To build below the thatchèn oves,
An' robins come vor crumbs o' lwoaves:
"Tweet, tweet,"—the birds all cried;
"Sweet, sweet,"—John's wife replied;
"Dad, dad,"—the childern cried so glad,
To merry Bleäke o' Blackmwore.
JOHN BLEÄKE AT HWOME AT NIGHT.
No: where the woak do overspread,
The grass begloom'd below his head,