Hard wark, happen yo may find it,
   Some dear folly to forsake,
Be detarmined ne’er to mind it! 
   Think, yor honor’s nah at stake. 
Th’ gooid time’s drawin varry near! 
Then ha’ faith, an’ persevere.

To a Roadside Flower

Tha bonny little pooasy! aw’m inclined
      To tak thee wi’ me: 
But yet aw think if tha could spaik thi mind,
      Tha’d ne’er forgie me;
For I’ mi jacket button-hoil tha’d quickly dee,
An’ life is short enough, boath for mi-sen an’ thee.

Here, if aw leeave thee bi th’ rooadside to flourish,
      Whear scoors may pass thee,
Some heart ’at has few other joys to cherish
      May stop an’ bless thee: 
Then bloom, mi little pooasy!  Tha’rt a beauty,
Sent here to bless:  Smile on—­tha does thi duty.

Aw wodn’t rob another of a joy
      Sich as tha’s gien me;
For aw felt varry sad, mi little doy
      Until aw’d seen thee. 
An’ may each passin’, careworn, lowly brother,
Feel cheered like me, an’ leave thee for another.

Prose.  Hartley’s Cream of Wit and Humour

The New Year

What a charm ther is abaat owt new; whether it’s a new year or a new waist-coit.  Aw sometimes try to fancy what sooart ov a world ther’d be if ther wor nowt new.

Solomon sed ther wor nowt new under th’ sun; an’ he owt to know if onybody did.  Maybe he wor reight if we luk at it i’ some ways, but aw think it’s possible to see it in another leet.  If ther wor nowt new, ther’d be nowt to hooap for—­nowt to live for but to dee; an’ we should lang for that time to come just for th’ sake ov a change.  Ha anxiously a little child looks forrard to th’ time when he’s to have a new toy, an’ ha he prizes it at furst when he’s getten it:  but in a while he throws it o’ one side an’ cries fur summat new.  Ha he langs to be as big as his brother, soa’s he can have a new bat an’ ball; an’ his brother langs for th’ time when he can leeave schooil an’ goa work for his livin’; an’ varry likely his fayther’s langin’ for th’ time when he can live withaat workin’—­all on ’em langin for summat new.  Langill’ for things new doesn’t prevent us lovin’ things at’s owd.  Who isn’t praad ov ther owd fayther, as he sits i’ tharm-cheer an’ tells long tales abaat what he can remember bein’ new?  An’ who doesn’t feel a soothin’ kind ov a feelin’ come ovver him when his mother’s kindly warnin’ falls on his ear, as shoo tells him “what-iver he does, net to be soa fond ov ivery thing new?” What a love fowk get for “th’ owd haase;” but ther’s moor o’th’ past nor o’th’ futur’ i’ these feelin’s, they’re not hopeful, an’ its hopeful feelin’s at keeps th’ world a goin’, its hooap at maks us keep o’th’ look aat for summat fresh.