IFE.

SECOND COLLECTION.

BLACKMWORE MAIDENS.

The primrwose in the sheaede do blow,
The cowslip in the zun,
The thyme upon the down do grow,
The clote where streams do run;
An' where do pretty maidens grow
An' blow, but where the tow'r
Do rise among the bricken tuns,
In Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you could zee their comely gait,
An' pretty feaeces' smiles,
A-trippen on so light o' waight,
An' steppen off the stiles;
A-gwain to church, as bells do swing
An' ring 'ithin the tow'r,
You'd own the pretty maidens' pleaece
Is Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you vrom Wimborne took your road,
To Stower or Paladore,
An' all the farmers' housen show'd
Their daughters at the door;
You'd cry to bachelors at hwome--
"Here, come: 'ithin an hour
You'll vind ten maidens to your mind,
In Blackmwore by the Stour."

An' if you look'd 'ithin their door,
To zee em in their pleaece,
A-doen housework up avore
Their smilen mother's feaece;
You'd cry--"Why, if a man would wive
An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r,
Then let en look en out a wife
In Blackmwore by the Stour."

As I upon my road did pass
A school-house back in May,
There out upon the beaeten grass
Wer maidens at their play;
An' as the pretty souls did tweil
An' smile, I cried, "The flow'r
O' beauty, then, is still in bud
In Blackmwore by the Stour."

MY ORCHA'D IN LINDEN LEA.

'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaeded,
By the woak tree's mossy moot,
The sheenen grass-bleaedes, timber-sheaeded,
Now do quiver under voot;
An' birds do whissle over head,
An' water's bubblen in its bed,
An' there vor me the apple tree
Do leaen down low in Linden Lea.

When leaves that leaetely wer a-springen
Now do feaede 'ithin the copse,
An' painted birds do hush their zingen
Up upon the timber's tops;
An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red,
In cloudless zunsheen, over head,
Wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree
Do leaen down low in Linden Lea.

Let other vo'k meaeke money vaster
In the air o' dark-room'd towns,
I don't dread a peevish meaester;
Though noo man do heed my frowns,
I be free to goo abrode,
Or teaeke ageaen my hwomeward road
To where, vor me, the apple tree
Do leaen down low in Linden Lea.

BISHOP'S CAUNDLE.

At peace day, who but we should goo
To Caundle vor an' hour or two:
As gay a day as