id goo, an' vind
'Ithin the geaerden's mossy wall,
Sweet blossoms, low or risen tall,
To meaeke a tutty to your mind,
In churchyard heav'd, wi' grassy breast,
The greaeve-mound ov a beaeby's rest.

An' when a high day broke, to call
A throng 'ithin the churchyard wall,
The mother brought, wi' thoughtvul mind,
The feaeirest buds her eyes could vind,
To trim the little greaeve, an' show
To other souls her love an' loss,
An' meaede a Seaevior's little cross
O' brightest flow'rs that then did blow,
A-droppen tears a-sheenen bright,
Among the dew, in mornen light

An' woone sweet bud her han' did pleaece
Up where did droop the Seaevior's feaece;
An' two she zet a-bloomen bright,
Where reach'd His hands o' left an' right;
Two mwore feaeir blossoms, crimson dyed,
Did mark the pleaeces ov his veet,
An' woone did lie, a-smellen sweet,
Up where the spear did wound the zide
Ov Him that is the life ov all
Greaeve sleepers, whether big or small.

The mother that in faith could zee
The Seaevior on the high cross tree
Mid be a-vound a-grieven sore,
But not to grieve vor evermwore,
Vor He shall show her faithvul mind,
His chaice is all that she should choose,
An' love that here do grieve to lose,
Shall be, above, a jay to vind,
Wi' Him that evermwore shall keep
The souls that He do lay asleep.

WENT VROM HWOME.

The stream-be-wander'd dell did spread
Vrom height to woody height,
An' meaeds did lie, a grassy bed,
Vor elem-sheaeden light.
The milkmaid by her white-horn'd cow,
Wi' pail so white as snow,
Did zing below the elem bough
A-swayen to an' fro.

An' there the evenen's low-shot light
Did smite the high tree-tops,
An' rabbits vrom the grass, in fright,
Did leaep 'ithin the copse.
An' there the shepherd wi' his crook.
An' dog bezide his knee,
Went whisslen by, in air that shook
The ivy on the tree.

An' on the hill, ahead, wer bars
A-showen dark on high,
Avore, as eet, the evenen stars
Did twinkle in the sky,
An' then the last sweet evenen-tide
That my long sheaede vell there,
I went down Brindon's thymy zide,
To my last sleep at Ware.

THE FANCY FEAeIR AT MAIDEN NEWTON.

The Frome, wi' ever-water'd brink,
Do run where shelven hills do zink
Wi' housen all a-cluster'd roun'
The parish tow'rs below the down.
An' now,