John;
An' while noo worm's a-left to fret my heart;
An' who vor finer hwomes o' restless pride,
Would pass the plain abode where peace do bide?

By a windor in the west, John,
There upon my fiddle's breast, John,
The strings do sound below my bow's white heaeir;
While a zingen drush do sway, John,
Up an' down upon a spray, John,
An' cast his sheaede upon the window square;
Vor birds do know their friends, an' build their nest,
An' love to roost, where they can live at rest.

Out o' town the win' do bring, John,
Peals o' bells when they do ring, John,
An' roun' me here, at hand, my ear can catch
The maid a-zingen by the stream, John,
Or carter whislen wi' his team, John,
Or zingen birds, or water at the hatch;
An' zoo wi' sounds o' vaice, an' bird an' bell,
Noo hour is dull 'ithin our rwosy dell.

An' when the darksome night do hide, John,
Land an' wood on ev'ry zide, John;
An' when the light's a-burnen on my bwoard,
Then vor pleasures out o' door, John,
I've enough upon my vloor, John:
My Jenny's loven deed, an' look, an' word,
An' we be lwoth, lik' culvers zide by zide,
To leaeve the plain abode where love do bide.

HALLOWED PLEAeCES.

At Woodcombe farm, wi' ground an' tree
Hallow'd by times o' youthvul glee,
At Chris'mas time I spent a night
Wi' feaeces dearest to my zight;
An' took my wife to tread, woonce mwore,
Her maiden hwome's vorseaeken vloor,
An' under stars that slowly wheel'd
Aloft, above the keen-air'd vield,
While night bedimm'd the rus'len copse,
An' darken'd all the ridges' tops,
The hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung
Wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young.

There, on the he'th's well-hetted ground,
Hallow'd by times o' zitten round,
The brimvul mug o' cider stood
An' hiss'd avore the bleaezen wood;
An' zome, a-zitten knee by knee,
Did tell their teaeles wi' hearty glee,
An' others gamboll'd in a roar
O' laughter on the stwonen vloor;
An' while the moss o' winter-tide
Clung chilly roun' the house's zide,
The hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung
Wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young.

There, on the pworches bench o' stwone,
Hallow'd by times o' youthvul fun,
We laugh'd an' sigh'd to think o' neaemes
That rung there woonce, in evenen geaemes;
An' while the swayen cypress bow'd,
In chilly wind, his darksome sh'oud
An' honeyzuckles, beaere o' leaeves,
Still reach'd the wind