cheeks made ivvery one laff an feel jolly,
For it seem'd like a meetin ov long parted chums,
That big Christmas pudding,--That rich steamin puddin,--
That scrumptious plum puddin, mi mother had made.

Ther wor father an mother,--awr Hannah an Mary,
Uncle Tom an ont Nancy, an smart cussin Jim;
An Jim's sister Kitty, as sweet as a fairy,--
An Sam wi' his fiddle,--we couldn't spare him.
We'd rooast beef an mutton, a gooise full o' stuffin,
Boil'd turnips an taties, an moor o' sich kind;
An fooamin hooam brewed,--why,--aw think we'd enuff in,
To sail a big ship if we'd been soa inclined.
An then we'd that puddin--That thumpin big puddin--
That rich Christmas puddin, mi mother had made.

Sam sat next to Mary an Jim tuk awr Hannah,
An Kitty ov coorse had to sit next to me,--
An th' stuff wor sooin meltin away in a manner,
'At mi mother declared 't wor a pleasur to see.
They wor nowt could be mended, we sed when it ended,
An all seem'd as happy as happy could be;
An aw've nivver repented, for Kitty consented,
An shoo's still breet an bonny an a gooid wife to me.
An aw think o' that puddin,--That fateful plum puddin,--
That match makkin puddin mi mother had made.

A Bad Sooart.

Aw'd rayther face a redwut brick,
Sent flyin at mi heead;
Aw'd rayther track a madman's steps,
Whearivver they may leead;
Aw'd rayther ventur in a den,
An stail a lion's cub;
Aw'd rayther risk the foamin wave
In an old leaky tub.
Aw'd rayther 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 leeav all safe at last;
A thaasand thunders shake the sky,
An spare yo when they've past.
Yo may o'ercome mooast fell disease;
Mak poverty yo're 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 i'th' end.
Old Nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin aght,
An seeks whom to devour;
But he's a saint, compared to some,
'At's th' luk to be i' power.

Fairly Weel-off.

Ov whooalsum food aw get mi fill,--
Ov drink aw seldom want a gill;
Aw've