Vor faith mid blunt the sting o' fear,
An' peace the pangs ov ills a-vound,
An' freedom vlee vrom evils near,
Wi' wings to vwold on other ground,
Wi' much a-lost, my loss is small,
Vor though ov e'thly goods bereft,
A thousand times well worth em all
Be they good blessens now a-left.
What e'th do own, to e'th mid vall,
But what's my own my own I'll call,
My faith, an' peaece, the gifts o' greaece,
An' freedom still to shift my pleaece.

When I've a-had a tree to screen
My meal-rest vrom the high zunn'd-sky,
Or ivy-holden wall between
My head an' win's a-rustlen by,
I had noo call vor han's to bring
Their seaev'ry dainties at my nod,
But stoop'd a-drinken vrom the spring,
An' took my meal, wi' thanks to God,
Wi' faith to keep me free o' dread,
An' peaece to sleep wi' steadvast head,
An' freedom's hands, an' veet unbound
To woone man's work, or woone seaeme ground.

FALL TIME.

The gather'd clouds, a-hangen low,
Do meaeke the woody ridge look dim;
An' rain-vill'd streams do brisker flow,
Arisen higher to their brim.
In the tree, vrom lim' to lim',
Leaves do drop
Vrom the top, all slowly down,
Yollow, to the gloomy groun'.

The rick's a-tipp'd an' weather-brown'd,
An' thatch'd wi' zedge a-dried an' dead;
An' orcha'd apples, red half round,
Have all a-happer'd down, a-shed
Underneath the trees' wide head.
Ladders long,
Rong by rong, to clim' the tall
Trees, be hung upon the wall.

The crumpled leaves be now a-shed
In mornen winds a-blowen keen;
When they wer green the moss wer dead,
Now they be dead the moss is green.
Low the evenen zun do sheen
By the boughs,
Where the cows do swing their tails
Over the merry milkers' pails.

FALL.

Now the yollow zun, a-runnen
Daily round a smaller bow,
Still wi' cloudless sky's a-zunnen
All the sheenen land below.
Vewer blossoms now do blow,
But the fruit's a-showen
Reds an' blues, an' purple hues,
By the leaves a-glowen.

Now the childern be a-pryen
Roun' the berried bremble-bow,
Zome a-laughen, woone a-cryen
Vor the slent her frock do show.
Bwoys be out a-pullen low
Slooe-boughs, or a-runnen
Where, on zides of hazzle-wrides,
Nuts do hang a-zunnen.

Where do reach roun' wheat-ricks yollow
Oves o' thatch, in long-drawn ring,
There, by stubbly hump