an tha's won;--aw've to dee,
But aw think it weant meean mich to thee
If aw dull;
For if awm poor, life is still sweet to all,
Deeath's walkin raand, he's pratty sewer to call,
Sooin enuff.

Aw'll toss noa moor, awm aght o' luck to neet,
Aw'll goa to bed, an tha can sleep baght leet
Aw expect.
If tha'd ha lost, as sewer as here's a clog,
Tha'd had to draand, but thart a lucky dog,
Recollect.

My Doctrine.

Aw wodn't care to live at all,
Unless aw could be jolly!
Let sanctimonious skinflints call
All recreation folly.

Aw still believe this world wor made
For fowk to have some fun in;
An net for everlastin trade,
An avarice an cunnin.

Aw dooant believe a chap should be
At th' grinnel stooan for ivver;
Ther's sewerly sometime for a spree,
An better lat nor nivver.

It's weel enuff for fowk to praich
An praise up self denial;
But them 'at's forradest to praich,
Dooant put it oft to trial.

They'd rayther show a thaasand fowk
A way, an point 'em to it;
Nor act as guides an stop ther tawk,
An try thersens to do it.

Aw think this world wor made for me,
Net me for th' world's enjoyment;
An to mak th' best ov all aw see
Will find me full employment.

"My race," they say, "is nearly run,
It mightn't last a minnit;"
But if ther's pleasure to be fun,
Yo bet yor booits awm in it.

Aw wodn't care to live at all,
Weighed daan wi' melancholy;
My doctrine is, goa in for all,
'At helps to mak life jolly.

That Lass.

Awm nobbut a poor workin man,
An mi wage leeavs me little to spare;
But aw strive to do th' best 'at aw can,
An tho' poor, yet aw nivver despair.
'At aw live bi hard wark is mi booast,
Tho' mi clooas may be shabby an meean;
But th' one thing awm langin for mooast,
Is that grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.

They may call me a fooil or a ass,
To tawk abaat wantin a wife;
But there's nowt like a true hearted lass,
To sweeten a workinman's life.
An love is a feelin as pure
In a peasant as 'tis in a queen,
An happy aw could be awm sewer,
Wi' that grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.

Aw dreeam ov her ivvery neet,
An aw think o' nowt else durin th' day;
An aw lissen for th' saand ov her feet,
But its melted i'th' distance away.
At mi lot aw cant help but repine,
When aw think ov her bonny black een,
For awm feeard shoo can nivver be mine;
That grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've s