Fan, an' I.

An' there the lwoaded tree bent low,
Behung wi' apples green an' red;
An' springen grass could hardly grow,
Drough windvalls down below his head.
An' when the maidens come in roun'
The heavy boughs to vill their laps,
We slily shook the apples down
Lik' hail, an' gi'ed their backs some raps.

An' zome big apple, Jimmy flung
To squail me, gi'ed me sich a crack;
But very shortly his ear rung,
Wi' woone I zent to pay en back.
An' after we'd a-had our squails,
Poor Tom, a-jumpen in a bag,
Wer pinch'd by all the maiden's nails,
An' rolled down into hwome-groun' quag.

An' then they carr'd our Fan all roun',
'Ithin a mawn, till zome girt stump
Upset en over on the groun',
An' drow'd her out along-straight, plump.
An' in the cider-house we zot
Upon the windlass Poll an' Nan,
An' spun 'em roun' till they wer got
So giddy that they coulden stan'.

MEAPLE LEAVES BE YOLLOW.

Come, let's stroll down so vur's the poun',
Avore the sparklen zun is down:
The zummer's gone, an' days so feaeir
As theaese be now a-getten reaere.
The night, wi' mwore than daylight's sheaere
O' wat'ry sky, do wet wi' dew
The ee-grass up above woone's shoe,
An' meaeple leaves be yollow.

The last hot doust, above the road,
An' vu'st dead leaves ha' been a-blow'd
By playsome win's where spring did spread
The blossoms that the zummer shed;
An' near blue sloos an' conkers red
The evenen zun, a zetten soon,
Do leaeve a-quiv'ren to the moon,
The meaeple leaves so yollow.

Zoo come along, an' let's injay
The last fine weather while do stay;
While thou canst hang, wi' ribbons slack,
Thy bonnet down upon thy back,
Avore the winter, cwold an' black,
Do kill thy flowers, an' avore
Thy bird-cage is a-took in door,
Though meaeple leaves be yollow.

NIGHT A-ZETTEN IN.

When leaezers wi' their laps o' corn
Noo longer be a-stoopen,
An' in the stubble, all vorlorn,
Noo poppies be a-droopen;
When theaese young harvest-moon do weaene,
That now've his horns so thin, O,
We'll leaeve off walken in the leaene,
While night's a zetten in, O.

When zummer doust is all a-laid
Below our litty shoes, O;
When all the rain-chill'd flow'rs be dead,
That now do drink the dews, O;
When beauty's neck, that's now a-show'd,
'S a-muffled to the chin, O;
We'll leaeve