end;
Soa its time aw wor changin mi ways.
For ther's noa time like the present to mend

Gooid Bye, Old Lad.

Ge me thi hand, mi trusty friend,
Mi own is all aw ha to gie thi;
Let friendship simmer on to th' end;--
God bless thi! I an gooid luck be wi' thi!

Aw prize thee just for what tha art;--
Net for thi brass, thi clooas, or station;
But just becoss aw know thi heart,
Finds honest worth an habitation.

Ther's monny a suit ov glossy black,
Worn bi a chap 'at's nowt to back it:
Wol monny a true, kind heart may rack,
Lapt in a tattered fushten jacket.

Ther's monny a smilin simperin knave,
Wi' oppen hand will wish 'gooid morrow,'
'At wodn't gie a meg to save
A luckless mate, or ease his sorrow.

Praichers an taichers seem to swarm,
But sad to tell,--th' plain honest fact is,
They'd rayther bid yo shun all harm,
Nor put ther taichin into practice.

But thee,--aw read thee like a book,--
Aw judge thi booath bi word an action;
An th' mooar aw know, an th' mooar aw look,
An th' mooar awm fill'd wi' satisfaction.

Soa once agean, Gooid bye, old lad!
An till we meet agean, God bless thi!
May smilin fortun mak thi glad,
An may noa ills o' life distress thi.

That Drabbled Brat.

Goa hooam,--tha little drabbled brat,
Tha'll get thi deeath o' cold;
Whear does ta live? Just tell me that,
Befooar aw start to scold.

Thart sypin weet,--dooant come near me!
Tha luks hawf pined to deeath;
An what a cough tha has! dear me!
It ommost taks thi breeath.

Them een's too big for thy wee face,--
Thi curls are sad neglected;
Poor child! thine seems a woeful case,
Noa wonder tha'rt dejected.

Nah, can't ta tell me who tha art?
Tha needn't think aw'll harm thi;
Here, tak this sixpence for a start,
An find some place to warm thi.

Tha connot spaik;--thi een poor thing,
Are filled wi' tears already;
Tha connot even start to sing,
Thi voice is soa unsteady.

It isn't long tha'll ha to rooam,
An sing thi simple ditty;
Tha doesn't seem to be at hooam,
I' this big bustlin city.

It's hard to tell what's best to be
When seets are soa distressin;
For to sich helpless bairns as thee,
Deeath seems to be a blessin.

Some hear thi voice an pass thi by,
An feel noa touch o' sorrow;
An, maybe, them at heave a sigh,
Laff it away to-morrow.

For tha may sing, or sigh, or cry;
Nay,--tha may dee if needs be;