DEAD AND GONE.

I wot well o’ his going

To think in flowers fair;—

His a right kind heart, my dear,

To give the grass such hair.

I wot well o’ his lying

Such nights out in the cold,—

To list the cricket's crick, my sweet,

To see the glow-worm's gold.

An mine eyes be laughterful,

Well may they laugh, I trow,—

Since two dead eyes a yesternight

Gazed in them sad enow.

An my heart make moan and ache,

Well may it dree, I'm sure;—

He is dead and gone, my love,

And it is beggar poor.