our wedden night in June;
Wi' heart that beaet wi' hope an' fear,
While on each eye-lash hung a tear,
A-glisnen to the moon.

Think how her father zot all dum',
A-thinken on her, back at hwome,
The while grey axan gather'd thick,
On dyen embers, on the brick;
An' how her mother look'd abrode,
Drough window, down the moon-bright road,
Thik cloudless night o' June,
Wi' tears upon her lashes big
As rain-drops on a slender twig,
A-glisnen to the moon.

Zoo don't zit thoughtless at your cup
An' keep your wife a-waeiten up,
The while the clock's a-ticken slow
The chilly hours o' vrost an' snow,
Until the zinken candle's light
Is out avore her drowsy sight,
A-dimm'd wi' grief too soon;
A-leaeven there alwone to murn
The feaeden cheaek that woonce did burn,
A-bloomen to the moon.

THE CHILD AN' THE MOWERS.

O, aye! they had woone child bezide,
An' a finer your eyes never met,
'Twer a dear little fellow that died
In the zummer that come wi' such het;
By the mowers, too thoughtless in fun,
He wer then a-zent off vrom our eyes,
Vrom the light ov the dew-dryen zun,--
Aye! vrom days under blue-hollow'd skies.

He went out to the mowers in meaed,
When the zun wer a-rose to his height,
An' the men wer a-swingen the sneaed,
Wi' their eaerms in white sleeves, left an' right;
An' out there, as they rested at noon,
O! they drench'd en vrom eaele-horns too deep,
Till his thoughts wer a-drown'd in a swoon;
Aye! his life wer a-smother'd in sleep.

Then they laid en there-right on the ground,
On a grass-heap, a-zweltren wi' het,
Wi' his heaeir all a-wetted around
His young feaece, wi' the big drops o' zweat;
In his little left palm he'd a-zet,
Wi' his right hand, his vore-vinger's tip,
As for zome'hat he woulden vorget,--
Aye! zome thought that he woulden let slip.

Then they took en in hwome to his bed,
An' he rose vrom his pillow noo mwore,
Vor the curls on his sleek little head
To be blown by the wind out o' door.
Vor he died while the haey russled grey
On the staddle so leaetely begun:
Lik' the mown-grass a-dried by the day,--
Aye! the zwath-flow'r's a-killed by the zun.

THE LOVE CHILD.

Where the bridge out at Woodley did stride,
Wi' his wide arches' cool sheaeded bow,
Up above the clear brook that did slide
By the po