like to call
By day or night the best ov all,
To zee my Fanny's smilen feaece;
An' there the steaetely trees do grow,
A-rocken as the win' do blow,
While she do sweetly sleep below,
In the stillness o' the night.

An' there, at evenen, I do goo
A-hoppen over geaetes an' bars,
By twinklen light o' winter stars,
When snow do clumper to my shoe;
An' zometimes we do slyly catch
A chat an hour upon the stratch,
An' peaert wi' whispers at the hatch
In the stillness o' the night.

An' zometimes she do goo to zome
Young naighbours' housen down the pleaece,
An' I do get a clue to treaece
Her out, an' goo to zee her hwome;
An' I do wish a vield a mile,
As she do sweetly chat an' smile
Along the drove, or at the stile,
In the stillness o' the night.

THE SETTLE AN' THE GIRT WOOD VIRE.

Ah! naighbour John, since I an' you
Wer youngsters, ev'ry thing is new.
My father's vires wer all o' logs
O' cleft-wood, down upon the dogs
Below our clavy, high, an' brode
Enough to teaeke a cart an' lwoad,
Where big an' little all zot down
At bwoth zides, an' bevore, all roun'.
An' when I zot among em, I
Could zee all up ageaen the sky
Drough chimney, where our vo'k did hitch
The zalt-box an' the beaecon-vlitch,
An' watch the smoke on out o' vier,
All up an' out o' tun, an' higher.
An' there wer beaecon up on rack,
An' pleaetes an' dishes on the tack;
An' roun' the walls wer heaerbs a-stowed
In peaepern bags, an' blathers blowed.
An' just above the clavy-bwoard
Wer father's spurs, an' gun, an' sword;
An' there wer then, our girtest pride,
The settle by the vier zide.
Ah! gi'e me, if I wer a squier,
The settle an' the girt wood vier.

But they've a-wall'd up now wi' bricks
The vier pleaece vor dogs an' sticks,
An' only left a little hole
To teaeke a little greaete o' coal,
So small that only twos or drees
Can jist push in an' warm their knees.
An' then the carpets they do use,
B[=e]n't fit to tread wi' ouer shoes;
An' chairs an' couches be so neat,
You mussen teaeke em vor a seat:
They be so fine, that vo'k mus' pleaece
All over em an' outer ceaese,
An' then the cover, when 'tis on,
Is still too fine to loll upon.
Ah! gi'e me, if I wer a squier,
The settle an' the girt wood vier.

Carpets, indeed! You coulden hurt
The stwone-vloor wi' a little dirt;
Vor w