oard
The very best we can avvword,
The wolder woones do talk an' smoke,
An' younger woones do play an' joke,
An' in the evenen all our vo'k
Do bring em gwain athirt the hill.

An' while the green do zwarm wi' wold
An' young, so thick as sheep in vwold,
The bellows in the blacksmith's shop,
An' miller's moss-green wheel do stop,
An' lwonesome in the wheelwright's shed
'S a-left the wheelless waggon-bed;
While zwarms o' comen friends do tread
The white road down athirt the hill.

An' when the winden road so white,
A-climmen up the hills in zight,
Do leaed to pleaezen, east or west,
The vu'st a-known, an' lov'd the best,
How touchen in the zunsheen's glow,
Or in the sheaedes that clouds do drow
Upon the zunburnt downs below,
'S the white road up athirt the hill.

What peaceful hollows here the long
White roads do windy round among!
Wi' deaeiry cows in woody nooks,
An' haymeaekers among their pooks,
An' housen that the trees do screen
From zun an' zight by boughs o' green!
Young blushen beauty's hwomes between
The white roads up athirt the hills.

THE WOODY HOLLOW.

If mem'ry, when our hope's a-gone,
Could bring us dreams to cheat us on,
Ov happiness our hearts voun' true
In years we come too quickly drough;
What days should come to me, but you,
That burn'd my youthvul cheaeks wi' zuns
O' zummer, in my playsome runs
About the woody hollow.

When evenen's risen moon did peep
Down drough the hollow dark an' deep,
Where gigglen sweethearts meaede their vows
In whispers under waggen boughs;
When whisslen bwoys, an' rott'len ploughs
Wer still, an' mothers, wi' their thin
Shrill vaices, call'd their daughters in,
From walken in the hollow;

What souls should come avore my zight,
But they that had your zummer light?
The litsome younger woones that smil'd
Wi' comely feaezen now a-spweil'd;
Or wolder vo'k, so wise an' mild,
That I do miss when I do goo
To zee the pleaece, an' walk down drough
The lwonesome woody hollow?

When wrongs an' overbearen words
Do prick my bleeden heart lik' swords,
Then I do try, vor Christes seaeke,
To think o' you, sweet days! an' meaeke
My soul as 'twer when you did weaeke
My childhood's eyes, an' when, if spite
Or grief did come, did die at night
In sleep 'ithin the hollow.

JENNY'S RIBBONS.