An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

No, be my lot good work, wi' the lungs well in play,
An' good rest when the body do tire,
Vor the mind a good conscience, wi' hope or wi' jay,
Vor the body, good lewth, an' good vire,
There's noo good o' goold, but to buy what 'ull meaeke
Vor our happiness here among men;
An' who would gi'e happiness up vor the seaeke
O' zome money to buy it ageaen?
Vor 'twould seem to the eyes ov a man that is wise,
Lik' money vor money,
Or zellen woone's honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

DOBBIN DEAD.

_Thomas_ (1) _an' John_ (2) _a-ta'en o't._

2. I do veel vor ye, Thomas, vor I be a-feaer'd
You've a-lost your wold meaere then, by what I've a-heaerd.

1. Ees, my meaere is a-gone, an' the cart's in the shed
Wi' his wheelbonds a-rusten, an' I'm out o' bread;
Vor what be my han's vor to eaern me a croust,
Wi' noo meaere's vower legs vor to trample the doust.

2. Well, how did it happen? He vell vrom the brim
Ov a cliff, as the teaele is, an' broke ev'ry lim'.

1. Why, I gi'ed en his run, an' he shook his wold meaene,
An' he rambled a-veeden in Westergap Leaene;
An' there he must needs goo a-riggen, an' crope
Vor a vew bleaedes o' grass up the wo'st o' the slope;
Though I should ha' thought his wold head would ha' know'd
That vor stiff lags, lik' his, the best pleaece wer the road.

2. An' you hadden a-kept en so short, he must clim',
Lik' a gwoat, vor a bleaede, at the risk ov a lim'.

1. Noo, but there, I'm a-twold, he did clim' an' did slide,
An' did screaepe, an' did slip, on the shelven bank-zide,
An' at langth lost his vooten, an' roll'd vrom the top,
Down, thump, kick, an' higgledly, piggledly, flop.

2. Dear me, that is bad! I do veel vor your loss,
Vor a vew years agoo, Thomas, I lost my ho'se.

1. How wer't? If I heaerd it, I now ha' vorgot;
Wer the poor thing bewitch'd or a-pweison'd, or what?

2. He wer out, an' a-meaeken his way to the brink
O' the stream at the end o' Church Leaene, vor to drink;
An' he met wi' zome yew-twigs the men had a-cast
Vrom the yew-tree, in churchyard, the road that he past.
He wer pweison'd. (1.) O dear, 'tis a hard loss to bear,
Vor a tranter's whole bread is a-lost wi' his meaere;
But ov all churches' yew-trees, I never zet eyes
On a tree that would come up to thi