grow,
An' we've another Harvest Hwome.
_The happy zight,--the merry night,_
_The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._

Drough cisterns wet an' malt-kil's het,
Mid barley pay the malter's pains;
An' mid noo hurt bevall the wort,
A-bweilen vrom the brewer's grains.
Mid all his beer keep out o' harm
Vrom bu'sted hoop or thunder storm,
That we mid have a mug to warm
Our merry hearts nex' Harvest Hwome.
_The happy zight,--the merry night,_
_The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._

Mid luck an' jay the beaeker pay,
As he do hear his vier roar,
Or nimbly catch his hot white batch,
A-reeken vrom the oven door.
An' mid it never be too high
Vor our vew zixpences to buy,
When we do hear our childern cry
Vor bread, avore nex' Harvest Hwome.
_The happy zight,--the merry night,_
_The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._

Wi' jay o' heart mid shooters start
The whirren pa'tridges in vlocks;
While shots do vlee drough bush an' tree,
An' dogs do stan' so still as stocks.
An' let em ramble round the farms
Wi' guns 'ithin their bended eaerms,
In goolden zunsheen free o' storms,
Rejaicen vor the Harvest Hwome.
_The happy zight,--the merry night,_
_The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._

POLL'S JACK-DAW.

Ah! Jimmy vow'd he'd have the law
Ov ouer cousin Poll's Jack-daw,
That had by day his withy jail
A-hangen up upon a nail,
Ageaen the elem tree, avore
The house, jist over-right the door,
An' twitted vo'k a-passen by
A-most so plain as you or I;
Vor hardly any day did pass
'Ithout Tom's teachen o'm zome sa'ce;
Till by-an'-by he call'd em all
'Soft-polls' an' 'gawkeys,' girt an' small.

An' zoo, as Jim went down along
The leaene a-whisslen ov a zong,
The saucy Daw cried out by rote
"Girt Soft-poll!" lik' to split his droat.
Jim stopp'd an' grabbled up a clot,
An' zent en at en lik' a shot;
An' down went Daw an' cage avore
The clot, up thump ageaen the door.
Zoo out run Poll an' Tom, to zee
What all the meaenen o't mid be;
"Now who did that?" zaid Poll. "Who whurr'd
Theaese clot?" "Girt Soft-poll!" cried the bird.

An' when Tom catch'd a glimpse o' Jim,
A-looken all so red an' slim,
An' slinken on, he vled, red hot,
Down leaene to catch en, lik' a shot;
But Jim, that thought he'd better trust
To lags than vistes, tried em vu'st.
An' Poll