e;
In peaeirs a-worken out their ends,
Though men be foes that should be friends.

THE LEW O' THE RICK.

At eventide the wind wer loud
By trees an' tuns above woone's head,
An' all the sky wer woone dark cloud,
Vor all it had noo rain to shed;
An' as the darkness gather'd thick,
I zot me down below a rick,
Where straws upon the win' did ride
Wi' giddy flights, along my zide,
Though unmolesten me a-resten,
Where I lay 'ithin the lew.

My wife's bright vier indoors did cast
Its fleaeme upon the window peaenes
That screen'd her teaeble, while the blast
Vled on in music down the leaenes;
An' as I zot in vaiceless thought
Ov other zummer-tides, that brought
The sheenen grass below the lark,
Or left their ricks a-wearen dark,
My childern voun' me, an' come roun' me,
Where I lay 'ithin the lew.

The rick that then did keep me lew
Would be a-gone another Fall,
An' I, in zome years, in a vew,
Mid leaeve the childern, big or small;
But He that meaede the wind, an' meaede
The lewth, an' zent wi' het the sheaede,
Can keep my childern, all alwone
O' under me, an' though vull grown
Or little lispers, wi' their whispers,
There a-lyen in the lew.

THE WIND IN WOONE'S FEAeCE.

There lovely Jenny past,
While the blast did blow
On over Ashknowle Hill
To the mill below;
A-blinken quick, wi' lashes long,
Above her cheaeks o' red,
Ageaen the wind, a-beaeten strong,
Upon her droopen head.

Oh! let dry win' blow bleaek,
On her cheaek so heaele,
But let noo rain-shot chill
Meaeke her ill an' peaele;
Vor healthy is the breath the blast
Upon the hill do yield,
An' healthy is the light a cast
Vrom lofty sky to vield.

An' mid noo sorrow-pang
Ever hang a tear
Upon the dark lash-heaeir
Ov my feaeirest dear;
An' mid noo unkind deed o' mine
Spweil what my love mid gain,
Nor meaeke my merry Jenny pine
At last wi' dim-ey'd pain.

TOKENS.

Green mwold on zummer bars do show
That they've a-dripp'd in Winter wet;
The hoof-worn ring o' groun' below
The tree, do tell o' storms or het;
The trees in rank along a ledge
Do show where woonce did bloom a hedge;
An' where the vurrow-marks do stripe
The down, the wheat woonce rustled ripe.
Each mark ov things a-gone vrom view--
To eyezight's woone, to soulzight two.