guess directly how it come.

JOHN.

Then don't you zay that I be jealous, Fanny.

FANNY.

I wull: vor you _be_ jealous, Mister Jahnny.
There's zomebody a-comen down the groun'
Towards the stile. Who is it? Come, get down
I must run hwome, upon my word then, now;
If I do stay, they'll kick up sich a row.
Good night. I can't stay now.

JOHN.

Then good night, Fanny!
Come out a-bit to-morrow evenen, can ye?

SUMMER.

EVENEN, AN' MAIDENS OUT AT DOOR.

Now the sheaedes o' the elems do stratch mwore an' mwore,
Vrom the low-zinken zun in the west o' the sky;
An' the maidens do stand out in clusters avore
The doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

An' their cwombs be a-zet in their bunches o' heaeir,
An' their currels do hang roun' their necks lily-white,
An' their cheaeks they be rwosy, their shoulders be beaere,
Their looks they be merry, their limbs they be light.

An' the times have a-been--but they cant be noo mwore--
When I had my jay under evenen's dim sky,
When my Fanny did stan' out wi' others avore
Her door, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

An' up there, in the green, is her own honey-zuck,
That her brother train'd up roun' her window; an' there
Is the rwose an' the jessamy, where she did pluck
A flow'r vor her bosom or bud vor her heaeir.

An' zoo smile, happy maidens! vor every feaece,
As the zummers do come, an' the years do roll by,
Will soon sadden, or goo vur away vrom the pleaece,
Or else, lik' my Fanny, will wither an' die.

But when you be a-lost vrom the parish, zome mwore
Will come on in your pleaezen to bloom an' to die;
An' the zummer will always have maidens avore
Their doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

Vor daughters ha' mornen when mothers ha' night,
An' there's beauty alive when the feaeirest is dead;
As when woone sparklen weaeve do zink down vrom the light,
Another do come up an' catch it instead.

Zoo smile on, happy maidens! but I shall noo mwore
Zee the maid I do miss under evenen's dim sky;
An' my heart is a-touch'd to zee you out avore
The doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

THE SHEPHERD O' THE FARM.

Oh! I be shepherd o' the farm,
Wi' tinklen bells an' sheep-dog's bark,
An' wi' my crook a-thirt my eaerm,
Here I do rove below the lark.

An' I do bide all day among
The bleaeten sheep, an' pitch their vwold;
An'