A Hawporth.

Whear is thi Daddy, doy? Whear is thi mam? What are ta cryin for, poor little lamb? Dry up thi peepies, pet, wipe thi wet face; Tears o' thy little cheeks seem aght o' place. What do they call thi, lad? Tell me thi name; Have they been ooinion thi? Why, its a shame. Here, tak this hawpny, an buy thi some spice, Rocksticks or humbugs or summat 'at's nice. Then run of hooam agean, fast as tha can; Thear,—tha'rt all reight agean; run like a man. He wiped up his tears wi' his little white brat, An he tried to say summat, aw couldn't tell what; But his little face breeten'd wi' pleasure all throo:— A'a!—its cappin, sometimes, what a hawpny can do.