'ithout her,
An' left her, uncall'd at house-ridden,
To bide at Woak Hill--

I call'd her so fondly, wi' lippens
All soundless to others,
An' took her wi' air-reachen hand,
To my zide at Woak Hill.

On the road I did look round, a-talken
To light at my shoulder,
An' then led her in at the door-way,
Miles wide vrom Woak Hill.

An' that's why vo'k thought, vor a season,
My mind wer a-wandren
Wi' sorrow, when I wer so sorely
A-tried at Woak Hill.

But no; that my Meaery mid never
Behold herzelf slighted,
I wanted to think that I guided
My guide vrom Woak Hill.

THE HEDGER.

Upon the hedge theaese bank did bear,
Wi' lwonesome thought untwold in words,
I woonce did work, wi' noo sound there
But my own strokes, an' chirpen birds;
As down the west the zun went wan,
An' days brought on our Zunday's rest,
When sounds o' cheemen bells did vill
The air, an' hook an' axe wer still.

Along the wold town-path vo'k went,
An' met unknown, or friend wi' friend,
The maid her busy mother zent,
The mother wi' noo maid to zend;
An' in the light the gleaezier's glass,
As he did pass, wer dazzlen bright,
Or woone went by wi' down-cast head,
A wrapp'd in blackness vor the dead.

An' then the bank, wi' risen back,
That's now a-most a-trodden down,
Bore thorns wi' rind o' sheeny black,
An' meaeple stems o' ribby brown;
An' in the lewth o' theaese tree heads,
Wer primrwose beds a-sprung in blooth,
An' here a geaete, a-slammen to,
Did let the slow-wheel'd plough roll drough.

Ov all that then went by, but vew
Be now a-left behine', to beaet
The mornen flow'rs or evenen dew,
Or slam the woaken vive-bar'd geaete;
But woone, my wife, so litty-stepp'd,
That have a-kept my path o' life,
Wi' her vew errands on the road,
Where woonce she bore her mother's lwoad.

IN THE SPRING.

My love is the maid ov all maidens,
Though all mid be comely,
Her skin's lik' the jessamy blossom
A-spread in the Spring.

Her smile is so sweet as a beaeby's
Young smile on his mother,
Her eyes be as bright as the dew drop
A-shed in the Spring.

O grey-leafy pinks o' the geaerden,
Now bear her sweet blossoms;
Now deck wi' a rwose-bud, O briar.
Her head in the Spring.

O light-rollen wind blow me hit