connot feel
For others, aw assure thi:
Tha's tewd until tha'rt owt but weel;
An nowt but rest can cure thi.
Soa come hooam sooin an spend a neet,
Wi me an Jack an Freddy,
They'll think it's ivver sich a treat;
An aw'll have th' whitewesh ready.

Ther's much Expected.

Life's pathway is full o' deep ruts,
An we mun tak gooid heed lest we stumble;
Man is made up of "ifs" and of "buts,"
It seems pairt ov his natur to grumble.

But if we'd all anxiously tak
To makkin things smooth as we're able,
Ther'd be monny a better clooath'd back,
An' monny a better spread table.

It's a sad state o' things when a man
Cannot put ony faith in his brother,
An fancies he'll chait if he can,
An rejoice ovver th' fall ov another.

An it's sad when yo see some at stand
High in social position an power,
To know at ther fortuns wor plann'd,
An built, aght oth' wrecks o' those lower.

It's sad to see luxury rife,
An fortuns being thowtlessly wasted;
While others are wearin out life,
With the furst drops o' pleasure untasted.

Some in carriages rollin away,
To a ball, or a rout, or a revel;
But ther chariots may bear em some day
Varry near to the gates ov the devil.

Oh! charity surely is rare,
Or ther'd net be soa monny neglected;
For ther's lots wi enuff an' to spare,
An from them varry mich is expected.

An tho' in this world they've ther fill
Of its pleasures, an wilfully blinded,
Let deeath come--an surely it will--
They'll be then ov ther duties reminded.

An when called on, they, tremblin wi fear,
Say "The hungry an nak'd we ne'er knew,"
That sentence shall fall o' ther ear--
"Depart from me; I never knew you."

Then, oh! let us do what we can,
Nor with this world's goods play the miser;
If it's wise to lend money to man,
To lend to the Lord _must_ be wiser.

Coortin Days.

Coortin days,--Coortin days,--loved one an lover!
What wod aw give if those days could come ovver?
Weddin is joyous,--its pleasur unstinted;
But coortin is th' sweetest thing ivver invented.
Walkin an talkin,
An nursin Love's spark,
Charmin an warmin
Tho th' neet may be dark.

Oh! but it's nice when yor way's long and dreary,
To walk wi yor arm raand th' waist ov yor dearie;
Tellin sweet falsehoods, the haars to beguile em,
(If yo tell'd em ith' dayleet they'd put yo ith' sylum.)
But ivverything's fair