An' didden start nor kick the pail,
When Nanny zot to milk her.

But losses zoon begun to vall
On Nanny's father, that wi' all
His tweil he voun', wi' breaken heart,
That he mus' leaeve his ground, an' peaert
Wi' all his beaest an' hoss an' cart;
An', what did touch en mwost, to zell
The red cow Nanny lik'd so well,
An' lik'd vor her to milk her.

Zalt tears did run vrom Nanny's eyes,
To hear her restless father's sighs.
But as vor me, she mid be sure
I wont vorzeaeke her now she's poor,
Vor I do love her mwore an' mwore;
An' if I can but get a cow
An' parrock, I'll vulvil my vow,
An' she shall come an' milk her.

THE SHEP'ERD BWOY.

When the warm zummer breeze do blow over the hill,
An' the vlock's a-spread over the ground;
When the vaice o' the busy wold sheep dog is still,
An' the sheep-bells do tinkle all round;
Where noo tree vor a sheaede but the thorn is a-vound,
There, a zingen a zong,
Or a-whislen among
The sheep, the young shep'erd do bide all day long.

When the storm do come up wi' a thundery cloud
That do shut out the zunlight, an' high
Over head the wild thunder do rumble so loud,
An' the lightnen do flash vrom the sky,
Where noo shelter's a-vound but his hut, that is nigh,
There out ov all harm,
In the dry an' the warm,
The poor little shep'erd do smile at the storm.

When the cwold winter win' do blow over the hill,
An' the hore-vrost do whiten the grass,
An' the breath o' the no'th is so cwold, as to chill
The warm blood ov woone's heart as do pass;
When the ice o' the pond is so slipp'ry as glass,
There, a-zingen a zong,
Or a-whislen among
The sheep, the poor shep'erd do bide all day long.

When the shearen's a-come, an' the shearers do pull
In the sheep, hangen back a-gwain in,
Wi' their roun' zides a-heaven in under their wool,
To come out all a-clipp'd to the skin;
When the feaesten, an' zingen, an fun do begin,
Vor to help em, an' sheaere
All their me'th an' good feaere,
The poor little shep'erd is sure to be there.

HOPE A-LEFT BEHIND.

Don't try to win a maiden's heart,
To leaeve her in her love,--'tis wrong:
'Tis bitter to her soul to peaert
Wi' woone that is her sweetheart long.
A maid's vu'st love is always strong;
An' if d