That poor little maase aw dooant think meant me harm,
   Shoo ne’er knew what that bonnet had cost me;
All shoo wanted wor some little nook snug an’ warm,
   An’ a gooid two o’-three shillin its lost me.

Aw should think as they’ve come into th’ world born i’ silk,
   They’ll be aristocratical varmin;
But awm wasting mi time! awl goa get ’em some milk,
   An’ na daat but th’ owd lass likes it warmin.

Bless mi life! a few drops ’ll sarve them!  If we try,
   Awm weel sure we can easily spare ’em,
But as sooin as they’re able, awl mak ’em all fly! 
   Never mind’ if aw dooant! harum scarum!

An Old Man’s Christmas Morning.

Its a long time sin’ thee an’ me
      have met befoor, owd lad,—­
   Soa pull up thi cheer, an’ sit daan,
      for ther’s noabdy moor welcome nor thee: 
Thi toppin’s grown whiter nor once,—­
      yet mi heart feels glad,
   To see ther’s a rooas o’ thi cheek,
      an’ a bit ov a leet i’ thi e’e.

Thi limbs seem to totter an’ shake,
      like a crazy owd fence,
   ‘At th’ wind maks to tremel an’ creak;
      but tha still fills thi place;
An’ it shows ’at tha’rt bless’d
      wi’ a bit o’ gradely gooid sense,
   ‘At i’ spite o’ thi years an’ thi cares,
      tha still wears a smile o’ thi face.

Come fill up thi pipe—­
      for aw knaw tha’rt reight fond ov a rick,—­
   An’ tha’ll find a drop o’ hooarm-brew’d
      i’ that pint up o’th’ hob, aw dar say;
An’ nah, wol tha’rt toastin thi shins,
      just scale th’ foir, an’ aw’ll side thi owd stick,
   Then aw’ll tell thi some things ’ats happen’d
      sin tha went away.

An’ first of all tha mun knaw
      ’at aw havn’t been spar’d,
   For trials an’ troubles have come,
      an’ mi heart has felt well nigh to braik;
An’ mi wife, ’at tha knaws wor mi pride,
      an’ mi fortuns has shared,
   Shoo bent under her griefs,
      an’ shoo’s flown far, far away aat o’ ther raik.

My life’s like an owd gate
      ’ats nobbut one hinge for support,
   An’ sometimes aw wish—­aw’m soa lonely—­
      at tother ‘ud drop off wi’ rust;
But it hasn’t to be, for it seems
      Life maks me his spooart,
   An’ Deeath cannot even spare time,
      to turn sich an owd man into dust.

Last neet as aw sat an’ watched th’ yule log
      awd put on to th’ fire,
   As it cracked, an’ sparkled, an’ flared
      up wi’ sich gusto an’ spirit,
An’ when it wor touch’d it shone breeter,
      an’ flared up still higher,
   Till at last aw’d to shift th’ cheer further back
      for aw couldn’t bide near it.

Th’ dull saand o’ th’ church bells
      coom to tell me one moor Christmas mornin’,
   Had come, for its welcome—­
      but ha could aw welcome it when all aloan? 
For th’ snow wor fallin soa thickly,
      an’ th’ cold wind wor moanin,
   An’ them ’at aw lov’d wor asleep
      i’ that cold church yard, under a stoan: