's sarvents at her call,
Wod freely change her grand estate
For thine tha thinks soa small:
For riches cannot buy content,
Soa tho' thi joys be few,
Tha's one ther's nowt con stand anent,--
A heart 'at's kind an' true.

Soa when he comes luk breet an' gay,
An' meet him wi' a kiss,
Tha'll find him mooar inclined to stay
Wi treatment sich as this;
But if thi een luk red like that,
He'll see all's wrang at once,
He'll leet his pipe, an' don his hat,
An' bolt if he's a chonce.

Ther's mich Expected.

Life's pathway is full o' deep ruts,
An' we mun tak gooid heed lest we stumble;
Man is made up of "ifs" and of "buts,"
It'seems pairt ov his natur to grumble.

But if we'd anxiously tak
To makkin' things smooth as we're able,
Ther'd be monny a better clooath'd back,
An' monny a better spread table.

It's a sad state o' things when a man
Connot put ony faith in his brother,
An' fancies he'll chait if he can,
An' rejoice ovver th' fall ov another.

An' it's sad when yo see some 'at stand
High in social position an' power,
To know at ther fortuns wor plann'd
An' built, aght o'th' wrecks o' those lower.

It's sad to see luxury rife,
An' fortuns being thowtlessly wasted;
While others are wearin' aat life,
With the furst drops o' pleasure untasted.

Some in carriages rollin' away,
To a ball, or a rout, or a revel;
But their chariots may bear 'em some day
Varry near to the gates ov the devil.

Oh! charity surely is rare,
Or ther'd net be soa monny neglected;
For ther's lots wi enuff an' to spare,
An' from them varry mich is expected.

An' tho' in this world they've ther fill
Of its pleasures, an' wilfully blinded,
Let deeath come--as surely it will--
They'll be then ov ther duties reminded.

An' when called on, they, tremblin' wi' fear,
Say "The hungry an' nak'd we ne'er knew,"
That sentence shall fall on their ear--
"Depart from me; I never knew you."

Then, oh! let us do what we can,
Nor with this world's goods play the miser;
If it's wise to lend money to man,
To lend to the Lord must be wiser.

A Strange Stooary.

Aw know some fowk will call it crime,
To put sich stooaries into ryhme,
But yet, contentedly aw chime
Mi simple ditty:
An if it's all a waste o' time,
The moor's the pity.

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O'er Wibsey Slack aw coom last neet,
Wi' reekin heead and weary feet,
A strange, strang