er down;
Wi' little windows straight an' flat,
Not big enough to zun a-cat,
An' dealen door a-meaede so thin,
A puff o' wind would blow en in,
Where woone do vind a thing to knock
So small's the hammer ov a clock,
That wull but meaeke a little click
About so loud's a clock do tick!
Gi'e me the wold house, wi' the wide
An' lofty-lo'ted rooms inside;
An' wi' the stwonen pworch avore
The nail-bestudded woaken door,
That had a knocker very little
Less to handle than a bittle,
That het a blow that vled so loud
Drough house as thunder drough a cloud.
An' meaede the dog behind the door
Growl out so deep's a bull do roar.

In all the house, o' young an' wold,
There werden woone but could a-twold
When he'd noo wish to seek abrode
Mwore jay than thik wold pworch bestow'd!
For there, when yollow evenen shed
His light ageaen the elem's head,
An' gnots did whiver in the zun,
An' uncle's work wer all a-done,
His whiffs o' melten smoke did roll
Above his benden pipe's white bowl,
While he did chat, or, zitten dumb,
Injay his thoughts as they did come.

An' Jimmy, wi' his crowd below
His chin, did dreve his nimble bow
In tuens vor to meaeke us spring
A-reelen, or in zongs to zing,
An' there, between the dark an' light,
Zot Poll by Willy's zide at night
A-whisp'ren, while her eyes did zwim
In jay avore the twilight dim;
An' when (to know if she wer near)
Aunt call'd, did cry, "Ees, mother; here."

No, no; I woulden gi'e thee thanks
Vor fine white walls an' vloors o' planks,
Nor doors a-paeinted up so fine.
If I'd a wold grey house o' mine,
Gi'e me vor all it should be small,
A stwonen pworch instead [=o]'t all.

FARMER'S SONS.

Ov all the chaps a-burnt so brown
By zunny hills an' hollors,
Ov all the whindlen chaps in town
Wi' backs so weak as rollers,
There's narn that's half so light o' heart,
(I'll bet, if thou't zay "done," min,)
An' narn that's half so strong an' smart,
'S a merry farmer's son, min.

He'll fling a stwone so true's a shot,
He'll jump so light's a cat;
He'll heave a waight up that would squot
A weakly fellow flat.
He wont gi'e up when things don't fay,
But turn em into fun, min;
An' what's hard work to zome, is play
Avore a farmer's son, min.

His bwony eaerm an' knuckly vist
('Tis best to meaeke a friend o't)
Would het a fellow,