An' swung their eaerms about, an' roar'd,
Enough to crack woone's head.

HARVEST HWOME.

_Second Peaert. What they did after Supper._

Zoo after supper wer a-done,
They clear'd the teaebles, an' begun
To have a little bit o' fun,
As long as they mid stop.
The wold woones took their pipes to smoke,
An' tell their teaeles, an' laugh an' joke,
A-looken at the younger vo'k,
That got up vor a hop.

Woone screaep'd away, wi' merry grin,
A fiddle stuck below his chin;
An' woone o'm took the rollen pin,
An' beaet the fryen pan.
An' tothers, dancen to the soun',
Went in an' out, an' droo an' roun',
An' kick'd, an' beaet the tuen down,
A-laughen, maid an' man.

An' then a maid, all up tip-tooe,
Vell down; an' woone o'm wi' his shoe
Slit down her pocket-hole in two,
Vrom top a-most to bottom.
An' when they had a-danc'd enough,
They got a-playen blindman's buff,
An' sard the maidens pretty rough,
When woonce they had a-got em.

An' zome did drink, an' laugh, an' roar,
An' lots o' teaeles they had in store,
O' things that happen'd years avore
To them, or vo'k they know'd.
An' zome did joke, an' zome did zing,
An' meaeke the girt wold kitchen ring;
Till uncle's cock, wi' flappen wing,
Stratch'd out his neck an' crow'd.

A ZONG OV HARVEST HWOME.

The ground is clear. There's nar a ear
O' stannen corn a-left out now,
Vor win' to blow or rain to drow;
'Tis all up seaefe in barn or mow.
Here's health to them that plough'd an' zow'd;
Here's health to them that reap'd an' mow'd,
An' them that had to pitch an' lwoad,
Or tip the rick at Harvest Hwome.
_The happy zight,--the merry night,_
_The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._

An' mid noo harm o' vire or storm
Beval the farmer or his corn;
An' ev'ry zack o' zeed gi'e back
A hunderd-vwold so much in barn.
An' mid his Meaeker bless his store,
His wife an' all that she've a-bore,
An' keep all evil out o' door,
Vrom Harvest Hwome to Harvest Hwome.
_The happy zight,--the merry night,_
_The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._

Mid nothen ill betide the mill,
As day by day the miller's wheel
Do dreve his clacks, an' heist his zacks,
An' vill his bins wi' show'ren meal:
Mid's water never overflow
His dousty mill, nor zink too low,
Vrom now till wheat ageaen do