MR. GUY.

The incident on which this story is founded, occurred in the early part of the last century; hence the allusion to making a will before making a journey to the metropolis.

Mr. Guywar a gennelman O' Huntspill, well knawn As a grazier, a hirch one, Wi' lons o' hiz awn.

A ôten went ta Lunnun Hiz cattle vor ta zill; All tha horses that a rawd Niver minded hadge or hill.

A war afeard o' naw one; A niver made hiz will, Like wither vawk, avaur a went His cattle vor ta zill.

One time a'd bin ta Lunnun An zawld iz cattle well; A brought awâ a power o' gawld, As I've a hired tell.

As late at night a rawd along All droo a unket ood, A ooman rawze vrom off tha groun An right avaur en stood:

She look'd za pitis Mr. Guy At once hiz hoss's pace Stapt short, a wonderin how, at night, She com'd in jitch a place.

A little trunk war in her hon; She zim'd vur gwon wi' chile. She ax'd en nif a'd take her up And cor her a veo mile.

Mr. Guy, a man o' veelin For a ooman in distress, Than took er up behind en: A cood'n do na less.

A corr'd er trunk avaur en, An by hiz belt o' leather A bid er hawld vast; on thâ rawd, Athout much tâk, together.

Not vur thâ went avaur she gid A whissle loud an long; Which Mr. Guy, thawt very strange; Er voice too zim'd za strong!

She'd lost er dog, she zed; an than Another whissle blaw'd, That stortled Mr. Guy;—a stapt Hiz hoss upon tha rawd.

Goo on, zed she; bit Mr. Guy Zum rig beginn'd ta fear: Vor voices rawze upon tha wine, An zim'd a comin near.

Again thâ rawd along; again She whissled. Mr. Guy Whipt out hiz knife an cut tha belt, Then push'd er off!—Vor why?

Tha ooman he took up behine, Begummers, war a man! Tha rubbers zaw ad lâd ther plots Our grazier to trepan.

I shall not stap ta tell what zed Tha man in ooman's clawze; Bit he, and all o'm jist behine, War what you mid suppawze.

Thâ cust, thâ swaur, thâ dreaten'd too, An ater Mr. Guy Thâ gallop'd all; 'twar niver-tha-near: Hiz hoss along did vly.

Auver downs, droo dales, awâ a went, 'Twar dâ-light now amawst, Till at an inn a stapt, at last, Ta thenk what he'd a lost.

A lost?—why, nothin—but hiz belt!— A zummet moor ad gain'd: Thic little trunk a corr'd awâ— It gawld g'lore contain'd!

Nif Mr. Guy war hirch avaur, A now war hircher still: Tha plunder o' tha highwâmen Hiz coffers went ta vill.

In sâfety Mr. Guy rawd whim; A ôten tawld tha storry. Ta meet wi' jitch a rig myzel I shood'n, soce, be zorry.

THE ROOKERY.

The rook, corvus frugilegus, is a bird of considerable intelligence, and is, besides, extremely useful in destroying large quantities of worms and larvæ of destructive insects. It will, it is true, if not watched, pick out, after they are dibbled, both pease and beans from the holes with a precision truly astonishing: a very moderate degree of care is, however, sufficient to prevent this evil, which is greatly overbalanced by the positive good which it effects in the destruction of insects. It is a remarkable fact, and not, perhaps, generally known, that this bird rarely roosts at the rookery, except for a few months during the period of incubation, and rearing its young. In the winter season it more commonly takes flights of no ordinary length, to roost on the trees of some remote and sequestered wood. The Elm is its favorite, on which it usually builds; but such is its attachment to locality that since the incident alluded to in the following Poem took place the Rooks have, many of them, built in fir trees at a little distance from their former habitation. The habits of the Rook are well worthy the attention of all who delight in the study of Natural History.

My zong is o' tha ROOKERY, Not jitch as I a zeed On stunted trees wi' leaves a veo, A very veo indeed,

In thic girt place thâ Lunnun câll;— Tha Tower an tha Pork Hâ booäth a got a Rookery, Althaw thâ han't a Lork.

I zeng not o' jitch Rookeries, Jitch plazen, pump or banners; Bit town-berd Rooks, vor âll that, hâ, I warnt ye, curious manners.

My zong is o' a Rookery My Father's cot bezide, Avaur, years âter, I war born 'Twar long tha porish pride.

Tha elms look'd up like giants tâll Ther branchy yarms aspread; An green plumes wavin wi' tha wine, Made gâ each lofty head.

Ta drâ tha pectur out—ther war At distance, zid between Tha trees, a thatch'd Form-house, an geese A cacklin on tha green.

A river, too, clooäse by tha trees, Its stickle coose on slid, Whaur yells an trout an wither fish Mid ôtentimes be zid.

Tha rooks voun this a pleasant place— A whim ther young ta rear; An I a ôten pleas'd a bin Ta wâtch 'em droo tha year.

'Tis on tha dâ o' Valentine Or there or thereabout, Tha rooks da vast begin ta build, An cawin, make a rout.

Bit aw! when May's a come, ta zee Ther young tha gunner's shut Vor SPOORT, an bin, as zum da zâ, (Naw readship in't I put)

That nif thâ did'n shut tha, rooks Thâ'd zoon desert tha trees! Wise vawk! Thic reason vor ther SPOORT Gee thâ mid nif thâ please!

Still zeng I o' tha Rookery, Vor years it war tha pride Of all thâ place, bit 'twor ta I A zumthin moor bezide.

A hired tha Rooks avaur I upp'd; I hired 'em droo tha dâ; I hired ther young while gittin flush An ginnin jist ta câ.

I hired 'em when my mother gid Er lessins kind ta I, In jitch a wâ when I war young, That I war fit ta cry.

I hired 'em at tha cottage door, When mornin, in tha spreng, Wâk'd vooäth in youth an beauty too, An birds beginn'd ta zeng.

I hired 'em in tha winter-time When, roustin vur awâ, Thâ visited tha Rookery A whiverin by dâ.

My childhood, youth, and manood too, My Father's cot recâll Thic Rookery. Bit I mist now Tell what it did bevâll.

'Twar Mâ-time—heavy vi' tha nests War laden âll tha trees; An to an fraw, wi' creekin loud, Thâ sway'd ta iv'ry breeze.

One night tha wine—a thundrin wine, Jitch as war hired o' nivor, Blaw'd two o' thic girt giant trees Flat down into tha river.

Nests, aggs, an young uns, âll awâ War zweept into tha wâter An zaw war spwiled tha Rookery Vor iver and iver âter.

I visited my Father's cot: Tha Rooks war âll a gwon; Whaur stood tha trees in lofty pride I zid there norra one.

My Father's cot war desolate; An âll look'd wild, vorlorn; Tha Ash war stunted that war zet Tha dâ that I war born.

My Father, Mother, Rooks, âll gwon! My Charlotte an my Lizzy!— Tha gorden wi' tha tutties too!— Jitch thawts why be za bizzy!—

Behawld tha wâ o' human thengs! Rooks, lofty trees, an Friends— A kill'd, taur up, like leaves drap off!— Zaw feaver'd bein ends.