But thease tears aw cannot stay,
   Drops o’ sorrow fallin fast,
Hopes once held aw’ve put away
   As a dream, an think its past;
But mi poor heart loves thi still,
An’ wol life is mine it will.

When aw’m seated, lone and sad,
   Wi mi scanty, hard won meal,
One thowt still shall mak me glad,
   Thankful that alone aw feel
What it is to tew an’strive
Just to keep a soul alive.

Th’ whin-bush rears o’th’ moor its form,
   An’ wild winds rush madly raand,
But it whistles to the storm,
   In the barren home it’s faand;
Natur fits it to be poor,
An ’twor vain to strive for moor.

If it for a lily sighed,
   An’ a lily chonced to grow,
When it found the fair one died,
   Powerless to brave the blow
Of the first rude gust o’ wind,
Which had left its wreck behind.

Then ’twod own ’twor better fate
   Niver to ha’ held the prize;
Whins an’ lilies connot mate,
   Sich is not ther destinies;
Then ’twor wrang for one like me,
One soa poor, to sigh for thee.

Then gooid bye, aw dunnot blame,
   Tho’ mi loss it’s hard to bide,
For it wod ha’ been a shame
   Had tha iver been mi bride;
Content aw’ll wear mi lonely lot,
Tho’ mi poor heart forgets thee not.

Duffin Johnie.

(A Rifleman’s Adventure.)

Th’ mooin shone breet wi silver leet,
   An’ th’ wind wor softly sighin,
Th’ burds did sleep, an’ th’ snails did creep,
   An’ th’ buzzards wor a flying;
Th’ daisies donned ther neet caps on,
   An’ th buttercups wor weary,
When Jenny went to meet her John,
   Her Rifleman, her dearie.

Her Johnny seemed as brave a lad
   As iver held a rifle,
An’ if ther wor owt in him bad,
   ’Twor nobbut just a trifle
He wore a suit o’ sooity grey,
   To show ’at he wor willin
To feight for th’ Queen and country
   When perfect in his drillin.

His heead wor raand, his back wor straight,
   His legs wor long an’ steady,
His fist wor fully two pund weight,
   His heart wor true an’ ready;
His upper lip wor graced at th’ top
   Wi mustache strong and bristlin,
It railly wor a spicy crop;
   Yo’d think to catch him whistlin.

His buzzum burned wi’ thowt’s o’ war,
   He long’d for battles clatter. 
He grieved to think noa foeman dar
   To cross a sup o’ watter;
He owned one spot,—­an’ nobbut one,
   Within his heart wor tender,
An’ as his darlin had it fun,
   He’d be her bold defender.

At neet he donn’d his uniform,
   War trials to endure,
An’ helped his comrades brave, to storm
   A heap ov horse manure! 
They said it wor a citidel,
   Fill’d wi’ some hostile power,
They boldly made a breach, and well
   They triumph’d in an hour.

They did’nt wade to th’ knees i’ blooid,
   (That spoils one’s breeches sadly),
But th’ pond o’ sypins did as gooid,
   An’ scented ’em as badly;
Ther wor noa slain to hug away,
   Noa heeads, noa arms wor wantin,
They lived to feight another day,
   An’ spend ther neets i’ rantin.