An’ when called on, they, tremblin’ wi’ fear,
   Say “The hungry an’ nak’d we ne’er knew,”
That sentence shall fall on their 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.

A Strange Stooary.

Aw know some fowk will call it crime,
   To put sich stooaries into ryhme,
But yet, contentedly aw chime
   Mi simple ditty: 
An if it’s all a waste o’ time,
   The moor’s the pity.

-------

O’er Wibsey Slack aw coom last neet,
Wi’ reekin heead and weary feet,
A strange, strange chap, aw chonced to meet;
   He made mi start;
But pluckin up, aw did him greet
   Wi beatin heart.

His dress wor black as black could be,
An th’ latest fashion aw could see,
But yet they hung soa dawderly,
   Like suits i’ shops;
Bith heart! yo mud ha putten three
   Sich legs i’th’ slops.

Says aw, “Owd trump, it’s rather late
For one at’s dress’d i’ sich a state,
Across this Slack to mak ther gate: 
   Is ther some pairty? 
Or does ta allus dress that rate—­
   Black duds o’th’ wairty?”

He twisted raand as if to see
What sooart o’ covy aw cud be,
An’ grinned wi sich a maath at me,
   It threw me sick! 
“Lor saves!” aw cried, “an’ is it thee
   At’s call’d ow’d Nick!”

But when aw luk’d up into th’ place,
Whear yo’d expect to find a face;
A awful craytur met mi gaze,
   It took mi puff: 
“Gooid chap,” aw sed, “please let me pass,
   Aw’ve seen enough!”

Then bendin cloise daan to mi ear,
He tell’d me ’at aw’d nowt to fear,
An’ soa aw stop’t a bit to hear
   What things he’d ax;
But as he spake his, teeth rang clear,
   Like knick-a-nacks.

“A’a, Jack,” he sed, “aw’m capt ’wi thee
Net knowin sich a chap as me;
For oft when tha’s been on a spree,
   Aw’ve been thear too;
But tho’ aw’ve reckon’d safe o’ thee,
   Tha’s just edged throo.

Mi name is Deeath—­tha needn’t start,
And put thi hand upon thi heart,
For tha ma see ’at aw’ve noa dart
   Wi which to strike;
Let’s sit an’ tawk afoor we part,
   O’th edge o’th dyke.”

“Nay, nay, that tale weant do, owd lad,
For Bobby Burns tells me tha had
A scythe hung o’er thi’ shoulder, Gad! 
   Tha worn’t dress’d
I’ fine black clooath; tha wore’ a plad
   Across thi breast!”

“Well, Jack,” he said, “thar’t capt no daat
To find me’ wanderin abaght;
But th’ fact is, lad, ’at aw’m withaat
   A job to do;
Mi scythe aw’ve had to put up th’ spaat,
   Mi arrows too.”

“Yo dunnot mean to tell to me,
‘At fowk noa moor will ha’ to dee?”
“Noa, hark a minit an’ tha’ll see
   When th’ truth aw tell! 
Fowk do withaat mi darts an me,
   Thev kill thersel.