an' hollow,
Russet-dappled dogs do spring.
Soon my apple-trees wull fling
Bloomen balls below em,
That shall hide, on ev'ry zide
Ground where we do drow em.

THE ZILVER-WEED.

The zilver-weed upon the green,
Out where my sons an' daughters play'd,
Had never time to bloom between
The litty steps o' bwoy an' maid.
But rwose-trees down along the wall,
That then wer all the maiden's ceaere,
An' all a-trimm'd an' train'd, did bear
Their bloomen buds vrom Spring to Fall.

But now the zilver leaves do show
To zummer day their goolden crown,
Wi' noo swift shoe-zoles' litty blow,
In merry play to beaet em down.
An' where vor years zome busy hand
Did train the rwoses wide an' high;
Now woone by woone the trees do die,
An' vew of all the row do stand.

THE WIDOW'S HOUSE.

I went hwome in the dead o' the night,
When the vields wer all empty o' vo'k,
An' the tuns at their cool-winded height
Wer all dark, an' all cwold 'ithout smoke;
An' the heads o' the trees that I pass'd
Wer a-swayen wi' low-ruslen sound,
An' the doust wer a-whirl'd wi' the blast,
Aye, a smeech wi' the wind on the ground.

Then I come by the young widow's hatch,
Down below the wold elem's tall head,
But noo vinger did lift up the latch,
Vor the vo'k wer so still as the dead;
But inside, to a tree a-meaede vast,
Wer the childern's light swing, a-hung low,
An' a-rock'd by the brisk-blowen blast,
Aye, a-swung by the win' to an' fro.

Vor the childern, wi' pillow-borne head,
Had vorgotten their swing on the lawn,
An' their father, asleep wi' the dead,
Had vorgotten his work at the dawn;
An' their mother, a vew stilly hours,
Had vorgotten where he sleept so sound,
Where the wind wer a-sheaeken the flow'rs,
Aye, the blast the feaeir buds on the ground.

Oh! the moon, wi' his peaele lighted skies,
Have his sorrowless sleepers below.
But by day to the zun they must rise
To their true lives o' tweil an' ov ho.
Then the childern wull rise to their fun,
An' their mother mwore sorrow to veel,
While the air is a-warm'd by the zun,
Aye, the win' by the day's vi'ry wheel.

THE CHILD'S GREAeVE.

Avore the time when zuns went down
On zummer's green a-turn'd to brown,
When sheaedes o' swayen wheat-eaers vell
Upon the scarlet pimpernel;
The while you still m