ont sed, as shoo filled her glass,--
"Well, God bless thi belly, lass!"

Mi Mary Jane is quite genteel,
Shoo's fair an slim, an dresses weel;
Shoo luks soa delicate an fair,
Yo'd fancy shoo could live on air.
But thear yo'd find yor judgment missed,
For shoo's a mooast uncommon twist;
Whear once shoo's called to get a snack,
It's seldom at they've axt her back.
To a cookshop we went one neet,
An th' stuff at vanished aght o'th' seet,
Made th' chap at sarved us gape an grin,
But shoo went on an tuckt it in;
An when aw axt ha mich we'd had,
He sed, "It's worth five shillin, lad."
Aw sighed as aw put daan mi brass,--
"Well, God bless thi belly lass!"

But when a lass's een shine bright,
Yo ne'er think ov her appetite;
Her love wor what aw lang'd to gain,
Nor did mi efforts prove in vain,
For we wor wed on Leeds Fair Day,
An started life on little pay.
But aw've noa reason to regret,
Her appetite shoo keeps up yet.
Eight years have passed sin shoo wor mine,
An nah awr family numbers nine.
A chap when wedded life begins,
Seldom expects a brace o' twins;
But Mary Jane's browt that for me,--
Shoo's nursin th' last pair on her knee;
An as aw th' bowls o' porrige pass,
Aw say, "God bless thi belly lass!"

We have noa wealth i' gold or lands,
But cheerful hearts, an willin hands;
Altho soa monny maaths to fill,
We live i' hooaps an labor still.
Ther little limbs when stronger grown,
Will be a fortun we shall own.
We're in a mooild thro morn to neet,
But rest comes to us doubly sweet,
An fowk learn patience, yo can bet,
When they've to care for sich a set.
But we can honestly declare,
Ther isn't one at we can spare.
Ther little tricks cause monny a smile,
An help to leeten days o' toil.
An joyfully aw say, "Bith' mass!
Well, God bless thi childer, lass."

My Lass.

Fairest lass amang the monny,
Hair as black as raven, O.
Net another lass as bonny,
Lives i'th' dales ov Craven, O.
City lasses may be fairer,
May be donned i' silks an laces,
But ther's nooan whose charms are rarer,
Nooan can show sich bonny faces.
Yorksher minstrel tune thy lyre,
Show thou art no craven, O;
In thy strains 'at mooast inspire,
Sing the praise ov Craven, O.

Purest breezes toss their tresses,
Tint ther cheeks wi' rooases, O,
An old Sol wi' warm caresses,
Mak 'em bloom like pooasies, O.
Others may booast birth an riches,
May have studied grace ov motion,
But they lack what mooast bewit