han live lik' a squier wi' any bezide.

Vor all busy kinsvo'k, my love will be still
A-zet upon thee lik' the vir in the hill;
An' though they mid worry, an' dreaten, an' mock,
My head's in the storm, but my root's in the rock.

Zoo, Jenny, don't sobby! vor I shall be true;
Noo might under heaven shall peaert me vrom you.
My heart will be cwold, Jenny, when I do slight
The zwell o' thy bosom, thy eyes' sparklen light.

THE MAID VOR MY BRIDE.

Ah! don't tell o' maidens! the woone vor my bride
Is little lik' too many maidens bezide,--
Not branten, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind
To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind.

She's straight an' she's slender, but not over tall,
Wi' lim's that be lightsome, but not over small;
The goodness o' heaven do breathe in her feaece,
An' a queen, to be steaetely, must walk wi' her peaece.

Her frocks be a-meaede all becomen an' plain,
An' cleaen as a blossom undimm'd by a stain;
Her bonnet ha' got but two ribbons, a-tied
Up under her chin, or let down at the zide.

When she do speak to woone, she don't steaere an' grin;
There's sense in her looks, vrom her eyes to her chin,
An' her words be so kind, an' her speech is so meek,
As her eyes do look down a-beginnen to speak.

Her skin is so white as a lily, an' each
Ov her cheaeks is so downy an' red as a peach;
She's pretty a-zitten; but oh! how my love
Do watch her to madness when woonce she do move.

An' when she do walk hwome vrom church drough the groun',
Wi' woone eaerm in mine, an' wi' woone a-hung down,
I do think, an' do veel mwore o' sheaeme than o' pride,
That do meaeke me look ugly to walk by her zide.

Zoo don't talk o' maiden's! the woone vor my bride
Is but little lik' too many maidens bezide,--
Not branten, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind
To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind.

THE HWOMESTEAD.

If I had all the land my zight
Can overlook vrom Chalwell hill,
Vrom Sherborn left to Blanvord right,
Why I could be but happy still.
An' I be happy wi' my spot
O' freehold ground an' mossy cot,
An' shoulden get a better lot
If I had all my will.

My orcha'd's wide, my trees be young;
An' they do bear such heavy crops,
Their boughs, lik' onion-rwopes a-hung,
Be all a-trigg'd to year, wi' props.
I got some geaerden groun' to dig,
A parrock, an' a cow an'