rook, a-rollen dark
Below a leaenen yew-tree's bark,
Wi' playsome ripples that do run
A-flashen to the western zun,
Do shoot, at last, wi' foamy shocks,
Athirt a ledge o' craggy rocks,
A-casten in his heaesty flight,
Upon the stwones a robe o' white;
An' then ageaen do goo an' vall
Below a bridge's arched wall,
Where vo'k agwain athirt do pass
Vow'r little bwoys a-cast in brass;
An' woone do hold an angler's wand,
Wi' steady hand, above the pond;
An' woone, a-pweinten to the stream
His little vinger-tip, do seem
A-showen to his playmeaetes' eyes,
Where he do zee the vishes rise;
An' woone ageaen, wi' smilen lips,
Do put a vish his han' do clips
'Ithin a basket, loosely tied
About his shoulder at his zide:
An' after that the fourth do stand
A-holden back his pretty hand
Behind his little ear, to drow
A stwone upon the stream below.
An' then the housen, that be all
Sich pretty hwomes, vrom big to small,
A-looken south, do cluster round
A zunny ledge o' risen ground,
Avore a wood, a-nestled warm,
In lewth ageaen the northern storm,
Where smoke, a-wreathen blue, do spread
Above the tuns o' dusky red,
An' window-peaenes do glitter bright
Wi' burnen streams o' zummer light,
Below the vine, a-train'd to hem
Their zides 'ithin his leafy stem,
An' rangle on, wi' flutt'ren leaves,
Below the houses' thatchen eaves.
An' drough a lawn a-spread avore
The windows, an' the pworched door,
A path do wind 'ithin a hatch,
A-vasten'd wi' a clicken latch,
An' there up over ruf an' tun,
Do stan' the smooth-wall'd church o' stwone,
Wi' carved windows, thin an' tall,
A-reachen up the lofty wall;
An' battlements, a-stannen round
The tower, ninety veet vrom ground,
Vrom where a teaep'ren speer do spring
So high's the mornen lark do zing.
Zoo I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while
To beaet the doust a good six mile,
To zee the pleaece the squier plann'd
At Brookwell, now a-meaede by hand.

THE SHY MAN.

Ah! good Meaester Gwillet, that you mid ha' know'd,
Wer a-bred up at Coomb, an' went little abroad:
An' if he got in among strangers, he velt
His poor heart in a twitter, an' ready to melt;
Or if, by ill luck, in his rambles, he met
Wi' zome maidens a-titt'ren, he burn'd wi' a het,
That shot all drough the lim's o'n, an' left a cwold zweat,
The poor little chap wer so shy,
He wer re