longer dim,
Do sheen the ivy that do clim'
The tower's zide an' elem's stim;
An' holmen bushes, in between
The leafless thorns, be bright an' green
To zunsheen o' the winter.

The trees, that yesterday did twist
In wind's a-dreven rain an' mist,
Do now drow sheaedes out, long an' still;
But roaren watervals do vill
Their whirlen pools below the hill,
Where, wi' her pail upon the stile,
A-gwain a-milken Jeaene do smile
To zunsheen o' the winter.

The birds do sheaeke, wi' playsome skips,
The rain-drops off the bushes' tips,
A-chirripen wi' merry sound;
While over all the grassy ground
The wind's a-whirlen round an' round
So softly, that the day do seem
Mwore lik' a zummer in a dream,
Than zunsheen in the winter.

The wold vo'k now do meet abrode,
An' tell o' winter's they've a-know'd;
When snow wer long above the groun',
Or floods broke all the bridges down,
Or wind unheal'd a half the town,--
The teaeles o' wold times long a-gone,
But ever dear to think upon,
The zunsheen o' their winter.

Vor now to them noo brook can run,
Noo hill can feaece the winter zun,
Noo leaves can vall, noo flow'rs can feaede,
Noo snow can hide the grasses bleaede,
Noo vrost can whiten in the sheaede,
Noo day can come, but what do bring
To mind ageaen their early spring,
That's now a-turn'd to winter.

THE WEEPEN LEADY.

When, leaete o' nights, above the green
By thik wold house, the moon do sheen,
A leaedy there, a-hangen low
Her head, 's a-walken to an' fro
In robes so white's the driven snow,
Wi' woone eaerm down, while woone do rest
All lily-white athirt the breast
O' thik poor weepen leaedy.

The whirlen wind an' whis'len squall
Do sheaeke the ivy by the wall,
An' meaeke the plyen tree-tops rock,
But never ruffle her white frock;
An' slammen door an' rattlen lock,
That in thik empty house do sound,
Do never seem to meaeke look round
Thik ever downcast leaedy.

A leaedy, as the teaele do goo,
That woonce liv'd there, an' lov'd too true,
Wer by a young man cast azide.
A mother sad, but not a bride;
An' then her father, in his pride
An' anger, offer'd woone o' two
Vull bitter things to undergoo
To thik poor weepen leaedy:

That she herzelf should leaeve his door,
To darken it ageaen noo mwore;
Or that her lit