reight in its way, An aw'm glad aw've discovered soa sooin 'At love withaat labor sooin dwindles away,-- For fowk can't live o' billin an cooin."

"That's my nooation too,--but aw thowt tha should try, What a wife as a laikon could be; Noa daat tha's fan livin o' love rayther dry, For aw'll own aw'd grown sickened o' thee."

Hold up yer Heeads.

Hold up yer heeads, tho' at poor workin men Simple rich ens may laff an may scorn; Maybe they ne'er haddled ther riches thersen, Somdy else lived befooar they wor born.

As n.o.ble a heart may be fun in a man, Who's a poor ragged suit for his best, (An who knows he mun work or else he mun clam,) As yo'll find i' one mich better drest.

Soa here's to all th' workers whearivver they be, I'th' land or i'th' loom or i'th' saddle; An the dule tak all them who wod mak us less free, Or rob us o'th' wages we haddle!

A Quiet Day.

A'a! its grand to have th' place to yorsen!

To get th' wimmen fowk all aght o'th' way!

Mine's all off for a trip up to th' Glen, An aw've th' haase to misen for a day.

If aw'd mi life to spend ovver ageean, Aw'd be bothered wi' nooan o' that mak; What they're gooid for aw nivver could leearn, Except to spooart clooas o' ther back.

Nah, aw'll have a quiet pipe, just for once, Aw'm soa thankful to think 'at they're shut; An its seldom a chap has a chonce;-- Whear the d.i.c.kens has th' matches been put?