bur'_,
Mid Bob be there to meaeke em stir,
In merry jigs, their stumps!

HOPE IN SPRING.

In happy times a while agoo,
My lively hope, that's now a-gone
Did stir my heart the whole year drough,
But mwost when green-bough'd spring come on;
When I did rove, wi' litty veet,
Drough deaeisy-beds so white's a sheet,
But still avore I us'd to meet
The blushen cheaeks that bloom'd vor me!

An' afterward, in lightsome youth,
When zummer wer a-comen on,
An' all the trees wer white wi' blooth,
An' dippen zwallows skimm'd the pon';
Sweet hope did vill my heart wi' jay,
An' tell me, though thik spring wer gay,
There still would come a brighter May,
Wi' blushen cheaeks to bloom vor me!

An' when, at last, the time come roun',
An' brought a lofty zun to sheen
Upon my smilen Fanny, down
Drough n[=e]sh young leaves o' yollow green;
How charmen wer the het that glow'd,
How charmen wer the sheaede a-drow'd,
How charmen wer the win' that blow'd
Upon her cheaeks that bloom'd vor me!

But hardly did they times begin,
Avore I vound em short to stay:
An' year by year do now come in,
To peaert me wider vrom my jay,
Vor what's to meet, or what's to peaert,
Wi' maidens kind, or maidens smart,
When hope's noo longer in the heart,
An' cheaeks noo mwore do bloom vor me!

But there's a worold still to bless
The good, where zickness never rose;
An' there's a year that's winterless,
Where glassy waters never vroze;
An' there, if true but e'thly love
Do seem noo sin to God above,
'S a smilen still my harmless dove,
So feaeir as when she bloom'd vor me!

THE WHITE ROAD UP ATHIRT THE HILL.

When hot-beam'd zuns do strik right down,
An' burn our zweaty feaezen brown;
An' zunny slopes, a-lyen nigh,
Be back'd by hills so blue's the sky;
Then, while the bells do sweetly cheem
Upon the champen high-neck'd team,
How lively, wi' a friend, do seem
The white road up athirt the hill.

The zwellen downs, wi' chalky tracks
A-climmen up their zunny backs,
Do hide green meaeds an' zedgy brooks.
An' clumps o' trees wi' glossy rooks,
An' hearty vo'k to laugh an' zing,
An' parish-churches in a string,
Wi' tow'rs o' merry bells to ring,
An' white roads up athirt the hills.

At feaest, when uncle's vo'k do come
To spend the day wi' us at hwome,
An' we do lay upon the bw