as!
An may health, wealth, an sweet content
For ivver dwell amang
True, honest-hearted, Yorkshire fowk,
'At tawk mi native twang.

Sing On.

Sing on, tha bonny burd, sing on, sing on;
Aw connot sing;
A claad hings ovver me, do what aw con
Fresh troubles spring.
Aw wish aw could, like thee, fly far away,
Aw'd leeav mi cares an be a burd to-day.

Mi heart wor once as full o' joy as thine,
But nah it's sad;
Aw thowt all th' happiness i'th' world wor mine,
Sich faith aw had;--
But he who promised aw should be his wife
Has robb'd me o' mi ivvery joy i' life.

Sing on! tha cannot cheer me wi' thi song;
Yet, when aw hear
Thi warblin' voice, 'at rings soa sweet an strong,
Aw feel a tear
Roll daan mi cheek, 'at gives mi heart relief,
A gleam o' comfort, but it's varry brief.

This little darlin, cuddled to mi breast,
It little knows,
When snoozlin' soa quietly at rest,
'At all mi woes
Are smothered thear, an mi poor heart ud braik
But just aw live for mi wee laddie's sake.

Sing on; an if tha e'er should chonce to see
That faithless swain,
Whose falsehood has caused all mi misery,
Strike up thy strain,
An if his heart yet answers to thy trill
Fly back to me, an we will love him still.

But if he heeds thee not, then shall aw feel
All hope is o'er,
An he that aw believed 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.

Shoo's thi Sister.
(Written on seeing a wealthy Townsman rudely push
a poor little girl off the pavement.)

Gently, gently, shoo's thi sister,
Tho' her clooas are nowt but rags;
On her feet ther's monny a blister:
See ha painfully shoo drags
Her tired limbs to some quiet corner:
Shoo's thi sister--dunnot scorn her.

Daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin,
Shoo's been shov'd aside befoor;
Used to scoffs, an sneers, an shunnin--
Shoo expects it, 'coss shoo's poor;
Schooil'd for years her grief to smother,
Still shoo's human--tha'rt her brother.

Tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin,
A kid glove o' awther hand,
Dunnot touch her roughly, loathin--
Shoo's thi sister, understand:
Th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters,
Poor lost pilgrim!--but what matters?

Luk ha sharp her elbow's growin,
An ha pale her little face;
An her hair neglected, showin
Her's has been a sorry case;
O, mi heart felt sad at th' se