Oh! charity surely is rare,
Or ther'd net be soa monny neglected;
For ther's lots wi enuff an' to spare,
An' from them varry mich is expected.
An' tho' in this world they've ther fill
Of its pleasures, an' wilfully blinded,
Let deeath come--as surely it will--
They'll be then ov ther duties reminded.
An' when called on, they, tremblin' wi' fear,
Say "The hungry an' nak'd we ne'er knew,"
That sentence shall fall on their ear--
"Depart from me; I never knew you."
Then, oh! let us do what we can,
Nor with this world's goods play the miser;
If it's wise to lend money to man,
To lend to the Lord must be wiser.
A Strange Stooary.
Aw know some fowk will call it crime,
To put sich stooaries into ryhme,
But yet, contentedly aw chime
Mi simple ditty:
An if it's all a waste o' time,
The moor's the pity.
-------
O'er Wibsey Slack aw coom last neet,
Wi' reekin heead and weary feet,
A strange, strange chap, aw chonced to meet;
He made mi start;
But pluckin up, aw did him greet
Wi beatin heart.
His dress wor black as black could be,
An th' latest fashion aw could see,
But yet they hung soa dawderly,
Like suits i' shops;
Bith heart! yo mud ha putten three
Sich legs i'th' slops.
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