Among ten thousan', lik' a glance
O' looks we know'd avore, John.

How of'en have the wind a-shook
The leaves off into yonder brook,
Since vu'st we two, in youthvul strolls,
Did ramble roun' them bubblen shoals!
An' oh! that zome o' them young souls,
That we, in jay, did play wi' then
Could come back now, an' bring ageaen
The looks we know'd avore, John.

So soon's the barley's dead an' down,
The clover-leaf do rise vrom groun',
An' wolder feaezen do but goo
To be a-vollow'd still by new;
But souls that be a-tried an' true
Shall meet ageaen beyond the skies,
An' bring to woone another's eyes
The looks they know'd avore, John.

THE MUSIC O' THE DEAD.

When music, in a heart that's true,
Do kindle up wold loves anew,
An' dim wet eyes, in feaeirest lights,
Do zee but inward fancy's zights;
When creepen years, wi' with'ren blights,
'V a-took off them that wer so dear,
How touchen 'tis if we do hear
The tuens o' the dead, John.

When I, a-stannen in the lew
O' trees a storm's a-beaeten drough,
Do zee the slanten mist a-drove
By spitevul winds along the grove,
An' hear their hollow sounds above
My shelter'd head, do seem, as I
Do think o' zunny days gone by.
Lik' music vor the dead, John.

Last night, as I wer gwain along
The brook, I heaerd the milk-maid's zong
A-ringen out so clear an' shrill
Along the meaeds an' roun' the hill.
I catch'd the tuen, an' stood still
To hear 't; 'twer woone that Jeaene did zing
A-vield a-milken in the spring,--
Sweet music o' the dead, John.

Don't tell o' zongs that be a-zung
By young chaps now, wi' sheaemeless tongue:
Zing me wold ditties, that would start
The maiden's tears, or stir my heart
To teaeke in life a manly peaert,--
The wold vo'k's zongs that twold a teaele,
An' vollow'd round their mugs o' eaele,
The music o' the dead, John.

THE PLEAeCE A TEAeLE'S A-TWOLD O'.

Why tidden vields an' runnen brooks,
Nor trees in Spring or fall;
An' tidden woody slopes an' nooks,
Do touch us mwost ov all;
An' tidden ivy that do cling
By housen big an' wold, O,
But this is, after all, the thing,--
The pleaece a teaele's a-twold o'.

At Burn, where mother's young friends know'd
The vu'st her maiden neaeme,
The zunny knaps, the narrow road
An' green, be still the seae