w 



Unless her han', wi' lov^n ceare, 



Did smoothe their little heads o' heair ; 



Or wi' a sheake, tie up anew 



Vor zome wild voot, a slipp^n shoe ; 



An' I did lean bezide thy mound, 



Agean the deasy-dappled ground, 



The while the woaken clock did tick 



My hour o' rest away too quick, 



An' call me off to work anew, 



Wi' slowly-ringen strokes, woone, two. 



Zoo let me zee noo darksome cloud 

 Bedim to-day thy flow'ry sh'oud. 

 But let en bloom on ev'ry spray, 

 Drough all the days o' zunny May. 



WILLIAM BARNES. 



THE MOSS-ROSE 



ALKING to-day in your garden, O gracious lady. 

 Little you thought as you turned in that alley 



remote and shady. 

 And gave me a rose and asked if I knew its savour — 

 The old-world scent of the moss-rose, flower of a 



bygone favour — 



Little you thought as you waited the word of 

 appraisement. 



Laughing at first and then amazed at my amaze- 

 ment. 



That the rose you gave was a gift already cherished. 



And the garden whence you plucked it a garden long 

 perished. 

 1 6i 



