Gi'e me the speaede a-bit. A pig would rout
It out a'most so nimbly wi' his snout.

(3) Oh! so's, d'ye hear it, then. How we can thunder!
How big we be, then George! what next I wonder?

(1) Now, William, gi'e the waggon woone mwore twitch,
The wheels be free, an' 'tis a lighter nitch.

(3) Come, _Smiler_, gee! C'up, _White-voot_. (1) That wull do.

(2) Do wag. (1) Do goo at last. (3) Well done. 'Tis drough.

(1) Now, William, till you have mwore ho'ses' lags,
Don't dr[=e]ve the waggon into theaesem quags.

(3) You build your lwoads up tight enough to ride.

(1) I can't do less, d'ye know, wi' you vor guide.

GWAIN DOWN THE STEPS VOR WATER.

While zuns do roll vrom east to west
To bring us work, or leaeve us rest,
There down below the steep hill-zide,
Drough time an' tide, the spring do flow;
An' mothers there, vor years a-gone,
Lik' daughters now a-comen on,
To bloom when they be weak an' wan,
Went down the steps vor water.

An' what do yonder ringers tell
A-ringen changes, bell by bell;
Or what's a-show'd by yonder zight
O' vo'k in white, upon the road,
But that by John o' Woodleys zide,
There's now a-blushen vor his bride,
A pretty maid that vu'st he spied,
Gwain down the steps vor water.

Though she, 'tis true, is feaeir an' kind,
There still be mwore a-left behind;
So cleaen 's the light the zun do gi'e,
So sprack 's a bee when zummer's bright;
An' if I've luck, I woont be slow
To teaeke off woone that I do know,
A-trippen gaily to an' fro,
Upon the steps vor water.

Her father idden poor--but vew
In parish be so well to do;
Vor his own cows do swing their tails
Behind his pails, below his boughs:
An' then ageaen to win my love,
Why, she's as hwomely as a dove,
An' don't hold up herzelf above
Gwain down the steps vor water.

Gwain down the steps vor water! No!
How handsome it do meaeke her grow.
If she'd be straight, or walk abrode,
To tread her road wi' comely gait,
She coulden do a better thing
To zet herzelf upright, than bring
Her pitcher on her head, vrom spring
Upon the steps, wi' water.

No! don't ye neaeme in woone seaeme breath
Wi' bachelors, the husband's he'th;
The happy pleaece, where vingers thin
Do pull woone's chin, or pat woone's feaece.
But still the bleaeme is their's, to slight
Their happiness, wi' such a zight
O'