ver grudge a helpin hand to him 'at's missed his mark.

We connot allus hit it,--an ther's monny a toilin brain,
Has struggled for a lifetime, but its efforts proved in vain;
An monny a hardy son ov toil has worn his life away,
An all his efforts proved in vain to keep poverty at bay;
Wol others, bi a lucky stroke, have carved ther way to fame,
An ivvery thing they've tackled on has proved a winnin' game;
Let those who've met wi' fav'rin winds to waft-life's little bark,
Just spare a thowt, an gie a lift, to him 'at's missed his mark.

Aw hate to hear a purse-praad chap keep booastin of his gains,--
Sneerin at humble workin fowk who're richer far i' brains!
Aw hate all meean hard graspin slaves, who mak ther gold ther god,--
For if they could grab all ther is, awm pratty sewer they wod.
Aw hate fowk sanctimonious, whose humility is pride,
Who, when they see a chap distressed, pass by on tother side!
Aw hate those drones 'at share earth's hive, but shirk ther share o' wark,
Yet curl ther nooas at some poor soul, who's toiled, yet missed his mark.

Give me that man whose heart can feel for others griefs an woes;--
Who loves his friends an nivver bears a grudge ageean his foes;
Tho' kindly words an cheerin smiles are all he can bestow,--
If he gives that wi' willin heart, he does some gooid below.
An when th' time comes, as come it will, when th' race is at an end,
He'll dee noa poorer for what gooid he's ivver done a friend.
An when they gently put him by,--unconscious, stiff an stark,
His epetaph shall be, 'Here's one 'at didn't miss his mark.'

When Lost.

If at hooam yo have to tew,
Though yor comforts may be few,
An yo think yore lot is hard, and yor prospects bad;
Yo may swear ther's nowt gooas reight,
Wi' yor friends an wi' yor meyt,
But yo'll nivver know ther vally till j'o've lost em, lad.

Though yo've but a humble cot,
An yore share's a seedy lot;
Though yo goa to bed i'th dumps, an get up i'th mornin mad,
Yet yo'll find its mich moor wise,
What yo have to fondly prize,
For yo'll nivver know ther vally till yo've lost em, lad.

Mak a Gooid Start.

Let's mak a gooid start, nivver fear
What grum'lers an growlers may say;
That nivver need cause yo a tear,
For whear ther's a will ther's a way.
If yo've plenty to ait an to drink,
Nivver heed, though yor wark may be rough;
If yo'll nobbut keep hooapful, aw think,
Yo'll find th' way to mend plain enuff.