hat wer brought in doors by men,
The women soon mopp'd out ageaen.
Zoo we did come vrom muck an' mire,
An' walk in straight avore the vier;
But now, a man's a-kept at door
At work a pirty while, avore
He's screaep'd an' rubb'd, an' cleaen and fit
To goo in where his wife do zit.
An' then if he should have a whiff
In there, 'twould only breed a miff:
He c[=a]nt smoke there, vor smoke woon't goo
'Ithin the footy little flue.
Ah! gi'e me, if I wer a squier,
The settle an' the girt wood vier.

THE CARTER.

O, I be a carter, wi' my whip
A-smacken loud, as by my zide,
Up over hill, an' down the dip,
The heavy lwoad do slowly ride.

An' I do haul in all the crops,
An' I do bring in vuzz vrom down;
An' I do goo vor wood to copse,
An' car the corn an' straw to town.

An' I do goo vor lime, an' bring
Hwome cider wi' my sleek-heaeir'd team,
An' smack my limber whip an' zing,
While all their bells do gaily cheeme.

An' I do always know the pleaece
To gi'e the hosses breath, or drug;
An' ev'ry hoss do know my feaece,
An' mind my '_mether ho_! an' _whug_!

An' merry hay-meaekers do ride
Vrom vield in zummer wi' their prongs,
In my blue waggon, zide by zide
Upon the reaeves, a-zingen zongs.

An' when the vrost do catch the stream,
An' oves wi' icicles be hung,
My panten hosses' breath do steam
In white-grass'd vields, a-haulen dung.

An' mine's the waggon fit vor lwoads,
An' mine be lwoads to cut a rout;
An' mine's a team, in routy rwoads,
To pull a lwoaded waggon out.

A zull is nothen when do come
Behind their lags; an' they do teaeke
A roller as they would a drum,
An' harrow as they would a reaeke.

O! I be a carter, wi' my whip
A-smacken loud, as by my zide,
Up over hill, an' down the dip,
The heavy lwoad do slowly ride.

CHRIS'MAS INVITATION.

Come down to-morrow night; an' mind,
Don't leaeve thy fiddle-bag behind;
We'll sheaeke a lag, an' drink a cup
O' eaele, to keep wold Chris'mas up.

An' let thy sister teaeke thy eaerm,
The walk won't do her any harm;
There's noo dirt now to spweil her frock,
The ground's a-vroze so hard's a rock.

You won't meet any stranger's feaece,
But only naighbours o' the pleaece,
An' Stowe, an' Combe; an' two or dree
Vrom uncle's up at Rookery.

An' thou wu'lt vind a rwosy feaece,