Then, lik' a cloud below the skies, A-drifted off, wi' less'nen size, An' lost, she floated vrom my eyes, Where down below the stream did wind; An' left the quiet weaeves woonce mwore To zink to rest, a sky-blue'd vloor, Wi' all so still's the clote they bore, Aye, all but my own ruffled mind. THE PLEAeCE OUR OWN AGEAeN. Well! thanks to you, my faithful Jeaene, So worksome wi' your head an' hand, We seaeved enough to get ageaen My poor vorefather's plot o' land. 'Twer folly lost, an' cunnen got, What should ha' come to me by lot. But let that goo; 'tis well the land Is come to hand, by be'th or not. An' there the brook, a-winden round The parrick zide, do run below The grey-stwon'd bridge wi' gurglen sound, A-sheaeded by the arches' bow; Where former days the wold brown meaere, Wi' father on her back, did wear Wi' heavy shoes the grav'ly leaene, An' sheaeke her meaene o' yollor heaeir. An' many zummers there ha' glow'd, To shrink the brook in bubblen shoals, An' warm the doust upon the road, Below the trav'ller's burnen zoles. An' zome ha' zent us to our bed In grief, an' zome in jay ha' vled; But vew ha' come wi' happier light Than what's now bright, above our head. The brook did peaert, zome years agoo, Our Grenley meaeds vrom Knapton's Ridge But now you know, between the two, A-road's a-meaede by Grenley Bridge. Zoo why should we shrink back at zight Ov hindrances we ought to slight? A hearty will, wi' God our friend, Will gain its end, if 'tis but right. [Gothic: Eclogue.] _John an' Thomas._ THOMAS. How b'ye, then, John, to-night; an' how Be times a-waggen on w' ye now? I can't help slackenen my peaece When I do come along your pleaece, To zee what crops your bit o' groun' Do bear ye all the zummer roun'. 'Tis true you don't get fruit nor blooth, 'Ithin the glassen houses' lewth; But if a man can rear a crop Where win' do blow an' rain can drop, Do seem to come, below your hand, As fine as any in the land. JOHN. Well, there, the geaerden stuff an' flow'rs Don't leaeve me many idle hours; But still, though I mid plant or zow, 'Tis Woone above do meaeke it grow. THOMAS. Aye, aye, that's true, but still your strip O' groun' do show good workmanship: You've onions there nine inches round, An' turmits that would waigh a pound; An' cabbage wi' its hard white head, An' teaeties in their dousty bed, An' carrots big an' straight enough Vor any show o' geaerden stuff; An' trees ov apples, red-skinn'd balls An' purple plums upon the walls, An' peas an' beaens; bezides a store O' heaerbs vor ev'ry pain an' zore. JOHN.