No, no. I don't think she's a bit belied,
No, she's a witch, aye, Molly's evil-eyed.
Vor I do know o' many a-withren blight
A-cast on vo'k by Molly's mutter'd spite;
She did, woone time, a dreadvul deael o' harm
To Farmer Gruff's vo'k, down at Lower Farm.
Vor there, woone day, they happened to offend her,
An' not a little to their sorrow,
Because they woulden gi'e or lend her
Zome'hat she come to bag or borrow;
An' zoo, they soon began to vind
That she'd agone an' left behind
Her evil wish that had such pow'r,
That she did meaeke their milk an' eaele turn zour,
An' addle all the aggs their vowls did lay;
They coulden vetch the butter in the churn,
An' all the cheese begun to turn
All back ageaen to curds an' whey;
The little pigs, a-runnen wi' the zow,
Did zicken, zomehow, noobody know'd how,
An' vall, an' turn their snouts toward the sky.
An' only gi'e woone little grunt, and die;
An' all the little ducks an' chicken
Wer death-struck out in yard a-picken
Their bits o' food, an' vell upon their head,
An' flapp'd their little wings an' drapp'd down dead.
They coulden fat the calves, they woulden thrive;
They coulden seaeve their lambs alive;
Their sheep wer all a-coath'd, or gi'ed noo wool;
The hosses vell away to skin an' bwones,
An' got so weak they coulden pull
A half a peck o' stwones:
The dog got dead-alive an' drowsy,
The cat vell zick an' woulden mousy;
An' every time the vo'k went up to bed,
They wer a-hag-rod till they wer half dead.
They us'd to keep her out o' house, 'tis true,
A-nailen up at door a hosses shoe;
An' I've a-heaerd the farmer's wife did try
To dawk a needle or a pin
In drough her wold hard wither'd skin,
An' draw her blood, a-comen by:
But she could never vetch a drap,
For pins would ply an' needless snap
Ageaen her skin; an' that, in coo'se,
Did meaeke the hag bewitch em woo'se.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

THE TIMES.

_John an' Tom._

JOHN.

Well, Tom, how be'st? Zoo thou'st a-got thy neaeme
Among the leaguers, then, as I've a heaerd.

TOM.

Aye, John, I have, John; an' I ben't afeaerd
To own it. Why, who woulden do the seaeme?
We shant goo on lik' this long, I can tell ye.
Bread is so high an' wages be so low,
That, after worken lik' a hoss, you know,
A man can't eaern enough to vill his belly.

JOHN.

Ah! well! Now there, d'ye know, if I wer s