them in their houses, Where peace their days may end, And learn from them the name of him Who is their aged friend.

With good and great his worth shall live, With high or lowly born; His name is on the scroll of fame, Sweet as the songs of morn; While tyranny and villany Is surely stamped with shame; A nation gives her patriot A never-dying fame.

p. 32No empty titles ever could His principles subdue, His queen and country too he loved,—  Was loyal and was true: He craved no boon from royalty, Nor wished their pomp to share, Far nobler is the soul of him, The founder of Saltaire.

p. 32

Thus lives this sage philanthropist, From courtly pomp removed, But not secluded from his friends, For frienship’s bond he loved; A noble reputation too Crowns all his latter days; The young men they admire him, And the aged they him praise.

Long life to thee, Sir Titus, The darling of our town; Around thy head while living, We’ll weave a laurel crown. Thy monument in marble May suit the passer by, But a monument in all our hearts Will never, never die.

And when thy days are over, And we miss thee on our isle, Around thy tomb for ever  May unfading laurels smile: Then may the sweetest flowers Usher in the spring; And roses in the gentle gales, Their balmy odours fling.

p. 33May summer’s beams shine sweetly, Upon thy hallowed clay, And yellow autumn o’er thy head, Yield many a placid ray; May winter winds blow slightly,—  The green-grass softly wave, And falling snow drop lightly Upon thy honoured grave.

p. 33

Cowd az Leead.

An’ arta fra thi father torn, So early i’ thi youthful morn, An’ mun aw pine away forlorn, I’ grief an’ pain? Fer consolashun I sall scorn If tha be ta’en.

O yes, tha art, an’ aw mun wail Thi loss through ivvery hill an’ dale, Fer nah it is too true a tale, Tha’rt cowd az leead. An’ nah thi bonny face iz pale, Tha’rt deead! tha’rt deead’!

Aw’s miss tha when aw cum fra t’shop, An’ see thi bat, an’ ball, an’ top; An’ aw’s be ommust fit ta drop, Aw sall so freeat, An’ Oh! mi varry heart may stop An’ cease to beeat!

p. 34Ah’d allus aimed, if tha’d been spar’d, Of summat better to hev shared Ner what thi poor owd father fared, I’ this cowd sphere; Yet, 

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