did lie
Upon her burnen cheaek half dry;
An' then her Robert, drawen nigh
Wi' tothers, took her han' wi' pride,
To meaeke her at the church his bride,
Her wedden day in mornen.

Wi' litty voot an' beaeten heart
She stepp'd up in the new light cart,
An' took her bridemaid up to ride
Along wi' Robert at her zide:
An' uncle's meaere look'd roun' wi' pride
To zee that, if the cart wer vull,
'Twer Jenny that he had to pull,
Her wedden day in mornen.

An' aunt an' uncle stood stock-still,
An' watch'd em trotten down the hill;
An' when they turn'd off out o' groun'
Down into leaene, two tears run down
Aunt's feaece; an' uncle, turnen roun',
Sigh'd woonce, an' stump'd off wi' his stick,
Because did touch en to the quick
To peaert wi' Jeaene thik mornen.

"Now Jeaene's agone," Tom mutter'd, "we
Shall mwope lik' owls 'ithin a tree;
Vor she did zet us all agog
Vor fun, avore the burnen log."
An' as he zot an' talk'd, the dog
Put up his nose athirt his thighs,
But coulden meaeke en turn his eyes,
Jeaene's wedden day in mornen.

An' then the naighbours round us, all
By woones an' twos begun to call,
To meet the young vo'k, when the meaere
Mid bring em back a married peaeir:
An' all o'm zaid, to Robert's sheaere,
There had a-vell the feaerest feaece,
An' kindest heart in all the pleaece,
Jeaene's wedden day in mornen.

RIVERS DON'T GI'E OUT.

The brook I left below the rank
Ov alders that do sheaede his bank,
A-runnen down to dreve the mill
Below the knap, 's a runnen still;
The creepen days an' weeks do vill
Up years, an' meaeke wold things o' new,
An' vok' do come, an' live, an' goo,
But rivers don't gi'e out, John.

The leaves that in the spring do shoot
Zo green, in fall be under voot;
May flow'rs do grow vor June to burn,
An' milk-white blooth o' trees do kern,
An' ripen on, an' vall in turn;
The miller's moss-green wheel mid rot,
An' he mid die an' be vorgot,
But rivers don't gi'e out, John.

A vew short years do bring an' rear
A maid--as Jeaene wer--young an' feaeir,
An' vewer zummer-ribbons, tied
In Zunday knots, do feaede bezide
Her cheaek avore her bloom ha' died:
Her youth won't stay,--her rwosy look
'S a feaeden flow'r, but time's a brook
To run an' not gi'e out, John.

An' yet, while things do come an' goo,
God's love is stead