twisten smoke,
Where fleaemes did shoot in yollow streaks,
Above the brands, their flashen peaks;
An' aunt did pull, as she did stand
O'-tip-tooe, wi' her lifted hand,
A curtain feaeded wi' the zun,
Avore the window freaem'd wi' stwone.

When Hwome-ground grass, below the moon,
Wer damp wi' evenen dew in June,
An' aunt did call the maidens in
Vrom walken, wi' their shoes too thin,
They zot to rest their litty veet
Upon the window's woaken seat,
An' chatted there, in light that shone
In drough the window freaem'd wi' stwone.

An' as the seasons, in a ring,
Roll'd slowly roun' vrom Spring to Spring,
An' brought em on zome holy-tide,
When they did cast their tools azide;
How glad it meaede em all to spy
In Stwonylands their friends draw nigh,
As they did know em all by neaeme
Out drough the window's stwonen freaeme.

O evenen zun, a-riden drough
The sky, vrom Sh'oton Hill o' blue,
To leaeve the night a-brooden dark
At Stalbridge, wi' its grey-wall'd park;
Small jay to me the vields do bring,
Vor all their zummer birds do zing,
Since now thy beams noo mwore do fleaeme
In drough the window's stwonen freaeme.

THE WATER-SPRING IN THE LEANE.

Oh! aye! the spring 'ithin the leaene,
A-leaeden down to Lyddan Brook;
An' still a-nesslen in his nook,
As weeks do pass, an' moons do weaene.
Nwone the drier,
Nwone the higher,
Nwone the nigher to the door
Where we did live so long avore.

An' oh! what vo'k his mossy brim
Ha' gathered in the run o' time!
The wife a-blushen in her prime;
The widow wi' her eyezight dim;
Maidens dippen,
Childern sippen,
Water drippen, at the cool
Dark wallen ov the little pool.

Behind the spring do lie the lands
My father till'd, vrom Spring to Spring,
Awaeiten on vor time to bring
The crops to pay his weary hands.
Wheat a-growen,
Beaens a-blowen,
Grass vor mowen, where the bridge
Do leaed to Ryall's on the ridge.

But who do know when liv'd an' died
The squier o' the mwoldren hall;
That lined en wi' a stwonen wall,
An' steaen'd so cleaen his wat'ry zide?
We behind en,
Now can't vind en,
But do mind en, an' do thank
His meaeker vor his little tank.

THE POPLARS.

If theaese day's work an' burnen sky
'V'a-zent hwome you so tired as I,
Let's zit an' rest 'ithin the screen
O'