he back,
An' zee the outside door is vast,--
The win' do blow a cwoldish blast.
Come, so's! come, pull your chairs in roun'
Avore the vire; an' let's zit down,
An' keep up Martin's-tide, vor I
Shall keep it up till I do die.
'Twer Martinmas, and ouer feaeir,
When Jeaene an' I, a happy peaeir,
Vu'st walk'd, a-keepen up the tide,
Among the stan'ens, zide by zide;
An' thik day twel'month, never failen,
She gi'ed me at the chancel railen
A heart--though I do sound her praise--
As true as ever beaet in stays.
How vast the time do goo! Do seem
But yesterday,--'tis lik' a dream!

Ah, s[=o]'s! 'tis now zome years agoo
You vu'st knew me, an' I knew you;
An' we've a-had zome bits o' fun,
By winter vire an' zummer zun.
Aye; we've a-prowl'd an' rigg'd about
Lik' cats, in harm's way mwore than out,
An' busy wi' the tricks we play'd
In fun, to outwit chap or maid.
An' out avore the bleaezen he'th,
Our naisy tongues, in winter me'th,
'V a-shook the warmen-pan, a-hung
Bezide us, till his cover rung.
There, 'twer but tother day thik chap,
Our Robert, wer a child in lap;
An' Poll's two little lags hung down
Vrom thik wold chair a span vrom groun',
An' now the saucy wench do stride
About wi' steps o' dree veet wide.
How time do goo! A life do seem
As 'twer a year; 'tis lik' a dream!

GUY FAUX'S NIGHT.

Guy Faux's night, dost know, we chaps,
A-putten on our woldest traps,
Went up the highest o' the knaps,
An' meaede up such a vier!
An' thou an' Tom wer all we miss'd,
Vor if a sarpent had a-hiss'd
Among the rest in thy sprack vist,
Our fun 'd a-been the higher.

We chaps at hwome, an' Will our cousin,
Took up a half a lwoad o' vuzzen;
An' burn'd a barrel wi' a dozen
O' faggots, till above en
The fleaemes, arisen up so high
'S the tun, did snap, an' roar, an' ply,
Lik' vier in an' oven.

An' zome wi' hissen squibs did run,
To pay off zome what they'd a-done,
An' let em off so loud's a gun
Ageaen their smoken polls;
An' zome did stir their nimble pags
Wi' crackers in between their lags,
While zome did burn their cwoats to rags,
Or wes'cots out in holes.

An' zome o'm's heads lost half their locks,
An' zome o'm got their white smock-frocks
Jist fit to vill the tinder-box,
Wi' half the backs o'm off;
An' Dick, that all o'm vell upon,
Vound woone flap ov his cwo