Even th' dogs have enuff an' to spare, Tho' they ne'er worked a day i' ther life; But ther maisters forget they should care For a chap 'at's three bairns an' a wife. They give dinners at th' hall ivery neet, An' ther's carriages stand in bi'th scoor, An' all th' windows are blazin wi leet, But they seldom give dinners to th' poor. I' mi pocket aw hav'nt a rap, Nor a crust, nor a handful o' mail; An' unless we can get it o'th strap, We mun pine, or mun beg, or else stail. But hoamwards aw'll point mi owd clogs To them three little lambs an' ther dam;-- Aw wish they wor horses or dogs, For its nobbut poor fowk 'at's to clam. But they say ther is One 'at can see, An' has promised to guide us safe through; Soa aw'll live on i'hopes, an' surelee, He'll find a chap summat to do. Another Babby Another!--well, my bonny lad, A'w wodn't send thee back; Altho' we thowt we hadn't raam, Tha's fun some in a crack. It maks me feel as pleased as punch To see thi pratty face; Ther's net another child i'th bunch Moor welcome to a place Aw'st ha' to fit a peark for thee, I' some nook o' mi cage; But if another comes, raylee! Aw'st want a bigger wage. But aw'm noan feard tha'll ha' to want-- We'll try to pool thee throo, For Him who has mi laddie sent, He'll send his baggin too. He hears the little sparrows chirp, An' answers th' raven's call; He'll never see one want for owt, 'At's worth aboon 'em all. But if one on us mun goa short, (Although it's hard to pine,) Thy little belly shall be fill'd Whativer comes o' mine. A chap con nobbut do his best, An' that aw'll do for thee, Leavin to providence all th' rest, An' we'st get help'd, tha'll see. An' if thi lot's as bright an' fair As aw could wish it, lad, Tha'll come in for a better share Nor iver blessed thi dad. Aw think aw'st net ha' lived for nowt, If, when deeath comes, aw find Aw leave some virtuous lasses An' some honest lads behind. An' tho' noa coat ov arms may grace For me, a sculptor'd stooan, Aw hope to leave a noble race, Wi arms o' flesh an' booan. Then cheer up, lad, tho' things luk black, Wi' health, we'll persevere, An' try to find a brighter track-- We'll conquer, niver fear! An may God shield thee wi' his wing, Along life's stormy way, An' keep thi heart as free throo sin, As what it is to-day. Th' Little Black Hand Ther's a spark just o'th tip o' mi pen, An' it may be poetical fire; An' suppoase 'at it is'nt--what then? Wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire? Aw'm detarmined to scribble away-- Soa's them 'at's a fancy con read; An' tho aw turn neet into day, If aw'm suitin an odd en, neer heed! Aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life; But then ther's abundance o' care, An' them 'at's contented wi' strife May allus mak sure o' ther share.