DEDICATION.

To RICHARD CHERRY, C. E.,

as a small token of the respect in which he is held by The Author.

WAKEFIELD: WILLIAM NICHOLSON AND SONS. LONDON: S. D. EWINS JR. AND CO., 22, PATERNOSTER ROW. MANCHESTER: JOHN HEYWOOD, AND A. HEYWOOD AND SON. [ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL.]

PREFACE.

We offer no apology for presenting this little book to the public, feeling sure from our past experience, that it will be kindly welcomed by a great many lovers of their "native twang." THE PUBLISHERS.

CONTENTS of Second Series.

Th' Better Part. Done Agean. Latter Wit. My Gronfayther's Days. Heart Brocken. To a Daisy, A Bad Sooart. All we Had. Give it 'em Hot. Th' Honest Hard Worker. Niver Heed. Sing On. What aw Want. What it is to be Mother. What is It. Come thi Ways! Advice to Jenny. Ther's mich Expected. A Strange Stooary. Take Heart. Did yo Iver. An Old Man's Christmas Morning. Billy Bumble's Bargain. Moral. Rejected. Duffin Johnie. Lost Love. Th' Traitle Sop. To Let. Fault Finders. Disapointment. Work Away. New Machinery &c. September Month. A Hawporth. Buttermilk &c. It's a comfort. Progress. Try Again. Jealousy. Winter. Persevere. Booith-Taan Election. Election. None think Alike. Seaside.

Th' Better Part.

A poor owd man wi' tott'ring gait, Wi' body bent, and snowy pate, Aw met one day;— An' daan o' th' rooad side grassy banks He sat to rest his weary shanks; An' aw, to wile away my time, O'th' neighbouring hillock did recline, An' bade "gooid day."

Said aw, "Owd friend, pray tell me true, If in your heart yo niver rue The time 'ats past? Does envy niver fill your breast When passin fowk wi' riches blest? An' do yo niver think it wrang At yo should have to trudge alang, Soa poor to th' last?"

"Young man," he said "aw envy nooan; But ther are times aw pity some, Wi' all mi heart; To see what troubled lives they spend, What cares upon their hands depend; Then aw in thoughtfulness declare 'At 'little cattle little care' Is th' better part.

Gold is a burden hard to carry, An' tho' Dame Fortune has been chary O' gifts to me; Yet still aw strive to feel content, An' think what is, for th' best is meant; An' th' mooast ov all aw strive for here, Is still to keep mi conscience clear, From dark spots free.

An' while some tax ther brains to find What they'll be forced to leave behind, When th' time shall come; Aw try bi honest word an' deed, To get what little here aw need, An' live i' hopes at last to say, When breath go as flickerin away, 'Awm gooin hooam.'"

Aw gave his hand a hearty shake, It seem'd as tho' the words he spake Sank i' mi heart: Aw walk'd away a wiser man, Detarmined aw wod try his plan I' hopes at last 'at aw might be As weel assured ov Heaven as he; That's th' better part.

My Gronfayther's Days.

A'a, Jonny! a'a Johnny! aw'm sooary for thee! But come thi ways to me, an' sit o' mi knee, For it's shockin' to hearken to th' words 'at tha says:— Ther wor nooan sich like things i' thi gronofayther's days.

When aw wor a lad, lads wor lads, tha knows, then, But nahdays they owt to be 'shamed o' thersen; For they smook, an' they drink, an' get other bad ways; Things wor different once i' thi gronfayther's days.

Aw remember th' furst day aw went a coortin' a bit, An' walked aght thi granny;—awst niver forget; For we blushed wol us faces wor all in a blaze;— It wor nooa sin to blush i' thi gronfayther's days.

Ther's nooa lasses nah, John, 'at's fit to be wed; They've false teeth i' ther maath, an false hair o' ther heead; They're a make up o' buckram, an' waddin', an' stays, But a lass wor a lass i' thi gronfayther's days.

At that time a tradesman dealt fairly wi' th' poor, But nah a fair dealer can't keep oppen th' door; He's a fooil if he fails, he's a scamp if he pays; Ther wor honest men lived i' thi gronfayther's days.

Ther's chimleys an' factrys i' ivery nook nah, But ther's varry few left 'at con fodder a caah; An' ther's telegraff poles all o'th edge o'th' highways, Whear grew bonny green trees i' thi gronfayther's days.

We're teld to be thankful for blessin's at's sent, An' aw hooap 'at tha'll allus be blessed wi' content; Tha mun make th' best tha con o' this world wol tha stays, But aw wish tha'd been born i' thi gronfayther's days.

To a Daisy,

Found blooming March 7th.

A Bad Sooart.

Aw'd raythur face a redwut brick, Sent flyin' at mi heead; Aw'd raythur track a madman's steps, Whearivei they may leead; Aw'd raythur ventur in a den, An' stail a lion's cub: Aw'd raythur risk the foamin wave In an old leaky tub; Aw'd raythur stand i'th' midst o'th fray, Whear bullets thickest shower; Nor trust a mean, black hearted man, At's th' luck to be i' power.

A redwut brick may miss its mark, A madman change his whim; A lion may forgive a theft; A leaky tub may swim; Bullets may pass yo harmless by, An' leave all safe at last; A thaasand thunders shake the sky, An' spare yo when they've past; Yo' may o'ercome mooast fell disease; Make poverty yo'r friend; But wi' a mean, blackhearted man, Noa mortal can contend.

Ther's malice in his kindest smile, His proffered hand's a snare; He's plannin deepest villany, When seemingly mooast fair; He leads yo' on wi' oily tongue, Swears he's yo're fastest friend. He get's yo' once within his coils, An' crushes yo' ith' end. Old Nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin' aat, An' seeks whom to devour; But he's a saint, compared to some, 'At's th' luk to be i' power.

What is It.

What is it maks a crusty wife Forget to scold, an' leeave off strife? What is it smoothes the rooad throo life? It's sooap.

What is it maks a gaumless muff Grow rich, an' roll i' lots o' stuff, Woll better men can't get enough? It's sooap.

What is it, if it worn't theear, Wod mak some fowk feel varry queer, An' put 'em: i' ther proper sphere? It's sooap.

What is' it maks fowk wade throo th' snow, To goa to th' church, becoss they know 'At th' squire's at hooam an' sure to goa? It's sooap.

What is it gains fowk invitations, Throo them 'at live i' lofty stations? What is it wins mooast situations? It's sooap.

What is it men say they detest, Yet alus like that chap the best 'At gives 'em twice as mich as th' rest? It's sooap.

What is it, when the devil sends His agents raand to work his ends, What is it gains him lots o' friends? It's sooap.

What is it we should mooast despise, An' by its help refuse to rise, Tho' poverty's befoor awr eyes? It's sooap.

What is it, when life's wastin' fast, When all this world's desires are past, Will prove noa use to us at last? It's sooap.

A Strange Stooary.

O'er Wibsey Slack aw coom last neet, Wi' reekin heead and weary feet, A strange, strange chap, aw chonced to meet; He made mi start; But pluckin up, aw did him greet Wi beatin heart.

His dress wor black as black could be, An th' latest fashion aw could see, But yet they hung soa dawderly, Like suits i' shops; Bith heart! yo mud ha putten three Sich legs i'th' slops.

Says aw, "Owd trump, it's rather late For one at's dress'd i' sich a state, Across this Slack to mak ther gate: Is ther some pairty? Or does ta allus dress that rate— Black duds o'th' wairty?"

He twisted raand as if to see What sooart o' covy aw cud be, An' grinned wi sich a maath at me, It threw me sick! "Lor saves!" aw cried, "an' is it thee At's call'd ow'd Nick!"

But when aw luk'd up into th' place, Whear yo'd expect to find a face; A awful craytur met mi gaze, It took mi puff: "Gooid chap," aw sed, "please let me pass, Aw've seen enough!"

Then bendin cloise daan to mi ear, He tell'd me 'at aw'd nowt to fear, An' soa aw stop't a bit to hear What things he'd ax; But as he spake his, teeth rang clear, Like knick-a-nacks.

"A'a, Jack," he sed, "aw'm capt 'wi thee Net knowin sich a chap as me; For oft when tha's been on a spree, Aw've been thear too; But tho' aw've reckon'd safe o' thee, Tha's just edged throo.

Mi name is Deeath—tha needn't start, And put thi hand upon thi heart, For tha ma see 'at aw've noa dart Wi which to strike; Let's sit an' tawk afoor we part, O'th edge o'th dyke."

"Nay, nay, that tale weant do, owd lad, For Bobby Burns tells me tha had A scythe hung o'er thi' shoulder, Gad! Tha worn't dress'd I' fine black clooath; tha wore' a plad Across thi breast!"

"Well, Jack," he said, "thar't capt no daat To find me' wanderin abaght; But th' fact is, lad, 'at aw'm withaat A job to do; Mi scythe aw've had to put up th' spaat, Mi arrows too."

"Yo dunnot mean to tell to me, 'At fowk noa moor will ha' to dee?" "Noa, hark a minit an' tha'll see When th' truth aw tell! Fowk do withaat mi darts an me, Thev kill thersel.

They do it too at sich a rate Wol mi owd system's aght o' date; What we call folly, they call fate; An' all ther pleasur Is ha' to bring ther life's estate To th' shortest measur.

They waste ther time, an' waste ther gains, O' stuff 'at's brew'd throo poisoned grains, Thro' morn to neet they keep ther brains, For ever swimmin, An' if a bit o' sense remains, It's fun i'th wimmen.

Tha'll find noa doctors wi ther craft, Nor yet mysen wi scythe or shaft, E'er made as monny deead or daft, As Gin an' Rum, An' if aw've warn'd fowk, then they've lafft At me, bi gum!

But if they thus goa on to swill, They'll not want Wilfrid Lawson's bill, For give a druffen chap his fill, An sooin off pops he, An teetotal fowk moor surely still, Will dee wi th' dropsy.

It's a queer thing at sich a nation Can't use a bit o' moderation; But one lot rush to ther damnation Through love o'th bottle: Wol others think to win salvation Wi being teetotal."

Wi' booany neive he stroked mi heead, "Tak my advice, young chap," he sed, "Let liquors be, sup ale asteead, An' tha'll be better, An' dunnot treat th' advice tha's heard Like a dead letter."

"Why Deeath," aw sed, "fowk allus say, Yo come to fotch us chaps away! But this seems strange, soa tell me pray, Ha wor't yo coom? Wor it to tell us keep away, Yo hav'nt room?"

"Stop whear tha art, Jack, if tha dar But tha'll find spirits worse bi far Sarved aght i' monny a public bar, At's thowt quite lawful; Nor what tha'll find i'th' places par- Sons call soa awful."

"Gooid bye!" he sed, an' off he shot, Leavin behind him sich a lot O' smook, as blue as it wor hot! It set me stewin! Soa hooam aw cut, an' gate a pot Ov us own brewin. ————

If when yo've read this stooary through, Yo daat if it's exactly true, Yo'll nobbut do as others do, Yo may depend on't. Blow me! aw ommost daat it too, So thear's an end on't

Duffin Johnie.

(A Rifleman's Adventure.)