d an' loved soa weel
Be loved noa more;
For that hard heart, bird music cannot move,
Is far too cold a dwellin'-place for love.

What aw Want.

Gie me a little humble cot,
A bit o' garden graand,
Set in some quiet an' sheltered spot,
Wi' hills an' trees all raand;

An' if besides mi hooam ther flows
A little mumuring rill,
At sings sweet music as it gooas,
Awst like it better still.

Gie me a wife 'at loves me weel,
An' childer two or three,
Wi' health to sweeten ivery meal,
An' hearts brimful o' glee.

Gie me a chonce, wi' honest toil
Mi efforts to engage,
Gie me a maister who can smile
When forkin aght mi wage.

Gie me a friend 'at aw can trust,
'An tell mi secrets to;
One tender-hearted, firm an' just,
Who sticks to what is true.

Gie me a pipe to smook at neet,
A pint o' hooam-brew'd ale,
A faithful dog 'at runs to meet
Me wi a waggin tail.

A cat to purr o'th' fender rims,
To freeten th' mice away;
A cosy bed to rest mi limbs
Throo neet to commin day.

Gie me all this, an' aw shall be
Content, withaat a daat,
But if denied, then let me be
Content to live withaat.

For 'tisn't th' wealth one may possess
Can purchase pleasures true;
For he's th' best chonce o' happiness,
Whose wants are small an' few.

What it is to be Mother.

A'a, dear! what a life has a mother!
At leeast, if they're hamper'd like me,
Thro' mornin' to neet ther's some bother,
An' ther will be, aw guess, wol aw dee.

Ther's mi chap, an misen, an' six childer,
Six o'th' roughest, aw think, under th' sun,
Aw'm sartin sometimes they'd bewilder
Old Joab, wol his patience wor done.

They're i' mischief i' ivery corner,
An' ther tongues they seem niver at rest;
Ther's one shaatin' "Little Jack Horner,"
An' another "The realms o' the blest."

Aw'm sure if a body's to watch 'em,
They mun have een at th' back o' ther yed;
For quiet yo niver can catch 'em
Unless they're asleep an' i' bed.

For ther's somdy comes runnin to tell us
'At one on em's takken wi' fits;
Or ther's two on 'em feightin for th' bellus,
An' rivin' ther clooas all i' bits.

In a mornin' they're all weshed an' tidy'd,
But bi nooin they're as black as mi shoe;
To keep a lot cleean, if yo've tried it,
Yo know 'at ther's summat to do.

When my felly comes hooam to his drinkin',
Aw try to be gradely, an' straight;
For when all's nice an'