Eawr Johnny gi’s his mind to books; Eawr Abram studies plants,— He caps the dule for moss an’ ferns, An’ grooin’ polyants; For aught abeawt mechanickin’, Eawr Ned’s the very lad; My uncle Jamie roots i’th stars, Enough to drive him mad. Eawr Alick keeps a badger’s shop, An’ teyches Sunday schoo’; Eawr Joseph’s welly blynt, poor lad; Eawr Timothy’s—a foo’;— He’s tried three different maks o’ trades, An’ olez missed his tip; But, then, he’s th’ nicest whistler That ever cocked a lip! Eawr Matty helps my mother, an’ Hoo sews, an’ tents eawr Joe; At doin’ sums, an’ sich as that, My feyther licks ’em o’! Eawr Charley,—eh, there connot be Another pate like his; It’s o’ crom-full o’ ancientry, An’ Roman haw-pennies! Eawr Tummy’s taen to preitchin’,— He’s a topper at it, too! But then,—what’s th’ use,—eawr Bill comes in An’ swears it winnut do: When t’one’s bin strivin’ o’ he con To awter wicked men, Then t’other mays some marlocks, an Convarts ’em o’er again. Eawr Abel’s th’ yung’st; an’ next to Joe, My mother likes him t’ best; Hoo gi’s him brass, aboon his share, To keep him nicely drest;— He’s gettin in wi’ th’ quality, An’ when his clarkin’s done, He’s olez oather cricketin’, Or shootin’ wi’ a gun. My uncle Sam’s a fiddler; an’ Aw fain could yer him play Fro’ set o’ sun till winter neet Had melted into day; For eh,—sich glee!—sich tenderness! Through every changin’ part, It’s th’ heart ’at stirs his fiddle,— An’ his fiddle stirs his heart. When th’ owd brid touches th’ tremblin’ streng, It knows his thowt so weel, It seawnds as iv an angel tried To tell what angels feel; An’, sometimes, th’ water in his e’en, ’At fun has made to flow, Can hardly roll away, afore It’s weet wi’ drops o’ woe. Then, here’s to Jone, an’ Ab, an’ Ned, An’ Matty,—an’ eawr Joe,— My feyther, an’ my mother; an’ Eawr t’other lads an’ o’; An’ thee, too, owd musicianer,— Aw wish lung life to thee,— A mon ’at plays a fiddle weel Should never awse to dee! [Illustration] TH’ SWEETHEART GATE. AIR—“_The Manchester Angel_.” Oh, there’s mony a gate eawt ov eawr teawn-end, But nobbut one for me; It winds by a rindlin’ wayter side, An’ o’er a posied lea. 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.