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Give me a crust tho' it's dry, an' a hard 'en,
If aw know it's my own aw can ait it wi' glee;
Aw'd rayther bith hauf work all th' day for a farden,
Nor haddle a fortun wi' bendin' mi knee.
Let ivery man by his merit be tested,
Net by his pocket or th' clooas on his back;
Let hypocrites all o' ther clooaks be divested,
An' what they're entitled to, that let em tak.
Give it 'em hot! but remember when praichin,
All yo 'at profess others failins to tell,
'At yo'll do far moor gooid wi' yor tawkin an' taichin,
If yo set an example, an' improve yorsel.

A Tale for th' Childer, on Christmas Eve.

Little childer,--little childer;
Harken to an old man's ditty;
Tho yo live ith' country village,--
Tho yo live ith' busy city.
Aw've a little tale to tell yo,--
One 'at ne'er grows stale wi' tellin,--
It's abaat One who to save yo,
Here amang men made His dwellin.
Riches moor nor yo can fancy,--
Moor nor all this world has in it,--
He gave up becoss He loved yo,
An He's lovin yo this minnit.


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