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.
All His power, pomp and glory,
Which to think on must bewilder,—
All He left,—an what for think yo?
Just for love ov little childer.
In a common, lowly stable
He wor laid, an th' stars wor twinklin,
As if angel's 'een wor peepin
On His face 'at th' dew wor sprinklin.
An one star, like a big lantern,
Shepherds who ther flocks wor keepin,
Saw, an foller'd till it rested
Just aboon whear He wor sleepin.
Then strange music an sweet voices
Seem'd to sing reight aght o' Heaven,
"Unto us a child is born!
Unto us a son is given!"
Then coom wise men thro strange nations,—
Young men an men old an hoary,—
An they all knelt daan befoor Him,
An araand Him shone a glory.
Then a King thowt he wod kill Him,
Tho he reckoned net to mind Him,
But they went to a strange country,
Whear this bad King couldn't find Him.
An He grew up strong and sturdy,
An He sooin began His praichin,
An big craads stood raand to listen,
An they wondered at His taichin.
Then some sed bad things abaat Him,
Called Him names, laft at an jeered Him;—
Sed He wor a base imposter,
For they hated, yet they feeard Him.
Some believed in His glad tidins,—
Saw Him cure men ov ther blindness,—
Saw Him make once-deead fowk livin,
Saw Him full o' love an kindness.
Wicked men at last waylaid Him,
Drag'd Him off to jail and tried Him,
Tho noa fault they could find in Him,
Yet they cursed an crucified Him.
Nubdy knows ha mich He suffered;
But His work on earth wor ended:—
From the grave whear they had laid Him,
Into Heaven He ascended.
Love like His may well bewilder,—
Sinners weel may bow befoor Him;—
Nah He waits for th' little childer,
Up in Heaven whear saints adore Him.
Think when sittin raand yor hearthstun,
An the Kursmiss bells are ringing,
Ha He lived an died at yo may
Join those angels in ther singin.
Words ov Kindness.
'Tis strange 'at fowk will be sich fooils
To mak life net worth livin',
Fermentin' rows, creatin' mooils,
Detractin' an' deceivin'.
To fratch an' worry day an' neet,
Is sewerly wilful blindness,
When weel we know ther's nowt as sweet,
As a few words spoke i' kindness.
Ther is noa heart withaat its grief,
The gayest have some sadness;
But oft a kind word brings relief,
An' sheds a ray ov gladness.
We ought to think of others moor,
Nor ov ther pains be mindless;
We may bring joy to monny a door
Wi' a few words spoke i' kindness.
A peevish spaik, a bitin' jest,
'At may be thowtless spokken,
May be like keen edged dagger prest
Throo some heart nearly brokken.
Then let love be awr rule o' life,
This world's cares we shall find less;
For nowt can put an end to strife,
Like a few words spoke i' kindness.
A Brussen Bubble.
Bet wor a stirrin, strappin lass,
Shoo lived near Woodus Moor;—
An varry keen shoo wor for brass,
Tho little wor her stoor.
Shoo'd wed for love—and as luck let,
It proved a lucky hit;
A finer chap yo've seldom met,
Or one wi better wit.
His name awm net inclined to tell,
But he'd been kursend John;
An he wor rayther praad hissel,
An anxious to get on.
At neet they'd sit an tawk, an plan,
Some way to mend ther state;
"What one chap's done another can,"
Sed Bet, "let's get agate."