Here, here it was (a wae light on the pleace) 'At first I gat a gliff o' Betty's feace.

Blyth on this trod the smurker tripp'd, and theer At the deail-head unluckily we shear;

Heedless I glim'd, nor cou'd my een command,

Till gash the sickle went into my hand:
Down hell'd the bluid; the shearers aw brast out
In sweels of laughter; Betty luik'd about;
Reed grew my fingers, reeder far my feace:
What cou'd I de in seck a dispert kease!

Away I sleeng'd, to grandy meade my mean.
My grandy (God be wud her now she's geane)
Skilfu' the gushen bluid wi' cockwebs staid,
Then on the sair an healen plaister laid;
The healen plaister eas'd the painful sair,
The arr indeed remains, but naething mair.

last judgment.

serene.

He was perfectly composed, collected, and His valedictory admonitions were not very long, but they were earnest and pathetic. He addressed each of them in terms somewhat different, adapted to their different tempers and circumstances; but in one charge he was uniform,-lead a good life that your death may be easy, and you everlastingly happy. He died of a consumption before he had completed his thirty-second year. After many years a monument was erected to his memory by Mr. Boucher.

The characters as well as imagery of the Cumbrian Pastorals, were taken from real life; there was hardly a person in the village who could not point out those who had sate for his Cursty and Peggy. The amorous maiden was well known, and died a few years ago at a very advanced age.-Southey's Later English Poets, vol. i, p. 418.

Not sae that other wound, that inward smart; My grandy cou'd not cure a bleedin heart. I've bworn the bitter torment three lang year, And aw my life-time mun be fworc'd to bear, 'Less Betty will a kind physician pruive, For nin but she has skill to medcin luive. But how shou'd honest Betty give relief? Betty's a perfet stranger to my grief. Oft I've resolv'd my ailment to explain; Oft I've resolv'd indeed-but all in vain : A springin blush spred fast owr aither cheek, Down Robin luik'd and deuce a word cou'd speak. Can I forget that night ?—I never can!— When on the clean-sweep'd hearth the spinnels ran ; The lasses drew their line wi' busy speed; The lads as busy minded ev'ry thread; When, sad! the line sae slender Betty drew, Snap went the thread and down the spinnel flew. To me it meade—the lads began to glop— What cou'd I de? I mud, mud take it up; I tuik it up, and (what gangs pleaguy hard) E'en reach'd it back without the sweet reward. O lastin stain! e'en yet it's eith to treace A guilty conscience in my blushen feace; I fain wou'd wesh it out but never can. Still fair it bides like bluid of sackless man.

Nought sae was Wully bashfu'. Wully spied A pair of scissors at the lass's side;

Thar lowsed-he sleely droped the spinnel down. And what said Betty?-Betty struive to frown;

Up flew her hand to souse the cowren lad :
But, ah! I thought it fell not down owr sad.
What follow'd I think mickle to repeat:

My teeth aw watter'd then, and watter yet.

E'en weel is he 'at ever he was bworn! He's free fraw aw this bitterment and scworn. What mun I still be fash'd wi' straglen sheep, Wi' far-fetch'd sighs, and things I said asleep; Still shamefully left snafflen by my sell, And still, still dog'd wi' the damn'd neame o' mell! Whare's now the pith (this luive, the deuce ga' wi't) The pith I show'd whene'er we struive, to beat; When a lang Iwonin through the cworn I meade, And, bustlin far behind, the leave survey'd.

Dear heart! that pith is geane and comes nae mair Till Betty's kindness sall the loss repair; And she's not like-how sud she ?-to be kind, Till I have freely spoken out my mind; Till I have learn'd to feace the maiden clean, Oil'd my slow tongue, and edg'd my sheepish een. A buik theer is—a buik, the neame-shem faw't, Some thing o' compliments I think they caw't, 'At meakes a clownish lad a clever spark:

O hed I this, this buik wad de my

wark !

And I's resolv'd to hav'et whatever't cost.
My flute-for what's my flute if Betty's lost!—
And if sae bonny a lass but be my bride,

I need not any comfort lait beside.

Farewell my flute then yet or Carlile Fair! When to the stationer's I'll stright repair,

And bauldly for thur compliments enquear :
Care I a fardin-let the 'prentice jeer.

That duine, a handsome letter I'll indite,-
Handsome as ever country lad did write,—
A letter 'at sall tell her aw I feel,

And aw my wants without a blush reveal.

But now the clouds brek off and sineways run, Out frae his shelter lively luiks the sun, Brave hearty blasts the droopin barley dry, The lads are gawn to shear-and sae mun I.

HAY-TIME;

OR,

THE CONSTANT LOVERS.

A Pastoral.

CURSTY AND PEGGY.

WARM shone the sun, the wind as warmly blew,

No longer cool'd by draughts of morning dew,

When in the field a faithful pair appear'd,

A faithful pair full happily endear'd;

Hasty in rows they raked the meadow's pride,
Then sank, amid the softness, side by side,
To wait the withering force of wind and sun,
And thus their artless tale of love begun.-

CURSTY.

A finer hay-day seer was never seen,
The greenish sops already luik less green,
As weel the greenish sops will suin be dried,
As Sawney's 'bacco spred by th' ingle side.

PEGGY.

And see how finely striped the fields appear,
Striped like the gown 'at I on Sundays wear;
White shows the rye, the big of blaker hue,
The bluimen pezz, green ment wi' reed and blue.

CURSTY.

Let other lads to spworts and pastimes run,

And spoil their Sunday clease and clash their shoon,

If Peggy in the field my partner be,

To work at hay is better spwort to me.

PEGGY.

Let other lasses ride to Rosely Fair,
And mazle up and down the market there,
I envy not their happy treats and them;
Happier my sell if Roger bides at heame.

CURSTY.

It's hard aw day the heavy scy' to swing,
But if my lass a holesome breakfast bring,
E'en mowing-time is better far, I swear,
Then Cursenmas and aw it's dainty chear.