neglected, God-directed,
Still wull tweil an' tweil ageaen.

FANCY.

In stillness we ha' words to hear,
An' sheaepes to zee in darkest night,
An' tongues a-lost can hail us near,
An' souls a-gone can smile in zight;
When Fancy now do wander back
To years a-spent, an' bring to mind
Zome happy tide a-left behind
In' weaesten life's slow-beaten track.

When feaeden leaves do drip wi' rain,
Our thoughts can ramble in the dry;
When Winter win' do zweep the plain
We still can have a zunny sky.
Vor though our limbs be winter-wrung,
We still can zee, wi' Fancy's eyes,
The brightest looks ov e'th an' skies,
That we did know when we wer young.

In pain our thoughts can pass to eaese,
In work our souls can be at play,
An' leaeve behind the chilly leaese
Vor warm-air'd meaeds o' new mow'd hay.
When we do vlee in Fancy's flight
Vrom daily ills avore our feaece,
An' linger in zome happy pleaece
Ov me'th an' smiles, an' warmth an' light.

THE BROKEN HEART.

News o' grief had overteaeken
Dark-ey'd Fanny, now vorseaeken;
There she zot, wi' breast a-heaven,
While vrom zide to zide, wi' grieven,
Vell her head, wi' tears a-creepen
Down her cheaeks, in bitter weepen.
There wer still the ribbon-bow
She tied avore her hour ov woe,
An' there wer still the han's that tied it
Hangen white,
Or wringen tight,
In ceaere that drown'd all ceaere bezide it.

When a man, wi' heartless slighten,
Mid become a maiden's blighten,
He mid ceaerlessly vorseaeke her,
But must answer to her Meaeker;
He mid slight, wi' selfish blindness,
All her deeds o' loven-kindness,
God wull waigh em wi' the slighten
That mid be her love's requiten;
He do look on each deceiver,
He do know
What weight o' woe
Do breaek the heart ov ev'ry griever.

EVENEN LIGHT.

The while I took my bit o' rest,
Below my house's eastern sheaede,
The things that stood in vield an' gleaede
Wer bright in zunsheen vrom the west.
There bright wer east-ward mound an' wall,
An' bright wer trees, arisen tall,
An' bright did break 'ithin the brook,
Down rocks, the watervall.

There deep 'ithin my pworches bow
Did hang my heavy woaken door,
An' in beyond en, on the vloor,
The evenen dusk did gather slow;
But bright did gleaere the twinklen spwokes