when the evenen sheaedes be long,
Do zee em all a-penn'd an' twold.

An' I do zee the frisken lam's,
Wi' swingen tails an' woolly lags,
A-playen roun' their veeden dams
An' pullen o' their milky bags.

An' I bezide a hawthorn tree,
Do' zit upon the zunny down,
While sheaedes o' zummer clouds do vlee
Wi' silent flight along the groun'.

An' there, among the many cries
O' sheep an' lambs, my dog do pass
A zultry hour, wi' blinken eyes,
An' nose a-stratch'd upon the grass;

But, in a twinklen, at my word,
He's all awake, an' up, an' gone
Out roun' the sheep lik' any bird,
To do what he's a-zent upon.

An' I do goo to washen pool,
A-sousen over head an' ears,
The shaggy sheep, to cleaen their wool
An' meaeke em ready vor the sheaers.

An' when the shearen time do come,
Then we do work vrom dawn till dark;
Where zome do shear the sheep, and zome
Do mark their zides wi' meaesters mark.

An' when the shearen's all a-done,
Then we do eat, an' drink, an' zing,
In meaester's kitchen till the tun
Wi' merry sounds do sheaeke an' ring.

Oh! I be shepherd o' the farm,
Wi' tinklen bells an' sheep dog's bark,
An' wi' my crook a-thirt my eaerm,
Here I do rove below the lark.

VIELDS IN THE LIGHT.

Woone's heart mid leaep wi' thoughts o' jay
In comen manhood light an' gay
When we do teaeke the worold on
Vrom our vore-elders dead an' gone;
But days so feaeir in hope's bright eyes
Do often come wi' zunless skies:
Woone's fancy can but be out-done,
Where trees do sway an' brooks do run,
By risen moon or zetten zun.

Vor when at evenen I do look
All down theaese hangen on the brook,
Wi' weaeves a-leaepen clear an' bright,
Where boughs do sway in yollow light;
Noo hills nor hollows, woods nor streams,
A-voun' by day or zeed in dreams,
Can ever seem so fit to be
Good angel's hwomes, though they do gi'e
But pain an' tweil to such as we.

An' when by moonlight darksome sheaedes
Do lie in grass wi' dewy bleaedes,
An' worold-hushen night do keep
The proud an' angry vast asleep,
When I can think, as I do rove,
Ov only souls that I do love;
Then who can dream a dream to show,
Or who can think o' moons to drow,
A sweeter light to rove below?

WHITSUNTIDE AN' CLUB WALKEN.

Ees, last Whit-Monday, I an' Meaery
Got up betimes to mind the deae