The melancholy incident related in the following story, actually occurred a few years ago at Shapwick.

Good Gennel-vawk! an if you please
To lissen to my storry,
A mÂ-be 'tis a jitch a one,
Ool make ye zummet zorry.

'Tis not a hoozay tale of grief,
A put wi' ort together,
That where you cry, or where you laugh,
Da matter not a veather;

Bit 'tis a tale vor sartin true,
Wi' readship be it spawken;
I knaw it all, begummers! well,
By tale, eese, an by tawken.

The maid's right name war FANNY FEAR,
A tidy body lookin;
An she cood brew, and she cood bake,
An dumplins bwile, and skimmer cake;
An all the like o' cookin.

Upon a Zunday Âternoon,
Beforne the door a stanin,
To zee er chubby cheaks za hird,
An whitist lilies roun 'em spird,
A damas rawze her han in,

Ood do your hort good; an er eyes,
Dork, vull, an bright, an sporklin;
Tha country lads could not goo by,
Bit look th must—she iver shy,
Ood blish—tha timid lorklin!

Her dame war to her desperd kind;
She knaw'd er well dezarvin:
She gid her good advice an claws,
At which she niver toss'd her naws,
As zum ool, thawf pon starvin.

She oten yarly upp'd to goo
A milkin o' tha dairy;
The meads ring'd loudly wi' er zong;
Aw how she birshed the grass along,
As lissom as a vairy!

She war as happy as a prince;
Naw princess moor o' pleasure
When well-at-eased cood iver veel;
She ly'd her head upon her peel,
An vound athin a treasure.

There war a dessent comly youth,
Who took'd to her a likin;
An when a don'd in zunday claws,
You'd thenk en zummet I suppaws,
A look'd so desperd strikin.

His vace war like a zummer dÂ,
When Âll the birds be zingin;
Smiles an good nature dimplin stood,
An moor besides, an Âll za good,
Much pleasant promise bringin.

Now Jan war sawber, and afeard
Nif he in haste shood morry,
That he mid long repent thereof;
An zo a thwart 'twar best not, thawf
To st mid make en zorry.

Jan oten pÂss'd the happy door,
There Fanny stood a scrubbin;
An Fanny hired hiz pleasant voice,
An thawt—"An if she had er choice!"
An veel'd athin a drubbin.

Bit Jan did'n hulder long iz thawts;
Vor thorough iv'ry cranny,
Hirn'd of iz Lort tha warm hird tide;
An a cood na moor iz veelins bide,
Bit tell 'em must to Fanny.

To Fanny, than, one Whitsun eve,
A tawld er how a lov'd er;
Naw dove, a zed to er cood be
Moor faithvul than to her ood he;
His hort had long appruv'd er.

Wi' timourous blishin, Fanny zed,
"A maid mist not believe ye;
Vor men ool tell ther lovin tale,
And awver seely maids prevail—
Bit I dwont like ta grieve ye:

Vor nif za be you now z true—
That you've for I a fancy:
(Aw Jan! I dwont veel desperd well,
An what's tha cÂze, I cannot tell),
You'll z na moor to Nancy."

Twar zaw begin'd their zweetortin;
BooÄth still liv'd in their places;
Zometimes th met bezides tha stile;
Wi' pleasant look an tender smile
Gaz'd in each wither's faces.

In spreng-time oten on tha nap
Ood Jan and Fanny linger;
An when war vooÄs'd to z "good bwye,"
Ood meet again, wi' draps in eye,
While haup ood pwint er vinger.

Zo pass'd tha dÂs—tha moons awÂ,
An haup still whiver'd nigh;
Nif Fanny's dreams high pleasures vill,
Of her Jan's thawts the lidden still,
An oten too the zigh.

Bit still Jan had not got wherewi'
To venter eet to morry;
Alas-a-dÂ! when poor vawk love,
How much restraint how many pruv;
How zick zum an how zorry.

Aw you who live in houzen grate,
An wherewi' much possessin,
You knaw not, mÂ-be, care not you,
What pangs jitch tender horts pursue,
How grate nor how distressin.

Jan sar'd a varmer vour long years,
An now iz haups da brighten:
A gennelman of high degree
Choos'd en iz hunsman vor to be;
His Fanny's hort da lighten!

"Now, Fan," zed he, "nif I da live,
Nex zummer thee bist mine;
Sir John ool gee me wauges good,
AmÂ-be too zum viËr ood!"
His Fan's dork eyes did shine.

"To haw vor thee, my Fan," a cried,
"I iver sholl delight;
Thawf I be poor, 'tool be my pride
To ha my Fan vor a buxom bride—
My lidden d an night."

A took er gently in iz orms
An kiss'd er za zweetly too;
His Fan, vor jay, not a word cood speak,
Bit a big roun tear rawl'd down er cheak,
It zimm'd as thawf er hort ood break—
She cood hordly thenk it true.

To zee our hunsman goo abroad,
His houns behind en volly;
His tossel'd cap—his whip's smort smack,
His hoss a prancin wi' tha crack,
His whissle, horn, an holler, back!
Ood cure Âll malancholy.

It happ'd on a dork an wintry night,
Tha stormy wine a blawin;
Tha houns made a naise an a dismal yell;
Jitch as zum vawk z da death vaurtell,
The cattle loud war lawin.

Tha hunsman wÂkid an down a went;
A thawt ta keep 'em quiet;
A niver stopped izzel ta dress,
Bit a went in iz shirt vor readiness
A voun a dirdful riot.

Bit Âll thic night a did not come back;
All night tha dogs did raur;
In tha mornin th look'd on tha kannel stwons
An zeed 'em cover'd wi' gaur an bwons,
The vlesh Âll vrom 'em a taur.

His head war left—the head o' Jan
Who lov'd hiz Fanny za well;
An a bizzy gossip, as gossips be
Who've work o' ther awn bit vrom it vlee,
To Fanny went ta tell.

She hirn'd, she vleed ta meet tha man
Who corr'd er dear Jan's head:
An when she zeed en Âll blood an gaur,
She drapp'd down speechless jist avaur,
As thauf she had bin dead.

Poor Fanny com'd ta erzel again,
Bit her senses left her vor iver!
An all she zed, ba d or night—
Vor sleep it left her eye-lids quite—
War, "why did he goo in the cawld ta shiver?—
Niver, O Jan! sholl I zee the, niver!"

[Footnote: See a letter by Edward Band, on this subject, in the prose pieces.]