owk we know are seldom wise,--
Experience taiches wit;--
Some freeat 'coss th' color o' ther eyes
Is net as black as jet.
Wol others seem quite in a stew,
An can't tell whear to bide,
'Coss they've black een asteead o' blue,--
An twenty things beside.

Aw'm foorced to own Sal Sanguine's nop,
It had a ruddy cast;
An once shoo heeard a silly fop,
Say as he hurried past--
"There goes the girl I'd like to wed,--
'Twould grant my heart's desire;
In spring pull carrots from her head,--
In winter 'twould save fire."

Her cheeks wi' passion fairly burned,--
Shoo made a fearful vow,
To have to some fresh color turned
That yure upon her brow.
Shoo knew a chap 'at kept a shop,
An dyed all sooarts o' things;
An off shoo went withaat a stop,
As if shoo'd flown wi' wings.

Shoo fan him in, an tell'd her tale,
An tears stood in her ee;
"Why, Sal," he sed, "few chap's wod fail
If axt, to dye for thee.
What color could ta like it done?
Aw'll pleeas thi if aw can;
We'st ha some bother aw'll be bun,
But aw think aw know a plan."

"Why mak it black, lad, if tha can;
Black's sewer to suit me best;
Aw dooant care if its black an tan,--
Mi life's been sich a pest.
For tho' aw say 'at should'nt say't,
Ther's lots noa better bred,
Curl up ther nooas an cut me straight,
Becoss mi yure's soa red."

"Come on ageean to-morn at neet,
Aw'll have all ready, lass;
An if aw connot do it reight
Aw'll ax thi for noa brass."
Soa Sally skuttered hooam agean,
An into bed shoo popt,
Her fowk wor capt what it could meean,
For thear th' next day shoo stopt,

When th' evenin coom shoo up an dress'd,
An off shoo went to th' place;
Shoo seem'd like some poor soul possess'd,
Or one i' dire disgrace.
"Come here," sed th' chap, "all's ready nah,
It's stewin here i'th' pan;
Aw'll dip thi heead,--hold,--steady nah!
Just bide it if tha can."

Poor Sally skriked wi' all her might,
But as all th' doors wor shut,
He nobbut sed, "nah lass, keep quiet,
It weant do baght its wut.
To leearn mi trade, for twenty year,
Throo morn to neet aw've toiled,
An know at nawther hanks nor heeads,
Are weel dyed unless boiled.

But as tha'rt varry tender,
An aw've takken th' job i' hand,
Aw'll try it rayther cooiler,--
But then, th' color might'nt stand."
An for a while he swilled an slopt,
Wol shoo wor oinmost smoor'd;
An when he wrung it aght a