yo've a fancy for a spree,
Goa up to Lundun, same as me,
Yo'll find ther's lots o' things to see,
To pleeas yo weel.
If seem isn't quite enuff,
Yo needn't tew an waste yor puff,
To find some awkard sooarts o' stuff
At yo can feel.

Yo'll nobbut need to set yor shoe
On some poleeceman's tender toa,--
A varry simple thing to do,--
An wi a crack
Enuff to mak a deead man jump,
Daan comes his staff, an leeaves a lump,
An then he'll fling yo wi a bump,
Flat o' yor back.

If signs o' riches suit yo best,
Yer een can easily be blest;
Or if yo seek for fowk distrest,
They're easy fun,
Wi faces ommost worn to nowt,
An clooas at arn't worth a thowt,
Yet show ha long wi want they've fowt,
Till fairly done.

Like a big ball it rolls along,
A nivver ending, changing throng,
Mixt up together, waik an strong,--
An gooid an bad.
Virtues an vices side bi side,--
Poverty slinkin after pride,--
Wealth's waste, an want at's hard to bide,
Some gay, some sad.

It ommost maks one have a daat,
(To see some strut, some crawl abaat,
One in a robe, one in a claat,)
If all's just square.
It may be better soa to be,
But to a simpleton like me,
It's hard to mak sich things agree;
It isn't fair.

To Mally.

Its long sin th' parson made us one,
An yet it seems to me,
As we've gooan thrustin, toilin on,
Time's made noa change i' thee.
Tha grummeld o' thi weddin day,--
Tha's nivver stopt it yet;
An aw expect tha'll growl away
Th' last bit o' breeath tha'll get.

Growl on, old lass, an ease thi mind!
It nivver troubles me;
Aw've proved 'at tha'rt booath true an kind,--
Ther's lots 'at's war nor thee.
An if tha's but a hooamly face,
Framed in a white starched cap,
Ther's nooan wod suit as weel i'th' place,--
Ther's nooan aw'd like to swap.

Soa aw'll contented jog along,--
It's th' wisest thing to do;
Aw've seldom need to use im tongue,
Tha tawks enuff for two.
Tha cooks mi vittals, maks mi bed,
An finds me clooas to don;
An if to-day aw worn't wed,
Aw'd say to thee,--"Come on."

Th' State o' th' Poll. A nop tickle illusion.

Sal Sanguine wor a bonny lass,
Ov that yo may be sewer;
Shoo had her trubbles tho', alas!
An th' biggest wor her yure.
Noa lass shoo knew as mich could spooart,
But oft shoo'd heeard it sed,
They thank'd ther stars they'd nowt o'th sooart,
It wor soa varry red.

Young f