O' whatever the bwoys mid ha' broke,
It wull seem but so small in my zight,
As a leaf a-het down vrom a woak
An' not meäke me ceäper an' froth
Vull o' wrath, lik' Gruffmoody Grim.
THE TURN O' THE DAYS.
O the wings o' the rook wer a-glitterèn bright,
As he wheel'd on above, in the zun's evenèn light,
An' noo snow wer a-left, but in patches o' white,