Good Meäster Collins! aye, how mild he spoke

Woone day o’ Mercy to zome cruel vo'k. one, folk

“No, no. Have Mercy on a helpless head,

An’ don't be cruel to a zoul,” he zaid.

“When Babylon's king woonce cast 'ithin once

The viery furnace, in his spite, fiery

The vetter'd souls whose only sin

Wer praÿer to the God o’ might,

He vound a fourth, 'ithout a neäme,

A-walkèn wi’ em in the fleäme.

An’ zoo, whenever we mid hurt, so, may

Vrom spite, or vrom disdaïn,

A brother's soul, or meäke en smert him

Wi’ keen an’ needless païn,

Another that we midden know may not

Is always wi’ en in his woe.

Vor you do know our Lord ha’ cried,

‘By faïth my bretheren do bide

In me the livèn vine,

As branches in a livèn tree;

Whatever you've a-done to mine

Is all a-done to me.’

Oh! when the new-born child, the e'th's new guest, earth's

Do lie an’ heave his little breast,

In pillow'd sleep, wi’ sweetest breath

O’ sinless days drough rwosy lips a-drawn; through

Then, if a han’ can smite en in his dawn

O’ life to darksome death,

Oh! where can Pity ever vwold fold

Her wings o’ swiftness vrom their holy flight,

To leäve a heart o’ flesh an’ blood so cwold

At such a touchèn zight?

An’ zoo mid meek-soul'd Pity still so may

Be zent to check our evil will,

An’ keep the helpless soul from woe,

An’ hold the hardened heart vrom sin,

Vor they that can but mercy show

Shall all their Father's mercy win.”