Old stingy Eccles was talking one day to his coachman, who he was trying to impress with his own super-excellent quality, though he had never used his old Jehu over-well in the matter of wages.
"John," he said, "there's two sorts of Eccleses; there's Eccleses that are angels, and Eccleses that are devils."
"Ay, maister," responded John, "an' th' angels ha' been deod for mony a yer!"
A temperance meeting was being held in a Lancashire village, and one of the speakers, waxing eloquent, not to say pathetic, exclaimed:
"How pleased my poor dead father must be, looking down on me, his son, advocating teetotalism from this platform!"
One of the audience, interrupting him, rose and interjected:
"Nay, nay, that'll do noan, mon; if aw know'd thi feythur reet when he're alive, he's moar like lookin' up than deawn!"
I was amused with the answer given by a working man to an acquaintance. He was hurrying to the railway station with a small hand-bag on "Wakes Monday morning."
"Wheer ar't beawn, Jack?"