For when he'd tried 'em ivvery one He fan aght to his sorrow, 'At fowk wi' bra.s.s have far mooar friends, Nor them 'at wants to borrow.

Wi' empty hands, hooamwards he went, An thear on th' doorstep gleamin, Wor ligg'd a shillin, raand an white;-- He thowt he must be dreamin.

He rub'd his een, an eyed it o'er, A-feeard lest it should vanish, He sed, "some angel's come aw'm sewer, Awr misery to banish."

He pickt it up an lifted th' sneck, Then gently oppen'd th' door, An thear wor Nancy an his bairns, All huddled up o'th' flooar.

"Cheer up!" he sed, "gooid luck's begun, Here,--tak this bra.s.s an spend it; It isn't mine, la.s.s, but aw'm sewer Aw think the Lord has sent it."

A'a! ha her heart jumpt up wi' joy!

Shoo felt leet as a feather; An off shoo went an bowt some stuff, Then they set daan together.

Befooar they'd weel begun, at th' door, They heeard a gentle tappin, "Goa d.i.c.k," shoo sed, "luk sharp,--awm sewer Aw heead sombody rappin."

It wor a poor old beggar man Who ax'd for charity; "Come in!" sed d.i.c.k, "it's borrow'd stuff, But tha shall share wi' me.

Soa set thi jaws a waggin lad,-- It's whooalsum, nivver heed it, An if tha ivver has a chonce, Pay back to them 'at need it."

Wi' th' best they had th' old chap wor plied, An but few words wor spokken, Till th' old chap pushed his plate aside, An silence then wor brokken.

"Aw'm varry old an worn," he sed, This life's soa full o' cares, Yet have aw sometimes entertained An angel unawares.

Ther's One aboon reads ivvery heart, An them 'at he finds true, Altho' He tries 'em sooar,--at last, He minds to pool 'em throo.

Then nivver let yor faith grow dim, Altho yo've hard to feight; Just let yer trust all rest o' Him, An He'll put all things straight, He quietly sydled aght o'th' door, An when they lukt araand, A purse they'd nivver seen befooar Wor liggin up o'th' graand.

d.i.c.k pickt it up--what could it be?

He hardly dar to fancy;-- "Why, its addressed to thee an me!

To d.i.c.k an Natty Nancy!"

They oppened it wi' tremblin hands, An when they saw the treasure; 'Twor hard to say which filled 'em mooast, Astonishment or pleasur.

Ther wor a letter for 'em too, An this wor ha it ended,-- "You once helped me, may this help you,-- From one you once befriended,"

They nivver faand aght who he wor, Altho' they spared noa labor; But for his sake they ne'er refuse To help ther needy naybor.

Fugitive poems.

By John Hartley.

Not written in the Yorkshire Dialect.

Angels of Sunderland. In Memoriam, June 16th, 1893.

On the sixteenth of June, eighteen eighty-three, The children of Sunderland hastened to see, Strange wonders performed by a mystic man, Believing,--as only young children can.

And merry groups chattered, as hand in hand, They careered through the streets of Sunderland.

In holiday dress, and with faces clean, And hearts as light as the lightest, I ween;-- The hall was soon crowded, and wondering eyes, Expressed their delight at each fresh surprise; The sight of their bright, eager faces was grand,-- Such a ma.s.s of fair blossoms of Sunderland.

With wonder and laughter the moments fly, And the wizard at last bade them all good-bye, But not till he promised that each one there, In his magical fortune should have a share;-- Such a wonderful man with such liberal hand, Had never before been in Sunderland.

They danced, and they shouted, and full of glee, They rushed to find out what these presents could be, And the sea of young faces was borne along, Until checked by a barrier, stout and strong; And then the bright current was brought to a stand, And a heart piercing shriek rang through Sunderland.

Then the hearts of the little ones filled with fear, With a sickening sense of a danger near; And with frantic efforts they strove to flee, To the homes where they knew there would safety be; And deaf alike to request or command, Rushed to death,--the sweet flowers of Sunderland.

Swift flew the alarm from street to street, And swiftly responded the hurrying feet.

Fathers and mothers with grief gone wild, Cried as they ran, "Oh, my child! my child!"

Women half fainting, and men all unmanned,-- 'Twas a sad, sad day for Sunderland.

Pen cannot tell what keen anguish wrung, Their bleeding hearts, as the fair and young, Were dragged from the struggling, groaning ma.s.s, Mangled, disfigured and dead, Alas!

And offers of help came from every hand, For they were the children of Sunderland.

Quickly and tenderly, one by one, They were brought to light, till the task was done; The wounded were tended with kindness and skill; Side by side lay the dead,--all so ghastly and still;-- What a terrible tale told that silent band, As the Sabbath sun rose over Sunderland.

In the promise of beauty and strength cut down, Two hundred spirits from earth had flown; Two hundred frail caskets that love could not save, Awaiting their last earthly home in the grave; And a crowd of white angels expectant stand, To welcome the angels from Sunderland.

Woe in the cottage, and woe in the hall;-- Woe in the hearts of the great and the small;-- Woe in the streets,--in the houses of prayer; Woe had its dwelling place everywhere.

Suffering and sorrow on every hand,-- Woe-woe-woe throughout Sunderland.

Who can give comfort in grief such as this?

Man's arm is helpless,--no power is his.

There is but One unto whom we can flee, One who in mercy cries, "Come unto me."

One who in pity outstretches His hand, To the heart-broken mourners of Sunderland.

Sad will the homes be for many a day, Where the light of the household has been s.n.a.t.c.hed away; But through the dull cloud of our sorrow and pain, Shines the hope that at last we may meet them again; For on the bright sh.o.r.es of the 'better land,'

Are gathered the treasures of Sunderland.

Trusting Still.

When shall we meet again?

One more year pa.s.sed; One more of grief and pain;-- Maybe the last.

Are the years sending us Farther apart?

Or love still blending us Heart into heart?

Do love's fond memories Brighten the way, Or faith's fell enemies Darken thy day?

Oh! could the word unkind Be recalled now, Or in the years behind Buried lie low, How would my heart rejoice As round it fell, Sweet cadence of thy voice, Still loved so well.

Sometimes when sad it seems Whisperings say: "Cherish thy baseless dreams, Yet whilst thou may, Try not to pierce the veil, Lest thou should'st see, Only a dark'ning vale Stretching for thee."

But Hope's mist-shrouded sun Once more breaks out, Chasing the shadows dim, Heavy with doubt.

And far ahead I see, Two rays entwine; One faint, as soul of me, One bright like thine.

And in that welcome sign, Clearly I view, Proof of this trust of mine,-- Thou art still true.

Shiver the Goblet.

Shiver the goblet and scatter the wine!

Tempt me no more with the sight!

I care not though brightly as ruby it shine, Like a serpent I know it will bite.

Give me the cl.u.s.tering fruit of the vine,-- Heap up my dish if you will,-- But banish the poison that lurks in the wine, That dulls reason and fetters the will.