TEL-EL-KEBIR.

Lives there a mon on British greawnd
Wod doesn't feel his sperit beawnd,
Wi' t' nations lookin on o reawnd,
To find eawr arms wi victory creawned,
                This day, at Tel-el-Kebir?

Sich deeds ov valour theer war rowt,
Iv they could bod to leet be browt
I' thunther speech an' leetnin thowt,
They'd shine an' seawnd surpassed bi newt—
                Heroes o' Tel-el-Kebir!

Wal waved their blood-red flag o' feight,
Brave Britons went into id streight
An' let 'em hev id left an' reight—
Owd 'Rabi's men wur made mince-meyt—
                Chompt up at Tel-el-Kebir!

They yerd thad ringin British cheer—
Their hearts dropt i' their shoon wi' fear—
Id tornd a battery to a bier!
For Smo-shanks wi' his scythe stood near
                To them at Tel-el-Kebir.

Theer guns and sabres flamed and flashed;
Theer bullets whizzed an' bombshells crashed,
An, hot blood hissed wheer bayonets gashed,
When Graham's brave brigade plunged—dashed—
                Through t' fooarts at Tel-el-Kebir.

Wod cheers went up—wod deeds wur done—
For 'Rab's redoubts, bi th' red-cooats won,
When his white-cooated wastrels run,
An' bag an' baggage left, an' gun,
                Behint at Tel-el-Kebir!

Bud Arabi's a cur—a pup—
Wod singed his sneawt when he'd to sup,
Th' hot contents ov eawr conquerin cup,
For Wols'ey med th' owd dog sit up
                An' smook at Tel-el-Kebir!

Fooak thowt us nobud foos an' fops,
Ut Peeos an' Plenty 'd stuffed eawr crops,
Tell Bright hed torned us to milksops,
An' Time hed ta'en away eawr props—
                Bud look at Tel-el-Kebir!

Secure an' seawnd the rebel slept,
When, up eawr British army stept,
An—wheugh!—his parapets wur lept
An eawt ov his stronghowd wur swept
                The foe, at Tel-el-Kebir.

1882.

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SIX WEEKS I' LODGINS.

TUNE—" YOR MARGUT CON TELL WHEN HOO'S HORT."

Aw bin six week i' lodgins, an' six week too long,
I' other fooak's heawses to threed among t' throng;
An' heaw aw bin set on an' suffered beside,
Mi patience bin tyart an' mi temper's bin tried,
                    An' t' snubs ut aw've ta'en
                    Aw shall nod tek ageon,
For aw've borne tell aw connud abide.

T'other neet when 'er Kestur hed comed into th' heawse,
So dragglt an' weet he wur like a dreawn'd meawse,
Well, t' foyar wor good, bur he couldn't ged near,
He could noather thrutch in wi' a stoo nor a cheer,
                    Sooa, shiverin at t' back
                    "Like a dog in a sack,"
He sed summut as one shouldn't hear.

Then aw rooas up at wonst an' aw fot him a cleawt,
An' towd him he'd better mind wod he're abeawt—
"Gooa, doff thad weet jackut an' soyle off to bed,
An' awlus be willin to do as tha'rt med,
                    An' iv aw yer tho rooar,
                    Or a foote upo th' floor,
Aw'll fleeye tho for wod tha's just sed!"

As soon as aw'd spocken his feyther coom in
"Here lass teck this cwot, for aw'm weet thro' to t' skin."
"God help thee an' t' lad as aw've droven up stairs!
Bud, egad! iv we'n noather clock, tables nor chairs,
                    In a cabin aw'll dwell,
                    Hev a hoyle to mysel,
An' behowden to nobrey for theirs!"

Some laughed an' sed "Dicky," as soon as he coom,
"Tha's getten weel degged."   Bud they med him no room.
Snatchin t' pot eawt o'th' oon, then aw tem'd eawt his tay,
For jooakin an' jestin were nowt i' my way,
                    Bur he took id as fun
                    To his supper—geet done—
Took a dry cwot an' hat an' away.

Aw'll back they done jannock as far as they known,
Bud other fooak's notions are nod like yo'r own;
They say'n owt to obleege yo, an' meon id as well,
While at booath ends an' t' middle they're servin thirsel,
                    An' aw reckon it's true,
                    Iv all lives were lookt through
There'd be moor sich like stoories to tell.

Beside usin other fooak's tables an' cheers,
One korn'd speighk a word bud wod somebry else hears,
An' it's awlus just summut as nobry should know
Nor ha' newt to do wi', nobbud Rutchut an' yo—
                    Bur aw've bidden so long
                    An' aw've bridled my tongue
Tell aw's brast iv aw hevn't a blow!

Aw'll raise sich a rackut when Rutchut comes in,
An' aw'm nod sooa soon sattled when wonst aw begin;
When aw've gin 'em a taste o' mi tongue for a bit,
Aw'll warrant, i' quick-sticks, we'n nooatis to flit;
                    An' when aw've hed mi rick,
                    Aw con wheedle 'er Dick
An' con torn him as yesy as t' spit.

He's as soft as mi pockut—as sued as a lamb—
Ta's their snies and their snubs,—bud he's nod wheer I am!
He's fowten at times when he're eawt upo th' spree,
Bur he's mild as a millhoss a-whoam an' wi' me.
                    In a crib o' wur oan,
                    Ov wey sit on a stooan,
Aw con manage him, then wey's agree.

Neaw, er Rutchut's a skeeom, an' he thinks he con mon't,
He'll ged us some goods, or he'll see wod sticks on't;
O t' brass he used spendin i' bacco an' ale
He's savin id up to buy things at a sale—
                    Wi' some pots an' a pon,
                    A chaff bed to sleep on,
A'll uphowd we's poo through an' nod fail!

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WONST.

When hearts flung off their cleawdy fear
    Wod clooaks an' clogs through winter,
When days moor leet an' suns moor breet
    Med ice begin to splinter,
Where sedges spear reawnd marsh an' mere
    As there no end or stint wur,
Young Spring, crept near to t' virgin Year,
    Hed left sich o foote-prints there:

When t' redbreast sung i' th' appo-tree,
    An' thorns i' th' hedge wur buddin,
An' mornin skies showed ruby dyes
    As though they'd gouts o' blood in,
An' primrooases pept eawt to see
    Wod bonny banks they stoode in,
An' childhood free wi' fun au' glee
    War flowin o'er an' floodin:

When suns begun to set moor late,
    An' twileet longer lingered,
An' bush an' beawer wi' bud an' fleawer
    Begun to struggle springward;
Wi' bowts o' fire her gowden gate
    When Eve hed barred, no thing stirred,
Bud birds wod mate an' incubate
    Wi' young uns under wing-guard.

Wi' every heart 'twur wonst thad time,
    When Love lit up his furnace
Whooas blinden fire keeps blazin higher
    To blight or bless—to burn us
Wi' flames as fro th' infernal clime
    That scorch wheere'er we torn us,
Or bliss sublime as Eden's prime—
    To ruin or adorn us.

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LANCASHIRE POEMS

AND

SKETCHES.
___________

OWD PONCAKE JOHN.

Aw're keawrt i' th' corner, yusterneet,
An' hark'nin t' rabble roll up t' street,
Hoaf ewvt o' pashuns wi' their din,
When, Poncake John coom poppin in.
"Well, John," sed aw, "where'n yo bin trampin?"
"No fur!" he said, "Aw'm cum'd a-campin—
Id's Poncake Tuesday, dornd yo know?
Bein country-bred, an' owd, like yo,
Iv nod owre busy wi' yo'r rhymes,
We'll hev a chat abeawt owd times."
"O reet," ses aw.   Ses he, "Owd mon,
Just tell mo heaw theaw'rt geddin on,
Tha mornd feel tew'd, bud, dash id, Bill,
Theaw'rt nobbut lookin deawnreet ill!
Hes ta bin poorly?—tha hes, aw'll bet—"
"Ay, ay!" sed aw, "an' am sooa yet;
A brocken wheel geds a new spoke,
They mend masheenery, when its broke,
Bud kornd put new insides i' fooak,
Iv aw've a guinea, or a groat,
A full, a fair, or empty pot,
Aw teck id as mi luck, mi lot.
Aw grudge no mon, aw grumble not—
For He, ut howds t' big balance streyt
Is sure to deal eawt weight for weight,
An' find some means to ma' things reight.
They're foos wod foes eawt wi' their fate
Becose they hev an empty plate;
An' lots ut's poor, an' some wot's ill,
'To ring t' reet sow, met blame theirsel!'
Tha wants to chat—aw'm ill theaw sees,
An' kornd, bud John, aw'm one o' theese,
As, when unfit for t' job theirsels,
Ull howd a leet for sombry else.
Sooa let's just see wod theaw con do,
An' aw'll say nowt bud 'ay' an' 'nowe;'
Wind-up thi clapper, give id vent,
An' rhetor to thi heart's content;
Iv t' wants a theeom—aw'll find tho one.
It's, 'Why they cawn tho Poncake John.'
"That's id, thad subject's nooan o' t' wost—
Bud, lemmo ha' mi poncake fost!"
Implored owd John,—aw sed, "Neaw, neaw!
Aw'd meck one, bur aw dornd know heaw."
He sed he'd put me up to t' tips,
Then, booath on us could greeos eawr lips,
Iv aw'd be only good enuff
To land him t' pon, an' find him stuff;
Shus whether aw knew heaw or nod,
He'd hev a poncake, thad he wod:
Sooa, at id beawt mich moor ado,
Aw fun him t' tackle, an' he med two;
An' gradely good uns.   Then his text
He handlt just as follows next,—
"In eighteen hundred an' nineteen,
When aw'r a lad, at Torner Green,
There wornd a woman, thad aw know,
Fro Goose Heawse Fowt to Fleet'ud Ho,
Fro Myerscough Smithy to Sykes Wife Lumb,
Bud poncakes med, for o as cum;
An' childer, bless 'em, coom i' throngs,
Wi' clatterin clogs, an' prattlin tongues,
Wi' cleyn check brats, an' smilin faces,—
Like ' merry-men,' at fairs or races,
So wod wur sed, or wod wur done,
They took an' tornd id into fun,
An' skrik'd an' danced—the Lord be wi 'em—
Id fairly dud one good to see 'em.
They'd bother yo, an' let yo sup,
B'riv yore's wornd deawn when t' next went up,
To t' midden, then, they'd carry yo eawt,
An' wipe yo cleyn wi' a sooty cleawt—
There's nowt like thad i'th' teawn to-neet;
Bud then, that's up another street.
Aw'll tell mi tale beawt moralisin,
For nobury likes so mich advisin.
Well, aw'd bin poncakin o day,
An' cawd at every heawse on t' way,
Aw'd etten an' etten, for everlastin,
Eawr fooak wur feeort o' mi bally brastin;
Mi mam wod rub id wi swine's greeos,
To ratch id, an' to gie mo yeeos;
Aw'st ne'er forged, aw grooand an' swat,
An prayed ut aw met ne'er be fat,
Iv fat fooak suffered hoaf as aw did
They'r harder, or they couldn't bide id.
News spread as aw were welly gone,
Wi' heytin poncakes—one by one,
Friends coom to si mo—time rowled on—
An' aw coom reawnd—stirr'd eawt anon—
Mi playmates plagued mo—then, bi t' mon,
They kesund mo ' Owd Poncake John.'"

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BOB AN' SAL; OR DRINK-SELLIN GROCERS.

Bob an' Sally; a weyver and rover,
    Sto'd o' creepin through t' world bi theirsels,
Thowt id best, ere life's mornin slid over,
    To marry, like mony a one else;
Their love wur a flash an' a flicker,
    Nod a strong, clear an' breet, steady blaze:
Cupid's coyles mun be laid on much thicker
    To last fooak to th' end o' their days,

Bud, bless yo, as progress advances,
    Love's laughed at, an' blind bargains med,
While through chances or fooast circumstances
    Couples meet, mek a match, an' ged wed;
Id wur just sooa wi' Bobby an' Sally,
    They lived verra near one another,
Booath went to their wark deawn t' same alley,
    An' sooa they hooked up tooan wi t' tother.

Neaw Bob wur a fair sooart o' sample
    Ov warkmen, nor better nor woss,
An' if he couldn't show an example,
    When wed, he'd heyt hay wi' a hoss '
He sed, for he meant to be honest
    An' do to his wife as he owt,
For altho noather t' best nor yet t' bonnyst,
    Hoo're nod to co feaw nor yet nowt.

Sal Battle wur one o' thoose wimmen
    Wod fots stuff a-trust fro a shop,
Though her pockut wi' brass hed bin brimmin,
    Hoo'd strap, hev a Scotchmon, an' pop;
Bud brass Sarah seldom hed ony,
    For hoo wur a thowt fond o' life,
And sadly too mich like too mony—
    Little fit for a warkin mon's wife.

For Sally ud gossip wi th' naybours,
    An' neaw an' then "tasted a drop,"
While at weddins, an' kess'nins, an' labours
    Hoo sooakt hersel through like a mop:
Then Sal grew so dooafy an' lazy
    Hoo geet as hoo wodn't wesh t' clooas,
An' then Bob wod welt his owd daisy—
    He once or twice brasted her nooas.

There's al'ays good harvests o' childer,
    So wod come o' cotton or corn,
Their numbers ud fairly bewilder
    Iv o on 'em lived as were born:
But whether 'twur cleawdy or sunny,
    Poor Bob's matrimonial clime
Gave him full fruits of his matrimony,
    For Sal browt him two at a time!

They'd a fine little family, an' all hers,
    When a year an' a piece hed passed o'er,
A regular concert o' squallers,
    Aw'm certain they'd three, or else four;
Bud wi' poppin, au' shoppin, an' sloppin,
    Sal geet as hoo couldn't do reet;
Robin felt id, an' started o' stoppin
    At t' pub welly every neet.

One neet when Bob Battle wur weary,
    An' powfagged, wi' weyving bad stuff,
He retorned to his whoam, lookin dreary,
    T' wife drunk, an' o th' heawsehowd i' t' rough;
His Irish begun to ged upper,
    His fire wur at bottom o' t' grate,
An', when he axed Sal for his supper,
    Hoo heckupt, an' towd him to "wait."

Her shop-book on t' table lee oppened,
    He felt just an inklin to look,
A thowt med him fairly feel gloppen'd—
    Hoo happen geet drink upo' th' book!
Wi' t' scoor abeawt twice wod id should be,
    He lost booath his pashuns an' hooap,
He wondered no moor wod id could be,
    Wi' seven times sixpence for sooap.

"Ger up neaw, an' ma' mo mi baggin,"
    He growled, "or aw'll punch tho to "—well!
Bud when her tung started a-waggin
    Hoo towd him to " meck id hissel!"
Her heart wur as hard as a heeoter,
    Nor flinched hoo for fire nor for frost,
An' he felt sich a wantin-to-beeot-her
    He'd a killed her on t' spot iv he dost.

He darn't trust hissel—coshus sinner—
    Foce Robbin* knew t' reet rooad abeawt;
He could sooner lick two devils in her
    Than he could lick one devil eawt;
He knew id wur nonsense to shrieve her,
    An' lickin her dud her no good.
For he noather could trust nor believe her,
    Nor mend t' woman, do wod he could.

God knows heaw he powlert an' scampered
    An strove to mek ends meet an' tee,
There wur nub'dy i' th' world hofe so hampered,
    He thowt, bud he knew nowt—nod he
For wheer there's a drink-sellin grocer
    There's plenty o' cases like these,
Though a husband may beot her an' soce her,
    Still till, a wife robs an' cheots him, an' sprees.

When finishin this, an owd friend here
    Stuck his lips i' mi earhole an' sed,
"Iv tha publish sich stuff as tha's penned, theer,
    Tha'rt sure to ged bricks at thi yed:
To tell sich feaw tales abeawt t' fair sex
    A chap mon be woss nor a foo"—
Bud Truth knows no genders, an' dare vex
    Even them as degrades wimmen too.

1881.

* Poet Robert Bolton, Billington's uncle.

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BAD TIMES.

Sed Tom to Dick, the other day,
    "Tha calls thisel a Rad,
An' ses it's t' Tory Government
    Wod mecks theer times so bad:
Let's square eawr nooats, an' wesh ur throoats,
    Aw'll fetch a sooap o' drink;
We'll toke o'er situation, an'
    Aw'll tell tha wod aw think.
Well, theigher! sit tha deawn un sup."
    No sooner sed bud done,
Booath pept at t' bottom o' their cup,
    Then th' argument begun:
"Tha sees we'n drov'n a rooarin trade
    Wi' manufacturin Cotton,
We thowt on't lastin awlus, sooa,
    Eawr Land hes bin forgotten.
Wi' o this world for customers,
    O t' profit to eawrsels,
To foreigners, we lookt a lot
    Ov epicures an' swells.
Bud foreigners soon fun id eawt,
    An here the evil starts,
That shuttles, looms, an' spindles could
    Be shipped to foreign parts;
An' clever chaps to wark 'em, too,
    At prices nooan so dear,
Whal lots o' foreign gentlemen
    Were learnin t' business here."
"By George!" sed Dick, "as sure's aw'm wick,
    Aw'm beawn to poo tha back,
Aw smell a rat, an' wod theaw'rt at
    Aw hev id in a crack.
Does t' meon to say, as this is t' way
    As t' trade hes gwon abroad,
Whal eawr neglect booath leet 'em teck t'
    An' even show'd em' t' rooad?
Mon we be mulcted, meonin good,
    An' blamed for bein kind?"
"Ov cooarse, just as a good ship would
    Be lost if steer'd bi th' blind,"
Retorted Tom, "for life's a feight,
    An' ne'er will be nowt else,
Show mettle—pluck—goo into't reyt—
    Protect—defend yo'rsels!
Just look at th' Exhibition, held
    In eighteen fifty one,
Neaw, worn'd id nice, an' worn'd id good—
    An hesn't t' machinery gone?—
To France—an' Belgium —everywheer?—
    They're doin for thirsel
Wod wey used to do for 'em, an'
    Neaw we may go to——well—
Sooa these bad times, as aw've just shown—
    Short wark an' pickin thin—
Ud just ha' bin as bad an' bare
    Hed t' Radicals bin in.
Ben Dizzy's a Free-Trader, too,
    So, to hissel, thowt he,
Trade must an' would continue good—
    An' hence his ' Policy.'
Booath Radicals an' Tories too,
    An' everybody else
I' th' upper class, bod care for th' mass
    Just as id serves theirsels,
An' nod one scorrick moor for men
    Wod delve, an' weyve, an' spin,
Iv they're bod there at 'lection time,
    To sheawt, an' run 'em in."
Ses Dick, " Aw've some new thowts sprung up
    Whal we'n bin sittin here,
An' whether eawt o' th' argument,
    Or eawt o' th' sooap o' beer,
They're seawnd an' breet, an' full o' leet,
    An' new an' true to boot—
Iv t' poor fooak want owt doin it's
    Thersels ull ha' to do't!
Owd England neaw no longer con
    Depend on t' Cotton Trade,
Eawr land's lockt up, an' we're forbid
    To ply booath Plough an' Spade, 
Whal Russia, Prussia, Flanders, France,
    Boast ' freedom of the soil,'
England's an ARISTOCRACY—
    Id mecks one's marrow boil!"
"Neaw then!" ses Tom, "come, Rutchut, come!
    Let's link up heart an' hand,
Drop Party-strife, an' form a league
    To liberate the Land;
An' thad ull find fooak wark enough,
    An' help to put things reet,—
Shake hands, owd lad, an' sleep off thad."
    "Aw will—good neet!"   "Good neet!"

AUGUST, 1879.

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NOWTY NED.

(A LANCASHIRE SKETCH.)

Nowty Ned wur a reet bonny lad,
    An' as mettlesome, too, as a cowt;
He inherited pluck off his dad,
    An' his dam hed endued him wi'
        thowt.

He're buoyant an' brisk as a lark,
    O-but when he're pin-fowded at skoo,
An' kept singin fro dayleet to dark,
    Unless he'd some mischief to do.

He run mad upo' marlocks, an' thad,
    Bein brimful o' frolicks an' game;
Bud nobury considered him bad
    For o as he'd getten a bad name.

He relished a tale or a song,
    An' i' his laddish fashion ud study,
An' ponder an' read, bud nod long,
    Lest his mind should ged moyther'd
        an' muddy.

He bore a bad name, as aw've sed,
    Bud he're nod gradely newt, when o's
        done,
For them as co'd him Nowty Ned
    Allus meant t' bigger hoaf on't i' fun.

His een wur a bonny blue-grey,
    An' as black as a soot-seck his noddle;
His feyturs 'ud do ony day
    For a sculptor to teck for a model.

His limbs were lithe, strong, an' weel knit—
    Complexion, tho' freckled, yet fair;
Dame Nature hed granted him wit,
    An' nod sich a niggardly share.

Fooak ma' toke just as owder fooak feels—
    Blame young tins, bud still when they'n
        done,
Iv youth mut be hung up bi th' heels
    Id couldn't help meckin id fun.

Put wayter i'th' heart ov a hill,
    An' a little red flame to id seot,
An' tho id bi nobbut a gill,
    Id'll lift id when id gets to th' heot.

Fire an wayter wark wonders, its true,
    An' Ned wur a hot un, yo known;
Bud ax no moor tow nor wot's due,
    Yo'n happen rough lads o' yo'r own.

He differed fro mony a mon,
    Bein moor gin to actions than toke;
An for life nod a likelier one
    Could yo come across in a day's woke.

An' bod for his fondness for spooart,
    Rumgumptious an' unlucky tricks,
He'd ha' plump bin a gradely good sooart,
    Wod owd un's co's "regular bricks."

Bud wod lumber he dud for a lark,
    Or wod practical jooakin abeawt,
Heawever he tried to keep dark
    He geet welly awlus fun eawt.

Owd Sarah, yo'd better be towd,
    Wur fifty un tornd when hoo'd Ned,
An' just like hur namesake ov owd
    Id wur th' only chilt as hoo'd hed.

Hur husban, owd Jonathan Cooar,
    An' eawt-warker, stalwart an hale,
Ud bi some th' upper hand o' three scoor
    When happened wots towd i' mi tale.

Young Ned wur a fleece o' t' same flock,
    Like his feyther an' grandad afoor—
A genuine chip off th' owd block—
    A trimmer, and true to the Cooar.

Some fooak are so callous an' cowd,
    They'll look grave, an' keep shakin their yed,
An' ull happen play t' foo, when they're owd
    'Stead o' gooin't while they're young, same
        as Ned.

Bud lemmo sail on wi' mi song,
    Time flies an' t' clock pendle keeps waggin,
An' may be some moor among t' throng
    Like me's at t' wrang side o' ther baggin.

Id wur baggin time—Monday—tort neet—
    Bin t' weshin day—t' women's day too—
When every woman i' t' street
Hes a haycock o' weshin to do.

There hed bin some smart bustlin abeawt,
    Wi' their mugs an' their tubs an' their "legs,"
An' they'd getten their linen laid eawt
    On their lines, wi' their props an' their pegs.

Ned nooticed 'em flutter i' t' wind
    Just puffed eawt like pillows or bags,
An' a nowty thowt crept in his mind,
    "He'd ma' some on 'em fly their white flags."

When th' instrument's there to one's hand
    Heaw often one does what's nooan reet,
Temptation's so hard to withstand
    Id owt to be put eawt o' t' seet.

After smookin an' talkin to t' wife,
    Owd Cooar hed gooan back to his job,
An' forgetten an' left his torn-knife
    A-side ov his pipe, onto th' hob.

Ned twigged id, as soon as he'd gooan,
    An' th' raskut determined to cop id,
When his dad hed ten t' torn o' th' owd looan,
    Iv his mam dudund see him an' stop id.

There's nothin bud reet or else wrong,
    An' wrong welly allus is offerin,
Sooa a chance like thad named i' mi song
    Ned wodn'd ha' missed for a sovereign.

He took id an' t' knife, eawt o' t' door,
    An' wended his way tip t' back fowd,
An' dud wod aw've towd yo befoor,
    Or wod yo'r just beawn to be towd.

He oppened his feyther's torn-knife;
    An' he cut every clooas line i' t' row;
An' he dosn't ha' done t' for his life
    B'r he're certain as nobury ud know.

An' nobury knew, there's no deawt,
    Tell when t' middens, like meawntains wi'
        lambs;
Were covered wi' clooas reawnd abeawt,
    Childer run in a-tellin their mams.

Then, wer'nt there a shindy up t' fowd!
    O t' women coom swarmin like bees,
An' they nooan on 'em ned to be towd,
    For they knew whooa med marlocks
        like these.

"Id just favvered one ov his tricks,
    Thad lad ov owd Cooar's, Nowty Ned;"
An' they toked abeawt hosswhips an' sticks,
    An' gooin beawt supper to bed.

They co'd him to ill to be brunt—
    It're next door to murthur an' theft,
An iv they wor bud sure as he'd done't
    They'd hang him wi' t' rooaps as were left.

Bud Ned hed a soft part to play,
    For Guilt bears a burden o' dread,
He'd covertly slithered away
    An' croppen upstairs an' to bed.

Let t' rumpus subside as id could,
    Sly Ned hed mooar gumption nor goam,
Or brade t' silly skriker i' t' wood,
    Or t' foo as threw th' ack after th' oam.

It're best to sing low an' lie still,
    An' act as iv nowt were to do—
Beard lions i' t' den them as will,
    Bud Neddy wur nod sich a foo.

Hevin doft him on t' landin, he'd thrown
    His clooas on his feyther's bed feet,
As he passed through t' nar reawm to his own,
    Quaitly grooapin, for t' want ov a leet.

Ned cared, after wod hed occur'd,
    Fur no clooas, bud he lockt his reawm door,
'Cose he feared iv his feyther geet word
    He'd happen nod need 'em no moor.

"Thank God! aw just missed bein i' t' mess"
    He sed, as he sunk into rest,
An' i' two-o-thry minutes or less
    T' *Pitch Dowter wur laid on his breast.

Bud t' row at th' eawtside hed still raged,
    Sich screamin, an' soasin, an' fratchin,
Tell husbans an' o were engaged,
    For madness like measles is latchin.

A relation fro' t' bottom o' t' row
    Sed moor fooak were nowt beside Ned,
An' boo meant to let some on 'em know
    As hoo didn't hoaf like wod they sed.

Id might ha' bin little Ned Cooar,
    Or id might ha' bin somebury else,
Bud hoo'd sweer through a wooak-pannel'd
        door,
    It're likelier some o' theirsels.

This roozed up a general jar,
    A sheawtin stampede wi o t' set,
An orthodox back-alley war,
    An', mooastly, hale fellow weel met.

Bett Nutt tackled owd Nann o' Pegg's,
    Sed a bigger slut never wur teed
To a mon, nor ne'er woked o' two legs,
    Nor hoo wor, an' o t' rest ov hur breed.

An' hoo'd tell 'em sooa, bod for a bod,
    An' a two-o'-thry moor things beside,
Shus whether fooak knew id or nod,
    It're true an' id couldn't be denyed.

"Goo to t' shop an pay off thi owd scoor!
    An' dorn'd be too fast wi thi jooaks,
Bud sweep thi own door-step afoor
    Tha offers to sweep other fooak's!"

Retorted owd Nann, for boo meant
    In a mob to be never behint,
An' "Aw've noather missed payin mi rent—
    Nor mi Scotchmon! beside aw dorn'd squint.

'Bi careful i' carryin eggs'
    Is a maxim, an' 'Ill seldom helps,'—
Bud God knows 'at Owd Nann o' Pegg's
    Allus skenned like a baskut o' whelps.

Some fooak con find fau't where there's nooan,
    When they're lookin at onybody else,
Bud they're blind as a bat is i' t' sun
    When they happen to look at theirsels.

Their conscience is white as a cleawt,
    Or a snow-drift wi' never a speck—
They mut find others like 'em no deawt
    Iv they'd tech a peck eawt o' t' same seck.

When fooak o gooas mad ov a lump,
    Done yo think as they think wod they're
        doin,
Ony moor nor a thunner-split stump
    Ov a tree ever thinks as it's grooin?

Bill Goodman bang'd off at Owd Nowt,
    An' sed he'd insulted his wife;
An' then, t' women "at id" an' fowt,
    Yo never seed t' like i' yo'r life.

Blind Joady wod used to sell beer
    Wur threopin wi' Dicky o' t' Nook,
When their wives coom an' wod interfere,
    He're biddin Blind Joady—"goo look !"

One woman coom eawt wi' t' long brush,
    An' then there wor fairly a race—
Kitty Dolly-legs after Nell Nush,
    As hed threatened to slap her o' t' face.

But duddund fooak giggle an' skrike
    When they tummled o'er Tummy wi
        t' crutch,
An' booath fell to-gether i' t' dike,
    An' geet up to t' garters i' t' slutch.

Then James, that's t' new maister o' t' skoo,
    Coom runnin as iv he're nooan reet,
An' wonderin wod wur to do,
    When a sod knockt his hat off i' t' street.

Jemmy picked up his 'tiler,' at once,
    An' wur bowtin as quait as a meawse,
Bud he'd nobut just covered his sconce
    When his ear geet a gradely good seawse.

It're happen a lad 'at he'd caned,
    In a row they're moor reckless nor men,
Happen one as hed never complained
    Bud just thowt he'd be up wi him then.

When he'd gwon, the're a regular laugh,
    An' a red-yeded lad fairly danced,
An' hoaf laid him deawn sheawtin "T' gaff—
    He's getten bell tinker for wonst!"

Sooa, do justice to every poor soul,
    An' dorn'd be too forrud or fast,
For wrang is a bo as ull roll
    An' come reawnd to yo'r own side at last.

While Tummy o' Harry's o' Johnny's
    Wur fotchin his wife eawt o' t' row,
There wur Esther o' Beb's o' owd Bonny's
    Went by, linkin arms wi owd Pow.

There were fooak mecking me-mo's, o reawnd,
    Sich titterin, an' sich a to-do;
Toppin danced tell he tumbled o' th' greawnd,
    When Jem o' Nell's sheawted, "Cuckoo!"

There were lots prickt their ears up at thad,
    An' fancied they felt summat spreawt
To'rt their temples, bud tumbled to 't glad
    There were nothin no further cropt eawt.

Jack Blacksmith to Jemmy o' Nell's
    Sed, "Let's hev a less o' thi gob!
Or aw's ha' to serve somebry else
    As aw wonst dud Owd Cobbler Bob."

Bud Jem hed moor sense nor ged warm,
    He stoode theer an' dud newt but laughed,
For he knew as Jack Smith hed an arm
    As suggested a steom-hommer shaft.

An' Fortun's sooa fickle i' war,
    One knows not wod luck hoo may deal,
A grave—or a scar—or a star,
    Sooa, it's best to be quait while one's weel.

Jack couldn't ged Jemmy's shirt eawt
    Tho' he med mony a fruitless endeavour,
At last, wi a sneer, he co'd eawt,—
    "Tha'rt as foolish owd fox as tha'rt clever.—

"An' clever as Joe o' Jack Rag's,
    As when id wur freezin an' snowin
Keckt a canful o' weyter on t' flags
    To keep fooak fro slippin an' fo'in.

"Be off! an' away wi tho hooam
    Wheer thi keawrdly breed is inside,
An' carry thi carcass off to 'em,
    Or aw'll follow tho every stride!"

Bud, braggin an' boastin is rash,
    An' t' fleetest o' runners soon stops,
As a flyin express gwo's to smash,
    Sooa Jack geet a rattler o' t' chops.

Id varra near fot him to t' greawnd,
    Bud whether a brick or a stooan,
When he coom to hissel an' looked reawnd,
    "Thad raskut as sent id" hed gooan.

He'd to bide, there were nothin else for 't,
    He're like a mad bull in a barn,
There wur nobud hissel to be hort;
    Sooa, strength hed a lesson to larn.

They sheawted Miss Susannah Grey—
    A piked apple eawt o' the pickt—
Bud, hoo sed, hoo'd ha nothin to say,
    Hur morals were rayther moor strict.

"Hello theer!" sed hoapenny Ailse,
    An' th' owd lass lookt as suited as could be,
"B'r iv aw'd to heed other fooak's tales,
    Tha'rt no moor strict nor tha should be!"

Hoo'd getten hur fingers i' t' pitch,
    An' wur itchin to kick up a riot,
Miss Grey hed co'd her an owd witch,
    An' the dule couldn't a kept t' woman quiet.

Sooa at id hoo started, ding drive,
    An' co'd t' woman, ever so ill,
Sed hoo'd nod leove sich verment alive,
    I' two two's, iv hoo hed but her will.

"Tha ne'er tokes to nooan o' t' yung men,
    Nor listens to wod they'n to say,
Tha'rt just like my gronny's white hen,
    An' id never once laid away."—

Hoo sed, but hoo know'd id worn'd reet,
    Yet determined on heving her fling,
As a moth hes a fly at a leet
    Tell id tumbles, through brunnin id wing.

There were caps flew, when Maggie o'er t' wo
    Bore witness to owd Molly Breawn,
That every one knew i' thad row
    As there worn'd sich a gossip i' t' teawn—

As finickin, prim Susey Grey;
    An' hoo knew a deol moor nor hoo'd tell,
An' hoo'd tell her sooa too, ony day,
    Hoo wur bod like a poor body's sel:

For a peasant possesses a soul
    As rich as a prince's, full-up,
Just as wine in a crockery bowl
    Is as sweet's in a guinea-gowd cup.

Bud Susey sed nothin, no moor,
    Bein fain to let rough matters rest,
Sooa hoo leet hersel in at t' back door,
    Hevin nowt bud come off second best.

When yo meddle wi fooak ut's i' t' wars,
    Ony foo may foretell wod yo'll ged;
When a pooaker's just poo'd eawt o' t' bars,
    Never handle thad end as is red.

An' Maggie wur waxin red-hot,
    Hoo sed hoo'd a crow yet to poo
Wi ever-so-mony o' t' lot—
    An' meck feathers fly!   That's wod
        hoo'd do.

Neaw, just while we're restin eawrsels,
    Lets listen to t' speech as hoo med;
Id'll happen suit somebury else,
    Iv wey dorn'd approove wod hoo sed.

"Aw wonder Sue Grey'd no moor sense
    Nor botherin an' playin wi t' cat;
It're like runnin through a thorn fence,
    Hoo wur certain to ged hersel scrat.

"Moll Maypow'd a good deol to say—
    An hur granmother used to milk t' pump,
Sooa they own two-o-thry heawses to-day,
    Bud aw'm honest, so heaw t' cat may jump.

"One shouldn't tell o as they known,
    Bud Molly, aw hev yerd id sed
As Billy an' Betty up t' looan
    Hed never bin gradely wed.

"Bud whether they hen or they hennot,
    Aw's nod stan between mon an' wife,
Nor think sich a thing for a minut,
    Nor do sich a thing for mi life.

"Aw'd like to gie Betty wod-for!
    Hoo sed aw could keep nowt—for shure!
Bud iv aw're sich a clat-can as hor,
    Aw'd nod show mi face eawt o' t' door.

"Bud women an' men goin mad,
    An' feightin, an' cloddin big stooans,
Fooak as thinks thersels dacent, an' thad,
    Id mecks mi flesh creep o' mi booans!

"Aw welly dost bet hoaf-a-creawn
    Some on 'em'd hed summut to sup,
For Giles up-o'-th'-height tumbled deawn
    As Billy Go-deeper coom up——"

Women's subjects are seldom to seech,
    An' their sermons are allus too long,
An' Maggie, thus far in hur speech,
    Wur just puttin steom to hur tongue,

When Lady Particular rooad by,
    An' drew up at t' corner o' t' street,
An' shakin her yed, wi a sigh,
    Murmured "Women—bare-headed—
       in street."

Nell Nush hed no answer to seech,
    Mi Nabs hed hur words allus ready,
An sed, "Thank yo, for sich a short speech,
    Bo leh-mee say a word, mi good lady!

"When yo'r class an' yar's ever meet
    We kornd gradely love nor yet hate yo,
Yo'r manner's so cowd an' so sweet,
    It's just like a frosted potato.

"Yo look sich a way off us, then,
    Tooan's notions sooa differ fro t' tothers'—
Yo an' us, rich an' poor, we think, when
    Will God's childer be sisters an' brothers?

"It's yo'r class as needs proppin up,
    It's yor class as furnishes t' prop,
It's bottom keeps t' wayter i' t' cup,
    Or at top there would ne'er be a drop.

"Yar class, when id temper geds curl'd,
    Runs blind like a keaw wi a bluzz,
Bud as yo're a bit heigher i' th' world,
    Yo con see a bit farther than us.

"Yo con shun sich mistakes as wey meck,
    Be discreet, an' upreet—do yo'r duty!
Bud oft when yo scold us an' check,
    It's kettle uts coin t' pon sooty."

Hoo'd be t' last body to interfere
    Or fo-eawt or do owt as wur nowt,
Bud iv fooak put their motty in theer
    Hoo'd give 'em as good as they browt.

Mi lady bi prudence ensconced,
    Sect her hoss off a-trottin tort t' teawn,
Hevin learnt a good lesson for wonst
    As th' up is behowden to t' deawn.

Hoo'd thowt, as to sattle a row
    Needed nobud her presence to do't,
As her weel-bred example, some heaw,
    Ud be latchin an' t' rest follow suit.

Bud a thowt doesn't wark eawt one's wish,
    As tested bi Se'n-acre Joe,
When Joady, poor lad, put a fish
    In a tree-pot an' tried id to grow.

A dar say, there'd be some i' thad place
    As 'ud feel their ears brun o' their yed,
While Shame flew her flag i' their face
    O'er wod hed bin done, an' bin sed.

Like threed upo' fate's magic spindle,
    Life's chequered—warm wayter soon boils—
Bud them as is cosy to kindle
    Con never be 't wost kind o' coyles.

Iv ever a row is begun,
    Wheerever or wod id may be,
Owd an' young, big an' little, ull run
    Like hens to a meyt-trough, to see.

One gentlemon rushed among t' throng,
    An' id lict ony cock feight, to see 't
Some sed he'd be lynch'd afoor long,
    An they thowt id ud serve t' fellow reet.

Fooak scuttered afoor him, like mad,
    They thowt it're a new magistrate—
"Tha's summut off, owd un!" a lad
    Sheawts, an' aw thowt it're happen a slate.

Owd Toothy an' Bandy-legg'd Ben
    Coom up wi fat Enock at-t'-dike,
An two or three fellow-lads, then,
    Sect up sich a rolluckin skrike—

Little Umpy an' Tummy wi-t'-crutch,
    Blind Joady, deeof Dicky-o'-t'-Nook,
Long Roger, lame Sammy fro-t'-Thrutch,
    Were together, an' they mut mend t' rook.

Neaw a bobby, as usual, buds up
    When t' last shot o't' row hes bin fired,
Allus theer when there's summat to sup,
    Bud seldom when duty's required.

Bud Robbut, this time, wur i' time,
    An' let us record to his credit,
For preventin impossible crime,
    Iv there be ony honour, he hed it.

He're nod to be sneezed at, bud sharp,
    An' never t' last dog to leeop th' hedge;
He'd a heeod abeawt t' size ov a warp
    An as sharp as t' thick end ov a wedge.

Wi booath ov his arms sprodden wide,
    He thowt he'd catch every one,
Like a lad playin at Black Thorn, he tried,
    Bud he never catch'd th' odd un—foce mon!

For as soon as they seed a breet button,
    Away every one on 'em soyles,
Like flees off a carcass o' mutton,
    Or rats runnin into their hoyles.

Then Robbut patrols to an' fro
    As iv he'd bin doin id grand,
Wi twice as mich swagger an' show
    As iv he hed t' lordship o' t' land.

An' theer let us leeove him a bit,
    An' hooap fooak ull o go to bed,
An' sattle thersels, while wey flit
    Reawnd t' corner to look at 'er Ned.

Id bothered owd Billy-for-Nowt,
    When t' bobby kept wokin abeawt,
He couldn't si nowt, bud he thowt
    There'er summut he couldn't meck eawt.

Owd Billy'd bin hevin a nod,
    No deawt, after summut to sup,
An id capt him to meck id eawt wod
    The hangmut hed ever bin up.

Police sed, he should be i' bed
    An' asleep, an' he'd better move on!
Billy stared, wi o th' een as he hed,
    "Wa! aw nobbut just wacken'd, owd mon."

Bud bobby sed "Wacken or not,
    Just offer to ma' thi sel sca'ce,
For iv tha stops a second on t' spot
    The'll bi t' Lockups, a feight, or a race."

Sooa, Billy just dud as he're towd,
    For he seem'd to be fain to creep in;
An as for o t' nebburs up t' fowd,
    Aw've yerd nowt o' nooan on 'em sin.'

Let nobudy sny up their nooas
    Nor blame me for wod t' women say,—
Iv yo dorn'd like to see dirty clooas,
    Yo con just torn yo'r heyd t' other way.

Nor think id my faut, or ill luck,
    Ut their language an' deeds are nooan
        good,
Bud stor ony lumb in a bruck
    An' yo're certain o' bringin up mud.

An' when yo think wod hed occurred—
    As t' fooak hed bin put eawt o' way,
Then, a row, or a feight, or rough word
    Is as nat'ral as neet after day.

Fooak ses, give the devil his due,
    An' justice should ne'er be deny'd,
Sooa when aw con see id mi cue,
    Aw'll gie yo a glimpse o' t' breet side.

To try to meck bad appear good
    Ud suit some fooak better bi far,
Bud aw'st shame for mysel, iv aw dud,
    Sooa, aw just pictur things as they are.

Bud let us ged back to Ned Cooar;
    His feyther'd cum hooam fro his wark,
An hed getten his supper afoor
    Two nebburs coom in, abeawt dark.

They toked abeawt t' weather, an' t' times,
    An' trade, tell their dialogue led
To t' Skoo Board, an' juvenile crimes,
    An' wod could be med o' young Ned.

Nabur Gysh sed, young Edward was clever,
    To send him to wark wur a sin;
Wi a chance, an' an honest endeavour,
    He'd shine!  When Owd Sarah chimed in,—

"He's clever, bud nod o' mich use,
    Gi'n to readin an' thinkin an thad,
Bid him wark an' he'll meck an excuse—
    He'd do for a poet, wod t' lad,"

"An' wod kin o' trade is a poet?
    Does id put ony meyle r' yo'r pooak?
Does id bring ony brass, lemmo know it?"
    Then Owd Jonathan put in a spooak,—

"It's a gawky wod jingles i' rhyme,
    Allus dreomin o'er one thing or t' other,
A spoony wod spends o his time
    Meckin toke as is like one another.

"Bud t' wost may torn eawt to bi t' best,
    An' t' best may torn eawt to bi t' wost.
An' t' fost may torn eawt to bi t' last,
    An' t' last may torn eawt to bi t' fost.

"Sooa there's no ackeawnt to be gi'n
    Tell a lad's getten gradely green up—
Even t' Watterloo dog as ull win
    Ma be neaw bud a poor-lookin pup."

Mrs. Gush ax'd her husban to tell her
    "Wod age Nowty Ned 'Lid ha getten?—
He'd groo up, an' like ony young 'feller,'—
    Run wild just as long as he're letten!"

"As yo'n ax'd mo wod age Nowty Ned wor,
    It 'll happen suffice to be towd,
He're born abeawt t' time as 'er Fred wor,
    An' he's torn'd eleven year owd.

"Sooa it's time to be shapin for some'at
    Iv they meon to meck onythin o' owt,
F'r iv they dornd fix a standard to come at,
    They'll never meck nothin o' nowt.

"It's a thing as should allus bi seen to,
    As t' mon hes to groo eawt o' t' lad,
Sooa, when yo're just grooin between two
    Begin o' givin o'er bein bad."

Sooa they let on as nothin hed happened,
    Abeawt ever touchin on t' row,
Feelin feart as Owd Sarah'd be gloppened,
    Lest Ned 'er among id someheaw.

Then they chatted o'er women, awhile,
    Heaw a husban should act tort his wife,
Heaw a wife oft 'ud teeoz him an' rile
    Him to within an inch ov his life.

"Things 'ud bi better managed," sed Gush,
    "Iv booath on 'em kept their own 'spere'—
Give a woman her needle an' brush,
    Let a mon hev his 'bacco an' beer.

"Bud a wife mecks a husban a brute,
    An' kornd help bud teeoz him an' vex;
Well, it's happen through Adam an' t' Fruit
    As we find sich a failin i' t' sex."

"A failin i' t' sex!  An' whot's thad?
    Sich language as never wur known!
Bud yo'd nod think eawr sex wur so had
    Iv yo'd mete a peck eawt o' yo'r own."

"A mon ses his say an' hes done,
    He feels a hot prato should drop,
Bud yo women ! Yo'r preytchin, begun,
    Lord knows wheer yo'r sermon ull stop."

"Us women!   An' wod 're yo men?
    Yo con beeot us wi nothin bud blows,
Sooa, aw tell tho, agen an' agen,
    Aw will toke an' back mi own coze."

Hoo mut ding-dong away, iv hoo would,
    He cared nod a coss for hur tongue,
Shus whether hoo dudn't or dud,
    It're happen as brooad as 'twere long.

Sooa, Gush thowt he'd let matters drop,
    An' he'd threeop wi their Ellen no moor,
Iv he followed, her tongue ud ne'er stop,
    Sooa, he'd torn reawnd an' toke to Owd
        Cooar.

Th' owd fellow hed wanted a smook,
    His knife hed bin felt for, an' missed,
He could noather tell wheer he mut look
    Nor do beawt, for he allus used twist.

Then he flew in a passion, an' sed
    Wod one shouldn't repeat, for he swore,
An' he raved abeawt knobsticks, an' Ned,
    An' somebury's booans bein sooar.

Bud Gush an' his wife went away
    When they harkened Owd Jonathan coss;
It 're gettin tort bedtime, an' they
    Thowt they'd "mizzle " while things were no
        woss.

Owd Sarah slipt eawt o't back door
    Fot summut, an' put id i' t' pon,
An' warmed id an' give id Owd Cooar,
    Sayin, ged this into tho, owd mon!

T' warm neet-cap hoo browt him to don,
    Though he still favvurd sweering his
        prayers,
Med th' owd lad feel so bein wi id on,
    Th' owd lass geet him quaitly up stairs.

An' he'd ha' slept seawndly o neet,
    An' ha' thowt nowt abeawt id no moor,
Bud, throwin Ned's clooas off t' bed feet,
    His knife tumbled eawt on to t' floor.

His limbs fairly tottered wi rage,
    His een blazed like coyles in his yed,
An' i' spite o' rheumatic an' age
    He'd ha' soon med a wakes o' their Ned.

Bud Ned 'ur i' bed, an asleep,
    For prudence hed locked his room door,
An' audibly drivin his sheep,
    As they say'n, when they hear a mon snooar.

Yet t' noyse as owd Jonathan med
    Hed wacken'd him eawt ov his sleep,
An' he'd beawnced in his shirt eawt o' bed,
    An' croppen to th' key-hoyle to peep.

Bud t' tantrum his feyther wur in,
    An' t' threats as were uttered an' heard,
An' wod, through thad key-hoyle wur sin,
    He slept nooan thad neet, he're so fear'd.

Yo may hev a like-aim wod they'n done
    Iv yo'll fairly bring childer to book,
Yo may read their snod faces like fun,
    For they feel, think, an' act, as they look.

They'n nod sich dark nooks i' their mind
    As mony—booath woman an' mon—
Hes caved eawt, their conscience to blind,
    When t' sunleet o' goodness hed gone.

For childer korn'd cover deceit,
    Yo may tell bi their een, or their tongue,
They're as plucky as Hector i' th' reet,
    Or as plain as a pike-staff i' t' wrong.

An' Ned wur i' t' wrong, reet enough,
    An' o'er t' yed i' th' hobble, as weel
He admitted his morals were rough,
    B'r he'd "mend 'em, a cake at a meal."

He thowt o' wod rain-mugs he'd brocken,
    An heaw mony mops he'd misplaced,
And o t' wicked words 'ut he'd spocken
    To t' donkeys an' cats wod he'd chased.

He thowt abeawt chokin fooaks doors,
    Upsettin their tubs an' their pails,
An' t' dogs as he'd twitchelled, bi scoors,
    An' t' kettles he'd teed to their tails.

He thowt abeawt breighkin deawn fences,
    An' tornin fooak's cattle astray,
Bein catch'd, an' some little expenses
    His fayther, at times, hed to pay.

He knew he'd played "Which could be
        t' bowdest,"
    An' mony a time getten knee-deep,
An' beeoten booath t' youngest an' th' owdest,
    An' coom'd hooam, as black as a sweep.

He'd jumpt onto hosses i' t' pastur,
    An' mony a time stown a good ride,
Med an "A-per-ul-foo" ov his master,
    An' play'd some quare anticks beside.

He seldom hed done id hissel,
    Tho' he'd often showed other lads t' rooad
To poo a snail eawt ov id shell,
    Blow a frog up, or spang-wheugh a tooad.

When "twoin a foe" wur on t' slate,
    He'd mony a time sauntered aloof,
Bud, when he wur randlin a mate
    He lugged hard—he wur like to show proof.

He remembered poor Billy o' Baggs!
    One day when they're playin at "Trust,"
Billy fell ov his back, onto th' flags,
    An' Ned crommed his meawth full o' dust.

This ganger o' gallows young broods
    Nobut laught at Bill bumpin his heeod,
"Lie theer wi thi meawth full o' mouds
    Like other fooak does, when they're
        deeod—"

He sed, for he thowt id rare fun,
    An' fancied he'd play'd a fine trick,
An' he gloried i' wod he'd just done,
    Tho he knew id wur servin Owd Nick.

He'd wonst brocken t' wing ov a fowl,
    A widow's wod lived o'er-anenst,
An' he felt a sooar place in his soul
    Sooa he thowt he'd pluck t' dot eawt
        at wonst.

Heaw oft an heaw softly his mam,
    For sayin or doin owt ill,
Hed check'd him, say'n, quait as a lamb,
    "Tha con be a good lad ov tha will."

He bethowt him he'd oft yerd his dad
    Use an adage he'd never forget,
That Con-do's a gradely good lad
    Bud Will-do's a better lad yet.

He'd torn o'er a leeof in his life—
    "Wicked mirth leeods to misery's mill"
He'd beg pardon for steylin thad knife!
    "Aw con be a good lad an' aw will!"

He thowt, "for crows comes hooam to roost,
    An' t, beeos mun be milked, an' be
        shippon'd,
An' t' bull mun be cheeoned up i' t' boost."
    An' Neddy wur nod mich mis lipponed.

He knew 'at booath evil an' good
    Ud just bear their natural fruit,
An' be happy, a lad never could,
    Iv he nobud lived t' life ov a brute.

Sooa Neddy determined to change
    An awse to be doin as he owt,
Id met feel at fost reyther strange
    B'r he're tyart o' bein so nowt.

"An' if aw dorn'd dee afoor mornin,"
    He sed "an' mi dad ull forgive,
Aw'll awter this luck, aw wur born in,
    An' be a good lad tell aw live.

"Aw've plump run to th' end o' mi tether,
    An neaw when mi frollockin's done,
Teck an' weigh good an' bad up together
    Aw've hed to pay dear for my fun."

Id couldn't be mich o'er an heawr
    Sin he're sagin away at them lines,
An' heaw soon he'd undo't iv he'd peawer—
    Lord bless us heaw after wit shines!

When owt as is newt hes bin done,
    Heaw soon one groos sick ov his wark,
Au' wishes he'd never begun,
    Or awses to hid id i' t' dark!

Bud heawever complete be his plan
    For puttin ill deeds eawt o' t' seet,
There's a fate as ull sift an' ull scan
    Tell id broach 'em an' bring 'em to leet.

Put sin in a casket o' steel,
    It's certain to heyt id way through;
Crime clats when id seeks to conceal,
    The Devil war allus a foo.

Bud do a good action i' th' dark,
    Let t' subject be simple an' poor,
Let nobury bi near yo to mark,
    It 'ull bud up an' blossom fro t' floor.

An' never philosopher knew
    Mich better nor little Ned Cooar,
For he felt every word on id true,
    Tho' he knew he'd bin foolish befoor.

Bud neaw when he's brocken his fetter,
    An' able to sleep in his bed;
As it's never too late to be better,
    Let's hope there's a chance for poor Ned.

* Nightmare

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