ax yo' once moor;
Let's noan get disheartened, there's hope for us yet,
We needn't dispair tho' we're poor.
We cannot expect it'll allus be foine;
It's dark for a while, an' then clear;
We'n mirth mixed wi' sadness, an' pleasure wi' pain,
An' shall have as long as we're here.

This world's full o' changes for better an' wur,
An' this is one change among th' ruck;
We'n a toime o' prosperity,--toime o' success,
An' then we'n a reawnd o' bad luck.
We're baskin' i' sunshine, at one toime o'th day,
At other toimes ceawerin' i'th dark;
We're sometoimes as hearty an' busy as owt,
At other toimes ill, an' beawt wark.

Good bless yo'! mi brothers, we're nobbut on th' tramp,
We never stay long at one spot;
An' while we keep knockin' abeawt i' this world,
Disappointments will fall to eawer lot:
So th' best thing we can do, iv we meon to get thro',
Is to wrastle wi' cares as they come;
We shall feel rayther tired,--but let's never heed that,--
We can rest us weel when we get whoam.

Cheer up, then, aw say, an' keep hopin' for th' best,
An' things 'll soon awter, yo'll see;
There'll be oceans o' butties for Tommy an' Fred,
An' th' little un perched on yo're knee.
Bide on a bit longer, tak' heart once ogen,
An' do give o'er lookin' so feaw;
As we'n battled, an' struggled, an' suffered so long,
It's no use o' givin' up neaw.

FRETTIN'.

(From "Phases of Distress--Lancashire Rhymes.")

BY JOSEPH RAMSBOTTOM.

Fro' heawrs to days--a dhreary length--
Fro' days to weeks one idle stons,
An' slowly sinks fro' pride an' strength
To weeny heart an' wakely honds;
An' still one hopes, an' ever tries
To think 'at better days mun come;
Bo' th' sun may set, an' th' sun may rise,--
No sthreak o' leet one finds a-whoam.

Aw want to see thoose days again,
When folk can win whate'er they need;
O God! to think 'at wortchin' men
Should be poor things to pet an' feed!
There's some to th' Bastile han to goo,
To live o'th rates they'n help'd to pay;
An' some get "dow" {3} to help 'em through;
An' some are taen or sent away.

What is there here, 'at one should live,
Or wish to live, weigh'd deawn wi' grief,
Through weary weeks an' months, 'at give
Not one short heawr o' sweet relief?
A sudden plunge, a little blow,
Would end at once mi' care an' pain!
An' why noa do't?--for weel aw know
Aw's lose bo' ills, if nowt aw gain.

An' why noa do't? It ill 'ud tell
O' thoose wur laft beheend, aw fear;
It's wring, at fust, to