Wi' the reins raand his hands, an feet planted tight He strained ivvery muscle,--but saw wi' affright 'At the street o' the taan 'at he'd entered wor fill'd, Wi' fowk fleein wildly for fear they'd be kill'd, "Let it goa! Let it goa!" they cried aght as it pa.s.s'd, An Tom felt his strength givin way varry fast; His hands wor nah helpless its mad rush to check, But he duckt daan his heead an lapt th' reins raand his neck.

That jerk caused the horse to loise hold o' the bit, An new hooap an new strength seem'd to come to Tom Grit, An tho' blooid throo his ears an his nooas 'gan to spurt, Th' horse wor browt to a stand, an ther'd nubdy been hurt.

Then chaps went to hold it, an help poor Tom daan, For Tom's wor a favorite face i' that taan; "Tha should ha let goa," they all sed, "an jumpt aght, Thy life's worth a thaasand sich horses baght daat!"

But Tom wiped his face an he sed as he smiled, "I'th' back o' that waggon yo'll find ther's a child, An aw couldn't goa back to its mother alooan, For he's all th' lad we have. Have yo nooan o' yer own?"

Th' Demon o' Debt.

We read ov a man once possessed ov a devil, An pity his sorrowful case; But at this day we fancy we're free from sich evil, An noa mooar have that trubble to face.

But dooan't be deceived, for yo're nooan aght o' danger, Ther's a trap for yor feet ready set, An if to sich sorrow yo'd still be a stranger, Be careful to keep aght o' debt.

For debt is a demon 'at nivver shows pity, An when once yor fast in his grip, Yo may try to luk wise or appear to be witty, But he'll drive yo to wreck wi' his whip.

He tempts yo to start wi' a little at furst, An then deeper an deeper yo get, Till at last yo find aght 'at yor life is accurst, An yo grooan under th' burden o' debt.

Then sweet sleep forsakes yo an tossin wi' care, Yo wearily wear neet away; An yor joys an yor hopes have all turned to despair, An yo tremmel at th' commin o' day.

Yor een are daancast as yo walk along th' street, An yo shun friends yo once gladly met, The burden yo carry yo fancy they see 't;-- That soul-crushin burden o' debt.

Tak an old man's advice, if yo'd keep aght o' trubble, An let 'pay as yo goa,' be yor plan; Tho' yor comforts are fewer, yor joys will be double, An yo'll hold up yor heead like a man, Better far wear a patch on yor elbow or knee, Till yo're able a new suit to get, Nor be dressed like a prince, an whearivver yo be, To be dog'd wi' that Demon o' Debt.

Th' Lad 'at Loves his Mother.

Aw like to see a lot o' lads All frolicsome an free, An hear ther noisy voices, As they run an shaat wi' glee; But if ther's onny sooart o' lad Aw like better nor another, 'At maks mi heart mooast truly glad, It's th' lad 'at loves his Mother.

He may be rayther dull at schooil, Or rayther slow at play; He may be rough an quarrelsome,-- Mischievous in his way; He may be allus in a sc.r.a.pe, An cause noa end o' bother; But ther's summat gooid an honest In the lad 'at loves his Mother.

He may oft do what isn't reight, But conscience will keep p.r.i.c.kin; He dreeads far mooar his mother's grief, Nor what he'd fear a lickin.

Her trubbled face,--her tearful een, Her sighs shoo tries to smother, Are coals ov foir on the heead Ov th' lad 'at loves his Mother.

When years have pa.s.sed, an as a man He faces toil an care; An whear his mother used to sit Is but a empty chair;-- When bi his side sits her he loves, Mooar dear nor onny other, He still will cherish, love an bless, The mem'ry ov his Mother.

A guardian angel throo life's rooad, Her spirit still will be; An in the shadow ov her wings, He'll find security.

A better husband he will prove, A father or a brother; For th' lad 'at maks the n.o.blest man, Is th' lad 'at loves his Mother.

Matilda Jane.

Matilda Jane wor fat an fair, An n.o.bbut just sixteen; Shoo'd ruddy cheeks an reddish hair, An leet blue wor her een.

Shoo weighed abaat two hundred pund, Or may be rayther mooar, Shoo had to turn her sideways When shoo went aght o'th' door.

Shoo fairly dithered as shoo walked, Shoo wor as brooad as long; But allus cheerful when shoo tawk'd, An liked to sing a song; An some o'th' songs shoo used to sing, Aw weel remember yet; Aw thowt it sich a funny thing, Shoo pickt soa strange a set,

"Put me in my little bed,"

Aw knew they couldn't do; For onny bed to put her in, Must be big enuff for two.

"Aw wish aw wor a burd," shoo sang, Aw nivver could tell why,-- For it wod be a waste o' wings Becoss shoo couldn't fly.

"I'd choose to be a Daisy,"

Aw didn't wonder at, For it must ha made her crazy To hug that looad o' fat.

Then "Flitting like a Fairy;"-- To hear it gave me pain, For ther wor novvt soa airy Abaat Matilda Jane.

Last time aw heeard her singin, Shoo sang "You'll remember me,"

An mi arm crept pairtly raand her, As aw held her on mi knee.

Ther's noa fear aw shall forget her, Tho' shoo's ne'er set thear agean, But if shoo will, aw'll let her, For aw like Matilda Jane.

Modest Jack o' Wibsey Slack.

At Wibsey Slack lived modest Jack, No daat yo knew him weel; His cheeks wor red, his een wor black, His limbs wor strong as steel.

His curly hair wor black as jet, His spirits gay an glad, An monny a la.s.s her heart had set On Jack the Wibsey lad.

Sal Simmons kept a little shop, An bacca seld, an spice, An traitle drink, an ginger pop, An other things as nice.

Shoo wor a widow, fat an fair, An allus neat an trim; An Jack seem'd fairly stuck on her; An shoo wor sweet on him.

But other la.s.ses thowt they had A claim on Jack's regard; A widow to win sich a lad, They thowt wor very hard; They called her a designin jade, An one an all cried "Shame!"

But Sally kept on wi her trade, An Jack went just the same.

One neet when commin hooam throo wark, They stopt him on his way, An pluckt up courage, as 't wor dark, To say what they'd to say.

They sed they thowt a widow should Let la.s.ses have a share, An net get ivvery man shoo could; They didn't think it fair,

Jack felt his heart goa pit-a-pat, His face wor burnin red; His heart wor touched,--noa daat o' that, But this wor what he sed.

"Awd like to wed yo ivvery one, An but for th' law aw wod, But weel yo know if th' job wor done, They'd put me into quod."

"As aw can mak but one mi wife,-- Sal Simmons suits me weel; For aw wor ne'er wed i' mi life, An dooan't know ha awst feel.

But if aw wed a widow, an Aw fail mi pairt to play; Shoo'll varry likely understand, An put me into th' way.

Work Lads!

Work if tha can, it's thi duty to labor; If able, show willin,--ther's plenty to do, Ther's battles to feight withaat musket or sabre, But if tha'll have pluck tha'll be safe to pool throo.

Ther's noa use sittin still wishin an sighin, An waitin for Fortun to gie yo a lift; For ther's others i'th' struggle an time keeps on flyin, An him who wod conquer mun show he's some shift.

Ther's n.o.bbut one friend 'at a chap can depend on, If he's made up his mind to succeed in the strife; A chap's but hissen 'at he can mak a friend on, Unless he be blest wi' a sensible wife.

But nivver let wealth, wi' its glamour an glitter, Be th' chief end o' life or yo'll find when too lat, 'At th' fruits ov yor labor will all have turned bitter, An th' pleasures yo hoped for are all stale an flat.

Do gooid to yorsen, win wealth, fame, or power, But i'th' midst ov it all keep this object i' view; 'At the mooar yo possess, let yor self-love sink lower, An pure pleasur will spring from the gooid yo can do.