Edwin Waugh (LANCASHIRE) THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE TH' SWEETHEART GATE Он, there's mony a gate eawt ov eawr teawn-end, But nobbut one for me; It winds by a rindlin' wayter side, It wanders into a shady dell; An' when aw 've done for th' day, Aw never can sattle this heart o' mine, Beawt walkin' deawn that way. It's noather garden, nor posied lea, Nor wayter rindlin' clear; But deawn i'th vale there's a rosy nook, An' my true love lives theer. It's olez summer where th' heart 's content, Tho' wintry winds may blow; An' there's never a gate 'at 's so kind to th' fuut, As th' gate one likes to go. When aw set off o' sweetheartin,' aw 've But th' very first glent o' yon chimbley-top An' when aw meet wi' my bonny lass, Oh, there's summut i' th' leet o' yon two blue e'en That plays the dule wi' me! When th' layrock's finished his wark aboon, He flutters deawn to his mate, an' stops Aw wish that Candlemas day were past, An' aw wish that Kesmass time were here, Aw wish this wanderin' wark were o'erThis maunderin' to an' fro; That aw could go whoam to my own true love, An' stop at neet an' o'. OWD PINDER OWD Pinder were a rackless foo, An' spent his days i' spreein' ; At th' end ov every drinkin'-do, He're sure to crack o' deein'; 'Go, sell my rags, an' sell my shoon; Aw's never live to trail 'em ; My ballis-pipes are eawt o' tune, "Eawr Matty's very fresh an' yung ; An' lev her wick beheend me. "Nay, nay," said he, "my fuddle 's done; We're partin' t' one fro' t' other; So, promise me that when a 'm gwon, Thea 'll never wed another!" "Th' owd tale," said hoo, an' laft her stoo, "It's rayley past believin'; He scrat his yed, he rubb'd his e’e, It mun be now or never; Samuel Lapcock (LANCASHIRE) God bless thee, love, aw 'm fain tha 'rt come, Tha 'rt loike thi mother to a tee, Come, come, tha need n't look so shy, An' tak this haup'ney for thisel', Dead oak! thou livest. Thy smitten hands, Beneath the shadow of thy name, A POET'S EPITAPH STOP, mortal! Here thy brother lies His books were rivers, woods, and skies, His teachers were the torn heart's wail, The street, the factory, the jail, The palace—and the grave. Sin met thy brother everywhere! And is thy brother blam'd ? The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, The equal of the great, He bless'd the steward, whose wealth makes A hand to do, a head to plan, A heart to feel and dare Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man Who drew them as they are. THE BUILDERS SPRING, summer, autumn, winter, Winds blow, suns set, and morning saith. "Ye hills, put on your gold." The song of Homer liveth, Dead Solon is not dead; But Babylon and Memphis Are letters traced in dust: Read them, earth's tyrants! ponder well The might in which ye trust! They rose, while all the depths of guilt Truth, mercy, knowledge, justice, |