I wonder!" zaid the heaeiry plougher.
A-brislen up an' looken rather zour;
"I don't think dirt an' flints be any treat."
"Well," zaid the crow, "why you be blind.
What! don't ye zee how thick the corn do lie
Among the dirt? An' don't ye zee how I
Do pick up all that you do leaeve behind?
I'm zorry that your bill should be so snubby."
"No," zaid the pig, "methinks that I do zee
My bill will do uncommon well vor thee,
Vor thine wull peck, an' mine wull grubby."
An' just wi' this a-zaid by mister Flick
To mister Crow, wold John the farmer's man
Come up, a-zwingen in his han'
A good long knotty stick,
An' laid it on, wi' all his might,
The poor pig's vlitches, left an' right;
While mister Crow, that talk'd so fine
O' friendship, left the pig behine,
An' vled away upon a distant tree,
Vor pigs can only grub, but crows can vlee.

TOM.

Aye, thik there teaele mid do vor childern's books:
But you wull vind it hardish for ye
To frighten me, John, wi' a storry
O' silly pigs an' cunnen rooks.
If we be grubben pigs, why then, I s'pose,
The farmers an' the girt woones be the crows.

JOHN.

'Tis very odd there idden any friend
To poor-vo'k hereabout, but men mus' come
To do us good away from tother end
Ov England! Han't we any frien's near hwome?
I mus' zay, Thomas, that 'tis rather odd
That strangers should become so very civil,--
That ouer vo'k be childern o' the Devil,
An' other vo'k be all the vo'k o' God!
If we've a-got a friend at all,
Why who can tell--I'm sure thou cassen--
But that the squier, or the pa'son,
Mid be our friend, Tom, after all?
The times be hard, 'tis true! an' they that got
His blessens, shoulden let theirzelves vorget
How 'tis where the vo'k do never zet
A bit o' meat within their rusty pot.
The man a-zitten in his easy chair
To flesh, an' vowl, an' vish, should try to speaere
The poor theaese times, a little vrom his store;
An' if he don't, why sin is at his door.

TOM.

Ah! we won't look to that; we'll have our right,--
If not by feaeir meaens, then we wull by might.
We'll meaeke times better vor us; we'll be free
Ov other vo'k an' others' charity.

JOHN.

Ah! I do think you mid as well be quiet;
You'll meaeke things wo'se, i'-ma'-be, by a riot.
You'll get into a mess, Tom, I'm afeaerd;
You'll goo vor wool, an' then come hwome a-sheaer'd.

POEMS OF RURAL L