share.
At length he screw'd his courage up
To leave his native shore;
An' goa where wealth wor worshipped less,
An' men wor valued moor.

He towld his tale;--poor lass!--a tear
Just glistened in her e'e;
Then soft shoo whispered, "please thisen,
But think sometimes o' me:
An' whether tha's gooid luck or ill,
Tha knows aw shall be glad
To see thee safe at hooam agean,
An' welcome back mi lad."

"Awl labor on, an' do mi best;
Tho' lonely aw must feel,
But awst be happy an content
If tha be dooin weel.
But ne'er forget tho' waves may roll,
An' keep us far apart;
Thas left a poor, poor lass behind,
An taen away her heart."

"Dost think 'at aw can e'er forget,
Wheariver aw may rooam,
That bonny face an' lovin heart,
Awve prized soa dear at hoam?
Nay lass, nooan soa, be sure o' this,
'At till next time we meet
Tha'll be mi first thowt ivery morn,
An' last thowt ivery neet."

He went a way an' years flew by,
But tidins seldom came;
Shoo couldn't help, at times, a sigh,
But breathed noa word o' blame;
When one fine day a letter came,
'Twor browt to her at th' mill,
Shoo read it, an' her tremlin bands,
An' beating heart stood still.

Her fellow workers gathered raand
An caught her as shoo fell,
An' as her heead droop'd o' ther arms,
Shoo sighed a sad "farewell.
Poor lass! her love had proved untrue,
He'd play'd a traitor's part,
He'd taen another for his bride,
An' broke a trustin heart."

Her doleful story sooin wor known,
An' monny a tear wor shed;
They took her hooam an' had her laid,
Upon her humble bed;
Shoo'd nawther kith nor kin to come
Her burial fees to pay;
But some poor comrade's undertuk,
To see her put away.

Each gave what little helps they could,
From aat ther scanty stoor;
I' hopes 'at some at roll'd i' wealth
Wod give a trifle moor.
But th' maisters ordered 'em away,
Abaat ther business, sharp!
For shoo'd deed withaat a nooatice,
An' shoo hadn't fell'd her warp.

To a Daisy,

Found blooming March 7th.

A'a awm feeared tha's come too sooin,
Little daisy!
Pray, whativer wor ta doin?
Are ta crazy?
Winter winds are blowin' yet,
Tha'll be starved, mi little pet.

Did a gleam'o' sunshine warm thee,
An deceive thee?
Niver let appearance charm thee,
For believe me,
Smiles tha'll find are oft but snares,
Laid to catch thee unawares.

Still aw think it luks a shame,