XIII. A mowt 'a taäen owd Joänes, as 'ant nor a 'aäpoth o' sense, XIV. Loook 'ow quoloty smoiles when they seeäs ma a passin' boy, Says to thessén naw doubt 'what a man a beä sewer-loy!' Fur they knaws what I beän to Squoire sin fust a coom'd to the 'All; I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done moy duty boy hall. XV. Squoire's i' Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wroite, XVI. But summun 'ull come ater meä mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' steäm XVII. What atta stannin' theer fur, an' doesn bring ma the aäle? I weänt break rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy; NORTHERN FARMER. NEW STYLE. I. DOSN'T thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaäy? II. Woä-theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam: yon's parson's 'ouse- 1 This week. III. Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as bean a-talkin' o' thee; Thou'll not marry for munny-thou's sweet upo' parson's lass IV. Seeä'd her todaäy goä by-Saäint's-daäy-they was ringing the bells. Them as 'as munny an' all-wot's a beauty ?-the flower as blaws. V. Do'ant be stunt : taäke time: I knaws what maäkes tha sa mad. VI. An' I went wheer munny war: an' thy muther coom to 'and, Maäybe she warn't a beauty :-I niver giv it a thowt But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt? VII. Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weänt 'a nowt when 'e's dead, VIII. An thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lets o' Varsity debt, IX. Luvv ? what's luvv? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny too, X. Ay an' thy muther says thou wants to marry the lass, Cooms of a gentleman burn: an' we boath on us thinks tha an ass. Woä then, wiltha? dangtha !—the bees is as fell as owt. 1 Obstinate. 2 Earn. "Or fow-welter'd,-said of a sheep lying on its back in the furrow. The flies are as fierce as anything. XI. Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'eäd, lad, out o' the fence! XII. Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steals, XIII. Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a beän a laäzy lot, XIV. Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck comes out by the 'ill! XV. Thim's my noätions, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick ; THE DAISY. WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH. O LOVE, what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. What Roman strength Turbia show'd In ruin, by the mountain road; How like a gein, beneath, the city To meet the sun and sunny waters, That only heaved with a summer swell. What slender campanili grew By bays, the peacock's neck in hue; Where, here and there, on sandy beaches A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew. How young Columbus seem'd to rove, Now watching high on mountain cor- And steering, now, from a purple cove, Now pacing mute by ocean's rim ; I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, Nor knew we well what pleased us most, Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen Or olive-hoary cape in ocean; Where oleanders flush'd the bed And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten Of ice, far up on a mountain head. We loved that hall, tho' white and cold, Those niched shapes of noble mould, A princely people's awful princes, The grave, severe Genovese of old. At Florence too what golden hours, In bright vignettes, and each complete, Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet, Or palace, how the city glitter'd, Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. But when we crost the Lombard plain Remember what a plague of rain; Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. And stern and sad (so rare the smiles O Milan, O the chanting quires, I climb'd the roofs at break of day; A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys And snowy dells in a golden air. Remember how we came at last Had blown the lake beyond his limit, And all was flooded; and how we past From Como, when the light was gray, And in my head, for half the day, The rich Virgilian rustic measure Like ballad-burthen music, kept, To that fair port below the castle Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake The moonlight touching o'er a terrace But ere we reach'd the highest sum mit I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. It told of England then to me, O love, we two shall go no longer To lands of summer across the sea; So dear a life your arms enfold The height, the space, the gloom, the Whose crying is a cry for gold : glory! A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! Yet here to-night in this dark city, When ill and weary, alone and cold, The gloom that saddens Heaven and Some ship of battle slowly creep, Earth, The bitter east, the misty summer And gray metropolis of the North. Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, Perchance, to dream you still beside me, My fancy fled to the South again. TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. For, being of that honest few, cils Thunder Anathema,' friend, at you; Should all our churchmen foam in spite At you, so careful of the right, And on thro' zones of light and shadow Glimmer away to the lonely deep, We might discuss the Northern sin Dispute the claims, arrange the chances; Till you should turn to dearer matters, Dear to the man that is dear to God; How best to help the slender store, How mend the dwellings, of the poor; How gain in life, as life advances, Valour and charity more and more. Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yet Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet; But when the wreath of March has blossom'd, Crocus, anemone, violet, Yet one lay-hearth would give you wel- Or later, pay one visit here, come (Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight; Where, far from noise and smoke of town, I watch the twilight falling brown All round a careless-order'd garden Close to the ridge of a noble down. You'll have no scandal while you dine, But honest talk and wholesome wine, And only hear the magpie gossip Garrulous under a roof of pine: For those are few we hold as dear; January, 1854. WILL. I. O WELL for him whose will is strong! He suffers, but he will not suffer long; He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong: |