does aw'm net baan to throw up,
Though awd mich rayther get on withaat;
But who wodn't risk a blow up,
For a paand 'at th' wife knows nowt abaat.

Aw hid it i' th' coil hoil last neet,
For fear it dropt aat o' mi fob,
Coss aw knew, if shoo happened to see 't,
'At mi frolic wod prove a done job.
But aw'll gladden mi e'en wi' its face,
To mak sure at its safe in its nick;--
But aw'm blest if ther's owt left i' th' place!
Why, its hook'd it as sure as aw'm wick.
Whear its gooan to's a puzzle to me,
An' who's taen it aw connot mak aat,
For it connot be th' wife, coss you see
It's a paand 'at shoo knew nowt abaat.

But thear shoo is, peepin' off th' side,
An' aw see 'at shoo's all on a grin;
To chait her aw've monny a time tried,
But I think it's nah time to give in,
A chap may be deep as a well,
But a woman's his maister when done;
He may chuckle and flatter hissel,
But he'll wakken to find at shoo's won.
It's a rayther unpleasant affair,
Yet it's better it's happened noa daat;
Aw'st be fain to come in for a share
O' that paand at th' wife knows all abaat.

What it is to be a 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' cleean, to mi thinkin',
He enjoys better what ther's to ait.

If aw tell him aw'm varry near finished
Wi allus been kept in a fuss,
He says, as he looks up astonished,
"Why, aw nive