nn'd his cwoat,
Their edges gi'ed en sich a cut,
How we did stan' an' laugh!
An' when the smock-frock I'd a-zow'd
Kept back his head an' hands, he drow'd
Hizzelf about, an' teaev'd, an' blow'd,
Lik' any up-tied calf.

Then in a veag away he flung
His frock, an' after me he sprung,
An' mutter'd out sich dreats, an' wrung
His vist up sich a size!
But I, a-runnen, turn'd an' drow'd
Some doust, a-pick'd up vrom the road,
Back at en wi' the wind, that blow'd
It right into his eyes.

An' he did blink, an' vow he'd catch
Me zomehow yet, an' be my match.
But I wer nearly down to hatch
Avore he got vur on;
An' up in chammer, nearly dead
Wi' runnen, lik' a cat I vled,
An' out o' window put my head
To zee if he wer gone.

An' there he wer, a-prowlen roun'
Upon the green; an' I look'd down
An' told en that I hoped he voun'
He mussen think to peck
Upon a body zoo, nor whip
The meaere to drow me off, nor tip
Me out o' cart ageaen, nor slip
Cut hoss-heaeir down my neck.

BE'MI'STER.

Sweet Be'mi'ster, that bist a-bound
By green an' woody hills all round,
Wi' hedges, reachen up between
A thousan' vields o' zummer green,
Where elems' lofty heads do drow
Their sheaedes vor hay-meakers below,
An' wild hedge-flow'rs do charm the souls
O' maidens in their evenen strolls.

When I o' Zunday nights wi' Jeaene
Do saunter drough a vield or leaene,
Where elder-blossoms be a-spread
Above the eltrot's milk-white head,
An' flow'rs o' blackberries do blow
Upon the brembles, white as snow,
To be outdone avore my zight
By Jeaen's gay frock o' dazzlen white;

Oh! then there's nothen that's 'ithout
Thy hills that I do ho about,--
Noo bigger pleaece, noo gayer town,
Beyond thy sweet bells' dyen soun',
As they do ring, or strike the hour,
At evenen vrom thy wold red tow'r.
No: shelter still my head, an' keep
My bwones when I do vall asleep.

THATCHEN O' THE RICK.

As I wer out in meaed last week,
A-thatchen o' my little rick,
There green young ee-grass, ankle-high,
Did sheen below the cloudless sky;
An' over hedge in tother groun',
Among the bennets dry an' brown,
My dun wold meaere, wi' neck a-freed
Vrom Zummer work, did snort an' veed;
An' in the sheaede o' leafy boughs,
My vew wold ragged-cwoated cows
Did rub their zides upon the rails,