vast, John, an' true;
If winter vrost do chill the ground,
'Tis but to bring the zummer round,
All's well a-lost where He's a-vound,
Vor if 'tis right, vor Christes seaeke
He'll gi'e us mwore than he do teaeke,--
His goodness don't gi'e out, John.

MEAKEN UP A MIFF.

Vorgi'e me, Jenny, do! an' rise
Thy hangen head an' teary eyes,
An' speak, vor I've a-took in lies,
An' I've a-done thee wrong;
But I wer twold,--an' thought 'twer true,--
That Sammy down at Coome an' you
Wer at the feaeir, a-walken drough
The pleaece the whole day long.

An' tender thoughts did melt my heart,
An' zwells o' viry pride did dart
Lik' lightnen drough my blood; a-peaert
Ov your love I should scorn,
An' zoo I vow'd, however sweet
Your looks mid be when we did meet,
I'd trample ye down under veet,
Or let ye goo forlorn.

But still thy neaeme would always be
The sweetest, an' my eyes would zee
Among all maidens nwone lik' thee
Vor ever any mwore;
Zoo by the walks that we've a-took
By flow'ry hedge an' zedgy brook,
Dear Jenny, dry your eyes, an' look
As you've a-look'd avore.

Look up, an' let the evenen light
But sparkle in thy eyes so bright,
As they be open to the light
O' zunzet in the west;
An' let's stroll here vor half an hour,
Where hangen boughs do meaeke a bow'r
Above theaese bank, wi' eltrot flow'r
An' robinhoods a-drest.

HAY-MEAKEN.

'Tis merry ov a zummer's day,
Where vo'k be out a-meaeken hay;
Where men an' women, in a string,
Do ted or turn the grass, an' zing,
Wi' cheemen vaices, merry zongs,
A-tossen o' their sheenen prongs
Wi' eaerms a-zwangen left an' right,
In colour'd gowns an' shirtsleeves white;
Or, wider spread, a reaeken round
The rwosy hedges o' the ground,
Where Sam do zee the speckled sneaeke,
An' try to kill en wi' his reaeke;
An' Poll do jump about an' squall,
To zee the twisten slooworm crawl.

'Tis merry where a gay-tongued lot
Ov hay-meaekers be all a-squot,
On lightly-russlen hay, a-spread
Below an elem's lofty head,
To rest their weary limbs an' munch
Their bit o' dinner, or their nunch;
Where teethy reaekes do lie all round
By picks a-stuck up into ground.
An' wi' their vittles in their laps,
An' in their hornen cups their draps
O' cider sweet, or frothy eaele,
Their tongues do run wi' joke an' teaele.

An' w