If ivver yo meet wi' a saucy maid,-- That's awr Annie.

Shoo's sharp as onny Sheffield blade, Shoo puts all others into th' shade.

At times shoo'll sing or laff or cry, An nivver give a reason why: Sometimes shoo's cheeky, sometimes shy; That's awr Annie.

Roamin throo meadows green an sweet, That's awr Annie; Trippin away wi' fairy feet, Noa fairer flaar yo'll ivver meet; Or in some trees cooil shade shoo caars Deckin her golden curls wi' flaars; Singin like happy burd for haars, That's awr Annie.

Chock full o' mischief, aw'll admit, That's awr Annie;-- But shoo'li grow steadier in a bit, Shoo'll have mooar wisdom, an less wit.

But could aw have mi way i' this, Aw'd keep her ivver as shoo is,-- Th' same innocent an artless miss, That's awr Annie.

Child ov mi old age, dearest, best!

That's awr Annie; Cloise to mi weary bosom prest, Far mooar nor others aw feel blest;-- Jewels an gold are nowt to me, For when shoo's sittin o' mi knee, Ther's nubdy hawf as rich as me, Unless it's Annie.

Peter Prime's Principles.

"Sup up thi gill, owd Peter Prime, Tha'st have a pint wi' me; It's worth a bob at onny time To have a chat wi' thee.

Aw like to see thi snowy hair, An cheeks like apples ripe,-- Come squat thi daan i'th' easy cheer, Draw up, an leet thi pipe.

Tho' eighty years have left ther trace, Tha'rt hale an hearty yet, An still tha wears a smilin face, As when th' furst day we met.

Pray tell me th' saycret if tha can What keeps thi heart soa leet, An leeavs thi still a grand owd man, At we're all praad to meet?"

"Why lad, my saycret's plain to see, An th' system isn't hard; Just live a quiet life same as me, An tha'll win th' same reward.

Be honest i' thi dealins, lad, That keeps a easy mind; Shun all thi conscience says is bad, An nivver be unkind.

If others laff becoss tha sticks To what tha knows is reight, Why, let 'em laff, dooant let their tricks Prevent thee keepin straight.

If blessed wi' health, an strong to work Dooant envy them at's rich; If duty calls thi nivver shirk, Tha'rt happier far nor sich.

Contentment's better wealth nor gold, An labor sweetens life,-- Ther's nowt at maks a chap grow old, Like idleness an strife.

Dooant tawk too mich, but what tha says Be sewer it's allus true; An let thi ways be honest ways, An that'll get thi throo.

If tha's a wife, pray dooant forget Shoo's flesh an blooid like thee; Be kind an lovin, an aw'll bet A helpmate true shoo'll be.

Dooant waste thi bra.s.s i' rants an sprees, Or maybe when tha'rt old,-- Wi' body bent an tott'rin knees, Tha'll be left aght i'th' cold.

Luk at th' breet side o' ivverything An varry sooin tha'll see, Whear providence has placed thi, Is whear tha owt to be.

Dooant live as if this world wor all, For th' time will come someday, When that grim messenger will call, An tha mun goa away.

Tha'll nivver need to quake or fear, If tha carries aght this plan, An them tha's left behind shall hear 'Thear lies an honest man.'"

Cuckoo!

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Just a word i' thi ear,-- Aw hooap we shall net disagree; But aw'm foorced to admit as aw watch thi each year, At tha seems a big humbug to me.

We know at tha brings us glad tidins ov Spring, An for that art ent.i.tled to thanks; But tha maks a poor fist when tha offers to sing, An tha plays some detestable pranks.

Too lazy to build a snug hooam for thisel, Tha lives but a poor vagrant life; An thi mate is noa better aw'm sooary to tell, Shoo's unfit to be onny burd's wife.

Shoo drops her egg into another burd's nest, An shirks what's her duty to do; Noa love for her offspring e'er trubbles the breast, Ov this selfish, hard-hearted Cuckoo.

Some other poor burd mun attend to her young, An work hard to find 'em wi' grubs, An all her reward, is to find befooar long At her foster child treeats her wi' snubs.

Tha lives throo all th' sunshine, but th' furst chilly wind 'At ruffles thi feathers a bit, Yo gather together an all i' one mind Turn yor tails,--fly away, an forget.

Ther's some men just like yo, soa selfish an base, They dooant care what comes or what gooas; If they can just manage to live at ther ease, Ait an drink, an be donn'd i' line clooas,

Cuckoo, thar't a type ov a lot at aw've met,-- Aw'm nooan sooary when th' time comes to Part;-- An i' spite ov all th' poets 'at's lauded thi, yet, Tha'rt a humbug!--That's just what tha art.

Fowk Next Door.

Said Mistress Smith to Mistress Green, Aw'm feeard we'st ha to flit; Twelve year i' this same haase we've been, An should be stoppin yet, I'th' same old spot, we thowt to spend If need be twelve year mooar; But all awr comfort's at an end, Sin th' fowk moved in next door.

Yo know aw've nivver hurt a flea, All th' years at aw've been here; An fowk's affairs are nowt to me,-- Aw nivver interfere.

We've had gooid naybors all this while,-- All honest fowk tho' poor; But aw can't tolerate sich style As they put on next door.

Aw dooant know whear they get ther bra.s.s, It's little wark they do;-- Ther's eight young bairns, an th' owdest la.s.s Is gaddin raand th' day throo.

They dress as if they owned a mint, Throo th' owdest to th' youngest brat, Noa skimpin an noa sign o' stint, But aw've nowt to do wi' that.

Ther's th' maister wears a silk top hat, An sometimes smooks cigars!-- An owd clay pipe or sich as that Is gooid enuff for awrs.

When th' mistress stirs shoo has to ride I' cabs or else i'th' buss; But aw mun walk or caar inside; Ov coorse that's nowt to us.

Aw wonder if they've paid ther rent?

Awr landlord's same as theirs; If we should chonce to owe a cent, He'll put th' b.u.ms in he swears.

An th' butcher wodn't strap us mait, Noa, net if we'd to pine, Aw daat at their accaant's nooan straight, But it's noa affair o' mine.

One can't help havin thowts yo know, When one meets sich a case; An nivver sin we lived i'th' row Did such like things tak place.

Wi' business when it isn't mine, Aw nivver try to mell, An if they want to cut a shine They're like to pleas thersel.

But stuck up fowk aw ne'er could bide,-- An pride will have a fall.

Aw connot match 'em, tho' aw've tried, Aw wish aw could, that's all!

Aw dunnot envy 'em a bit, Aw'm quite content, tho' poor, But one on us will ha to flit, Us or them fowk next door.

Dad's Lad.

Little patt'rin, clatt'rin feet, Runnin raand throo morn to neet; Banishin mi mornin's nap,-- Little bonny, noisy chap,-- But aw can't find fault yo see,-- For he's Dad's lad an he loves me.

He loves his mother withaat daat, Tho' shoo gies him monny a claat; An he says, "Aw'll tell mi Dad,"

Which ov coorse maks mother mad; Then he snoozles on her knee, For shoo loves him 'coss shoo loves me.

He's a bother aw'll admit, But he'll alter in a bit; An when older grown, maybe, He'll a comfort prove to me, An mi latter days mak glad, For aw know he's Daddy's lad.

If he's aght o' sect a minnit, Ther's some mischief, an he's in it, When he's done it then he'll flee; An for shelter comes to me.

What can aw do but shield my lad?

For he's my pet an aw'm his Dad.

After a day's hard toil an care, Sittin in mi rockin chair; Nowt mi wearied spirit charms, Like him nestlin i' mi arms, An noa music is as sweet, As his patt'rin, clatt'rin feet.