Then deawn bi’th well i’th fairy-dell, Wi’ trees aboon it knittin’, Where, near an’ fur, ther nowt astur But bats i’th eawl-leet flittin’; An’ fearfo’ seawnds that rustle’t reawnd Wi’ mony a goblin-twitter, As swarmin’ dark to flaysome wark They flew wi’ hellish titter. There, reet anent aw geet a glent At brought a shiver o’er mo, For, fair i’th track ther summat black Coom creepin’ on afore mo; It wur not clear, but it wur theer,— Wi’ th’ gloomy shadow blendin’, Neaw black an’ slim, neaw grey an’ grim, Wi’ noather side nor endin’. Cowd drops wur tremblin’ o’ my broo, As there aw stood belated;— Aw durstn’t turn, nor durstn’t goo, But shut my e’en, an’ waited; An’ just as aw begun to pray, There coom fro’ th’ creepin’ spectre A weel known seawnd that said, “Well, James!”— ’Twur nowt but th’ village rector. “Well, James,” said he, “I’m fain to see Yo’r pew so weel attended; But then, yo shouldn’t fo’ asleep Afore my sarmon’s ended: To dreawsy ears it’s useless quite To scatter holy teychin’: Why don’t yo bring a bit o’ snuff, An’ tak it while I’m preychin’.” “Well, well,” said aw, “There’s mony a way O’ keepin’ e’en fro’ closin’; A needle would keep th’ body wake, An’ th’ soul met still be dozin’; But this receipt would set it reet, Iv th’ mixture wur a warm un,— Yo’m get some stingin’ gospel-snuff, An’ put it into th’ sarmon.” He stare’t like mad, but th’ good owd lad Then grip’t my hond, warm-hearted, An’ said, “Yo’re reet, yo’re reet—good neet!” An’ that wur heaw we parted. It touched my heart, an’ made it smart, He spoke so mild and pratty; Aw blest him as he walked away, An’ then went whoam to Matty. [Illustration] WHILE TAKIN’ A WIFT O’ MY PIPE. While takin’ a wift o’ my pipe tother neet, A thowt trickled into my pate, That sulkin’ becose everything isn’t sweet, Is nought but a foolish consate; Iv mon had bin made for a bit of a spree, An’ th’ world were a marlockin’ schoo’, Wi’ nought nobbut heytin’, an’ drinkin’, an’ glee, An’ haliday gam to go through, He’d sicken afore His frolic were o’er, An’ feel he’d bin born for a foo’. Poor crayter, he’s o’ discontentment an’ deawt, Whatever his fortin may be; He’s just like a chylt at goes cryin’ abeawt, “Eawr Johnny’s moor traycle nor me;” One minute he’s trouble’t, next minute he’s fain, An’ then, they’re so blended i’ one, It’s hard to tell whether he’s laughin’ through pain, Or whether he’s peawtin’ for fun;— He stumbles, an’ grumbles, He struggles, an’ juggles,— He capers a bit,—an’ he’s gone. * * * * *