e me a pleaece that's warm an' dry,
A-zitten nigh my vier-zide.

Vor where do love o' kith an' kin,
At vu'st begin, or grow an' wride,
Till souls a-lov'd so young, be wold,
Though never cwold, drough time nor tide
But where in me'th their gather'd veet
Do often meet--the vier-zide.

If, when a friend ha' left the land,
I shook his hand a-most wet-eyed,
I velt too well the ob'nen door
Would leaed noo mwore where he did bide
An' where I heaerd his vaices sound,
In me'th around the vier-zide.

As I've a-zeed how vast do vall
The mwold'ren hall, the wold vo'ks pride,
Where merry hearts wer woonce a-ved
Wi' daily bread, why I've a-sigh'd,
To zee the wall so green wi' mwold,
An' vind so cwold the vier-zide.

An' Chris'mas still mid bring his me'th
To ouer he'th, but if we tried
To gather all that woonce did wear
Gay feaeces there! Ah! zome ha' died,
An' zome be gone to leaeve wi' gaps
O' missen laps, the vier-zide.

But come now, bring us in your hand,
A heavy brand o' woak a-dried,
To cheer us wi' his het an' light,
While vrosty night, so starry-skied,
Go gather souls that time do speaere
To zit an' sheaere our vier-zide.

KNOWLWOOD.

I don't want to sleep abrode, John,
I do like my hwomeward road, John;
An' like the sound o' Knowlwood bells the best.
Zome would rove vrom pleaece to pleaece, John,
Zome would goo from feaece to feaece, John,
But I be happy in my hwomely nest;
An' slight's the hope vor any pleaece bezide,
To leaeve the plain abode where love do bide.

Where the shelven knap do vall, John,
Under trees a-springen tall, John;
'Tis there my house do show his sheenen zide,
Wi' his walls vor ever green, John,
Under ivy that's a screen, John,
Vrom wet an' het, an' ev'ry changen tide,
An' I do little ho vor goold or pride,
To leaeve the plain abode where love do bide.

There the benden stream do flow, John,
By the mossy bridge's bow, John;
An' there the road do wind below the hill;
There the miller, white wi' meal, John,
Deafen'd wi' his foamy wheel, John,
Do stan' o' times a-looken out o' mill:
The while 'ithin his lightly-sheaeken door.
His wheaten flour do whiten all his floor.

When my daily work's a-done, John,
At the zetten o' the zun, John,
An' I all day 've a-play'd a good man's peaert,
I do vind my ease a-blest, John,
While my conscience is at rest,