Nice lookin', eh?
Aye, that's your way—
Well, I tell ye, the first time ever I seen her,
She wasn' much more till a baby—
Six years, may be,
Would have been her
Age; at the little clogs at her,
Clitter-clatter,
And her little hand
In mine, to show me the way, you'll understand,
Down yandher brew,
And me a stranger too,
That was lost on the mountain;
And the little sowl in the house all alone,
And for her to be goin'
The best part of a mile—
Bless the chile!
Till she got me right—
Not a bit shy, not her!
Nor freckened, but talkin' as purty
As a woman of thirty—
And—“That's the way down to the School,” says she
“And Saul and me
Is goin' there every day;
You'll aisy find the way”—
And turns, and off like a bird on the wing,
Aw, a bright little thing!

Isn' it that way with these people of the mountain?
No accountin'
But seemin very fearless though—
Very—not for fightin', no!
Nor tearin', but just the used they are
Of fogs and bogs, and all the war
Of winds and clouds, and ghos'es creepin'
Unknownst upon them, and fairies cheepin'
Like birds, you'd think, and big bugganes
In holes in rocks; lek makin' frens
With the like, that'll work like niggers, they will,
If you 'll only let them; and paisible
Uncommon they are; and little scraps,
That's hardly off their mammies' laps
'll walk about there in the night
The same as the day, and all right—
Bless ye! ghos'es! ar'n' they half
Ghos'es themselves? Just hear them laugh,
Or hear them cry,
It's like up in the sky—
Aw, differin'
Total—aye; for the air is thin
And fine up there, and they uck it in
Very strong,
Very long,
And mixes it in the mould
Of all their body and all their sowl—
So they're often seemin'
Like people dreamin',
With their eyes open like a surt of a trance.