What aw want an will have if aw can,
To share wedded life wi' misel,
Is a man 'at's worth callin a man.
But Harry's as stiff as a stoop,
An Jack, onny lass wod annoy,--
Harry's nobbut a soft nin-com-poop,
An Jack's just a hobble-de-hoy.

If caarin at th' hob ov a neet,
Wi' a softheeaded twaddlin fooil;
Aw should order him aght o' mi seet,
Or be cooamin his yure wi' a stooil.
His wage,--what it wor,--couldn't bring
Joy enuff to mak up for life's pains,
If aw fan misen teed to a thing,
At could work, ait an live, withaat brains.

"But ther's love," yo may say,--Hi that's it!
But aw nivver could love a machine;
An aw'll net wed a chap 'at's baat wit,
Net if he could mak me a queen.
Aw'd like one booath hansum an strong,
An honest, truehearted an kind,
But aw'm sewer aw could ne'er get along,
Wi' a felly 'at had'nt a mind.

Soa Harry will ha to be seckt,
For a nin-com-poop's nowt i' mi line;
As for Jack,--he could nivver expect
To win sich a true heart as mine.
Ther's lasses enuff to be had,
'At'll jump at sich chonces wi' joy,
They'll tak owt at's i'th' shape ov a lad,
Quite content wi' a hobble-de-hoy.

Aw dooant want to spend all mi life,
Like a saar, neglected old maid;
Aw'd rayther bi th' hawf be a wife,
Nor to blossom an wither i'th' shade.
Soa if onny young chap wants a mate,
Tho' he may net be hansum nor rich,
If he's getten some sense in his pate,
Aw'm his chonce.--An he need'nt have mich.

To a True Friend.

Here'sa song to mi brave old friend,
A friend who has allus been true;
His day's drawin near to its end,
When he'll leeav me, as all friends mun do.
His teeth have quite wasted away,
He's grown feeble an blind o' one ee,
His hair is all sprinkled wi' gray,
But he's just as mich thowt on bi me.

When takkin a stroll into th' taan,
He's potterin cloise at mi heels;
Noa matter whearivver aw'm baan,
His constancy nivver once keels.
His feyts an his frolics are o'er,
But his love nivver offers to fail;
An altho' some may fancy us poor,
They could'nt buy th' wag ov his tail.

If th' grub is sometimes rayther rough,
An if prospects for better be dark;
He nivver turns surly an gruff,
Or shows discontent in his bark.
Ther's nubdy can tice him away,--
He owns but one maister,--that's me,
He seems to know all 'at aw say,
An maks th' best ov his lot, what it be.

Aw've towt him a trick, n