elp his veet so hard to lift;
The maid do bear her basket by,
A-hangen at her breaethen zide;
An' ceaereless young men, straight an' spry,
Do whissle hwome at eventide,
Along the path, a-reachen by
Below tall trees an' oben sky.

There woone do goo to jay a-head;
Another's jay's behind his back.
There woone his vu'st long mile do tread,
An' woone the last ov all his track.
An' woone mid end a hopevul road,
Wi' hopeless grief a-teaeken on,
As he that leaetely vrom abroad
Come hwome to seek his love a-gone,
Noo mwore to tread, wi' comely eaese,
The beaeten path athirt the leaeze.

In tweilsome hardships, year by year,
He drough the worold wander'd wide,
Still bent, in mind, both vur an' near
To come an' meaeke his love his bride.
An' passen here drough evenen dew
He heaesten'd, happy, to her door,
But vound the wold vo'k only two,
Wi' noo mwore vootsteps on the vloor,
To walk ageaen below the skies,
Where beaeten paths do vall an' rise;

Vor she wer gone vrom e'thly eyes
To be a-kept in darksome sleep,
Until the good ageaen do rise
A-jay to souls they left to weep.
The rwose wer doust that bound her brow;
The moth did eat her Zunday ceaepe;
Her frock wer out o' fashion now;
Her shoes wer dried up out o' sheaepe--
The shoes that woonce did glitter black
Along the leaezes beaeten track.

RUTH A-RIDEN.

Ov all the roads that ever bridge
Did bear athirt a river's feaece,
Or ho'ses up an' down the ridge
Did wear to doust at ev'ry peaece,
I'll teaeke the Stalton leaene to tread,
By banks wi' primrwose-beds bespread,
An' steaetely elems over head,
Where Ruth do come a-riden.

An' I would rise when vields be grey
Wi' mornen dew, avore 'tis dry,
An' beaet the doust droughout the day
To bluest hills ov all the sky;
If there, avore the dusk o' night,
The evenen zun, a-sheenen bright,
Would pay my leaebors wi' the zight
O' Ruth--o' Ruth a-riden.

Her healthy feaece is rwosy feaeir,
She's comely in her gait an' lim',
An' sweet's the smile her feaece do wear,
Below her cap's well-rounded brim;
An' while her skirt's a-spreaeden wide,
In vwolds upon the ho'se's zide,
He'll toss his head, an' snort wi' pride,
To trot wi' Ruth a-riden.

An' as her ho'se's rottlen peaece
Do slacken till his veet do beaet
A slower trot, an