ies him monny a claat;
An he says, "Aw'll tell mi Dad,"
Which ov coorse maks mother mad;
Then he snoozles on her knee,
For shoo loves him 'coss shoo loves me.

He's a bother aw'll admit,
But he'll alter in a bit;
An when older grown, maybe,
He'll a comfort prove to me,
An mi latter days mak glad,
For aw know he's Daddy's lad.

If he's aght o' sect a minnit,
Ther's some mischief, an he's in it,
When he's done it then he'll flee;
An for shelter comes to me.
What can aw do but shield my lad?
For he's my pet an aw'm his Dad.

After a day's hard toil an care,
Sittin in mi rockin chair;
Nowt mi wearied spirit charms,
Like him nestlin i' mi arms,
An noa music is as sweet,
As his patt'rin, clatt'rin feet.

Willie's Weddin.

A'a, Willie, lad, aw'm fain to hear
Tha's won a wife at last;
Tha'll have a happier time next year,
Nor what tha's had i'th' past.
If owt can lend this life a charm,
Or mak existence sweet,
It is a lovin woman's arm
Curled raand yor neck at neet.

An if shoo's net an angel,
Dooant grummel an find fault,
For eearth-born angels, lad, tha'll find
Are seldom worth ther salt.
They're far too apt to flee away,
To spreead ther bonny wings;
They'd nivver think o'th' weshin day
Nor th' duties wifehood brings.

A wife should be a woman,
An if tha's lucky been;
Tha'il find a honest Yorksher lass,
Is equal to a Queen.
For if her heart is true to thee,
An thine to her proves true,--
Tha's won th' best prize 'at's under th' skies,
An tha need nivver rue.

Tha'll have to bite thi lip sometimes,
When mooar inclined to sware;
But recollect, no precious things
Bring joy unmixed wi' care.
An when her snarlin turns to smiles,
An bitterness to bliss,
Tha'll yield fresh homage to her wiles,
An mak up wi' a kiss.

Tha'll happen think 'at shoo's a fooil,
An thy superior wit
Will allus win, an keepin cooil
Tha'll triumph in a bit.
Shoo's happen thinkin th' same o' thee
An holds thi in Love's tether,
Well, nivver heed,--they best agree
When two fooils mate together.

Somdy's Chonce.

What's a poor lass like me to do,
'At langs for a hooam ov her own?
Aw'm a hale an bonny wench too,
An nubdy can say aw'm heigh-flown.
Aw want nawther riches nor style,
Just a gradely plain felly will do;
But aw'm waitin a varry long while
An ov sweethearts aw've getten but two.

But th' trubble's just this,--let me tell,