wor a poor old beggar man
Who ax'd for charity;
"Come in!" sed Dick, "it's borrow'd stuff,
But tha shall share wi' me.
Soa set thi jaws a waggin lad,--
It's whooalsum, nivver heed it,
An if tha ivver has a chonce,
Pay back to them 'at need it."
Wi' th' best they had th' old chap wor plied,
An but few words wor spokken,
Till th' old chap pushed his plate aside,
An silence then wor brokken.
"Aw'm varry old an worn," he sed,
This life's soa full o' cares,
Yet have aw sometimes entertained
An angel unawares.
Ther's One aboon reads ivvery heart,
An them 'at he finds true,
Altho' He tries 'em sooar,--at last,
He minds to pool 'em throo.
Then nivver let yor faith grow dim,
Altho yo've hard to feight;
Just let yer trust all rest o' Him,
An He'll put all things straight,
He quietly sydled aght o'th' door,
An when they lukt araand,
A purse they'd nivver seen befooar
Wor liggin up o'th' graand.
Dick pickt it up--what could it be?
He hardly dar to fancy;--
"Why, its addressed to thee an me!
To Dick an Natty Nancy!"

----------

They oppened it wi' tremblin hands,
An when they saw the treasure;
'Twor hard to say which filled 'em mooast,
Astonishment or pleasur.
Ther wor a letter for 'em too,
An this wor ha it ended,--
"You once helped me, may this help you,--
From one you once befriended,"

---------

They nivver faand aght who he wor,
Altho' they spared noa labor;
But for his sake they ne'er refuse
To help ther needy naybor.

Fugitive poems.

By John Hartley.

Not written in the Yorkshire Dialect.

Angels of Sunderland. In Memoriam, June 16th, 1893.

On the sixteenth of June, eighteen eighty-three,
The children of Sunderland hastened to see,
Strange wonders performed by a mystic man,
Believing,--as only young children can.
And merry groups chattered, as hand in hand,
They careered through the streets of Sunderland.

In holiday dress, and with faces clean,
And hearts as light as the lightest, I ween;--
The hall was soon crowded, and wondering eyes,
Expressed their delight at each fresh surprise;
The sight of their bright, eager faces was grand,--
Such a mass of fair blossoms of Sunderland.

With wonder and laughter the moments fly,
And the wizard at last bade them all good-bye,
But not till he promised that each one there,
In