ake
Your treasure round which love has grown;
Pray keep it for poor baby's sake;--
I once lost a child of my own."
And he folded it up wi much care
As he lukt at her agonized face;--
A face at had once been soa fair,
But nah bearin th' stamp ov disgrace.
"You seem soberer now,--do you think
You could find your way home if you tried?"
"Oh! yes, sir! God help me! It's Drink
At has browt me to this, sir," shoo cried.
"God help you! Be sure that He will;
If you seek Him, He'll come to your aid;
He is longing and waiting there still
To receive you;--none need be afraid.
The mother whose heart still retains
The love for her babe pure and bright,
May have err'd, but the hope still remains
That she yet will return. Now, Good night."

----------

With his kindly words still in her ears,
An that little red sock in her breast;
Shoo lukt up to Heaven through her tears;
An her faith, in Christ's love did the rest.

Plain Jane.

Plain Jane--plain Jane;
This wor owd Butterworth's favourite strain:
For wealth couldn't buy,
Such pleasur an joy.
As he had wi his owd plain Jane.
Ther wor women who oft,
Maybe, thinkin him soft,
Who endeavoured to 'tice him away,
But tho ther breet een,
An ther red cheeks had been
Quite enuffto lead others astray,--
All ther efforts wor lost,
For he knew to his cost,
'At th' pleasur they promised browt pain,
Soa he left em behind,
Wol he went hooam to find,
Purer pleasures i'th' arms o' plain Jane.

Plain Jane,--plain Jane,--
Owd Butterworth sed he'd noa cause to complain:
Shoo wor hearty an strong,
An could troll aght a song,
An trubbles shoo held i' disdain,
He'd not sell her squint
For all th' brass i'th' mint,
Nor pairt wi her blossomin nooas;
He's no rival to fear,
Soa he keeps i' gooid cheer,
An cares nowt ha th' world comes or it gooas.
Cats are all gray at neet,
Soa when puttin aght th' leet,
As he duckt under th' warm caanterpain,
He sed, "Beauty breeds strife
Oft between man an wife,
But it ne'er trubbles me nor awr Jane."

Plain Jane,--plain Jane,--
To cuddle and coddle him allus wor fain;
Shoo wod cook, stew or bake,
Wesh and scaar for his sake,
An could doctor his ivvery pain.
Tho his wage wor but small
Shoo ne'er grummeld at all,
An if th' butter should chonce to run short;
Her cake shoo'd ait dry,
If axt why? shoo'd