PETER.

He'll geythur reawn'd him o' the peaw'r
An' patronage o' th' nation;

Ther's Lord MacCringe and Lord MacKeawr

Mun each fill op a station;
Whilst Sir John Cop'* mun sit at top,

Upon a seck o' clippins ;+
Eh! Zekil, that's a glorious shop-
Wot carvings an' wot drippins!

ZEKIL.

He geythur ought? he'll geythur nowt:
Hooa tarries to be groated!

These Tories are like summer brids,

Wi' him they'n not be sawted.

An' Wellinton has laft the drill,
An' Lowther's off i' anger;
An' Peel has bowt a spinnin' mill,
An' Eldon deawts no langer.

PETER.

An' wot cares he, if o' that swarm

Desart his cause, an hate him?
One jink o' gowd will theawsuns arm
Prepar❜t to vindicate him.

O'er brucks an' briggs dun gallop Whigs,
Wi' whip an' spur unscanted,

An' Brougham up to Lunnun trigs
To see if he be wanted.

* Sir John Copley, afterwards Lord Lyndhurst.

+ Clippins: wool-the woolsack.

It was stated in the newspapers, that Mr. Brougham had left the North in posthaste for London, on hearing of the change in the Administration.

So, Zekil, go to th' kitchen door,
To-day theawst hav' a treatin'.
An' presently wur Zekil poor,

Beside the window waitin';

When forth coom Miss, all don'd i' silk,
Enoof to captivate us—

Hoo gan poor Zeke some buttermilk,
An' a plate o' cowd potatoes!

EPITAPH,

ON A YOUNG MAN WHO WAS DROWNED.*

NOT human speech nor human wail can tell
The grief of heart for one beloved so well :
In strength of life he left his home at morn,
And back, at noon, a pallid corpse was borne.
Humid and cold, they brought him from the deep,
To breaking hearts, to eyes that could not weep.
Oh, cease to mourn! in life we are in death,
And life is but a shadow and a breath.

Oh, cease to mourn! learn meekly to obey;
The Lord who gave, might surely take away!

*The lines, after being written at the instance of a relative of the deceased, were submitted to the revision of a cobbler of rhymes, at Royton, and, as might be expected, a sad botch of them appears on a stone in the chapel-yard of that place.

LINES,

ON THE DEATH OF MY FRIEND, JOSEPH TAYLOR, OF OLDHAM.

OH Death, how placid is thy sleep!
The seal of a long dreamless rest;
No breath to sigh, no tear to weep,

No trouble to disturb that breast:
The music of thy voice is o'er,
Thine eye shall wake to light no more!

Death comes, and none may linger then; The great one from his throne descends, And mingles with his fellow men,

And all his pomp and splendour ends; And with the lowest lieth he,

Forgetful of his dignity.

And he, who in a low estate

Hath mourn'd beside that guilty throne, Is on a level with the great,

Whose grave shall be as dark and lone e; For when a tyrant bows the head, What tears of grief are ever shed?

O! may we live a worthy life,

And may we die a worthy death; Whether we fall in freedom's strife,

Or calmly we resign our breath, There is a voice of truth to tell, Of him who hath deserved well.

THE SNOW WHITE DOVE.

A FRAGMENT.

Oн, why should love, unearthly love,
Like mine remain untold,
And why should unavailing love
Be kept like hidden gold.

And why should fond and sinless love
E'er feel the blush of shame,

Or the story of my snow white dove
Descend without a name.

Come, peerless maid amongst the maids!
To thee I now will tell

The tale which hath been kept too long,
And erst was kept too well;
The story of my early love,

Which haunts me now I'm old,
And broods within my very heart,

Although 'tis well-nigh cold.

1

Come, peerless maid, for thou art like
The one so early lost,

I'll tell it thee, and mayest thou
In love be never cross'd.

I know thy pure and gentle heart
My lay will not deride,

But rather would bestow a tear
Whilst listening at my side.

THE BARD'S PETITION.

TO THE REV. J. T. HORTON, J.P., ROCHDALE.

Most reverend sir, I pray permit,
To approach where you in judgment sit,
A humble, lowly, country bard,
Whose birth, I fear, was evil star'd;
For since bright reason first began
To stamp upon my mind the man,
Heart-aching care, with wrinkled front,
Hath given me many a weary grunt,
And caused me self reproaching sigh
For momentary stolen joy,

That like the summer's beam is fled,
Now bitterly remembered.