(Written on seeing a wealthy townsman rudely push
a poor little girl off the pavement.)

Gently, gently, shoo's thi sister,
Tho' her clooas are nowt but rags;
On her feet ther's monny a blister:
See ha painfully shoo drags
Her tired limbs to some quiet corner:
Shoo's thi sister--dunnot scorn her.

Daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin,
Shoo's been shov'd aside befoor;
Used to scoffs, an' sneers, an'shunnin--
Shoo expects it, coss shoo's poor;
Schooil'd for years her grief to smother,
Still shoos human--tha'rt her brother.

Tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin,
A kid glove o' awther hand,
Dunnot touch her roughly, loathin--
Shoo's thi sister, understand:
Th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters,
Poor lost pilgrim!--but what matters?

Lulk ha sharp her elbow's growin,
An' ha pale her little face,
An' her hair neglected, showin
Her's has been a sorry case;
O, mi heart felt sad at th' seet,
When tha shov'd her into th' street

Ther wor once a 'Man,' mich greater
Nor thisen wi' all thi brass,
Him, awr blessed Mediator,--
Wod He scorn that little lass?
Noa, He called 'em, an' He blessed 'em,
An' His hands divine caress'd 'em.

Goa thi ways I an' if tha bears net
Some regret for what tha's done,
If tha con pass on, an' cares net
For that sufferin' little one;
Then ha'iver poor shoo be,
Yet shoos rich compared wi' thee.

Oh! 'at this breet gold should blind us,
To awr duties here below!
For we're forced to leave behind us
All awr pomp, an' all awr show:
Why then should we slight another?
Shoo's thi sister, unkind brother.