J. When I an’ Simon had a het
O’ pookèn, yonder, vor a bet,
The prongs o’n gi’ed a tump a poke,
An’ then I vound the stem a-broke,
But they do meäke the stems o’ picks
O’ stuff so brittle as a kicks.
A. There’s poor wold Jeäne, wi’ wrinkled skin,
A-tellèn, wi’ her peakèd chin,
Zome teäle ov her young days, poor soul.
Do meäke the young-woones smile. ’Tis droll.
What is it? Stop, an’ let’s goo near.
I do like theäse wold teäles. Let’s hear.
A FATHER OUT, AN’ MOTHER HWOME.
The snow-white clouds did float on high
In shoals avore the sheenèn sky,
An’ runnèn weäves in pon’ did cheäse
Each other on the water’s feäce,
As hufflèn win’ did blow between
The new-leav’d boughs o’ sheenèn green.
An’ there, the while I walked along
The path, drough leäze, above the drong,
A little maïd, wi’ bloomèn feäce,
Went on up hill wi’ nimble peäce,
A-leänèn to the right-han’ zide,
To car a basket that did ride,
A-hangèn down, wi’ all his heft,
Upon her elbow at her left.
An’ yet she hardly seem’d to bruise
The grass-bleädes wi’ her tiny shoes,
That pass’d each other, left an’ right,
In steps a’most too quick vor zight.
But she’d a-left her mother’s door
