t Harwood Farm we pass'd the land
That father's father had in hand,
An' there, in oben light did spread,
The very groun's his cows did tread,
An' there above the stwonen tun
Avore the dazzlen mornen zun,
Wer still the rollen smoke, the breath
A-breath'd vrom his wold house's he'th;
An' there did lie below the door,
The drashol' that his vootsteps wore;
But there his meaete an' he bwoth died,
Wi' hand in hand, an' zide by zide;
Between the seaeme two peals a-rung,
Two Zundays, though they wer but young,
An' laid in sleep, their worksome hands,
At rest vrom tweil wi' house or lands.
Then vower childern laid their heads
At night upon their little beds,
An' never rose ageaen below
A mother's love, or father's ho:
Dree little maidens, small in feaece,
An' woone small bwoy, the fourth in pleaece
Zoo when their heedvul father died,
He call'd his brother to his zide,
To meaeke en stand, in hiz own stead,
His childern's guide, when he wer dead;
But still avore zix years brought round
The woodland goo-coo's zummer sound,
He weaested all their little store,
An' hardship drove em out o' door,
To tweil till tweilsome life should end.
'Ithout a single e'thly friend.
But soon wi' Harwood back behind,
An' out o' zight an' out o' mind,
We went a-rottlen on, an' meaede
Our way along to Brookwell Sleaede;
An' then we vound ourselves draw nigh
The Leaedy's Tow'r that rose on high,
An' seem'd a-comen on to meet,
Wi' growen height, wold Dobbin's veet.

BROOKWELL.

Well, I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while
To beaet the doust a good six mile
To zee the pleaece the squier plann'd
At Brookwell, now a-meaede by hand;
Wi' oben lawn, an' grove, an' pon',
An' gravel-walks as cleaen as bron;
An' grass a'most so soft to tread
As velvet-pile o' silken thread;
An' mounds wi' maesh, an' rocks wi' flow'rs,
An' ivy-sheaeded zummer bow'rs,
An' dribblen water down below
The stwonen arches lofty bow.
An' there do sound the watervall
Below a cavern's maeshy wall,
Where peaele-green light do struggle down
A leafy crevice at the crown.
An' there do gush the foamy bow
O' water, white as driven snow:
An' there, a zitten all alwone,
A little maid o' marble stwone
Do leaen her little cheaek azide
Upon her lily han', an' bide
Bezide the vallen stream to zee
Her pitcher vill'd avore her knee.
An' then the b