aith, an' jay, an' love,
While all the evil time ha' brought
'S a-lost vor ever out o' thought;
As all the moon that idden bright,
'S a-lost in darkness out o' zight;
And all the godly life they led
Is glory to the wold vo'k dead.

If things be zoo, an' souls above
Can only mind our e'thly love,
Why then they'll veel our kindness drown
The thoughts ov all that meaede em frown.
An' jay o' jays will dry the tear
O' sadness that do trickle here,
An' nothen mwore o' life than love,
An' peace, will then be know'd above.
Do good, vor that, when life's a-vled,
Is still a pleasure to the dead.

CULVER DELL AND THE SQUIRE.

There's noo pleaece I do like so well,
As Elem Knap in Culver Dell,
Where timber trees, wi' lofty shouds,
Did rise avore the western clouds;
An' stan' ageaen, wi' veathery tops,
A-swayen up in North-Hill Copse.
An' on the east the mornen broke
Above a dewy grove o' woak:
An' noontide shed its burnen light
On ashes on the southern height;
An' I could vind zome teaeles to tell,
O' former days in Culver Dell.

An' all the vo'k did love so well
The good wold squire o' Culver Dell,
That used to ramble drough the sheaedes
O' timber, or the burnen gleaedes,
An' come at evenen up the leaeze
Wi' red-eaer'd dogs bezide his knees.
An' hold his gun, a-hangen drough
His eaermpit, out above his tooe.
Wi' kindly words upon his tongue,
Vor vo'k that met en, wold an' young,
Vor he did know the poor so well
'S the richest vo'k in Culver Dell.

An' while the woaek, wi' spreaden head,
Did sheaede the foxes' verny bed;
An' runnen heaeres, in zunny gleaedes,
Did beaet the grasses' quiv'ren' bleaedes;
An' speckled pa'tridges took flight
In stubble vields a-feaeden white;
Or he could zee the pheasant strut
In sheaedy woods, wi' painted cwoat;
Or long-tongued dogs did love to run
Among the leaves, bezide his gun;
We didden want vor call to dwell
At hwome in peace in Culver Dell.

But now I hope his kindly feaece
Is gone to vind a better pleaece;
But still, wi' vo'k a-left behind
He'll always be a-kept in mind,
Vor all his springy-vooted hounds
Ha' done o' trotten round his grounds,
An' we have all a-left the spot,
To teaeke, a-scatter'd, each his lot;
An' even Father, lik' the rest,
Ha' left our long vorseaeken nest;
An' we should vind it sad to dwell,
Ageaen at hwom