BY CHARLES CLARK, OF TOTHAM. YOUN’ SIMON ov FAIRLOP, a noice steady lad was he, The jouy ov his moather—the proide ov his dad was he; An’, as a ploughmun, folks say, yow scace ever ded Clap oyes upun one wot his wark hafe so clever ded. To “come oup” to him, all his mates, they bestirrers wor, For straight—proper straight uns—they spied all his thurrars wor; But, our Simon, nut onny at _ploughin’_ excel ded he, If he sew, rep, or mew, stell the same, oh! so well ded he! Stron’ an’ clunchy was Simon, an’ noice carlly hair he had, With health’s tint on his chakes, through the dale ov fresh air he had: With a charriter gud, ne’er lack “dubs” in his puss ded he,— Ollis “bobbish” an’ gay, long pass his loife thus ded he. Howsomever, this genus—this lad ov ability— Soon foun’ a sad stup put to all his tranquillity; For into his heart soon much fudder love’s urrars went, Thun into the mouls e’er the teeth ov his hurrars went! All the cause ov his troubles, ’twas werry soon sin, they say,— He had so fell in love with one fair Dorcas Winn, they say; Such a noice gal was Dorcas, the chaps all look’d sloy at her, An’, poor Simon, _he_ too, had oft caist a ship’s eye at her. Quoite the proide ov the willage this naarbour’s gud darter was, Whoile for some toime our Simon’s wesh her to “goo arter” was; An’ that wot cud nut be at some oather places done, Was—in wuds nut so wusser—at FAIRLOP with graces done! Nation plased now was Simon—his sithin’ was banish’d quoite; To his gal he’d “struck oup,” an’, his fares, they had wanish’d quoit: His Dorcas’s conduct, oh! now it was such, he ded E’en begin to hev thotes ov the axin’ at chutch, he ded! Our Simon an’ Dorcas, stell yit at the Fair wor they— Now sot down in some “Tavin,” quoite free from all care wor they: Where there was such guzzlin’, an’ such ham-an’-wealin’ it,— Whoile many loike blazes kept on toe-an’-heelin’ it. At FAIRLOP, the pair, oup an’ down long parade ded they, An’ oyed all the “soights”—all the wonders display’d ded they; ’Ginst the shows, with mouth opun, our Simon, long stan’ ded he, Tell, ov coas, into etch, with much grace, his lass han’ ded he! Whoile at FAIRLOP, poor Dorcas, once or twoice rayther frown’d had she, For, somehows, so dartied her best yallar gownd had she; An’, our Simon, some chaps there to bouy ded beset him so, He at last ded agree, when he foun’—they had chet him so! To be oaf frum their “Tavin” quoite toime it now gittin’ was,— ’Sides, there was such a tarnation smudge where etch sittin’ was: So when ’mong the stawls they had had a shote roam agin, Frum the Forest they trapsed on to Dorcas’s home agin.