TO ME.

At night, as drough the mead I took my wa, In ar a-sweeten'd by the new-meade ha, A stream a-vallen down a rock did sound, Though out o' zight wer foam an' stwone to me.

Behind the knap, above the gloomy copse, The wind did russle in the trees' high tops, Though evenen darkness, an' the risen hill, Kept all the quiv'ren leaves unshown to me,

Within the copse, below the zunless sky, I heard a nightengeale, a-warblen high Her lwoansome zong, a-hidden vrom my zight, An' showen nothen but her mwoan to me.

An' by a house, where rwoses hung avore The thatch-brow'd window, an' the oben door, I heard the merry words, an' hearty laugh O' zome feair maid, as eet unknown to me.

High over head the white-rimm'd clouds went on, Wi' woone a-comen up, vor woone a-gone; An' feair they floated in their sky-back'd flight, But still they never meade a sound to me.

An' there the miller, down the stream did float Wi' all his childern, in his white-sal'd bwoat, Vur off, beyond the stragglen cows in mead, But zent noo vace, athirt the ground, to me.

An' then a b.u.t.tervlee, in zultry light, A-wheelen on about me, vier-bright, Did show the gaest colors to my eye, But still did bring noo vace around to me.

I met the merry laugher on the down, Bezide her mother, on the path to town, An' oh! her sheape wer comely to the zight, But wordless then wer she a-vound to me.

Zoo, sweet ov unzeen things mid be sound, An' feair to zight mid soundless things be vound, But I've the laugh to hear, an' feace to zee, Vor they be now my own, a-bound to me.

TWO AN' TWO.

The zun, O Jessie, while his feace do rise In vi'ry skies, a-shedden out his light On yollow corn a-weaven down below His yollow glow, is ga avore the zight.

By two an' two, How goodly things do goo, A-matchen woone another to fulvill The goodness ov their Meaker's will.

How bright the spreaden water in the lew Do catch the blue, a-sheenen vrom the sky; How true the gra.s.s do teake the dewy bead That it do need, while dousty roads be dry.

By peair an' peair Each thing's a-meade to sheare The good another can bestow, In wisdom's work down here below.

The lowest lim's o' trees do seldom grow A-spread too low to gi'e the cows a sheade; The ar's to bear the bird, the bird's to rise; Vor light the eyes, vor eyes the light's a-meade.

'Tis gi'e an' teake, An' woone vor others' seake; In peairs a-worken out their ends, Though men be foes that should be friends.

THE LEW O' THE RICK.

At eventide the wind wer loud By trees an' tuns above woone's head, An' all the sky wer woone dark cloud, Vor all it had noo ran to shed; An' as the darkness gather'd thick, I zot me down below a rick, Where straws upon the win' did ride Wi' giddy flights, along my zide, Though unmolesten me a-resten, Where I la 'ithin the lew.

My wife's bright vier indoors did cast Its fleame upon the window peanes That screen'd her teable, while the blast Vled on in music down the leanes; An' as I zot in vaceless thought Ov other zummer-tides, that brought The sheenen gra.s.s below the lark, Or left their ricks a-wearen dark, My childern voun' me, an' come roun' me, Where I lay 'ithin the lew.

The rick that then did keep me lew Would be a-gone another Fall, An' I, in zome years, in a vew, Mid leave the childern, big or small; But He that meade the wind, an' meade The lewth, an' zent wi' het the sheade, Can keep my childern, all alwone O' under me, an' though vull grown Or little lispers, wi' their whispers, There a-lyen in the lew.

THE WIND IN WOONE'S FEaCE.

There lovely Jenny past, While the blast did blow On over Ashknowle Hill To the mill below; A-blinken quick, wi' lashes long, Above her cheaks o' red, Agean the wind, a-beaten strong, Upon her droopen head.

Oh! let dry win' blow bleak, On her cheak so heale, But let noo ran-shot chill Meake her ill an' peale; Vor healthy is the breath the blast Upon the hill do yield, An' healthy is the light a cast Vrom lofty sky to vield.

An' mid noo sorrow-pang Ever hang a tear Upon the dark lash-heair Ov my feairest dear; An' mid noo unkind deed o' mine Spweil what my love mid gan, Nor meake my merry Jenny pine At last wi' dim-ey'd pan.

TOKENS.

Green mwold on zummer bars do show That they've a-dripp'd in Winter wet; The hoof-worn ring o' groun' below The tree, do tell o' storms or het; The trees in rank along a ledge Do show where woonce did bloom a hedge; An' where the vurrow-marks do stripe The down, the wheat woonce rustled ripe.

Each mark ov things a-gone vrom view-- To eyezight's woone, to soulzight two.

The gra.s.s agean the mwoldren door 'S a token sad o' vo'k a-gone, An' where the house, bwoth wall an' vloor, 'S a-lost, the well mid linger on.

What tokens, then, could Meary gi'e That she'd a-liv'd, an' liv'd vor me, But things a-done vor thought an' view?

Good things that nwone agean can do, An' every work her love ha' wrought, To eyezight's woone, but two to thought.

TWEIL.

The rick ov our last zummer's haulen Now vrom grey's a-feaded dark, An' off the barken ral's a-vallen, Day by day, the rotten bark.-- But short's the time our works do stand, So feair's we put em out ov hand, Vor time a-pa.s.sen, wet an' dry, Do spwel em wi' his changen sky, The while wi' striven hope, we men, Though a-ruen time's undoen, Still do tweil an' tweil agean.

In wall-zide sheades, by leafy bowers, Underneath the swayen tree, O' leate, as round the bloomen flowers, Lowly humm'd the giddy bee, My childern's small left voot did smite Their tiny speade, the while the right Did trample on a deaisy head, Bezde the flower's dousty bed, An' though their work wer idle then, They a-smilen, an' a-tweilen, Still did work an' work agean.

Now their little limbs be stronger, Deeper now their vace do sound; An' their little veet be longer, An' do tread on other ground; An' rust is on the little bleades Ov all the broken-hafted speades, An' flow'rs that wer my hope an' pride Ha' long agoo a-bloom'd an' died, But still as I did leabor then Vor love ov all them childern small, Zoo now I'll tweil an' tweil agean.

When the smokeless tun's a-growen Cwold as dew below the stars, An' when the vier noo mwore's a-glowen Red between the window bars, We then do lay our weary heads In peace upon their nightly beds, An' gi'e woone sock, wi' heaven breast, An' then breathe soft the breath o' rest, Till day do call the sons o' men Vrom night-sleep's blackness, vull o' sprackness, Out abroad to tweil agean.

Where the vace o' the winds is mildest, In the plan, their stroke is keen; Where their dreatnen vace is wildest, In the grove, the grove's our screen.

An' where the worold in their strife Do dreaten mwost our tweilsome life, Why there Almighty ceare mid cast A better screen agean the blast.

Zoo I woon't live in fear o' men, But, man-neglected, G.o.d-directed, Still wull tweil an' tweil agean.

FANCY.