l
Do grind our meal, below the hill;
An' turn'd the bridge, wi' arch a-spread,
Below a road, vor us to tread.

They vound a pleaece, where we mid seek
The gifts o' greaece vrom week to week;
An' built wi' stwone, upon the hill,
A tow'r we still do call our own;
With bells to use, an' meaeke rejaice,
Wi' giant vaice, at our good news:
An' lifted stwones an' beams to keep
The rain an' cwold vrom us asleep.

Zoo now mid nwone ov us vorget
The pattern our vorefathers zet;
But each be faein to underteaeke
Some work to meaeke vor others' gain,
That we mid leaeve mwore good to sheaere,
Less ills to bear, less souls to grieve,
An' when our hands do vall to rest,
It mid be vrom a work a-blest.

THE WOLD VO'K DEAD.

My days, wi' wold vo'k all but gone,
An' childern now a-comen on,
Do bring me still my mother's smiles
In light that now do show my chile's;
An' I've a-sheaer'd the wold vo'ks' me'th,
Avore the burnen Chris'mas he'th,
At friendly bwoards, where feaece by feaece,
Did, year by year, gi'e up its pleaece,
An' leaeve me here, behind, to tread
The ground a-trod by wold vo'k dead.

But wold things be a-lost vor new,
An' zome do come, while zome do goo:
As wither'd beech-tree leaves do cling
Among the nesh young buds o' Spring;
An' fretten worms ha' slowly wound,
Droo beams the wold vo'k lifted sound,
An' trees they planted little slips
Ha' stems that noo two eaerms can clips;
An' grey an' yollow moss do spread
On buildens new to wold vo'k dead.

The backs of all our zilv'ry hills,
The brook that still do dreve our mills,
The roads a-climen up the brows
O' knaps, a-screen'd by meaeple boughs,
Wer all a-mark'd in sheaede an' light
Avore our wolder fathers' zight,
In zunny days, a-gied their hands
For happy work, a-tillen lands,
That now do yield their childern bread
Till they do rest wi' wold vo'k dead.

But liven vo'k, a-grieven on,
Wi' lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone,
Do zee their goodness, but do vind
All else a-stealen out o' mind;
As air do meaeke the vurthest land
Look feaeirer than the vield at hand,
An' zoo, as time do slowly pass,
So still's a sheaede upon the grass,
Its wid'nen speaece do slowly shed
A glory roun' the wold vo'k dead.

An' what if good vo'ks' life o' breath
Is zoo a-hallow'd after death,
That they mid only know above,
Their times o' f