maidens, wi' their zong,
Still draw their white-stemm'd reaekes among
The long-back'd weaeles an' new-meaede pooks,
By brown-stemm'd trees an' cloty brooks;
But have noo call to spweil their looks
By work, that God could never meaeke
Their weaker han's to underteaeke,
Though skies mid be a-cleaeren.

'Tis wrong vor women's han's to clips
The zull an' reap-hook, speaedes an' whips;
An' men abroad, should leaeve, by right,
Woone faithful heart at hwome to light
Their bit o' vier up at night,
An' hang upon the hedge to dry
Their snow-white linen, when the sky
In winter is a-cleaeren.

THE EVENEN STAR O' ZUMMER.

When vu'st along theaese road vrom mill,
I zeed ye hwome all up the hill,
The poplar tree, so straight an' tall,
Did rustle by the watervall;
An' in the leaeze the cows wer all
A-lyen down to teaeke their rest
An' slowly zunk toward the west
The evenen star o' zummer.

In parrock there the hay did lie
In weaele below the elems, dry;
An' up in hwome-groun' Jim, that know'd
We all should come along thik road,
D a-tied the grass in knots that drow'd
Poor Poll, a-watchen in the West
Woone brighter star than all the rest,--
The evenen star o' zummer.

The stars that still do zet an' rise,
Did sheen in our forefather's eyes;
They glitter'd to the vu'st men's zight,
The last will have em in their night;
But who can vind em half so bright
As I thought thik peaele star above
My smilen Jeaene, my zweet vu'st love,
The evenen star o' zummer.

How sweet's the mornen fresh an' new,
Wi' sparklen brooks an' glitt'ren dew;
How sweet's the noon wi' sheaedes a-drow'd
Upon the groun' but leaetely mow'd,
An' bloomen flowers all abrode;
But sweeter still, as I do clim',
Theaese woody hill in evenen dim
'S the evenen star o' zummer.

THE CLOTE.

_(Water-lily.)_

O zummer clote! when the brook's a-gliden
So slow an' smooth down his zedgy bed,
Upon thy broad leaves so seaefe a-riden
The water's top wi' thy yollow head,
By alder's heads, O,
An' bulrush beds, O.
Thou then dost float, goolden zummer clote!

The grey-bough'd withy's a-leaenen lowly
Above the water thy leaves do hide;
The benden bulrush, a-swayen slowly,
Do skirt in zummer thy river's zide;
An' perch in shoals, O,
Do vill the holes,