Mary's Bonnet.
Prime October.
Old Dave to th' New Parson.
Tom Grit.
Th' Demon o' Debt.
Th' Lad 'at Loves his Mother.
Matilda Jane.
Modest Jack o' Wibsey Slack.
Work Lads!
Bonny Yorksher.
Sixty an Sixteen.
Come thi Ways in.
Horton Tide.
Mi Old Slippers.
A Friend to Me.
A Pair o' Black Een.
A Screw Lawse.
A Sad Mishap.
If.
A True Tale.
Peter's Prayer.
Mak th' Best Ont.
On Strike.
Be Happy.
Its True.
Natty Nancy.
Fugitive poems.
Angels of Sunderland. In Memoriam, June 16th, 1893.
Trusting Still.
Shiver the Goblet.
Little Sunshine.
Passing Events.
Those Days have Gone.
I'd a Dream.
To my Harp.
Backward Turn, Oh! Recollection.
Alice.
Looking Back.
I Know I Love Thee
Bachelors Quest.
Waiting at the Gate.
Love.
Do your Best and Leave the Rest.
To my Daughter on her Birthday.
Remorse.
My Queen
Now and Then.
The Open Gates.
Blue Bells.
A Song of the Snow
Hide not thy Face.
In my Garden of Roses.
The Match Girl.
De Profundis.
Nettie.
The Dean's Brother.
I Would not Live Alway.
Too Late.
On the Banks of the Calder.
Lines on Receiving a Bunch of Wild Hyacinths by Post.
November's Here.
Mary.
When Cora Died.
The Violet.
Repentant.
Sunset.
Poetry and Prose.
Years Ago.
Somebody's.
Claude.
All on a Christmas Morning.
Once Upon a Time.
Nearing Home.
Those Tiny Fingers.
Lilly-White Hand.
Shut Out.
Charming May.
Who Cares?

Mi Darling Muse.

Mi darlin' Muse, aw coax and pet her,
To pleeas yo, for aw like nowt better;
An' if aw find aw connot get her
To lend her aid,
Into foorced measure then aw set her,
The stupid jade!

An' if mi lines dooant run as spreetly,
Nor beam wi gems o' wit soa breetly,
Place all the blame,--yo'll place it reightly,
Upon her back;
To win her smile aw follow neetly,
Along her track.

Maybe shoo thinks to stop mi folly,
An let me taste o' melancholy;
But just to spite her awl be jolly,
An say mi say;
Awl fire away another volley
Tho' shoo says "Nay."

We've had some happy times together,
For monny years we've stretched our tether,
An as aw dunnot care a feather
For fowk 'at grummel,
We'll have another try. Aye! whether
We stand or tummel.

Sometimes th' reward for all us trubble,
Has been a crop o' scrunty stubble,
But th' harvest someday may be double,
At least we'll trust it;
An them 'at say it's but a bubble,
We'll leeav to brust it.