poor Jeaennet lik'd best.

Zoo happy wer we by the woaks o' the green,
Till we lost sister Jeaennet, our pride;
Vor when she wer come to her last blushen _teen_,
She suddenly zicken'd an' died.
An' avore the green leaves in the fall wer gone by,
The lightnen struck dead
Her woaken tree's head,
An' left en a-stripp'd to the wintery sky.

But woone ov his eaecorns, a-zet in the Fall,
Come up the Spring after, below
The trees at her head-stwone 'ithin the church-wall,
An' mother, to see how did grow,
Shed a tear; an' when father an' she wer bwoth dead,
There they wer laid deep,
Wi' their Jeaennet, to sleep,
Wi' her at his zide, an' her tree at her head.

An' vo'k do still call the wold house the dree woaks,
Vor thik is a-reckon'd that's down,
As mother, a-neaemen her childern to vo'ks,
Meaede dree when but two wer a-voun';
An' zaid that hereafter she knew she should zee
Why God, that's above,
Vound fit in his love
To strike wi' his han' the poor maid an' her tree.

THE HWOMESTEAD A-VELL INTO HAND.

The house where I wer born an' bred,
Did own his woaken door, John,
When vu'st he shelter'd father's head,
An' gramfer's long avore, John.
An' many a ramblen happy chile,
An' chap so strong an' bwold,
An' bloomen maid wi' playsome smile,
Did call their hwome o' wold
Thik ruf so warm,
A kept vrom harm
By elem trees that broke the storm.

An' in the orcha'd out behind,
The apple-trees in row, John,
Did sway wi' moss about their rind
Their heads a-nodden low, John.
An' there, bezide zome groun' vor corn,
Two strips did skirt the road;
In woone the cow did toss her horn,
While tother wer a-mow'd,
In June, below
The lofty row
Ov trees that in the hedge did grow.

A-worken in our little patch
O' parrock, rathe or leaete, John,
We little ho'd how vur mid stratch
The squier's wide esteaete, John.
Our hearts, so honest an' so true,
Had little vor to fear;
Vor we could pay up all their due
An' gi'e a friend good cheer
At hwome, below
The lofty row
O' trees a-swayen to an' fro.

An' there in het, an' there in wet,
We tweil'd wi' busy hands, John;
Vor ev'ry stroke o' work we het,
Did better our own lands, John.
But after me, ov all my kin,
Not woone can hold em o