As clouds did ride wi' heasty flight.

An' woods did sway upon the height, An' bleades o' gra.s.s did sheake, below The hedge-row bremble's swingen bow, I come back hwome where winds did zwell, In whirls along the woody gleades, On primrwose beds, in windy sheades, To Burnley's dark-tree'd dell.

There hills do screen the timber's bough, The trees do screen the leaze's brow, The timber-sheaded leaze do bear A beaten path that we do wear.

The path do stripe the leaze's zide, To willows at the river's edge.

Where hufflen winds did sheake the zedge An' sparklen weaves did glide.

An' where the river, bend by bend, Do drain our mead, an' mark its end, The hangen leaze do teake our cows, An' trees do sheade em wi' their boughs, An' I the quicker beat the road, To zee a-comen into view, Still greener vrom the sky-line's blue, Wold Burnley our abode.

GRAMMER A-CRIPPLED.

"The zunny copse ha' birds to zing, The leaze ha' cows to low, The elem trees ha' rooks on wing, The meads a brook to flow, But I can walk noo mwore, to pa.s.s The drashel out abrode, To wear a path in thease year's gra.s.s Or tread the wheelworn road,"

Cried Grammer, "then adieu, O runnen brooks, An' vleen rooks, I can't come out to you.

If 'tis G.o.d's will, why then 'tis well, That I should bide 'ithin a wall."

An' then the childern, wild wi' fun, An' loud wi' javul sounds, Sprung in an' cried, "We had a run, A-plaen heare an' hounds; But oh! the cowslips where we stopt In Macreech, on the knap!"

An' vrom their little han's each dropt Some cowslips in her lap.

Cried Grammer, "Only zee!

I can't teake strolls, An' little souls Would bring the vields to me.

Since 'tis G.o.d's will, an' mus' be well That I should bide 'ithin a wall."

"Oh! there be prison walls to hold The han's o' lawless crimes, An' there be walls arear'd vor wold An' zick in tryen times; But oh! though low mid slant my ruf, Though hard my lot mid be, Though dry mid come my daily lwoaf, Mid mercy leave me free!"

Cried Grammer, "Or adieu To ja; O grounds, An' bird's ga sounds If I mus' gi'e up you, Although 'tis well, in G.o.d's good will, That I should bide 'ithin a wall."

"Oh! then," we answer'd, "never fret, If we shall be a-blest, We'll work vull hard drough het an' wet To keep your heart at rest: To woaken chair's vor you to vill, For you shall glow the coal, An' when the win' do whissle sh'ill We'll screen it vrom your poll."

Cried Grammer, "G.o.d is true.

I can't but feel He smote to heal My wounded heart in you; An' zoo 'tis well, if 'tis His will, That I be here 'ithin a wall."

THE CASTLE RUINS.

A happy day at Whitsuntide, As soon's the zun begun to vall, We all stroll'd up the steep hill-zide To Meldon, girt an' small; Out where the castle wall stood high A-mwoldren to the zunny sky.

An' there wi' Jenny took a stroll Her youngest sister, Poll, so ga, Bezide John Hind, ah! merry soul, An' mid her wedlock fa; An' at our zides did play an' run My little mad an' smaller son.

Above the beaten mwold upsprung The driven doust, a-spreaden light, An' on the new-leav'd thorn, a-hung, Wer wool a-quiv'ren white; An' corn, a sheenen bright, did bow, On slopen Meldon's zunny brow.

There, down the rufless wall did glow The zun upon the gra.s.sy vloor, An' weakly-wandren winds did blow, Unhinder'd by a door; An' smokeless now avore the zun Did stan' the ivy-girded tun.

My bwoy did watch the daws' bright wings A-flappen vrom their ivy bow'rs; My wife did watch my mad's light springs, Out here an' there vor flow'rs; And John did zee noo tow'rs, the pleace Vor him had only Polly's feace.

An' there, of all that pried about The walls, I overlook'd em best, An' what o' that? Why, I meade out Noo mwore than all the rest: That there wer woonce the nest of zome That wer a-gone avore we come.

When woonce above the tun the smoke Did wreathy blue among the trees, An' down below, the liven vo'k, Did tweil as brisk as bees; Or zit wi' weary knees, the while The sky wer lightless to their tweil.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

JOHN, JEALOUS AT SHROTON FEaIR.

_Jeane; her Brother; John, her Sweetheart; and Racketen Joe_

JEaNE.

I'm thankvul I be out o' that Thick crowd, an' not asquot quite flat.

That ever we should plunge in where the vo'k do drunge So tight's the cheese-wring on the veat!

I've sca'ce a thing a-left in pleace.

'Tis all a-tore vrom pin an' leace.

My bonnet's like a wad, a-beat up to a dod, An' all my heair's about my feace.

HER BROTHER.

Here, come an' zit out here a bit, An' put yourzelf to rights.

JOHN.

No, Jeane; no, no! Now you don't show The very wo'st o' plights.

HER BROTHER.

Come, come, there's little harm adone; Your hoops be out so roun's the zun.

JOHN.

An' there's your bonnet back in sheape.

HER BROTHER.

An' there's your pin, and there's your ceape.

JOHN.

An' there your curls do match, an' there 'S the vittiest mad in all the feair.

JEaNE.

Now look, an' tell us who's a-spied Vrom Sturminster, or Manston zide.

HER BROTHER.