that's a-miss'd,
Half backward wi' the wind o't.
Wi' such a chap at hand, a maid
Would never goo a nun, min;
She'd have noo call to be afraid
Bezide a farmer's son, min.

He'll turn a vurrow, drough his langth,
So straight as eyes can look,
Or pitch all day, wi' half his strangth,
At ev'ry pitch a pook;
An' then goo vower mile, or vive,
To vind his friends in fun, min,
Vor maiden's be but dead alive
'Ithout a farmer's son, min.

Zoo jay be in his heart so light,
An' manly feaece so brown;
An' health goo wi' en hwome at night,
Vrom meaed, or wood, or down.
O' rich an' poor, o' high an' low,
When all's a-said an' done, min,
The smartest chap that I do know,
'S a worken farmer's son, min.

JEAeNE.

We now mid hope vor better cheer,
My smilen wife o' twice vive year.
Let others frown, if thou bist near
Wi' hope upon thy brow, Jeaene;
Vor I vu'st lov'd thee when thy light
Young sheaepe vu'st grew to woman's height;
I loved thee near, an' out o' zight,
An' I do love thee now, Jeaene.

An' we've a-trod the sheenen bleaede
Ov eegrass in the zummer sheaede,
An' when the leaeves begun to feaede
Wi' zummer in the weaene, Jeaene;
An' we've a-wander'd drough the groun'
O' swayen wheat a-turnen brown,
An' we've a-stroll'd together roun'
The brook an' drough the leaene, Jeane.

An' nwone but I can ever tell
Ov all thy tears that have a-vell
When trials meaede thy bosom zwell,
An' nwone but thou o' mine, Jeaene;
An' now my heart, that heav'd wi' pride
Back then to have thee at my zide,
Do love thee mwore as years do slide,
An' leaeve them times behine, Jeaene.

THE DREE WOAKS.

By the brow o' thik hangen I spent all my youth,
In the house that did peep out between
The dree woaks, that in winter avworded their lewth,
An' in zummer their sheaede to the green;
An' there, as in zummer we play'd at our geaemes,
We [=e]ach own'd a tree,
Vor we wer but dree,
An' zoo the dree woaks wer a-call'd by our neaemes.

An' two did grow scraggy out over the road,
An' they wer call'd Jimmy's an' mine;
An' tother wer Jeaennet's, much kindlier grow'd,
Wi' a knotless an' white ribbed rine.
An' there, o' fine nights avore gwaein in to rest,
We did dance, vull o' life,
To the sound o' the fife,
Or play at some geaeme that