SECOND COLLECTION. (continued 2)

The sky wer clear, the zunsheen glow'd On droopèn flowers drough the day, As I did beät the dousty road Vrom hinder hills, a-feädèn gray; Drough hollows up the hills, Vrom knaps along by mills, Vrom mills by churches tow'rs, wi' bells That twold the hours to woody dells. An' when the windèn road do guide The thirsty vootman where mid flow The water vrom a rock bezide His vootsteps, in a sheenèn bow; The hand a-hollow'd up Do beät a goolden cup, To catch an' drink it, bright an' cool, A-vallèn light 'ithin the pool. [page 264] Zoo when, at last, I hung my head Wi' thirsty lips a-burnèn dry, I come bezide a river-bed Where water flow'd so blue's the sky; An' there I meäde me up O' coltsvoot leaf a cup, Where water vrom his lip o' gray, Wer sweet to sip thik burnèn day. But when our work is right, a jaÿ Do come to bless us in its traïn, An' hardships ha' zome good to paÿ The thoughtvul soul vor all their päin: The het do sweetèn sheäde, An' weary lim's ha' meäde A bed o' slumber, still an' sound, By woody hill or grassy mound. An' while I zot in sweet delay Below an elem on a hill, Where boughs a-halfway up did swaÿ In sheädes o' lim's above em still, An' blue sky show'd between The flutt'rèn leäves o' green; I woulden gi'e that gloom an' sheäde Vor any room that weälth ha' meäde. But oh! that vo'k that have the roads Where weary-vooted souls do pass, Would leäve bezide the stwone vor lwoads, A little strip vor zummer grass; That when the stwones do bruise An' burn an' gall our tooes, We then mid cool our veet on beds O' wild-thyme sweet, or deäisy-heads.

They do zay that a travellèn chap Have a-put in the newspeäper now, That the bit o' green ground on the knap Should be all a-took in vor the plough. He do fancy 'tis easy to show That we can be but stunpolls at best, Vor to leäve a green spot where a flower can grow, Or a voot-weary walker mid rest. Tis hedge-grubbèn, Thomas, an' ledge-grubbèn, Never a-done While a sov'rèn mwore's to be won. The road, he do zay, is so wide As 'tis wanted vor travellers' wheels, As if all that did travel did ride An' did never get galls on their heels. He would leäve sich a thin strip o' groun', That, if a man's veet in his shoes Wer a-burnèn an' zore, why he coulden zit down But the wheels would run over his tooes. Vor 'tis meäke money, Thomas, an' teäke money, What's zwold an' bought Is all that is worthy o' thought. Years agoo the leäne-zides did bear grass, Vor to pull wi' the geeses' red bills, That did hiss at the vo'k that did pass, Or the bwoys that pick'd up their white quills. But shortly, if vower or vive Ov our goslèns do creep vrom the agg, They must mwope in the geärden, mwore dead than alive, In a coop, or a-tied by the lag. [page 266] Vor to catch at land, Thomas, an' snatch at land, Now is the plan; Meäke money wherever you can. The childern wull soon have noo pleäce Vor to plaÿ in, an' if they do grow, They wull have a thin musheroom feäce, Wi' their bodies so sumple as dough. But a man is a-meäde ov a child, An' his limbs do grow worksome by plaÿ; An' if the young child's little body's a-spweil'd, Why, the man's wull the sooner decaÿ. But wealth is wo'th now mwore than health is wo'th; Let it all goo, If't 'ull bring but a sov'rèn or two. Vor to breed the young fox or the heäre, We can gi'e up whole eäcres o' ground, But the greens be a-grudg'd, vor to rear Our young childern up healthy an' sound, Why, there woont be a-left the next age A green spot where their veet can goo free; An' the goocoo wull soon be committed to cage Vor a trespass in zomebody's tree. Vor 'tis lockèn up, Thomas, an' blockèn up, Stranger or brother, Men mussen come nigh woone another. Woone day I went in at a geäte, Wi' my child, where an echo did sound, An' the owner come up, an' did reäte Me as if I would car off his ground. But his vield an' the grass wer a-let, An' the damage that he could a-took Wer at mwost that the while I did open the geäte I did rub roun' the eye on the hook. [page 267] But 'tis drevèn out, Thomas, an' hevèn out. Trample noo grounds, Unless you be after the hounds. Ah! the Squiër o' Culver-dell Hall Wer as diff'rent as light is vrom dark, Wi' zome vo'k that, as evenèn did vall, Had a-broke drough long grass in his park; Vor he went, wi' a smile, vor to meet Wi' the trespassers while they did pass, An' he zaid, "I do fear you'll catch cwold in your veet, You've a-walk'd drough so much o' my grass." His mild words, Thomas, cut em like swords, Thomas, Newly a-whet, An' went vurder wi' them than a dreat.

I took a flight, awhile agoo, Along the raïls, a stage or two, An' while the heavy wheels did spin An' rottle, wi' a deafnèn din, In clouds o' steam, the zweepèn traïn Did shoot along the hill-bound plaïn, As sheädes o' birds in flight, do pass Below em on the zunny grass. An' as I zot, an' look'd abrode On leänen land an' windèn road, The ground a-spread along our flight Did vlee behind us out o' zight; The while the zun, our heav'nly guide, Did ride on wi' us, zide by zide. An' zoo, while time, vrom stage to stage, Do car us on vrom youth to age, [page 268] The e'thly pleasures we do vind Be soon a-met, an' left behind; But God, beholdèn vrom above Our lowly road, wi' yearnèn love, Do keep bezide us, stage by stage, Vrom be'th to youth, vrom youth to age.

An' while I went 'ithin a traïn, A-ridèn on athirt the plaïn, A-cleären swifter than a hound, On twin-laid rails, the zwimmèn ground; I cast my eyes 'ithin a park, Upon a woak wi' grey-white bark, An' while I kept his head my mark, The rest did wheel around en. An' when in life our love do cling The clwosest round zome single thing, We then do vind that all the rest Do wheel roun' that, vor vu'st an' best; Zoo while our life do last, mid nought But what is good an' feäir be sought, In word or deed, or heart or thought, An' all the rest wheel round it.

When starbright maïdens be to zit In silken frocks, that they do wear, The room mid have, as 'tis but fit, A han'some seat vor vo'k so feäir; But we, in zun-dried vield an' wood, Ha' seats as good's a goolden chair. [page 269] Vor here, 'ithin the woody drong, A ribbèd elem-stem do lie, A-vell'd in Spring, an' stratch'd along A bed o' grægles up knee-high, A sheädy seat to rest, an' let The burnèn het o' noon goo by. Or if you'd look, wi' wider scope, Out where the gray-tree'd plaïn do spread, The ash bezide the zunny slope, Do sheäde a cool-aïr'd deäisy bed, An' grassy seat, wi' spreadèn eaves O' rus'lèn leaves, above your head. An' there the traïn mid come in zight, Too vur to hear a-rollèn by, A-breathèn quick, in heästy flight, His breath o' tweil, avore the sky, The while the waggon, wi' his lwoad, Do crawl the rwoad a-windèn nigh. Or now theäse happy holiday Do let vo'k rest their weäry lim's, An' lwoaded hay's a-hangèn gray, Above the waggon-wheels' dry rims, The meäd ha' seats in weäles or pooks, By windèn brooks, wi' crumblèn brims. Or if you'd gi'e your thoughtvul mind To yonder long-vorseäken hall, Then teäke a stwonèn seat behind The ivy on the broken wall, An' learn how e'thly wealth an' might Mid clim' their height, an' then mid vall.

I born in town! oh no, my dawn O' life broke here beside theäse lawn; Not where pent aïr do roll along, In darkness drough the wall-bound drong, An' never bring the goo-coo's zong, Nor sweets o' blossoms in the hedge, Or bendèn rush, or sheenèn zedge, Or sounds o' flowèn water. The aïr that I've a-breath'd did sheäke The draps o' raïn upon the breäke, An' bear aloft the swingèn lark, An' huffle roun' the elem's bark, In boughy grove, an' woody park, An' brought us down the dewy dells, The high-wound zongs o' nightingeäles. An' sounds o' flowèn water. An' when the zun, wi' vi'ry rim, 'S a-zinkèn low, an' wearèn dim, Here I, a-most too tired to stand, Do leäve my work that's under hand In pathless wood or oben land, To rest 'ithin my thatchèn oves, Wi' ruslèn win's in leafy groves, An' sounds o' flowèn water.

When zummer's burnèn het's a-shed Upon the droopèn grasses head, A-drevèn under sheädy leaves The workvo'k in their snow-white sleeves, [page 271] We then mid yearn to clim' the height, Where thorns be white, above the vern; An' aïr do turn the zunsheen's might To softer light too weak to burn— On woodless downs we mid be free, But lowland trees be company. Though downs mid show a wider view O' green a-reachèn into blue Than roads a-windèn in the glen, An' ringèn wi' the sounds o' men; The thissle's crown o' red an' blue In Fall's cwold dew do wither brown, An' larks come down 'ithin the lew, As storms do brew, an' skies do frown— An' though the down do let us free, The lowland trees be company. Where birds do zing, below the zun, In trees above the blue-smok'd tun, An' sheädes o' stems do overstratch The mossy path 'ithin the hatch; If leaves be bright up over head, When Maÿ do shed its glitt'rèn light; Or, in the blight o' Fall, do spread A yollow bed avore our zight— Whatever season it mid be, The trees be always company. When dusky night do nearly hide The path along the hedge's zide, An' dailight's hwomely sounds be still But sounds o' water at the mill; Then if noo feäce we long'd to greet Could come to meet our lwonesome treäce Or if noo peäce o' weary veet, [page 272] However fleet, could reach its pleäce— However lwonesome we mid be, The trees would still be company.

As I at work do look aroun' Upon the groun' I have in view, To yonder hills that still do rise Avore the skies, wi' backs o' blue; 'Ithin the ridges that do vall An' rise roun' Blackmwore lik' a wall, 'Tis yonder knap do teäke my zight Vrom dawn till night, the mwost ov all. An' there, in Maÿ, 'ithin the lewth O' boughs in blooth, be sheädy walks, An' cowslips up in yollow beds Do hang their heads on downy stalks; An' if the weather should be feäir When I've a holiday to speäre, I'll teäke the chance o' gettèn drough An hour or two wi' zome vo'k there. An' there I now can dimly zee The elem-tree upon the mound, An' there meäke out the high-bough'd grove An' narrow drove by Redcliff ground; An' there by trees a-risèn tall, The glowèn zunlight now do vall, Wi' shortest sheädes o' middle day, Upon the gray wold house's wall. An' I can zee avore the sky A-risèn high the churches speer, Wi' bells that I do goo to swing, An' like to ring, an' like to hear; [page 273] An' if I've luck upon my zide, They bells shall sound bwoth loud an' wide, A peal above they slopes o' gray, Zome merry day wi' Jeäne a bride.

At Easter, though the wind wer high, We vound we had a zunny sky, An' zoo wold Dobbin had to trudge His dousty road by knap an' brudge, An' jog, wi' hangèn vetterlocks A-sheäkèn roun' his heavy hocks, An' us, a lwoad not much too small, A-ridèn out to Brookwell Hall; An' there in doust vrom Dobbin's heels, An' green light-waggon's vower wheels, Our merry laughs did loudly sound, In rollèn winds athirt the ground; While sheenèn-ribbons' color'd streäks Did flutter roun' the maïdens' cheäks, As they did zit, wi' smilèn lips, A-reachèn out their vinger-tips Toward zome teäkèn pleäce or zight That they did shew us, left or right; An' woonce, when Jimmy tried to pleäce A kiss on cousin Polly's feäce, She push'd his hat, wi' wicked leers, Right off above his two red ears, An' there he roll'd along the groun' Wi' spreadèn brim an' rounded crown, An' vound, at last, a cowpon's brim, An' launch'd hizzelf, to teäke a zwim; An' there, as Jim did run to catch His neäked noddle's bit o' thatch, [page 274] To zee his straïnèns an' his strides, We laugh'd enough to split our zides. At Harwood Farm we pass'd the land That father's father had in hand, An' there, in oben light did spread, The very groun's his cows did tread, An' there above the stwonèn tun Avore the dazzlèn mornèn zun, Wer still the rollèn smoke, the breath A-breath'd vrom his wold house's he'th; An' there did lie below the door, The drashol' that his vootsteps wore; But there his meäte an' he bwoth died, Wi' hand in hand, an' zide by zide; Between the seäme two peals a-rung, Two Zundays, though they wer but young, An' laid in sleep, their worksome hands, At rest vrom tweil wi' house or lands. Then vower childern laid their heads At night upon their little beds, An' never rose ageän below A mother's love, or father's ho: Dree little maïdens, small in feäce, An' woone small bwoy, the fourth in pleäce Zoo when their heedvul father died, He call'd his brother to his zide, To meäke en stand, in hiz own stead, His childern's guide, when he wer dead; But still avore zix years brought round The woodland goo-coo's zummer sound, He weästed all their little store, An' hardship drove em out o' door, To tweil till tweilsome life should end. 'Ithout a single e'thly friend. But soon wi' Harwood back behind, An' out o' zight an' out o' mind, [page 275] We went a-rottlèn on, an' meäde Our way along to Brookwell Sleäde; An' then we vound ourselves draw nigh The Leädy's Tow'r that rose on high, An' seem'd a-comèn on to meet, Wi' growèn height, wold Dobbin's veet.

Well, I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while To beät the doust a good six mile To zee the pleäce the squier plann'd At Brookwell, now a-meäde by hand; Wi' oben lawn, an' grove, an' pon', An' gravel-walks as cleän as bron; An' grass a'most so soft to tread As velvet-pile o' silken thread; An' mounds wi' mæsh, an' rocks wi' flow'rs, An' ivy-sheäded zummer bow'rs, An' dribblèn water down below The stwonèn archès lofty bow. An' there do sound the watervall Below a cavern's mæshy wall, Where peäle-green light do struggle down A leafy crevice at the crown. An' there do gush the foamy bow O' water, white as driven snow: An' there, a zittèn all alwone, A little maïd o' marble stwone Do leän her little cheäk azide Upon her lily han', an' bide Bezide the vallèn stream to zee Her pitcher vill'd avore her knee. An' then the brook, a-rollèn dark Below a leänèn yew-tree's bark, [page 276] Wi' plaÿsome ripples that do run A-flashèn to the western zun, Do shoot, at last, wi' foamy shocks, Athirt a ledge o' craggy rocks, A-castèn in his heästy flight, Upon the stwones a robe o' white; An' then ageän do goo an' vall Below a bridge's archèd wall, Where vo'k agwaïn athirt do pass Vow'r little bwoys a-cast in brass; An' woone do hold an angler's wand, Wi' steady hand, above the pond; An' woone, a-pweïntèn to the stream His little vinger-tip, do seem A-showèn to his playmeätes' eyes, Where he do zee the vishes rise; An' woone ageän, wi' smilèn lips, Do put a vish his han' do clips 'Ithin a basket, loosely tied About his shoulder at his zide: An' after that the fourth do stand A-holdèn back his pretty hand Behind his little ear, to drow A stwone upon the stream below. An' then the housèn, that be all Sich pretty hwomes, vrom big to small, A-lookèn south, do cluster round A zunny ledge o' risèn ground, Avore a wood, a-nestled warm, In lewth ageän the northern storm, Where smoke, a-wreathèn blue, do spread Above the tuns o' dusky red, An' window-peänes do glitter bright Wi' burnèn streams o' zummer light, Below the vine, a-traïn'd to hem Their zides 'ithin his leafy stem, [page 277] An' rangle on, wi' flutt'rèn leaves, Below the houses' thatchen eaves. An' drough a lawn a-spread avore The windows, an' the pworchèd door, A path do wind 'ithin a hatch, A-vastèn'd wi' a clickèn latch, An' there up over ruf an' tun, Do stan' the smooth-wall'd church o' stwone, Wi' carvèd windows, thin an' tall, A-reachèn up the lofty wall; An' battlements, a-stannèn round The tower, ninety veet vrom ground, Vrom where a teäp'rèn speer do spring So high's the mornèn lark do zing. Zoo I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while To beät the doust a good six mile, To zee the pleäce the squier plann'd At Brookwell, now a-meäde by hand.

Ah! good Meäster Gwillet, that you mid ha' know'd, Wer a-bred up at Coomb, an' went little abroad: An' if he got in among strangers, he velt His poor heart in a twitter, an' ready to melt; Or if, by ill luck, in his rambles, he met Wi' zome maïdens a-titt'rèn, he burn'd wi' a het, That shot all drough the lim's o'n, an' left a cwold zweat, The poor little chap wer so shy, He wer ready to drap, an' to die. But at last 'twer the lot o' the poor little man To vall deeply in love, as the best ov us can; An' 'twer noo easy task vor a shy man to tell Sich a dazzlèn feäir maïd that he loved her so well; [page 278] An' woone day when he met her, his knees nearly smote Woone another, an' then wi' a struggle he bro't A vew vords to his tongue, wi' some mwore in his droat. But she, 'ithout doubt, could soon vind Vrom two words that come out, zix behind. Zoo at langth, when he vound her so smilèn an' kind, Why he wrote her zome laïns, vor to tell her his mind, Though 'twer then a hard task vor a man that wer shy, To be married in church, wi' a crowd stannèn by. But he twold her woone day, "I have housen an' lands, We could marry by licence, if you don't like banns," An' he cover'd his eyes up wi' woone ov his han's, Vor his head seem'd to zwim as he spoke, An' the aïr look'd so dim as a smoke. Well! he vound a good naïghbour to goo in his pleäce Vor to buy the goold ring, vor he hadden the feäce. An' when he went up vor to put in the banns, He did sheäke in his lags, an' did sheäke in his han's. Then they ax'd vor her neäme, an' her parish or town, An' he gi'ed em a leaf, wi' her neäme a-wrote down; Vor he coulden ha' twold em outright, vor a poun', Vor his tongue wer so weak an' so loose, When he wanted to speak 'twer noo use. Zoo they went to be married, an' when they got there All the vo'k wer a-gather'd as if 'twer a feäir, An' he thought, though his pleäce mid be pleazèn to zome, He could all but ha' wish'd that he hadden a-come. The bride wer a-smilèn as fresh as a rwose, An' when he come wi' her, an' show'd his poor nose. All the little bwoys shouted, an' cried "There he goes," "There he goes." Oh! vor his peärt he velt As if the poor heart o'n would melt. [page 279] An' when they stood up by the chancel together, Oh! a man mid ha' knock'd en right down wi' a veather, He did veel zoo asheäm'd that he thought he would rather He wërden the bridegroom, but only the father. But, though 'tis so funny to zee en so shy, Yeet his mind is so lowly, his aïms be so high, That to do a meän deed, or to tell woone a lie, You'd vind that he'd shun mwore by half, Than to stan' vor vo'ks fun, or their laugh.

There Liddy zot bezide her cow, Upon her lowly seat, O; A hood did overhang her brow, Her païl wer at her veet, O; An' she wer kind, an' she wer feäir, An' she wer young, an' free o' ceäre; Vew winters had a-blow'd her heäir, Bezide the Winter's Willow. She idden woone a-rear'd in town Where many a gaÿer lass, O, Do trip a-smilèn up an' down, So peäle wi' smoke an' gas, O; But here, in vields o' greäzèn herds, Her väice ha' mingled sweetest words Wi' evenèn cheärms o' busy birds, Bezide the Winter's Willow. An' when, at last, wi' beätèn breast, I knock'd avore her door, O, She ax'd me in to teäke the best O' pleäces on the vloor, O; [page 280] An' smilèn feäir avore my zight, She blush'd bezide the yollow light O' bleäzèn brands, while winds o' night Do sheäke the Winter's Willow. An' if there's readship in her smile, She don't begrudge to speäre, O, To zomebody, a little while, The empty woaken chair, O; An' if I've luck upon my zide, Why, I do think she'll be my bride Avore the leaves ha' twice a-died Upon the Winter's Willow. Above the coach-wheels' rollèn rims She never rose to ride, O, Though she do zet her comely lim's Above the mare's white zide, O; But don't become too proud to stoop An' scrub her milkèn païl's white hoop, Or zit a-milkèn where do droop, The wet-stemm'd Winter's Willow. An' I've a cow or two in leäze, Along the river-zide, O, An' païls to zet avore her knees, At dawn an' evenèn-tide, O; An' there she still mid zit, an' look Athirt upon the woody nook Where vu'st I zeed her by the brook Bezide the Winter's Willow. Zoo, who would heed the treeless down, A-beät by all the storms, O, Or who would heed the busy town, Where vo'k do goo in zwarms, O; [page 281] If he wer in my house below The elems, where the vier did glow In Liddy's feäce, though winds did blow Ageän the Winter's Willow.

Aye, aye, vull rathe the zun mus' rise To meäke us tired o' zunny skies, A-sheenèn on the whole day drough, From mornèn's dawn till evenèn's dew. When trees be brown an' meäds be green, An' skies be blue, an' streams do sheen, An' thin-edg'd clouds be snowy white Above the bluest hills in zight; But I can let the daylight goo, When I've a-met wi'—I know who. In Spring I met her by a bed O' laurels higher than her head; The while a rwose hung white between Her blushes an' the laurel's green; An' then in Fall, I went along The row of elems in the drong, An' heärd her zing bezide the cows, By yollow leaves o' meäple boughs; But Fall or Spring is feäir to view When day do bring me—I know who. An' when, wi' wint'r a-comèn roun', The purple he'th's a-feädèn brown, An' hangèn vern's a-sheäkèn dead, Bezide the hill's besheäded head: An' black-wing'd rooks do glitter bright Above my head, in peäler light; [page 282] Then though the birds do still the glee That sounded in the zummer tree, My heart is light the winter drough, In me'th at night, wi'—I know who.

Above the timber's bendèn sh'ouds, The western wind did softly blow; An' up avore the knap, the clouds Did ride as white as driven snow. Vrom west to east the clouds did zwim Wi' wind that plied the elem's lim'; Vrom west to east the stream did glide, A-sheenèn wide, wi' windèn brim. How feäir, I thought, avore the sky The slowly-zwimmèn clouds do look; How soft the win's a-streamèn by; How bright do roll the weävy brook: When there, a-passèn on my right, A-waikèn slow, an' treadèn light, Young Jessie Lee come by, an' there Took all my ceäre, an' all my zight. Vor lovely wer the looks her feäce Held up avore the western sky: An' comely wer the steps her peäce Did meäke a-walkèn slowly by: But I went east, wi' beätèn breast, Wi' wind, an' cloud, an' brook, vor rest, Wi' rest a-lost, vor Jessie gone So lovely on, toward the west. [page 283] Blow on, O winds, athirt the hill; Zwim on, O clouds; O waters vall, Down mæshy rocks, vrom mill to mill; I now can overlook ye all. But roll, O zun, an' bring to me My day, if such a day there be, When zome dear path to my abode Shall be the road o' Jessie Lee.

As evenèn aïr, in green-treed Spring, Do sheäke the new-sprung pa'sley bed, An' wither'd ash-tree keys do swing An' vall a-flutt'rèn roun' our head: There, while the birds do zing their zong In bushes down the ash-tree drong, Come Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleäce Your vaïce an' feäce can meäke vor me. Below the buddèn ashes' height We there can linger in the lew, While boughs, a-gilded by the light, Do sheen avore the sky o' blue: But there by zettèn zun, or moon A-risèn, time wull vlee too soon Wi' Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleäce Her vaïce an' feäce can meäke vor me. Down where the darksome brook do flow, Below the bridge's archèd wall, Wi' alders dark, a-leanèn low, Above the gloomy watervall; There I've a-led ye hwome at night, Wi' noo feäce else 'ithin my zight [page 284] But yours so feäir, an' sweet's the pleäce Your vaïce an' feäce ha' meäde me there. An' oh! when other years do come, An' zettèn zuns, wi' yollow gleäre, Drough western window-peänes, at hwome, Do light upon my evenèn chair: While day do weäne, an' dew do vall, Be wi' me then, or else in call, As time do vlee, vor sweet's the pleäce Your vaïce an' feäce do meäke vor me. Ah! you do smile, a-thinkèn light O' my true words, but never mind; Smile on, smile on, but still your flight Would leäve me little jaÿ behind: But let me not be zoo a-tried Wi' you a-lost where I do bide, O Jessie Lee, in any pleäce Your vaïce an' feäce ha' blest vor me. I'm sure that when a soul's a-brought To this our life ov aïr an' land, Woone mwore's a-mark'd in God's good thought, To help, wi' love, his heart an' hand. An' oh! if there should be in store An angel here vor my poor door, 'Tis Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleäce Her vaïce an' feace can meäke vor me.

'Twer where the zun did warm the lewth, An' win' did whiver in the sheäde, The sweet-aïr'd beäns were out in blooth, Down there 'ithin the elem gleäde; [page 285] A yollow-banded bee did come, An' softly-pitch, wi' hushèn hum, Upon a beän, an' there did sip, Upon a swaÿèn blossom's lip: An' there cried he, "Aye, I can zee, This blossom's all a-zent vor me." A-jilted up an' down, astride Upon a lofty ho'se a-trot, The meäster then come by wi' pride, To zee the beäns that he'd a-got; An' as he zot upon his ho'se, The ho'se ageän did snort an' toss His high-ear'd head, an' at the zight Ov all the blossom, black an' white: "Ah! ah!" thought he, the seäme's the bee, "Theäse beäns be all a-zent vor me." Zoo let the worold's riches breed A strife o' claïms, wi' weak and strong, Vor now what cause have I to heed Who's in the right, or in the wrong; Since there do come drough yonder hatch, An' bloom below the house's thatch, The best o' maïdens, an' do own That she is mine, an' mine alwone: Zoo I can zee that love do gi'e The best ov all good gifts to me. Vor whose be all the crops an' land A-won an' lost, an' bought, an zwold Or whose, a-roll'd vrom hand to hand, The highest money that's a-twold? Vrom man to man a passèn on, 'Tis here to-day, to-morrow gone. [page 286] But there's a blessèn high above It all—a soul o' stedvast love: Zoo let it vlee, if God do gi'e Sweet Jessie vor a gift to me.

Aye, vull my heart's blood now do roll, An' gaÿ do rise my happy soul, An' well they mid, vor here our veet Avore woone vier ageän do meet; Vor you've avoun' my feäce, to greet Wi' welcome words my startlèn ear. An' who be you, but John o' Weer, An' I, but William Wellburn. Here, light a candle up, to shed Mwore light upon a wold friend's head, An' show the smile, his feäce woonce mwore Ha' brought us vrom another shore. An' I'll heave on a brand avore The vier back, to meäke good cheer, O' roarèn fleämes, vor John o' Weer To chat wi' William Wellburn. Aye, aye, it mid be true that zome, When they do wander out vrom hwome, Do leäve their nearest friends behind, Bwoth out o' zight, an' out o' mind; But John an' I ha' ties to bind Our souls together, vur or near, For, who is he but John o' Weer. An' I, but William Wellburn. Look, there he is, with twinklèn eyes, An' elbows down upon his thighs. [page 287] A-chucklèn low, wi' merry grin. Though time ha' roughen'd up his chin, 'Tis still the seäme true soul 'ithin, As woonce I know'd, when year by year, Thik very chap, thik John o' Weer, Did plaÿ wi' William Wellburn. Come, John, come; don't be dead-alive Here, reach us out your clust'r o' vive. Oh! you be happy. Ees, but that Woon't do till you can laugh an' chat. Don't blinky, lik' a purrèn cat, But leäp an' laugh, an' let vo'k hear What's happen'd, min, that John o' Weer Ha' met wi' William Wellburn. Vor zome, wi' selfishness too strong Vor love, do do each other wrong; An' zome do wrangle an' divide In hets ov anger, bred o' pride; But who do think that time or tide Can breed ill-will in friends so dear, As William wer to John o' Weer, An' John to William Wellburn? If other vo'ks do gleen to zee How lovèn an' how glad we be, What, then, poor souls, they had but vew Sich happy days, so long agoo, As they that I've a-spent wi' you; But they'd hold woone another dear, If woone o' them wer John o' Weer, An' tother William Wellburn.

'Twer where my fondest thoughts do light, At Fifehead, while we spent the night; The millwheel's restèn rim wer dry, An' houn's held up their evenèn cry; An' lofty, drough the midnight sky, Above the vo'k, wi' heavy heads, Asleep upon their darksome beds, The stars wer all awake, John. Noo birds o' day wer out to spread Their wings above the gully's bed, An' darkness roun' the elem-tree 'D a-still'd the charmy childern's glee. All he'ths wer cwold but woone, where we Wer gaÿ, 'tis true, but gaÿ an' wise, An' laugh'd in light o' maïden's eyes, That glissen'd wide awake, John. An' when we all, lik' loosen'd hounds, Broke out o' doors, wi' merry sounds, Our friends among the plaÿsome team, All brought us gwäin so vur's the stream. But Jeäne, that there, below a gleam O' light, watch'd woone o's out o' zight; Vor willènly, vor his "Good night," She'd longer bide awake, John. An' while up Leighs we stepp'd along Our grassy path, wi' joke an' zong, There Plumber, wi' its woody ground, O' slopèn knaps a-screen'd around, Rose dim 'ithout a breath o' sound, The wold abode o' squiers a-gone, Though while they lay a-sleepèn on, Their stars wer still awake, John.

If I've a-stream'd below a storm, An' not a-velt the raïn, An' if I ever velt me warm, In snow upon the plaïn, 'Twer when, as evenèn skies wer dim, An' vields below my eyes wer dim, I went alwone at evenèn-fall, Athirt the vields to Ivy Hall. I voun' the wind upon the hill, Last night, a-roarèn loud, An' rubbèn boughs a-creakèn sh'ill Upon the ashes' sh'oud; But oh! the reelèn copse mid groan; An' timber's lofty tops mid groan; The hufflèn winds be music all, Bezide my road to Ivy Hall. A sheädy grove o' ribbèd woaks, Is Wootton's shelter'd nest, An' woaks do keep the winter's strokes Vrom Knapton's evenèn rest. An' woaks ageän wi' bossy stems, An' elems wi' their mossy stems, Do rise to screen the leafy wall An' stwonèn ruf ov Ivy Hall. The darksome clouds mid fling their sleet. An' vrost mid pinch me blue, Or snow mid cling below my veet, An' hide my road vrom view. The winter's only jaÿ ov heart, An' storms do meäke me gaÿ ov heart, [page 290] When I do rest, at evenèn-fall, Bezide the he'th ov Ivy Hall. There leafy stems do clim' around The mossy stwonèn eaves; An' there be window-zides a-bound Wi' quiv'rèn ivy-leaves. But though the sky is dim 'ithout, An' feäces mid be grim 'ithout, Still I ha' smiles when I do call, At evenèn-tide, at Ivy Hall.

When I wer still a bwoy, an' mother's pride, A bigger bwoy spoke up to me so kind-like, "If you do like, I'll treat ye wi' a ride In theäse wheel-barrow here." Zoo I wer blind-like To what he had a-workèn in his mind-like, An' mounted vor a passenger inside; An' comèn to a puddle, perty wide, He tipp'd me in, a-grinnèn back behind-like. Zoo when a man do come to me so thick-like, An' sheäke my hand, where woonce he pass'd me by, An' tell me he would do me this or that, I can't help thinkèn o' the big bwoy's trick-like. An' then, vor all I can but wag my hat An' thank en, I do veel a little shy.

No! I don't begrudge en his life, Nor his goold, nor his housen, nor lands; Teäke all o't, an' gi'e me my wife, A wife's be the cheapest ov hands. [page 291] Lie alwone! sigh alwone! die alwone! Then be vorgot. No! I be content wi' my lot. Ah! where be the vingers so feäir, Vor to pat en so soft on the feäce, To mend ev'ry stitch that do tear, An' keep ev'ry button in pleäce? Crack a-tore! brack a-tore! back a-tore! Buttons a-vled! Vor want ov a wife wi' her thread. Ah! where is the sweet-perty head That do nod till he's gone out o' zight? An' where be the two eärms a-spread, To show en he's welcome at night? Dine alwone! pine alwone! whine alwone! Oh! what a life! I'll have a friend in a wife. An' when vrom a meetèn o' me'th Each husban' do leäd hwome his bride, Then he do slink hwome to his he'th, Wi' his eärm a-hung down his cwold zide. Slinkèn on! blinkèn on! thinkèn on! Gloomy an' glum; Nothèn but dullness to come. An' when he do onlock his door, Do rumble as hollow's a drum, An' the veäries a-hid roun' the vloor, Do grin vor to see en so glum. Keep alwone! sleep alwone! weep alwone! There let en bide, I'll have a wife at my zide. [page 292] But when he's a-laid on his bed In a zickness, O, what wull he do! Vor the hands that would lift up his head, An' sheäke up his pillor anew. Ills to come! pills to come! bills to come! Noo soul to sheäre The trials the poor wratch must bear.

Come let's goo down the grove to-night; The moon is up, 'tis all so light As day, an' win' do blow enough To sheäke the leaves, but tiddèn rough. Come, Esther, teäke, vor wold time's seäke, Your hooded cloke, that's on the pin, An' wrap up warm, an' teäke my eärm, You'll vind it better out than in. Come, Etty dear; come out o' door, An' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. How charmèn to our very souls, Wer woonce your evenèn maïden strolls, The while the zettèn zunlight dyed Wi' red the beeches' western zide, But back avore your vinger wore The weddèn ring that's now so thin; An' you did sheäre a mother's ceäre, To watch an' call ye eärly in. Come, Etty dear; come out o' door, An' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. An' then ageän, when you could slight The clock a-strikèn leäte at night, The while the moon, wi' risèn rim, Did light the beeches' eastern lim'. [page 293] When I'd a-bound your vinger round Wi' thik goold ring that's now so thin, An' you had nwone but me alwone To teäke ye leäte or eärly in. Come, Etty dear; come out o' door, An' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. But often when the western zide O' trees did glow at evenèn-tide, Or when the leäter moon did light The beeches' eastern boughs at night, An' in the grove, where vo'k did rove The crumpled leaves did vlee an' spin, You couldèn sheäre the pleasure there: Your work or childern kept ye in. Come, Etty dear, come out o' door, An' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. But ceäres that zunk your oval chin Ageän your bosom's lily skin, Vor all they meäde our life so black, Be now a-lost behind our back. Zoo never mwope, in midst of hope, To slight our blessèns would be sin. Ha! ha! well done, now this is fun; When you do like I'll bring ye in. Here, Etty dear; here, out o' door, We'll teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

'Twer Maÿ, but ev'ry leaf wer dry All day below a sheenèn sky; The zun did glow wi' yollow gleäre, An' cowslips blow wi' yollow gleäre, [page 294] Wi' grægles' bells a-droopèn low, An' bremble boughs a-stoopèn low; While culvers in the trees did coo Above the vallèn dew. An' there, wi' heäir o' glossy black, Bezide your neck an' down your back, You rambled gaÿ a-bloomfen feäir; By boughs o' maÿ a-bloomèn feäir; An' while the birds did twitter nigh, An' water weäves did glitter nigh, You gather'd cowslips in the lew, Below the vallèn dew. An' now, while you've a-been my bride As years o' flow'rs ha' bloom'd an' died, Your smilèn feäce ha' been my jaÿ; Your soul o' greäce ha' been my jaÿ; An' wi' my evenèn rest a-come, An' zunsheen to the west a-come, I'm glad to teäke my road to you Vrom vields o' vallèn dew. An' when the raïn do wet the maÿ, A-bloomèn where we woonce did straÿ, An' win' do blow along so vast, An' streams do flow along so vast; Ageän the storms so rough abroad, An' angry tongues so gruff abroad, The love that I do meet vrom you Is lik' the vallèn dew. An' you be sprack's a bee on wing, In search ov honey in the Spring: The dawn-red sky do meet ye up; The birds vu'st cry do meet ye up; [page 295] An' wi' your feäce a-smilèn on, An' busy hands a-tweilèn on, You'll vind zome useful work to do Until the vallèn dew.

Since I noo mwore do zee your feäce, Up steäirs or down below, I'll zit me in the lwonesome pleäce, Where flat-bough'd beech do grow: Below the beeches' bough, my love, Where you did never come, An' I don't look to meet ye now, As I do look at hwome. Since you noo mwore be at my zide, In walks in zummer het, I'll goo alwone where mist do ride, Drough trees a-drippèn wet: Below the raïn-wet bough, my love, Where you did never come, An' I don't grieve to miss ye now, As I do grieve at home. Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard Your vaïce do never sound, I'll eat the bit I can avword, A-vield upon the ground; Below the darksome bough, my love, Where you did never dine, An' I don't grieve to miss ye now, As I at hwome do pine. [page 296] Since I do miss your vaïce an' feäce In praÿer at eventide, I'll praÿ wi' woone said vaïce vor greäce To goo where you do bide; Above the tree an' bough, my love, Where you be gone avore, An' be a-waïtèn vor me now, To come vor evermwore.

Ah! Meäster Collins overtook Our knot o' vo'k a-stannèn still, Last Zunday, up on Ivy Hill, To zee how strong the corn did look. An' he stay'd back awhile an' spoke A vew kind words to all the vo'k, Vor good or joke, an' wi' a smile Begun a-plaÿèn wi' a chile. The zull, wi' iron zide awry, Had long a-vurrow'd up the vield; The heavy roller had a-wheel'd It smooth vor showers vrom the sky; The bird-bwoy's cry, a-risèn sh'ill, An' clacker, had a-left the hill, All bright but still, vor time alwone To speed the work that we'd a-done. Down drough the wind, a-blowèn keen, Did gleäre the nearly cloudless sky, An' corn in bleäde, up ancle-high, 'lthin the geäte did quiver green; An' in the geäte a-lock'd there stood A prickly row o' thornèn wood [page 297] Vor vo'k vor food had done their best, An' left to Spring to do the rest. "The geäte," he cried, "a-seal'd wi' thorn Vrom harmvul veet's a-left to hold The bleäde a-springèn vrom the mwold, While God do ripen it to corn. An' zoo in life let us vulvil Whatever is our Meäker's will, An' then bide still, wi' peacevul breast, While He do manage all the rest.

Oh! there be angels evermwore, A-passèn onward by the door, A-zent to teäke our jaÿs, or come To bring us zome—O Meärianne. Though doors be shut, an' bars be stout, Noo bolted door can keep em out; But they wull leäve us ev'ry thing They have to bring—My Meärianne. An' zoo the days a-stealèn by, Wi' zuns a-ridèn drough the sky, Do bring us things to leäve us sad, Or meäke us glad—O Meärianne. The day that's mild, the day that's stern, Do teäke, in stillness, each his turn; An' evils at their worst mid mend, Or even end—My Meärianne. But still, if we can only bear Wi' faïth an' love, our païn an' ceäre, We shan't vind missèn jaÿs a-lost, Though we be crost—O Meärianne. [page 298] But all a-took to heav'n, an' stow'd Where we can't weäste em on the road, As we do wander to an' fro, Down here below—My Meärianne. But there be jaÿs I'd soonest choose To keep, vrom them that I must lose; Your workzome hands to help my tweil, Your cheerful smile—O Meärianne. The Zunday bells o' yonder tow'r, The moonlight sheädes o' my own bow'r, An' rest avore our vier-zide, At evenèn-tide—My Meärianne.

The church do zeem a touchèn zight, When vo'k, a-comèn in at door, Do softly tread the long-aïl'd vloor Below the pillar'd arches' height, Wi' bells a-pealèn, Vo'k a-kneelèn, Hearts a-healèn, wi' the love An' peäce a-zent em vrom above. An' there, wi' mild an' thoughtvul feäce, Wi' downcast eyes, an' vaïces dum', The wold an' young do slowly come, An' teäke in stillness each his pleäce, A-zinkèn slowly, Kneelèn lowly, Seekèn holy thoughts alwone, In praÿ'r avore their Meäker's throne. [page 299] An' there be sons in youthvul pride, An' fathers weak wi' years an' païn, An' daughters in their mother's traïn. The tall wi' smaller at their zide; Heads in murnèn Never turnèn, Cheäks a-burnèn, wi' the het O' youth, an' eyes noo tears do wet. There friends do settle, zide by zide, The knower speechless to the known; Their vaïce is there vor God alwone To flesh an' blood their tongues be tied. Grief a-wringèn, Jaÿ a-zingèn, Pray'r a-bringèn welcome rest So softly to the troubled breast.

An' while I zot, wi' thoughtvul mind, Up where the lwonesome Coombs do wind, An' watch'd the little gully slide So crookèd to the river-zide; I thought how wrong the Stour did zeem To roll along his ramblèn stream, A-runnèn wide the left o' south, To vind his mouth, the right-hand zide. But though his stream do teäke, at mill. An' eastward bend by Newton Hill, An' goo to lay his welcome boon O' daïly water round Hammoon, [page 300] An' then wind off ageän, to run By Blanvord, to the noonday zun, 'Tis only bound by woone rule all, An' that's to vall down steepest ground. An' zoo, I thought, as we do bend Our waÿ drough life, to reach our end, Our God ha' gi'ed us, vrom our youth, Woone rule to be our guide—His truth. An' zoo wi' that, though we mid teäke Wide rambles vor our callèns' seäke, What is, is best, we needen fear, An' we shall steer to happy rest.

Aye, Meäster Collins wer a-blest Wi' greäce, an' now's a-gone to rest; An' though his heart did beät so meek 'S a little child's, when he did speak, The godly wisdom ov his tongue Wer dew o' greäce to wold an' young. 'Twer woonce, upon a zummer's tide, I zot at Brookwell by his zide, Avore the leäke, upon the rocks, Above the water's idle shocks, As little plaÿsome weäves did zwim Ageän the water's windy brim, Out where the lofty tower o' stwone Did stan' to years o' wind an' zun; An' where the zwellèn pillars bore A pworch above the heavy door, Wi' sister sheädes a-reachèn cool Athirt the stwones an' sparklèn pool. [page 301] I spoke zome word that meäde en smile, O' girt vo'k's wealth an' poor vo'k's tweil, As if I pin'd, vor want ov greäce, To have a lord's or squier's pleäce. "No, no," he zaid, "what God do zend Is best vor all o's in the end, An' all that we do need the mwost Do come to us wi' leäst o' cost;— Why, who could live upon the e'th 'Ithout God's gïft ov aïr vor breath? Or who could bide below the zun If water didden rise an' run? An' who could work below the skies If zun an' moon did never rise? Zoo aïr an' water, an' the light, Be higher gifts, a-reckon'd right, Than all the goold the darksome claÿ Can ever yield to zunny daÿ: But then the aïr is roun' our heads, Abroad by day, or on our beds; Where land do gi'e us room to bide, Or seas do spread vor ships to ride; An' He do zend his waters free, Vrom clouds to lands, vrom lands to sea: An' mornèn light do blush an' glow, 'Ithout our tweil—'ithout our ho. "Zoo let us never pine, in sin, Vor gifts that ben't the best to win; The heaps o' goold that zome mid pile, Wi' sleepless nights an' peaceless tweil; Or manor that mid reach so wide As Blackmwore is vrom zide to zide, Or kingly swaÿ, wi' life or death, Vor helpless childern ov the e'th: [page 302] Vor theäse ben't gifts, as He do know, That He in love should vu'st bestow; Or else we should have had our sheäre O'm all wi' little tweil or ceäre. "Ov all His choicest gifts, His cry Is, 'Come, ye moneyless, and buy.' Zoo blest is he that can but lift His prayer vor a happy gift."

Zoo then the leädy an' the squier, At Chris'mas, gather'd girt an' small, Vor me'th, avore their roarèn vier, An! roun' their bwoard, 'ithin the hall; An' there, in glitt'rèn rows, between The roun'-rimm'd pleätes, our knives did sheen, Wi' frothy eäle, an' cup an' can, Vor maïd an' man, at Herrenston. An' there the jeints o' beef did stand, Lik' cliffs o' rock, in goodly row; Where woone mid quarry till his hand Did tire, an' meäke but little show; An' after we'd a-took our seat, An' greäce had been a-zaid vor meat, We zet to work, an' zoo begun Our feäst an' fun at Herrenston. An' mothers there, bezide the bwoards, Wi' little childern in their laps, Did stoop, wi' lovèn looks an' words, An' veed em up wi' bits an' draps; [page 303] An' smilèn husbands went in quest O' what their wives did like the best; An' you'd ha' zeed a happy zight, Thik merry night, at Herrenston. An' then the band, wi' each his leaf O' notes, above us at the zide, Play'd up the praïse ov England's beef An' vill'd our hearts wi' English pride; An' leafy chaïns o' garlands hung, Wi' dazzlèn stripes o' flags, that swung Above us, in a bleäze o' light, Thik happy night, at Herrenston. An' then the clerk, avore the vier, Begun to lead, wi' smilèn feäce, A carol, wi' the Monkton quire, That rung drough all the crowded pleäce. An' dins' o' words an' laughter broke In merry peals drough clouds o' smoke; Vor hardly wer there woone that spoke, But pass'd a joke, at Herrenston. Then man an' maïd stood up by twos, In rows, drough passage, out to door, An' gaïly beät, wi' nimble shoes, A dance upon the stwonèn floor. But who is worthy vor to tell, If she that then did bear the bell, Wer woone o' Monkton, or o' Ceäme, Or zome sweet neäme ov Herrenston. Zoo peace betide the girt vo'k's land, When they can stoop, wi' kindly smile, An' teäke a poor man by the hand, An' cheer en in his daily tweil. [page 304] An' oh! mid He that's vur above The highest here, reward their love, An' gi'e their happy souls, drough greäce, A higher pleäce than Herrenston.

Though cool avore the sheenèn sky Do vall the sheädes below the copse, The timber-trees, a-reachèn high, Ha' zunsheen on their lofty tops, Where yonder land's a-lyèn plow'd, An' red, below the snow-white cloud, An' vlocks o' pitchèn rooks do vwold Their wings to walk upon the mwold. While floods be low, An' buds do grow, An' aïr do blow, a-broad, O. But though the aïr is cwold below The creakèn copses' darksome screen, The truest sheäde do only show How strong the warmer zun do sheen; An' even times o' grief an' païn, Ha' good a-comèn in their traïn, An' 'tis but happiness do mark The sheädes o' sorrow out so dark. As tweils be sad, Or smiles be glad, Or times be bad, at hwome, O An' there the zunny land do lie Below the hangèn, in the lew, Wi' vurrows now a-crumblèn dry, Below the plowman's dousty shoe; [page 305] An' there the bwoy do whissel sh'ill, Below the skylark's merry bill, Where primrwose beds do deck the zides O' banks below the meäple wrides. As trees be bright Wi' bees in flight, An' weather's bright, abroad, O. An' there, as sheenèn wheels do spin Vull speed along the dousty rwoad, He can but stan', an' wish 'ithin His mind to be their happy lwoad, That he mid gaïly ride, an' goo To towns the rwoad mid teäke en drough, An' zee, for woonce, the zights behind The bluest hills his eyes can vind, O' towns, an' tow'rs, An' downs, an' flow'rs, In zunny hours, abroad, O. But still, vor all the weather's feäir, Below a cloudless sky o' blue, The bwoy at plough do little ceäre How vast the brightest day mid goo; Vor he'd be glad to zee the zun A-zettèn, wi' his work a-done, That he, at hwome, mid still injaÿ His happy bit ov evenèn plaÿ, So light's a lark Till night is dark, While dogs do bark, at hwome, O.

Where cows did slowly seek the brink O' Stour, drough zunburnt grass, to drink; Wi' vishèn float, that there did zink An' rise, I zot as in a dream. The dazzlèn zun did cast his light On hedge-row blossom, snowy white, Though nothèn yet did come in zight, A-stirrèn on the straÿèn stream; Till, out by sheädy rocks there show'd, A bwoat along his foamy road, Wi' thik feäir maïd at mill, a-row'd Wi' Jeäne behind her brother's oars. An' steätely as a queen o' vo'k, She zot wi' floatèn scarlet cloak, An' comèn on, at ev'ry stroke, Between my withy-sheäded shores. The broken stream did idly try To show her sheäpe a-ridèn by, The rushes brown-bloom'd stems did ply, As if they bow'd to her by will. The rings o' water, wi' a sock, Did break upon the mossy rock, An' gi'e my beätèn heart a shock, Above my float's up-leapèn quill. Then, lik' a cloud below the skies, A-drifted off, wi' less'nèn size, An' lost, she floated vrom my eyes, Where down below the stream did wind; An' left the quiet weäves woonce mwore To zink to rest, a sky-blue'd vloor, Wi' all so still's the clote they bore, Aye, all but my own ruffled mind.

Well! thanks to you, my faïthful Jeäne, So worksome wi' your head an' hand, We seäved enough to get ageän My poor vorefather's plot o' land. 'Twer folly lost, an' cunnèn got, What should ha' come to me by lot. But let that goo; 'tis well the land Is come to hand, by be'th or not. An' there the brook, a-windèn round The parrick zide, do run below The grey-stwon'd bridge wi' gurglèn sound, A-sheäded by the arches' bow; Where former days the wold brown meäre, Wi' father on her back, did wear Wi' heavy shoes the grav'ly leäne, An' sheäke her meäne o' yollor heäir. An' many zummers there ha' glow'd, To shrink the brook in bubblèn shoals, An' warm the doust upon the road, Below the trav'ller's burnèn zoles. An' zome ha' zent us to our bed In grief, an' zome in jaÿ ha' vled; But vew ha' come wi' happier light Than what's now bright, above our head. The brook did peärt, zome years agoo, Our Grenley meäds vrom Knapton's Ridge But now you know, between the two, A-road's a-meäde by Grenley Bridge. Zoo why should we shrink back at zight Ov hindrances we ought to slight? A hearty will, wi' God our friend, Will gaïn its end, if 'tis but right.