t,
An' workvo'k zing to vallen night;
The birds mid whissle on the spray,
An' childern leaep in merry play,
But our's is now a lifeless pleaece,
Vor we've a-lost a smilen feaece--
Young Meaery Meaed o' merry mood,
Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded.

The dog that woonce wer glad to bear
Her fondlen vingers down his heaeir,
Do leaen his head ageaen the vloor,
To watch, wi' heavy eyes, the door;
An' men she zent so happy hwome
O' Zadurdays, do seem to come
To door, wi' downcast hearts, to miss
Wi' smiles below the clematis,
Young Meaery Meaed o' merry mood,
Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded.

When they do draw the evenen blind,
An' when the evenen light's a-tin'd,
The cheerless vier do drow a gleaere
O' light ageaen her empty chair;
An' wordless gaps do now meaeke thin
Their talk where woonce her vaice come in.
Zoo lwonesome is her empty pleaece,
An' blest the house that ha' the feaece
O' Meaery Meaed, o' merry mood,
Now she's a-woo'd and wedded.

The day she left her father's he'th,
Though sad, wer kept a day o' me'th,
An' dry-wheel'd waggons' empty beds
Wer left 'ithin the tree-screen'd sheds;
An' all the hosses, at their eaese,
Went snorten up the flow'ry leaese,
But woone, the smartest for the roaed,
That pull'd away the dearest lwoad--
Young Meaery Meaed o' merry mood,
That wer a-woo'd an' wedded.

THE STWONEN BWOY UPON THE PILLAR.

Wi' smokeless tuns an' empty halls,
An' moss a-clingen to the walls,
In ev'ry wind the lofty tow'rs
Do teaeke the zun, an' bear the show'rs;
An' there, 'ithin a geaet a-hung,
But vasten'd up, an' never swung,
Upon the pillar, all alwone,
Do stan' the little bwoy o' stwone;
'S a poppy bud mid linger on,
Vorseaeken, when the wheat's a-gone.
An' there, then, wi' his bow let slack,
An' little quiver at his back,
Drough het an' wet, the little chile
Vrom day to day do stan' an' smile.
When vu'st the light, a-risen weak,
At break o' day, do smite his cheaek,
Or while, at noon, the leafy bough
Do cast a sheaede a-thirt his brow,
Or when at night the warm-breath'd cows
Do sleep by moon-belighted boughs;
An' there the while the rooks do bring
Their scroff to build their nest in Spring,
Or zwallows in the zummer day
Do cling their little huts o' clay,
'Ithin the rainless sheaedes, below
The steadvast arches' mossy