pig;
I got zome cider vor to swig,
An' eaele o' malt an' hops.

I'm landlord o' my little farm,
I'm king 'ithin my little pleaece;
I don't break laws, an' don't do harm,
An' bent a-feaer'd o' noo man's feaece.
When I'm a-cover'd wi' my thatch,
Noo man do deaere to lift my latch;
Where honest han's do shut the hatch,
There fear do leaeve the pleaece.

My lofty elem trees do screen
My brown-ruf'd house, an' here below,
My geese do strut athirt the green,
An' hiss an' flap their wings o' snow;
As I do walk along a rank
Ov apple trees, or by a bank,
Or zit upon a bar or plank,
To see how things do grow.

THE FARMER'S WOLDEST D[=A]'TER.

No, no! I ben't a-runnen down
The pretty maiden's o' the town,
Nor wishen o'm noo harm;
But she that I would marry vu'st,
To sheaere my good luck or my crust,
'S a-bred up at a farm.
In town, a maid do zee mwore life,
An' I don't under-reaete her;
But ten to woone the sprackest wife
'S a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter.

Vor she do veed, wi' tender ceaere,
The little woones, an' peaert their heaeir,
An' keep em neat an' pirty;
An' keep the saucy little chaps
O' bwoys in trim wi' dreats an' slaps,
When they be wild an' dirty.
Zoo if you'd have a bus'len wife,
An' childern well look'd after,
The maid to help ye all drough life
'S a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter.

An' she can iorn up an' vwold
A book o' clothes wi' young or wold,
An' zalt an' roll the butter;
An' meaeke brown bread, an' elder wine,
An' zalt down meat in pans o' brine,
An' do what you can put her.
Zoo if you've wherewi', an' would vind
A wife wo'th looken [=a]'ter,
Goo an' get a farmer in the mind
To gi'e ye his woldest d[=a]'ter.

Her heart's so innocent an' kind,
She idden thoughtless, but do mind
Her mother an' her duty;
An' liven blushes, that do spread
Upon her healthy feaece o' red,
Do heighten all her beauty;
So quick's a bird, so neat's a cat,
So cheerful in her neaetur,
The best o' maidens to come at
'S a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter.

UNCLE OUT O' DEBT AN' OUT O' DANGER.

Ees; uncle had thik small hwomestead,
The leaezes an' the bits o' mead,
Besides the orcha'd in his prime,
An' copse-wood vor the winter time.
His wold black meaere, that draw'd his cart,
An' he, wer seldom long a