The lover Tim Tankens mourned heart-sick and drear To be thus of his darling deprived: He roamed in the dark ath’art field, mound, and mere, And, a’most without knowing it, found himself near The house of the tranter, and now of his Dear, Where the lantern-light showed ’em arrived. The bride sought her cham’er so calm and so pale That a Northern had thought her resigned; But to eyes that had seen her in tide-times of weal, Like the white cloud o’ smoke, the red battle-field’s vail, That look spak’ of havoc behind. The bridegroom yet laitered a beaker to drain, Then reeled to the linhay for more, When the candle-snoff kindled some chaff from his grain— Flames spread, and red vlankers, wi’ might and wi’ main, And round beams, thatch, and chimley-tun roar. Young Tim away yond, rafted up by the light, Through brimble and underwood tears, Till he comes to the orchet, when crooping thereright In the lewth of a codlin-tree, bivering wi’ fright, Wi’ on’y her night-rail to screen her from sight, His lonesome young Barbree appears. Her cwold little figure half-naked he views Played about by the frolicsome breeze, Her light-tripping totties, her ten little tooes, All bare and besprinkled wi’ Fall’s chilly dews, While her great gallied eyes, through her hair hanging loose, Sheened as stars through a tardle o’ trees. She eyed en; and, as when a weir-hatch is drawn, Her tears, penned by terror afore, With a rushing of sobs in a shower were strawn, Till her power to pour ’em seemed wasted and gone From the heft o’ misfortune she bore. “O Tim, my _own_ Tim I must call ’ee—I will! All the world ha’ turned round on me so! Can you help her who loved ’ee, though acting so ill? Can you pity her misery—feel for her still? When worse than her body so quivering and chill Is her heart in its winter o’ woe! “I think I mid almost ha’ borne it,” she said, “Had my griefs one by one come to hand; But O, to be slave to thik husbird for bread, And then, upon top o’ that, driven to wed, And then, upon top o’ that, burnt out o’ bed, Is more than my nater can stand!” Tim’s soul like a lion ’ithin en outsprung— (Tim had a great soul when his feelings were wrung)— “Feel for ’ee, dear Barbree?” he cried; And his warm working-jacket about her he flung, Made a back, horsed her up, till behind him she clung Like a chiel on a gipsy, her figure uphung By the sleeves that around her he tied. Over piggeries, and mixens, and apples, and hay, They lumpered straight into the night; And finding bylong where a halter-path lay, At dawn reached Tim’s house, on’y seen on their way By a naibour or two who were up wi’ the day; But they gathered no clue to the sight.