ut oh! below woone hedge's zide
Our jay do come a-most to pride;
Out where the high-stemm'd trees do stand,
In row bezide our own free land,
An' where the wide-leav'd clote mid zwim
'Ithin our water's rushy rim:
An' rain do vall, an' zuns do burn,
An' each in season, and in turn,
To cool the sheaede or warm the lewth
Ov our own zummer hedge in blooth.

How soft do sheaeke the zummer hedge--
How soft do sway the zummer zedge--
How bright be zummer skies an' zun--
How bright the zummer brook do run;
An' feaeir the flow'rs do bloom, to feaede
Behind the swayen mower's bleaede;
An' sweet be merry looks o' jay,
By weaeles an' pooks o' June's new hay,
Wi' smilen age, an laughen youth,
Bezide the zummer hedge in blooth.

THE WATER CROWVOOT.

O' small-feaec'd flow'r that now dost bloom
To stud wi' white the shallow Frome,
An' leaeve the clote to spread his flow'r
On darksome pools o' stwoneless Stour,
When sof'ly-rizen airs do cool
The water in the sheenen pool,
Thy beds o' snow-white buds do gleam
So feaeir upon the sky-blue stream,
As whitest clouds, a-hangen high
Avore the blueness o' the sky;
An' there, at hand, the thin-heaeir'd cows,
In airy sheaedes o' withy boughs,
Or up bezide the mossy rails,
Do stan' an' zwing their heavy tails,
The while the ripplen stream do flow
Below the dousty bridge's bow;
An' quiv'ren water-gleams do mock
The weaeves, upon the sheaeded rock;
An' up athirt the copen stwone
The laitren bwoy do leaen alwone,
A-watchen, wi' a stedvast look,
The vallen waters in the brook,
The while the zand o' time do run
An' leaeve his errand still undone.
An' oh! as long's thy buds would gleam
Above the softly-sliden stream,
While sparklen zummer-brooks do run
Below the lofty-climen zun,
I only wish that thou could'st stay
Vor noo man's harm, an' all men's jay.
But no, the waterman 'ull weaede
Thy water wi' his deadly bleaede,
To slay thee even in thy bloom,
Fair small-feaeced flower o' the Frome.

THE LILAC.

Dear lilac-tree, a-spreaden wide
Thy purple blooth on ev'ry zide,
As if the hollow sky did shed
Its blue upon thy flow'ry head;
Oh! whether I mid sheaere wi' thee
Thy open air, my bloomen tree,
Or zee thy blossoms vrom the gloom,
'Ithin my zunless worken-room,
My heart do leaep, but leaep wi' sighs,
At zight o' thee avore my eyes,