lasp thi hand,--
Noa moor enjoy thy social chat,--
Aw send thi from this distant land,
True friendship's greetin,--This is that.
May ivvery comfort earth can give,
Be thine henceforward to the end,
An tho' the sea divides, believe
Ther's one who's proud to call thee friend.

Lads an Lasses.

Lads an lasses lend yor ears
Unto an old man's rhyme,
Dooant hurry by an say wi' sneers,
It's all a waste o' time.
Some little wisdom yo may gain,
Some trewth yo'll ne'er forget:
Soa blame me net for spaikin plain,
Yo'll find it's better net.

For yo, life's journey may be long,
Or it may end to-day;
Deeath gethers in the young an strong,
Along wi' th' old an gray.
Then nivver do an unkind thing,
Which yo will sure regret,
Nor utter words 'at leeav a sting,--
Yo'll find it's better net.

If yo've a duty to get throo,
Goa at it with a will,
Dooant shirk it 'coss it's hard to do,
That mak's it harder still.
Dooant think to-morn is time enuff
For what to-day is set,
Nor trust to others for ther help,
Yo'll find it's better net.

If little wealth falls to yor share,
Try nivver to repine;
But struggle on wi' thrift an' care,--
Some day the sun will shine.
It's better to be livin poor,
Than running into debt,
An bavin duns coom to yor door;--
Yo'll find it's better net.

When tempted bi some jolly friend,
To join him in a spree,
Remember sich things sometimes end
I' pain an misery.
Be firm an let temptations pass
As if they'd ne'er been met,
An nivver drain the sparklin glass;--
Yo'll find it's better net.

Mak trewth an honesty yor guide,
Tho' some may laff an rail,
Fear net, whativver ills betide,
At last yo must prevail.
Contented wi' yor portion be
Nor let yor heart be set,
On things below 'at fade an dee,--
Yo'll find it's better net.

A New Year's Gift.

A little lad,--bare wor his feet,
His 'een wor swell'd an red,
Wor sleepin, one wild New Year's neet,--
A cold doorstep his bed.
His little curls wor drippin weet,
His clooas wor thin an old,
His face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,--
His limbs wor numb wi' cold.

Th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street,
An snowflakes whirled abaat,--
It wor a sorry sooart o' neet,
For poor souls to be aght.
'Twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin,
Could shine throo sich a storm;--
Unless some succour turns up sooin,
God help that fre