ugh if she wer there.

In our deep hollow where the zun
Did eaerly leaeve the smoky tun,
An' all the meaeds a-growen dim,
Below the hill wi' zunny rim;
Oh! small the land the hills did bound,
But there did walk upon the ground
Young Fanny Deaene so good an' feaeir:
'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

O' leaete upon the misty plain
I stay'd vor shelter vrom the rain,
Where sharp-leav'd ashes' heads did twist
In hufflen wind, an' driften mist,
An' small the worold I could zee;
But then it had below the tree
My Fanny Deaene so good an' feaeir:
'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

An' I've a house wi' thatchen ridge,
Below the elems by the bridge:
Wi' small-peaen'd windows, that do look
Upon a knap, an' ramblen brook;
An' small's my house, my ruf is low,
But then who mid it have to show
But Fanny Deaene so good an' feaeir?
'Tis fine enough if peace is there.

BAD NEWS.

I do mind when there broke bitter tidens,
Woone day, on their ears,
An' their souls wer a-smote wi' a stroke
As the lightnen do vall on the woak,
An' the things that wer bright all around em
Seem'd dim drough their tears.

Then unheeded wer things in their vingers,
Their grief wer their all.
All unheeded wer zongs o' the birds,
All unheeded the child's perty words,
All unheeded the kitten a-rollen
The white-threaded ball.

Oh! vor their minds the daylight around em
Had nothen to show.
Though it brighten'd their tears as they vell,
An' did sheen on their lips that did tell,
In their vaices all thrillen an' mwoansome,
O' nothen but woe.

But they vound that, by Heavenly mercy,
The news werden true;
An' they shook, wi' low laughter, as quick
As a drum when his blows do vall thick,
An' wer eaernest in words o' thanksgiven,
Vor mercies anew.

THE TURNSTILE.

Ah! sad wer we as we did peaece
The wold church road, wi' downcast feaece,
The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep
Above our child a-left asleep,
Wer now a-zingen all alive
Wi' tother bells to meaeke the vive.
But up at woone pleaece we come by,
'Twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry:
On Steaen-cliff road, 'ithin the drong,
Up where, as vo'k do pass along,
The turnen stile, a-painted white,
Do sheen by day an' show by night.
Vor always there, as we did goo
To church, thik stile did let us drough,