's my nooation too,--but aw thowt tha should try,
What a wife as a laikon could be;
Noa daat tha's fan livin o' love rayther dry,
For aw'll own aw'd grown sickened o' thee."

Hold up yer Heeads.

Hold up yer heeads, tho' at poor workin men
Simple rich ens may laff an may scorn;
Maybe they ne'er haddled ther riches thersen,
Somdy else lived befooar they wor born.
As noble a heart may be fun in a man,
Who's a poor ragged suit for his best,
(An who knows he mun work or else he mun clam,)
As yo'll find i' one mich better drest.
Soa here's to all th' workers whearivver they be,
I'th' land or i'th' loom or i'th' saddle;
An the dule tak all them who wod mak us less free,
Or rob us o'th' wages we haddle!

A Quiet Day.

A'a! its grand to have th' place to yorsen!
To get th' wimmen fowk all aght o'th' way!
Mine's all off for a trip up to th' Glen,
An aw've th' haase to misen for a day.

If aw'd mi life to spend ovver ageean,
Aw'd be bothered wi' nooan o' that mak;
What they're gooid for aw nivver could leearn,
Except to spooart clooas o' ther back.

Nah, aw'll have a quiet pipe, just for once,
Aw'm soa thankful to think 'at they're shut;
An its seldom a chap has a chonce;--
Whear the dickens has th' matches been put?

Well, nah then, aw've th' foir to leet,--
It will'nt tak long will'nt that,
An as sooin as its gotten burned breet,
Aw'il fry some puttates up i' fat.

Aw know aw'm a stunner to cook,--
Guys-hang-it! this kinlin's damp!
It does nowt but splutter an smook,
An this Hue's ov a varry poor stamp.

It's lukkin confaandedly black,--
Its as dismal an dull as mi hat;
Nah, Sal leets a foir in a crack,--
Aw will give her credit for that.

Ther's nowt nicer nor taties when fried,--
Aw could ait em to ivvery meal;
Aw can't get 'em, altho' aw've oft tried,--
Its some trouble aw know varry weel.

Th' foirs aght! an it stops aght for me!
Aw'il bother noa mooar wi' th' old freet!
Next time they set off for a spree,
They'st net leeav me th' foir to leet.

Aw dooant care mich for coffee an teah,
Aw can do wi' some milk an a cake;
An fried taties they ne'er seem to me,
Worth th' bother an stink 'at they make.

Whear's th' milk? Oh, its thear, an aw'm blest,
That cat has its heead reight i'th' pot;
S'cat! witta! A'a, hang it aw've missed!
If aw hav'nt aw owt to be shot!

An th' pooaker's flown cleean throo a