The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect, by William Barnes This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect Author: William Barnes Release Date: June 9, 2007 [EBook #21785] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF RURAL LIFE *** Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Lesley Halamek and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Transcriber's Note: The Pronunciation Guide and Word List are at the end of the book.] _POEMS OF RURAL LIFE IN THE DORSET DIALECT._ BY WILLIAM BARNES. [Illustration] LONDON: KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUeBNER & Co., LTD. 1903 _TO THE READER._ KIND READER, Two of the three Collections of these Dorset Poems have been, for some time, out of print, and the whole of the three sets are now brought out in one volume. I have little more to say for them, than that the writing of them as glimpses of life and landscape in Dorset, which often open to my memory and mindsight, has given me very much pleasure; and my happiness would be enhanced if I could believe that you would feel my sketches to be so truthful and pleasing as to give you even a small share of pleasure, such as that of the memories from which I have written them. This edition has a list of such Dorset words as are found in the Poems, with some hints on Dorset word shapes, and I hope that they will be found a fully good key to the meanings of the verse. Yours kindly, W. BARNES _June 1879._ CONTENTS. FIRST COLLECTION. SPRING. The Spring 3 The Woodlands 4 Leaedy-Day, an' Ridden House 5 Easter Zunday 8 Easter Monday 9 Dock-Leaves 9 The Blackbird 10 Woodcom' Feaest 12 The Milk-Maid o' the Farm 13 The Girt Woak Tree that's in the Dell 15 Vellen o' the Tree 16 Bringen Woone Gwain o' Zundays 17 Evenen Twilight 18 Evenen in the Village 20 May 20 Bob the Fiddler 22 Hope in Spring 23 The White Road up athirt the Hill 24 The Woody Hollow 25 Jenny's Ribbons 26 Eclogue:--The 'Lotments 28 Eclogue:--A Bit o' Sly Coorten 30 SUMMER. Evenen, an' Maidens out at Door 34 The Shepherd o' the Farm 35 Vields in the Light 36 Whitsuntide an' Club Walken 37 Woodley 39 The Brook that Ran by Gramfer's 41 Sleep did come wi' the Dew 42 Sweet Music in the Wind 43 Uncle an' Aunt 44 Haven Woones Fortune a-twold 46 Jeaene's Wedden Day in Mornen 47 Rivers don't gi'e out 49 Meaeken up a Miff 50 Hay-Meaeken 51 Hay-Carren 52 Eclogue:--The Best Man in the Vield 54 Where we did keep our Flagon 57 Week's End in Zummer, in the Wold Vo'k's Time 58 The Meaed a-mow'd 60 The Sky a-cleaeren 61 The Evenen Star o' Zummer 62 The Clote 63 I got two Vields 65 Polly be-en upzides wi' Tom 66 Be'mi'ster 67 Thatchen o' the Rick 68 Bees a-Zwarmen 69 Readen ov a Head-stwone 70 Zummer Evenen Dance 71 Eclogue:--The Veaeiries 72 FALL. Corn a-turnen Yollow 76 A-Haulen o' the Corn 77 Harvest Hwome:--The vu'st Peaert 78 Harvest Hwome:--Second Peaert 79 A Zong ov Harvest Hwome 80 Poll's Jack-Daw 82 The Ivy 83 The Welshnut Tree 84 Jenny out vrom Hwome 86 Grenley Water 86 The Veaeiry Veet that I do meet 87 Mornen 88 Out a-Nutten 90 Teaeken in Apples 91 Meaeple Leaves be Yollow 92 Night a-zetten in 93 The Weather-beaeten Tree 94 Shrodon Feaeir:--The vu'st Peaert 95 Shrodon Feaeir:--The rest o't 96 Martin's Tide 97 Guy Faux's Night 99 Eclogue:--The Common a-took in 100 Eclogue:--Two Farms in Woone 102 WINTER. The Vrost 105 A Bit o' Fun 106 Fanny's Be'th-day 107 What Dick an' I did 109 Grammer's Shoes 111 Zunsheen in the Winter 112 The Weepen Leaedy 113 The Happy Days when I wer Young 115 In the Stillness o' the Night 116 The Settle an' the Girt Wood Vire 117 The Carter 118 Chris'mas Invitation 120 Keepen up o' Chris'mas 121 Zitten out the Wold Year 122 Woak wer Good Enough Woonce 123 Lullaby 124 Meaery-Ann's Child 125 Eclogue:--Father Come Hwome 126 Eclogue:--A Ghost 129 SUNDRY PIECES. A Zong 133 The Maid vor my Bride 134 The Hwomestead 135 The Farmer's Woldest D[=a]'ter 136 Uncle out o' Debt an' out o' Danger 137 The Church an' Happy Zunday 140 The Wold Waggon 141 The Dreven o' the Common 142 The Common a-took in 143 A Wold Friend 145 The Rwose that Deck'd her Breast 145 Nanny's Cow 147 The Shep'erd Bwoy 148 Hope a-left Behind 149 A Good Father 150 The Beam in Grenley Church 151 The Vaices that be Gone 152 Poll 153 Looks a-know'd Avore 154 The Music o' the Dead 155 The Pleaece a Teaele's a-twold o' 156 Aunt's Tantrums 158 The Stwonen Pworch 159 Farmer's Sons 160 Jeaene 161 The Dree Woaks 162 The Hwomestead a-vell into Hand 164 The Guide Post 166 Gwain to Feaeir 167 Jeaene o' Grenley Mill 168 The Bells ov Alderburnham 169 The Girt Wold House o' Mossy Stwone 170 A Witch 173 Eclogue:--The Times 175 * * * * * SECOND COLLECTION. Blackmwore Maidens 185 My Orcha'd in Linden Lea 186 Bishop's Caundle 187 Hay Meaeken--Nunchen Time 189 A Father out an' Mother Hwome 191 Riddles 192 Day's Work a-done 196 Light or Sheaede 197 The Waggon a-stooded 197 Gwain down the Steps 201 Ellen Brine ov Allenburn 202 The Motherless Child 203 The Leaedy's Tower 204 Fatherhood 208 The Maid o' Newton 211 Childhood 212 Meaery's Smile 213 Meaery Wedded 214 The Stwonen Bwoy 215 The Young that died in Beauty 217 Faeir Emily of Yarrow Mill 218 The Scud 219 Minden House 221 The Lovely Maid ov Elwell Meaed 222 Our Fathers' Works 224 The Wold vo'k Dead 225 Culver Dell and the Squire 227 Our Be'thplace 229 The Window freaemed wi' Stwone 230 The Waterspring in the Leaene 231 The Poplars 232 The Linden on the Lawn 233 Our abode in Arby Wood 235 Slow to come, quick agone 236 The Vier-zide 236 Knowlwood 238 Hallowed Pleaeces 240 The Wold Wall 242 Bleaeke's House 243 John Bleaeke at Hwome 245 Milken Time 247 When Birds be Still 248 Riden Hwome at Night 249 Zun-zet. 250 Spring 252 The Zummer Hedge 253 The Water Crowvoot 254 The Lilac 255 The Blackbird 256 The Slanten light o' Fall 257 Thissledown 259 The May-tree 259 The Lydlinch Bells 260 The Stage Coach 261 Wayfeaeren 263 The Leaene 265 The Railroad 267 The Railroad 268 Seats 268 Sound o' Water 270 Trees be Company 270 A Pleaece in Zight 272 Gwain to Brookwell 273 Brookwell 275 The Shy Man 277 The Winter's Willow 279 I know Who 281 Jessie Lee 282 True Love 283 The Beaen-vield 284 Wold Friends a-met 286 Fifehead 288 Ivy Hall 289 False Friends-like 290 The Bachelor 290 Married Peaeir's Love-walk 292 A Wife a-prais'd 293 The Wife a-lost 295 The Thorns in the Geaete 296 Angels by the Door 297 Vo'k a-comen into Church 298 Woone Rule 299 Good Meaester Collins 300 Herrenston 302 Out at Plough 304 The Bwoat 306 The Pleaece our own agean 307 Eclogue:--John an' Thomas 308 Pentridge by the River 310 Wheat 311 The Meaed in June 313 Early risen 315 Zelling woone's Honey 316 Dobbin Dead 317 Happiness 319 Gruffmoody Grim 320 The Turn o' the Days 322 The Sparrow Club 323 Gammony Gay 325 The Heaere 327 Nanny Gill 329 Moonlight on the Door 330 My Love's Guardian Angel 331 Leeburn Mill 332 Praise o' Do'set 333 THIRD COLLECTION. Woone Smile Mwore 339 The Echo 340 Vull a Man 341 Naighbour Playmeaetes 343 The Lark 345 The Two Churches 345 Woak Hill 347 The Hedger 348 In the Spring 349 The Flood in Spring 350 Comen Hwome 351 Grammer a-crippled 352 The Castle Ruins 354 Eclogue:--John jealous 355 Early Playmeaete 359 Picken o' Scroff 360 Good Night 361 Went Hwome 362 The Hollow Woak 363 Childern's Childern 364 The Rwose in the Dark 365 Come 366 Zummer Winds 367 The Neaeme Letters 368 The New House a-getten Wold 370 Zunday 370 The Pillar'd Geaete 371 Zummer Stream 373 Zummer Stream 373 Linda Deaene 374 Eclogue:--Come an' zee us 376 Lindenore 377 Me'th below the Tree 378 Treat well your Wife 379 The Child an' the Mowers 381 The Love Child 382 Hawthorn Down 383 Oben Vields 385 What John wer a-tellen 386 Sheaedes 387 Times o' Year 387 Eclogue:--Racketen Joe 388 Zummer an' Winter 391 To Me 392 Two an' Two 393 The Lew o' the Rick 394 The Wind in Woone's Feaece 395 Tokens 396 Tweil 396 Fancy 398 The Broken Heart 399 Evenen Light 400 Vields by Watervalls 401 The Wheel Routs 402 Nanny's new Abode 403 Leaves a-vallen 404 Lizzie 405 Blessens a-left 406 Fall Time 407 Fall 408 The Zilver-weed 409 The Widow's House 409 The Child's Greaeve 410 Went vrom Hwome 412 The Fancy Feaeir 412 Things do Come Round 414 Zummer Thoughts in Winter Time 415 I'm out o' Door 416 Grief an' Gladness 417 Sliden 418 Lwonesomeness 420 A Snowy Night 421 The Year-clock 421 Not goo Hwome To-night 424 The Humstrum 426 Shaftesbury Feaeir 427 The Beaeten Path 429 Ruth a-riden 430 Beauty Undecked 432 My love is good 432 Heedless o' my love 434 The Do'set Militia 435 A Do'set Sale 437 Don't ceaere 437 Changes 439 Kindness 440 Withstanders 441 Daniel Dwithen 442 Turnen things off 444 The Giants in Treaedes 445 The Little Worold 447 Bad News 448 The Turnstile 449 The Better vor zeen o' you 450 Pity 451 John Bloom in Lon'on 453 A Lot o' Maidens 456 POEMS OF RURAL LIFE. FIRST COLLECTION. SPRING. THE SPRING. When wintry weather's all a-done, An' brooks do sparkle in the zun, An' naisy-builden rooks do vlee Wi' sticks toward their elem tree; When birds do zing, an' we can zee Upon the boughs the buds o' spring,-- Then I'm as happy as a king, A-vield wi' health an' zunsheen. Vor then the cowslip's hangen flow'r A-wetted in the zunny show'r, Do grow wi' vi'lets, sweet o' smell, Bezide the wood-screen'd graegle's bell; Where drushes' aggs, wi' sky-blue shell, Do lie in mossy nest among The thorns, while they do zing their zong At evenen in the zunsheen. An' God do meaeke his win' to blow An' rain to vall vor high an' low, An' bid his mornen zun to rise Vor all alike, an' groun' an' skies Ha' colors vor the poor man's eyes: An' in our trials He is near, To hear our mwoan an' zee our tear, An' turn our clouds to zunsheen. An' many times when I do vind Things all goo wrong, an' vo'k unkind, To zee the happy veeden herds, An' hear the zingen o' the birds, Do soothe my sorrow mwore than words; Vor I do zee that 'tis our sin Do meaeke woone's soul so dark 'ithin, When God would gi'e woone zunsheen. THE WOODLANDS. O spread ageaen your leaves an' flow'rs, Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands! Here underneath the dewy show'rs O' warm-air'd spring-time, zunny woodlands! As when, in drong or open ground, Wi' happy bwoyish heart I vound The twitt'ren birds a-builden round Your high-bough'd hedges, zunny woodlands. You gie'd me life, you gie'd me jay, Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands You gie'd me health, as in my play I rambled through ye, zunny woodlands! You gie'd me freedom, vor to rove In airy meaed or sheaedy grove; You gie'd me smilen Fanney's love, The best ov all o't, zunny woodlands! My vu'st shrill skylark whiver'd high, Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands! To zing below your deep-blue sky An' white spring-clouds, O zunny woodlands! An' boughs o' trees that woonce stood here, Wer glossy green the happy year That gie'd me woone I lov'd so dear, An' now ha' lost, O zunny woodlands! O let me rove ageaen unspied, Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands! Along your green-bough'd hedges' zide, As then I rambled, zunny woodlands! An' where the missen trees woonce stood, Or tongues woonce rung among the wood, My memory shall meaeke em good, Though you've a-lost em, zunny woodlands! LEADY-DAY, AN' RIDDEN HOUSE. Aye, back at Leaedy-Day, you know, I come vrom Gullybrook to Stowe; At Leaedy-Day I took my pack O' rottletraps, an' turn'd my back Upon the weather-beaeten door, That had a-screen'd, so long avore, The mwost that theaese zide o' the greaeve, I'd live to have, or die to seaeve! My childern, an' my vier-pleaece, Where Molly wi' her cheerful feaece, When I'd a-trod my wat'ry road Vrom night-bedarken'd vields abrode, Wi' nimble hands, at evenen, blest Wi' vire an' vood my hard-won rest; The while the little woones did clim', So sleek-skinn'd, up from lim' to lim', Till, strugglen hard an' clingen tight, They reach'd at last my feaece's height. All tryen which could soonest hold My mind wi' little teaeles they twold. An' ridden house is such a caddle, I shan't be over keen vor mwore [=o]'t, Not yet a while, you mid be sure [=o]'t,-- I'd rather keep to woone wold staddle. Well, zoo, avore the east begun To redden wi' the comen zun, We left the beds our mossy thatch Wer never mwore to overstratch, An' borrow'd uncle's wold hoss _Dragon_, To bring the slowly lumbren waggon, An' when he come, we vell a-packen The bedsteads, wi' their rwopes an' zacken; An' then put up the wold eaerm-chair, An' cwoffer vull ov e'then-ware, An' vier-dogs, an' copper kittle, Wi' crocks an' saucepans, big an' little; An' fryen-pan, vor aggs to slide In butter round his hissen zide, An' gridire's even bars, to bear The drippen steaeke above the gleaere O' brightly-glowen coals. An' then, All up o' top o' them ageaen The woaken bwoard, where we did eat Our croust o' bread or bit o' meat,-- An' when the bwoard wer up, we tied Upon the reaeves, along the zide, The woaeken stools, his glossy meaetes, Bwoth when he's beaere, or when the pleaetes Do clatter loud wi' knives, below Our merry feaeces in a row. An' put between his lags, turn'd up'ard, The zalt-box an' the corner cupb'ard. An' then we laid the wold clock-ceaese, All dumb, athirt upon his feaece, Vor we'd a-left, I needen tell ye, Noo works 'ithin his head or belly. An' then we put upon the pack The settle, flat upon his back; An' after that, a-tied in pairs In woone another, all the chairs, An' bits o' lumber wo'th a ride, An' at the very top a-tied, The childern's little stools did lie, Wi' lags a-turn'd toward the sky: Zoo there we lwoaded up our scroff, An' tied it vast, an' started off. An',--as the waggon cooden car all We had to teaeke,--the butter-barrel An' cheese-wring, wi' his twinen screw, An' all the pails an' veaets, an' blue Wold milk leads, and a vew things mwore, Wer all a-carr'd the day avore, And when the mwost ov our wold stuff Wer brought outside o' thik brown ruf, I rambled roun' wi' narrow looks, In fusty holes an' darksome nooks, To gather all I still mid vind, O' rags or sticks a-left behind. An' there the unlatch'd doors did creak, A-swung by winds, a-streamen weak Drough empty rooms, an' meaeken sad My heart, where me'th woonce meaede me glad. Vor when a man do leaeve the he'th An' ruf where vu'st he drew his breath, Or where he had his bwoyhood's fun, An' things wer woonce a-zaid an' done That took his mind, do touch his heart A little bit, I'll answer vor't. Zoo ridden house is such a caddle, That I would rather keep my staddle. EASTER ZUNDAY. Last Easter Jim put on his blue Frock cwoat, the vu'st time--vier new; Wi' yollow buttons all o' brass, That glitter'd in the zun lik' glass; An' pok'd 'ithin the button-hole A tutty he'd a-begg'd or stole. A span-new wes'co't, too, he wore, Wi' yollow stripes all down avore; An' tied his breeches' lags below The knee, wi' ribbon in a bow; An' drow'd his kitty-boots azide, An' put his laggens on, an' tied His shoes wi' strings two vingers wide, Because 'twer Easter Zunday. An' after mornen church wer out He come back hwome, an' stroll'd about All down the vields, an' drough the leaene, Wi' sister Kit an' cousin Jeaene, A-turnen proudly to their view His yollow breast an' back o' blue. The lambs did play, the grounds wer green, The trees did bud, the zun did sheen; The lark did zing below the sky, An' roads wer all a-blown so dry, As if the zummer wer begun; An' he had sich a bit o' fun! He meaede the maidens squeael an' run, Because 'twer Easter Zunday. EASTER MONDAY. An' zoo o' Monday we got drough Our work betimes, an ax'd a vew Young vo'k vrom Stowe an' Coom, an' zome Vrom uncle's down at Grange, to come. An' they so spry, wi' merry smiles, Did beaet the path an' leaep the stiles, Wi' two or dree young chaps bezide, To meet an' keep up Easter tide: Vor we'd a-zaid avore, we'd git Zome friends to come, an' have a bit O' fun wi' me, an' Jeaene, an' Kit, Because 'twer Easter Monday. An' there we play'd away at quaits, An' weigh'd ourzelves wi' sceaeles an' waights; An' jump'd to zee who jump'd the spryest, An' sprung the vurdest an' the highest; An' rung the bells vor vull an hour. An' play'd at vives ageaen the tower. An' then we went an' had a tait, An' cousin Sammy, wi' his waight, Broke off the bar, he wer so fat! An' toppled off, an' vell down flat Upon his head, an' squot his hat, Because 'twer Easter Monday. DOCK-LEAVES. The dock-leaves that do spread so wide Up yonder zunny bank's green zide, Do bring to mind what we did do At play wi' dock-leaves years agoo: How we,--when nettles had a-stung Our little hands, when we wer young,-- Did rub em wi' a dock, an' zing "_Out nettl', in dock. In dock, out sting._" An' when your feaece, in zummer's het, Did sheen wi' tricklen draps o' zweat, How you, a-zot bezide the bank, Didst toss your little head, an' pank, An' teaeke a dock-leaf in your han', An' whisk en lik' a leaedy's fan; While I did hunt, 'ithin your zight, Vor streaky cockle-shells to fight. In all our play-geaemes we did bruise The dock-leaves wi' our nimble shoes; Bwoth where we merry chaps did fling You maidens in the orcha'd swing, An' by the zaw-pit's dousty bank, Where we did tait upon a plank. --(D'ye mind how woonce, you cou'den zit The bwoard, an' vell off into pit?) An' when we hunted you about The grassy barken, in an' out Among the ricks, your vlee-en frocks An' nimble veet did strik' the docks. An' zoo they docks, a-spread so wide Up yonder zunny bank's green zide, Do bring to mind what we did do, Among the dock-leaves years agoo. THE BLACKBIRD. Ov all the birds upon the wing Between the zunny show'rs o' spring,-- Vor all the lark, a-swingen high, Mid zing below a cloudless sky. An' sparrows, clust'ren roun' the bough, Mid chatter to the men at plough,-- The blackbird, whisslen in among The boughs, do zing the gayest zong. Vor we do hear the blackbird zing His sweetest ditties in the spring, When nippen win's noo mwore do blow Vrom northern skies, wi' sleet or snow, But dr[=e]ve light doust along between The leaene-zide hedges, thick an' green; An' zoo the blackbird in among The boughs do zing the gayest zong. 'Tis blithe, wi' newly-open'd eyes, To zee the mornen's ruddy skies; Or, out a-haulen frith or lops Vrom new-pl[=e]sh'd hedge or new-vell'd copse, To rest at noon in primrwose beds Below the white-bark'd woak-trees' heads; But there's noo time, the whole daey long, Lik' evenen wi' the blackbird's zong. Vor when my work is all a-done Avore the zetten o' the zun, Then blushen Jeaene do walk along The hedge to meet me in the drong, An' stay till all is dim an' dark Bezides the ashen tree's white bark; An' all bezides the blackbird's shrill An' runnen evenen-whissle's still. An' there in bwoyhood I did rove Wi' pryen eyes along the drove To vind the nest the blackbird meaede O' grass-stalks in the high bough's sheaede: Or clim' aloft, wi' clingen knees, Vor crows' aggs up in swayen trees, While frighten'd blackbirds down below Did chatter o' their little foe. An' zoo there's noo pleaece lik' the drong, Where I do hear the blackbird's zong. WOODCOM' FEAST. Come, Fanny, come! put on thy white, 'Tis Woodcom' feaest, good now! to-night. Come! think noo mwore, you silly maid, O' chicken drown'd, or ducks a-stray'd; Nor mwope to vind thy new frock's tail A-tore by hitchen in a nail; Nor grieve an' hang thy head azide, A-thinken o' thy lam' that died. The flag's a-vleen wide an' high, An' ringen bells do sheaeke the sky; The fifes do play, the horns do roar, An' boughs be up at ev'ry door: They 'll be a-dancen soon,--the drum 'S a-rumblen now. Come, Fanny, come! Why father's gone, an' mother too. They went up leaene an hour agoo; An' at the green the young and wold Do stan' so thick as sheep in vwold: The men do laugh, the bwoys do shout,-- Come out you mwopen wench, come out, An' go wi' me, an' show at leaest Bright eyes an' smiles at Woodcom' feaest. Come, let's goo out, an' fling our heels About in jigs an' vow'r-han' reels; While aell the stiff-lagg'd wolder vo'k, A-zitten roun', do talk an' joke An' smile to zee their own wold rigs. A-show'd by our wild geaemes an' jigs. Vor ever since the vwold church speer Vu'st prick'd the clouds, vrom year to year, When grass in meaed did reach woone's knees, An' blooth did kern in apple-trees, Zome merry day 'v' a-broke to sheen Above the dance at Woodcom' green, An' all o' they that now do lie So low all roun' the speer so high, Woonce, vrom the biggest to the leaest, Had merry hearts at Woodcom' feaest. Zoo keep it up, an' gi'e it on To other vo'k when we be gone. Come otit; vor when the zetten zun Do leaeve in sheaede our harmless fun, The moon a-risen in the east Do gi'e us light at Woodcom' feaest. Come, Fanny, come! put on thy white, 'Tis merry Woodcom' feaest to night: There's nothen vor to mwope about,-- Come out, you leaezy jeaede, come out! An' thou wult be, to woone at leaest, The prettiest maid at Woodcom' feaest. THE MILK-MAID O' THE FARM. O Poll's the milk-maid o' the farm! An' Poll's so happy out in groun', Wi' her white pail below her eaerm As if she wore a goolden crown. An' Poll don't zit up half the night, Nor lie vor half the day a-bed; An' zoo her eyes be sparklen bright, An' zoo her cheaeks be bloomen red. In zummer mornens, when the lark Do rouse the litty lad an' lass To work, then she's the vu'st to mark Her steps along the dewy grass. An' in the evenen, when the zun Do sheen ageaen the western brows O' hills, where bubblen brooks do run, There she do zing bezide her cows. An' ev'ry cow of hers do stand, An' never overzet her pail; Nor try to kick her nimble hand, Nor switch her wi' her heavy tail. Noo leaedy, wi' her muff an' vail, Do walk wi' sich a steaetely tread As she do, wi' her milken pail A-balanc'd on her comely head. An' she, at mornen an' at night, Do skim the yollow cream, an' mwold An' wring her cheeses red an' white, An' zee the butter vetch'd an' roll'd. An' in the barken or the ground, The chaps do always do their best To milk the vu'st their own cows round, An' then help her to milk the rest. Zoo Poll's the milk-maid o' the farm! An' Poll's so happy out in groun', Wi' her white pail below her eaerm, As if she wore a goolden crown. THE GIRT WOAK TREE THAT'S IN THE DELL. The girt woak tree that's in the dell! There's noo tree I do love so well; Vor times an' times when I wer young, I there've a-climb'd, an' there've a-zwung, An' pick'd the eaecorns green, a-shed In wrestlen storms vrom his broad head. An' down below's the cloty brook Where I did vish with line an' hook, An' beaet, in playsome dips and zwims, The foamy stream, wi' white-skinn'd lim's. An' there my mother nimbly shot Her knitten-needles, as she zot At evenen down below the wide Woak's head, wi' father at her zide. An' I've a-played wi' many a bwoy, That's now a man an' gone awoy; Zoo I do like noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell. An' there, in leaeter years, I roved Wi' thik poor maid I fondly lov'd,-- The maid too feaeir to die so soon,-- When evenen twilight, or the moon, Cast light enough 'ithin the pleaece To show the smiles upon her feaece, Wi' eyes so clear's the glassy pool, An' lips an' cheaeks so soft as wool. There han' in han', wi' bosoms warm, Wi' love that burn'd but thought noo harm, Below the wide-bough'd tree we past The happy hours that went too vast; An' though she'll never be my wife, She's still my leaeden star o' life. She's gone: an' she've a-left to me Her mem'ry in the girt woak tree; Zoo I do love noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell An' oh! mid never ax nor hook Be brought to spweil his steaetely look; Nor ever roun' his ribby zides Mid cattle rub ther heaeiry hides; Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep His lwonesome sheaede vor harmless sheep; An' let en grow, an' let en spread, An' let en live when I be dead. But oh! if men should come an' vell The girt woak tree that's in the dell, An' build his planks 'ithin the zide O' zome girt ship to plough the tide, Then, life or death! I'd goo to sea, A sailen wi' the girt woak tree: An' I upon his planks would stand, An' die a-fighten vor the land,-- The land so dear,--the land so free,-- The land that bore the girt woak tree; Vor I do love noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell. VELLEN O' THE TREE. Aye, the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun' Wer a-stannen this mornen, an' now's a-cut down. Aye, the girt elem tree, so big roun' an' so high, Where the mowers did goo to their drink, an' did lie In the sheaede ov his head, when the zun at his heighth Had a-drove em vrom mowen, wi' het an' wi' drith, Where the hay-meaekers put all their picks an' their reaekes, An' did squot down to snabble their cheese an' their ceaekes, An' did vill vrom their flaggons their cups wi' their eaele, An' did meaeke theirzelves merry wi' joke an' wi' teaele. Ees, we took up a rwope an' we tied en all round At the top o'n, wi' woone end a-hangen to ground, An' we cut, near the ground, his girt stem a'most drough, An' we bent the wold head o'n wi' woone tug or two; An' he sway'd all his limbs, an' he nodded his head, Till he vell away down like a pillar o' lead: An' as we did run vrom en, there; clwose at our backs, Oh! his boughs come to groun' wi' sich whizzes an' cracks; An' his top wer so lofty that, now he is down, The stem o'n do reach a-most over the groun'. Zoo the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun' Wer a-stannen this mornen, an' now's a-cut down. BRINGEN WOONE GWAIN[A] O' ZUNDAYS. Ah! John! how I do love to look At theaese green hollor, an' the brook Among the withies that do hide The stream, a-growen at the zide; An' at the road athirt the wide An' shallow vword, where we young bwoys Did peaert, when we did goo half-woys, To bring ye gwain o' Zundays. Vor after church, when we got hwome, In evenen you did always come To spend a happy hour or two Wi' us, or we did goo to you; An' never let the comers goo Back hwome alwone, but always took A stroll down wi' em to the brook To bring em gwain o' Zundays. How we did scote all down the groun', A-pushen woone another down! Or challengen o' zides in jumps Down over bars, an' vuzz, an' humps; An' peaert at last wi' slaps an' thumps, An' run back up the hill to zee Who'd get hwome soonest, you or we. That brought ye gwain o' Zundays. O' leaeter years, John, you've a-stood My friend, an' I've a-done you good; But tidden, John, vor all that you Be now, that I do like ye zoo, But what you wer vor years agoo: Zoo if you'd stir my heart-blood now. Tell how we used to play, an' how You brought us gwain o' Zundays. [Footnote A: "To bring woone gwain,"--to bring one going; to bring one on his way.] EVENEN TWILIGHT. Ah! they vew zummers brought us round The happiest days that we've a-vound, When in the orcha'd, that did stratch To westward out avore the patch Ov high-bough'd wood, an' shelve to catch The western zun-light, we did meet Wi' merry tongues an' skippen veet At evenen in the twilight. The evenen air did fan, in turn, The cheaeks the midday zun did burn. An' zet the russlen leaves at play, An' meaeke the red-stemm'd brembles sway In bows below the snow-white may; An' whirlen roun' the trees, did sheaeke Jeaene's raven curls about her neck, They evenens in the twilight. An' there the yollow light did rest Upon the bank toward the west, An' twitt'ren birds did hop in drough The hedge, an' many a skippen shoe Did beaet the flowers, wet wi' dew, As underneaeth the tree's wide limb Our merry sheaepes did jumpy, dim, They evenens in the twilight. How sweet's the evenen dusk to rove Along wi' woone that we do love! When light enough is in the sky To sheaede the smile an' light the eye 'Tis all but heaven to be by; An' bid, in whispers soft an' light 'S the ruslen ov a leaf, "Good night," At evenen in the twilight. An' happy be the young an' strong, That can but work the whole day long So merry as the birds in spring; An' have noo ho vor any thing Another day mid teaeke or bring; But meet, when all their work's a-done, In orcha'd vor their bit o' fun At evenen in the twilight. EVENEN IN THE VILLAGE. Now the light o' the west is a-turn'd to gloom, An' the men be at hwome vrom ground; An' the bells be a-zenden all down the Coombe From tower, their mwoansome sound. An' the wind is still, An' the house-dogs do bark, An' the rooks be a-vled to the elems high an' dark, An' the water do roar at mill. An' the flickeren light drough the window-peaene Vrom the candle's dull fleaeme do shoot, An' young Jemmy the smith is a-gone down leaene, A-playen his shrill-vaiced flute. An' the miller's man Do zit down at his ease On the seat that is under the cluster o' trees. Wi' his pipe an' his cider can. MAY. Come out o' door, 'tis Spring! 'tis May The trees be green, the vields be gay; The weather's warm, the winter blast, Wi' all his train o' clouds, is past; The zun do rise while vo'k do sleep, To teaeke a higher daily zweep, Wi' cloudless feaece a-flingen down His sparklen light upon the groun'. The air's a-streamen soft,--come drow The windor open; let it blow In drough the house, where vire, an' door A-shut, kept out the cwold avore. Come, let the vew dull embers die, An' come below the open sky; An' wear your best, vor fear the groun' In colours gay mid sheaeme your gown: An' goo an' rig wi' me a mile Or two up over geaete an' stile, Drough zunny parrocks that do leaed, Wi' crooked hedges, to the meaed, Where elems high, in steaetely ranks, Do rise vrom yollow cowslip-banks, An' birds do twitter vrom the spray O' bushes deck'd wi' snow-white may; An' gil'cups, wi' the deaeisy bed, Be under ev'ry step you tread. We'll wind up roun' the hill, an' look All down the thickly-timber'd nook, Out where the squier's house do show His grey-wall'd peaks up drough the row O' sheaedy elems, where the rook Do build her nest; an' where the brook Do creep along the meaeds, an' lie To catch the brightness o' the sky; An' cows, in water to their knees, Do stan' a-whisken off the vlees. Mother o' blossoms, and ov all That's feaeir a-yield vrom Spring till Fall, The gookoo over white-weaev'd seas Do come to zing in thy green trees, An' buttervlees, in giddy flight, Do gleaem the mwost by thy gay light Oh! when, at last, my fleshly eyes Shall shut upon the vields an' skies, Mid zummer's zunny days be gone, An' winter's clouds be comen on: Nor mid I draw upon the e'th, O' thy sweet air my leaetest breath; Alassen I mid want to stay Behine' for thee, O flow'ry May! BOB THE FIDDLER. Oh! Bob the fiddler is the pride O' chaps an' maidens vur an' wide; They can't keep up a merry tide, But Bob is in the middle. If merry Bob do come avore ye, He'll zing a zong, or tell a story; But if you'd zee en in his glory, Jist let en have a fiddle. Aye, let en tuck a crowd below His chin, an' gi'e his vist a bow, He'll dreve his elbow to an' fro', An' play what you do please. At Maypolen, or feaest, or feaeir, His eaerm wull zet off twenty peaeir, An' meaeke em dance the groun' dirt-beaere, An' hop about lik' vlees. Long life to Bob! the very soul O' me'th at merry feaest an' pole; Vor when the crowd do leaeve his jowl, They'll all be in the dumps. Zoo at the dance another year, At _Shillinston_ or _Hazelbur'_, Mid Bob be there to meaeke em stir, In merry jigs, their stumps! HOPE IN SPRING. In happy times a while agoo, My lively hope, that's now a-gone Did stir my heart the whole year drough, But mwost when green-bough'd spring come on; When I did rove, wi' litty veet, Drough deaeisy-beds so white's a sheet, But still avore I us'd to meet The blushen cheaeks that bloom'd vor me! An' afterward, in lightsome youth, When zummer wer a-comen on, An' all the trees wer white wi' blooth, An' dippen zwallows skimm'd the pon'; Sweet hope did vill my heart wi' jay, An' tell me, though thik spring wer gay, There still would come a brighter May, Wi' blushen cheaeks to bloom vor me! An' when, at last, the time come roun', An' brought a lofty zun to sheen Upon my smilen Fanny, down Drough n[=e]sh young leaves o' yollow green; How charmen wer the het that glow'd, How charmen wer the sheaede a-drow'd, How charmen wer the win' that blow'd Upon her cheaeks that bloom'd vor me! But hardly did they times begin, Avore I vound em short to stay: An' year by year do now come in, To peaert me wider vrom my jay, Vor what's to meet, or what's to peaert, Wi' maidens kind, or maidens smart, When hope's noo longer in the heart, An' cheaeks noo mwore do bloom vor me! But there's a worold still to bless The good, where zickness never rose; An' there's a year that's winterless, Where glassy waters never vroze; An' there, if true but e'thly love Do seem noo sin to God above, 'S a smilen still my harmless dove, So feaeir as when she bloom'd vor me! THE WHITE ROAD UP ATHIRT THE HILL. When hot-beam'd zuns do strik right down, An' burn our zweaty feaezen brown; An' zunny slopes, a-lyen nigh, Be back'd by hills so blue's the sky; Then, while the bells do sweetly cheem Upon the champen high-neck'd team, How lively, wi' a friend, do seem The white road up athirt the hill. The zwellen downs, wi' chalky tracks A-climmen up their zunny backs, Do hide green meaeds an' zedgy brooks. An' clumps o' trees wi' glossy rooks, An' hearty vo'k to laugh an' zing, An' parish-churches in a string, Wi' tow'rs o' merry bells to ring, An' white roads up athirt the hills. At feaest, when uncle's vo'k do come To spend the day wi' us at hwome, An' we do lay upon the bwoard The very best we can avvword, The wolder woones do talk an' smoke, An' younger woones do play an' joke, An' in the evenen all our vo'k Do bring em gwain athirt the hill. An' while the green do zwarm wi' wold An' young, so thick as sheep in vwold, The bellows in the blacksmith's shop, An' miller's moss-green wheel do stop, An' lwonesome in the wheelwright's shed 'S a-left the wheelless waggon-bed; While zwarms o' comen friends do tread The white road down athirt the hill. An' when the winden road so white, A-climmen up the hills in zight, Do leaed to pleaezen, east or west, The vu'st a-known, an' lov'd the best, How touchen in the zunsheen's glow, Or in the sheaedes that clouds do drow Upon the zunburnt downs below, 'S the white road up athirt the hill. What peaceful hollows here the long White roads do windy round among! Wi' deaeiry cows in woody nooks, An' haymeaekers among their pooks, An' housen that the trees do screen From zun an' zight by boughs o' green! Young blushen beauty's hwomes between The white roads up athirt the hills. THE WOODY HOLLOW. If mem'ry, when our hope's a-gone, Could bring us dreams to cheat us on, Ov happiness our hearts voun' true In years we come too quickly drough; What days should come to me, but you, That burn'd my youthvul cheaeks wi' zuns O' zummer, in my playsome runs About the woody hollow. When evenen's risen moon did peep Down drough the hollow dark an' deep, Where gigglen sweethearts meaede their vows In whispers under waggen boughs; When whisslen bwoys, an' rott'len ploughs Wer still, an' mothers, wi' their thin Shrill vaices, call'd their daughters in, From walken in the hollow; What souls should come avore my zight, But they that had your zummer light? The litsome younger woones that smil'd Wi' comely feaezen now a-spweil'd; Or wolder vo'k, so wise an' mild, That I do miss when I do goo To zee the pleaece, an' walk down drough The lwonesome woody hollow? When wrongs an' overbearen words Do prick my bleeden heart lik' swords, Then I do try, vor Christes seaeke, To think o' you, sweet days! an' meaeke My soul as 'twer when you did weaeke My childhood's eyes, an' when, if spite Or grief did come, did die at night In sleep 'ithin the hollow. JENNY'S RIBBONS. Jean ax'd what ribbon she should wear 'Ithin her bonnet to the feaeir? She had woone white, a-gi'ed her when She stood at Meaery's chrissenen; She had woone brown, she had woone red, A keepseaeke vrom her brother dead, That she did like to wear, to goo To zee his greaeve below the yew. She had woone green among her stock, That I'd a-bought to match her frock; She had woone blue to match her eyes, The colour o' the zummer skies, An' thik, though I do like the rest, Is he that I do like the best, Because she had en in her heaeir When vu'st I walk'd wi' her at feaeir. The brown, I zaid, would do to deck Thy heaeir; the white would match thy neck; The red would meaeke thy red cheaek wan A-thinken o' the gi'er gone; The green would show thee to be true; But still I'd sooner zee the blue, Because 'twer he that deck'd thy heaeir When vu'st I walk'd wi' thee at feaeir. Zoo, when she had en on, I took Her han' 'ithin my elbow's crook, An' off we went athirt the weir An' up the meaed toward the feaeir; The while her mother, at the geaete, Call'd out an' bid her not stay leaete, An' she, a-smilen wi' her bow O' blue, look'd roun' and nodded, _No_. [Gothic: Eclogue.] THE 'LOTMENTS. _John and Richard._ JOHN. Zoo you be in your groun' then, I do zee, A-worken and a-zingen lik' a bee. How do it answer? what d'ye think about it? D'ye think 'tis better wi' it than without it? A-recknen rent, an' time, an' zeed to stock it, D'ye think that you be any thing in pocket? RICHARD. O', 'tis a goodish help to woone, I'm sure o't. If I had not a-got it, my poor bwones Would now ha' eaech'd a-cracken stwones Upon the road; I wish I had zome mwore o't. JOHN. I wish the girt woones had a-got the greaece To let out land lik' this in ouer pleaece; But I do fear there'll never be nwone vor us, An' I can't tell whatever we shall do: We be a-most starven, an' we'd goo To 'merica, if we'd enough to car us. RICHARD. Why 'twer the squire, good now! a worthy man, That vu'st brought into ouer pleaece the plan, He zaid he'd let a vew odd eaecres O' land to us poor leaeb'ren men; An', faith, he had enough o' teaekers Vor that, an' twice so much ageaen. Zoo I took zome here, near my hovel, To exercise my speaede an' shovel; An' what wi' dungen, diggen up, an' zeeden, A-thinnen, cleaenen, howen up an' weeden, I, an' the biggest o' the childern too, Do always vind some useful jobs to do. JOHN. Aye, wi' a bit o' ground, if woone got any, Woone's bwoys can soon get out an' eaern a penny; An' then, by worken, they do learn the vaster The way to do things when they have a meaester; Vor woone must know a deael about the land Bevore woone's fit to lend a useful hand, In geaerden or a-vield upon a farm. RICHARD. An' then the work do keep em out o' harm; Vor vo'ks that don't do nothen wull be vound Soon doen woorse than nothen, I'll be bound. But as vor me, d'ye zee, with theaese here bit O' land, why I have ev'ry thing a'mwost: Vor I can fatten vowels for the spit, Or zell a good fat goose or two to rwoast; An' have my beaens or cabbage, greens or grass, Or bit o' wheat, or, sich my happy feaete is, That I can keep a little cow, or ass, An' a vew pigs to eat the little teaeties. JOHN. An' when your pig's a-fatted pretty well Wi' teaeties, or wi' barley an' some bran, Why you've a-got zome vlitches vor to zell, Or hang in chimney-corner, if you can. RICHARD. Aye, that's the thing; an' when the pig do die, We got a lot ov offal for to fry, An' netlens for to bwoil; or put the blood in, An' meaeke a meal or two o' good black-pudden. JOHN. I'd keep myzelf from parish, I'd be bound, If I could get a little patch o' ground. [Gothic: Eclogue.] A BIT O' SLY COORTEN. _John and Fanny._ JOHN. Now, Fanny, 'tis too bad, you teazen maid! How leaete you be a' come! Where have ye stay'd? How long you have a-meaede me wait about! I thought you werden gwain to come ageaen: I had a mind to goo back hwome ageaen. This idden when you promis'd to come out. FANNY. Now 'tidden any good to meaeke a row, Upon my word, I cooden come till now. Vor I've a-been kept in all day by mother, At work about woone little job an' t'other. If you do want to goo, though, don't ye stay Vor me a minute longer, I do pray. JOHN. I thought you mid be out wi' Jemmy Bleaeke, FANNY. An' why be out wi' him, vor goodness' seaeke? JOHN. You walk'd o' Zunday evenen wi'n, d'ye know, You went vrom church a-hitch'd up in his eaerm. FANNY. Well, if I did, that werden any harm. Lauk! that _is_ zome'at to teaeke notice o'_. JOHN. He took ye roun' the middle at the stile, An' kiss'd ye twice 'ithin the ha'f a mile. FANNY. Ees, at the stile, because I shoulden vall, He took me hold to help me down, that's all; An' I can't zee what very mighty harm He could ha' done a-lenden me his eaerm. An' as vor kissen o' me, if he did, I didden ax en to, nor zay he mid: An' if he kiss'd me dree times, or a dozen, What harm wer it? Why idden he my cousin? An' I can't zee, then, what there is amiss In cousin Jem's jist gi'en me a kiss. JOHN. Well, he shan't kiss ye, then; you shan't be kiss'd By his girt ugly chops, a lanky houn'! If I do zee'n, I'll jist wring up my vist An' knock en down. I'll squot his girt pug-nose, if I don't miss en; I'll warn I'll spweil his pretty lips vor kissen! FANNY. Well, John, I'm sure I little thought to vind That you had ever sich a jealous mind. What then! I s'pose that I must be a dummy, An' mussen goo about nor wag my tongue To any soul, if he's a man, an' young; Or else you'll work yourzelf up mad wi' passion, An' talk away o' gi'en vo'k a drashen, An' breaken bwones, an' beaeten heads to pummy! If you've a-got sich jealous ways about ye, I'm sure I should be better off 'ithout ye. JOHN. Well, if girt Jemmy have a-won your heart, We'd better break the coortship off, an' peaert. FANNY. He won my heart! There, John, don't talk sich stuff; Don't talk noo mwore, vor you've a-zaid enough. If I'd a-lik'd another mwore than you, I'm sure I shoulden come to meet ye zoo; Vor I've a-twold to father many a storry, An' took o' mother many a scwolden vor ye. [_weeping._] But 'twull be over now, vor you shan't zee me Out wi' ye noo mwore, to pick a quarrel wi' me. JOHN. Well, Fanny, I woon't zay noo mwore, my dear. Let's meaeke it up. Come, wipe off thik there tear. Let's goo an' zit o' top o' theaese here stile, An' rest, an' look about a little while. FANNY. Now goo away, you crabbed jealous chap! You shan't kiss me,--you shan't! I'll gi' ye a slap. JOHN. Then you look smilen; don't you pout an' toss Your head so much, an' look so very cross. FANNY. Now, John! don't squeeze me roun' the middle zoo. I woon't stop here noo longer, if you do. Why, John! be quiet, wull ye? Fie upon it! Now zee how you've a-wrumpl'd up my bonnet! Mother'ill zee it after I'm at hwome, An' gi'e a guess directly how it come. JOHN. Then don't you zay that I be jealous, Fanny. FANNY. I wull: vor you _be_ jealous, Mister Jahnny. There's zomebody a-comen down the groun' Towards the stile. Who is it? Come, get down I must run hwome, upon my word then, now; If I do stay, they'll kick up sich a row. Good night. I can't stay now. JOHN. Then good night, Fanny! Come out a-bit to-morrow evenen, can ye? SUMMER. EVENEN, AN' MAIDENS OUT AT DOOR. Now the sheaedes o' the elems do stratch mwore an' mwore, Vrom the low-zinken zun in the west o' the sky; An' the maidens do stand out in clusters avore The doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by. An' their cwombs be a-zet in their bunches o' heaeir, An' their currels do hang roun' their necks lily-white, An' their cheaeks they be rwosy, their shoulders be beaere, Their looks they be merry, their limbs they be light. An' the times have a-been--but they cant be noo mwore-- When I had my jay under evenen's dim sky, When my Fanny did stan' out wi' others avore Her door, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by. An' up there, in the green, is her own honey-zuck, That her brother train'd up roun' her window; an' there Is the rwose an' the jessamy, where she did pluck A flow'r vor her bosom or bud vor her heaeir. An' zoo smile, happy maidens! vor every feaece, As the zummers do come, an' the years do roll by, Will soon sadden, or goo vur away vrom the pleaece, Or else, lik' my Fanny, will wither an' die. But when you be a-lost vrom the parish, zome mwore Will come on in your pleaezen to bloom an' to die; An' the zummer will always have maidens avore Their doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by. Vor daughters ha' mornen when mothers ha' night, An' there's beauty alive when the feaeirest is dead; As when woone sparklen weaeve do zink down vrom the light, Another do come up an' catch it instead. Zoo smile on, happy maidens! but I shall noo mwore Zee the maid I do miss under evenen's dim sky; An' my heart is a-touch'd to zee you out avore The doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by. THE SHEPHERD O' THE FARM. Oh! I be shepherd o' the farm, Wi' tinklen bells an' sheep-dog's bark, An' wi' my crook a-thirt my eaerm, Here I do rove below the lark. An' I do bide all day among The bleaeten sheep, an' pitch their vwold; An' when the evenen sheaedes be long, Do zee em all a-penn'd an' twold. An' I do zee the frisken lam's, Wi' swingen tails an' woolly lags, A-playen roun' their veeden dams An' pullen o' their milky bags. An' I bezide a hawthorn tree, Do' zit upon the zunny down, While sheaedes o' zummer clouds do vlee Wi' silent flight along the groun'. An' there, among the many cries O' sheep an' lambs, my dog do pass A zultry hour, wi' blinken eyes, An' nose a-stratch'd upon the grass; But, in a twinklen, at my word, He's all awake, an' up, an' gone Out roun' the sheep lik' any bird, To do what he's a-zent upon. An' I do goo to washen pool, A-sousen over head an' ears, The shaggy sheep, to cleaen their wool An' meaeke em ready vor the sheaers. An' when the shearen time do come, Then we do work vrom dawn till dark; Where zome do shear the sheep, and zome Do mark their zides wi' meaesters mark. An' when the shearen's all a-done, Then we do eat, an' drink, an' zing, In meaester's kitchen till the tun Wi' merry sounds do sheaeke an' ring. Oh! I be shepherd o' the farm, Wi' tinklen bells an' sheep dog's bark, An' wi' my crook a-thirt my eaerm, Here I do rove below the lark. VIELDS IN THE LIGHT. Woone's heart mid leaep wi' thoughts o' jay In comen manhood light an' gay When we do teaeke the worold on Vrom our vore-elders dead an' gone; But days so feaeir in hope's bright eyes Do often come wi' zunless skies: Woone's fancy can but be out-done, Where trees do sway an' brooks do run, By risen moon or zetten zun. Vor when at evenen I do look All down theaese hangen on the brook, Wi' weaeves a-leaepen clear an' bright, Where boughs do sway in yollow light; Noo hills nor hollows, woods nor streams, A-voun' by day or zeed in dreams, Can ever seem so fit to be Good angel's hwomes, though they do gi'e But pain an' tweil to such as we. An' when by moonlight darksome sheaedes Do lie in grass wi' dewy bleaedes, An' worold-hushen night do keep The proud an' angry vast asleep, When I can think, as I do rove, Ov only souls that I do love; Then who can dream a dream to show, Or who can think o' moons to drow, A sweeter light to rove below? WHITSUNTIDE AN' CLUB WALKEN. Ees, last Whit-Monday, I an' Meaery Got up betimes to mind the deaeiry; An' gi'ed the milken pails a scrub, An' dress'd, an' went to zee the club. Vor up at public-house, by ten O'clock the pleaece wer vull o' men, A-dress'd to goo to church, an' dine, An' walk about the pleaece in line. Zoo off they started, two an' two, Wi' painted poles an' knots o' blue, An' girt silk flags,--I wish my box 'D a-got em all in ceaepes an' frocks,-- A-weaeven wide an' flappen loud In playsome winds above the crowd; While fifes did squeak an' drums did rumble, An' deep beaezzoons did grunt an' grumble, An' all the vo'k in gath'ren crowds Kick'd up the doust in smeechy clouds, That slowly rose an' spread abrode In streamen air above the road. An' then at church there wer sich lots O' hats a-hangen up wi' knots, An' poles a-stood so thick as iver, The rushes stood beside a river. An' Mr Goodman gi'ed em warnen To spend their evenen lik' their mornen; An' not to pray wi' mornen tongues, An' then to zwear wi' evenen lungs: Nor vu'st sheaeke hands, to let the wrist Lift up at last a bruisen vist: Vor clubs were all a-meaen'd vor friends, He twold em, an' vor better ends Than twiten vo'k an' picken quarrels, An' tipplen cups an' empten barrels,-- Vor meaeken woone man do another In need the kindness ov a brother. An' after church they went to dine 'Ithin the long-wall'd room behine The public-house, where you remember, We had our dance back last December. An' there they meaede sich stunnen clatters Wi' knives an' forks, an' pleaetes an' platters; An' waiters ran, an' beer did pass Vrom tap to jug, vrom jug to glass: An' when they took away the dishes, They drink'd good healths, an' wish'd good wishes, To all the girt vo'k o' the land, An' all good things vo'k took in hand; An' woone cried _hip, hip, hip!_ an' hollow'd, An' tothers all struck in, an' vollow'd; An' grabb'd their drink wi' eager clutches, An' swigg'd it wi' sich hearty glutches, As vo'k, stark mad wi' pweison stuff, That thought theirzelves not mad enough. An' after that they went all out In rank ageaen, an' walk'd about, An' gi'ed zome parish vo'k a call; An', then went down to Narley Hall An' had zome beer, an' danc'd between The elem trees upon the green. An' down along the road they done All sorts o' mad-cap things vor fun; An' danc'd, a-poken out their poles, An' pushen bwoys down into holes: An' Sammy Stubbs come out o' rank, An' kiss'd me up ageaen the bank, A saucy chap; I ha'nt vor'gied en Not yet,--in short, I han't a-zeed en. Zoo in the dusk ov evenen, zome Went back to drink, an' zome went hwome. WOODLEY. Sweet Woodley! oh! how fresh an' gay Thy leaenes an' vields be now in May, The while the broad-leav'd clotes do zwim In brooks wi' gil'cups at the brim; An' yollow cowslip-beds do grow By thorns in blooth so white as snow; An' win' do come vrom copse wi' smells O' graegles wi' their hangen bells! Though time do dreve me on, my mind Do turn in love to thee behind, The seaeme's a bulrush that's a-shook By wind a-blowen up the brook: The curlen stream would dreve en down, But playsome air do turn en roun', An' meaeke en seem to bend wi' love To zunny hollows up above. Thy tower still do overlook The woody knaps an' winden brook, An' leaene's wi' here an' there a hatch, An' house wi' elem-sheaeded thatch, An' vields where chaps do vur outdo The Zunday sky, wi' cwoats o' blue; An' maidens' frocks do vur surpass The whitest deaesies in the grass. What peals to-day from thy wold tow'r Do strike upon the zummer flow'r, As all the club, wi' dousty lags, Do walk wi' poles an' flappen flags, An' wind, to music, roun' between A zwarm o' vo'k upon the green! Though time do dreve me on, my mind Do turn wi' love to thee behind. THE BROOK THAT RAN BY GRAMFER'S. When snow-white clouds wer thin an' vew Avore the zummer sky o' blue, An' I'd noo ho but how to vind Zome play to entertain my mind; Along the water, as did wind Wi' zedgy shoal an' hollow crook, How I did ramble by the brook That ran all down vrom gramfer's. A-holden out my line beyond The clote-leaves, wi' my withy wand, How I did watch, wi' eager look, My zwimmen cork, a-zunk or shook By minnows nibblen at my hook, A-thinken I should catch a breaece O' perch, or at the leaest some deaece, A-zwimmen down vrom gramfer's. Then ten good deaeries wer a-ved Along that water's winden bed, An' in the lewth o' hills an' wood A half a score farm-housen stood: But now,--count all o'm how you would, So many less do hold the land,-- You'd vind but vive that still do stand, A-comen down vrom gramfer's. There, in the midst ov all his land, The squier's ten-tunn'd house did stand, Where he did meaeke the water clim' A bank, an' sparkle under dim Bridge arches, villen to the brim His pon', an' leaepen, white as snow, Vrom rocks a-glitt'ren in a bow, An' runnen down to gramfer's. An' now woone wing is all you'd vind O' thik girt house a-left behind; An' only woone wold stwonen tun 'S a-stannen to the rain an' zun,-- An' all's undone that he'd a-done; The brook ha' now noo call to stay To vill his pon' or clim' his bay, A-runnen down to gramfer's. When woonce, in heavy rain, the road At Grenley bridge wer overflow'd, Poor Sophy White, the pleaeces pride, A-gwain vrom market, went to ride Her pony droo to tother zide; But vound the stream so deep an' strong, That took her off the road along The hollow down to gramfer's. 'Twer dark, an' she went on too vast To catch hold any thing she pass'd; Noo bough hung over to her hand, An' she could reach noo stwone nor land, Where woonce her little voot could stand; Noo ears wer out to hear her cries, Nor wer she woonce a-zeen by eyes, Till took up dead at gramfer's. SLEEP DID COME WI' THE DEW. O when our zun's a-zinken low, How soft's the light his feaece do drow Upon the backward road our mind Do turn an' zee a-left behind; When we, in childhood's days did vind Our jay among the gil'cup flow'rs, All drough the zummer's zunny hours; An' sleep did come wi' the dew. An' afterwards, when we did zweat A tweilen in the zummer het, An' when our daily work wer done Did meet to have our evenen fun: Till up above the zetten zun The sky wer blushen in the west, An' we laid down in peace to rest, An' sleep did come wi' the dew. Ah! zome do turn--but tidden right-- The night to day, an' day to night; But we do zee the vu'st red streak O' mornen, when the day do break; Zoo we don't grow up peaele an' weak, But we do work wi' health an' strength, Vrom mornen drough the whole day's length, An' sleep do come wi' the dew. An' when, at last, our e'thly light Is jist a-drawen in to night, We mid be sure that God above, If we be true when he do prove Our stedvast faith an' thankvul love, Wull do vor us what mid be best, An' teaeke us into endless rest, As sleep do come wi' the dew. SWEET MUSIC IN THE WIND. When evenen is a-drawen in, I'll steal vrom others' naisy din; An' where the whirlen brook do roll Below the walnut-tree, I'll stroll An' think o' thee wi' all my soul, Dear Jenny; while the sound o' bells Do vlee along wi' mwoansome zwells, Sweet music in the wind! I'll think how in the rushy leaeze O' zunny evenens jis' lik' theaese, In happy times I us'd to zee Thy comely sheaepe about the tree, Wi' pail a-held avore thy knee; An' lissen'd to thy merry zong That at a distance come along, Sweet music in the wind! An' when wi' me you walk'd about O' Zundays, after church wer out. Wi' hangen eaerm an' modest look; Or zitten in some woody nook We lissen'd to the leaves that shook Upon the poplars straight an' tall, Or rottle o' the watervall, Sweet music in the wind! An' when the playvul air do vlee, O' moonlight nights, vrom tree to tree, Or whirl upon the sheaeken grass, Or rottle at my window glass: Do seem,--as I do hear it pass,-- As if thy vaice did come to tell Me where thy happy soul do dwell, Sweet music in the wind! UNCLE AN' AUNT. How happy uncle us'd to be O' zummer time, when aunt an' he O' Zunday evenens, eaerm in eaerm, Did walk about their tiny farm, While birds did zing an' gnats did zwarm, Drough grass a'most above their knees, An' roun' by hedges an' by trees Wi' leafy boughs a-swayen. His hat wer broad, his cwoat wer brown, Wi' two long flaps a-hangen down; An' vrom his knee went down a blue Knit stocken to his buckled shoe; An' aunt did pull her gown-tail drough Her pocket-hole, to keep en neat, As she mid walk, or teaeke a seat By leafy boughs a-zwayen. An' vu'st they'd goo to zee their lots O' pot-eaerbs in the geaerden plots; An' he, i'-may-be, by the hatch, Would zee aunt's vowls upon a patch O' zeeds, an' vow if he could catch Em wi' his gun, they shoudden vlee Noo mwore into their roosten tree, Wi' leafy boughs a-swayen. An' then vrom geaerden they did pass Drough orcha'd out to zee the grass, An' if the apple-blooth, so white, Mid be at all a-touch'd wi' blight; An' uncle, happy at the zight, Did guess what cider there mid be In all the orcha'd, tree wi' tree, Wi' tutties all a-swayen. An' then they stump'd along vrom there A-vield, to zee the cows an' meaere; An' she, when uncle come in zight, Look'd up, an' prick'd her ears upright, An' whicker'd out wi' all her might; An' he, a-chucklen, went to zee The cows below the sheaedy tree, Wi' leafy boughs a-swayen. An' last ov all, they went to know How vast the grass in meaed did grow An' then aunt zaid 'twer time to goo In hwome,--a-holden up her shoe, To show how wet he wer wi' dew. An' zoo they toddled hwome to rest, Lik' doves a-vleen to their nest In leafy boughs a-swayen. HAVEN WOONES FORTUNE A-TWOLD. In leaene the gipsies, as we went A-milken, had a-pitch'd their tent, Between the gravel-pit an' clump O' trees, upon the little hump: An' while upon the grassy groun' Their smoken vire did crack an' bleaeze, Their shaggy-cwoated hoss did greaeze Among the bushes vurder down. An' zoo, when we brought back our pails, The woman met us at the rails, An' zaid she'd tell us, if we'd show Our han's, what we should like to know. Zoo Poll zaid she'd a mind to try Her skill a bit, if I would vu'st; Though, to be sure, she didden trust To gipsies any mwore than I. Well; I agreed, an' off all dree O's went behind an elem tree, An' after she'd a-zeed 'ithin My han' the wrinkles o' the skin, She twold me--an' she must a-know'd That Dicky met me in the leaene,-- That I'd a-walk'd, an' should ageaen, Wi' zomebody along thik road. An' then she twold me to bewar O' what the letter _M_ stood vor. An' as I walk'd, o' _M_onday night, Drough _M_eaed wi' Dicky overright The _M_ill, the _M_iller, at the stile, Did stan' an' watch us teaeke our stroll, An' then, a blabben dousty-poll! Twold _M_other o't. Well wo'th his while! An' Poll too wer a-bid bewar O' what the letter _F_ stood vor; An' then, because she took, at _F_eaeir, A bosom-pin o' Jimmy Heaere, Young _F_ranky beaet en black an' blue. 'Tis _F_ vor _F_eaeir; an' 'twer about A _F_earen _F_rank an' Jimmy foueght, Zoo I do think she twold us true. In short, she twold us all about What had a-vell, or would vall out; An' whether we should spend our lives As maidens, or as wedded wives; But when we went to bundle on, The gipsies' dog were at the rails A-lappen milk vrom ouer pails,-- A pretty deael o' Poll's wer gone. JEANE'S WEDDEN DAY IN MORNEN. At last Jeaene come down stairs, a-drest Wi' wedden knots upon her breast, A-blushen, while a tear did lie Upon her burnen cheaek half dry; An' then her Robert, drawen nigh Wi' tothers, took her han' wi' pride, To meaeke her at the church his bride, Her wedden day in mornen. Wi' litty voot an' beaeten heart She stepp'd up in the new light cart, An' took her bridemaid up to ride Along wi' Robert at her zide: An' uncle's meaere look'd roun' wi' pride To zee that, if the cart wer vull, 'Twer Jenny that he had to pull, Her wedden day in mornen. An' aunt an' uncle stood stock-still, An' watch'd em trotten down the hill; An' when they turn'd off out o' groun' Down into leaene, two tears run down Aunt's feaece; an' uncle, turnen roun', Sigh'd woonce, an' stump'd off wi' his stick, Because did touch en to the quick To peaert wi' Jeaene thik mornen. "Now Jeaene's agone," Tom mutter'd, "we Shall mwope lik' owls 'ithin a tree; Vor she did zet us all agog Vor fun, avore the burnen log." An' as he zot an' talk'd, the dog Put up his nose athirt his thighs, But coulden meaeke en turn his eyes, Jeaene's wedden day in mornen. An' then the naighbours round us, all By woones an' twos begun to call, To meet the young vo'k, when the meaere Mid bring em back a married peaeir: An' all o'm zaid, to Robert's sheaere, There had a-vell the feaerest feaece, An' kindest heart in all the pleaece, Jeaene's wedden day in mornen. RIVERS DON'T GI'E OUT. The brook I left below the rank Ov alders that do sheaede his bank, A-runnen down to dreve the mill Below the knap, 's a runnen still; The creepen days an' weeks do vill Up years, an' meaeke wold things o' new, An' vok' do come, an' live, an' goo, But rivers don't gi'e out, John. The leaves that in the spring do shoot Zo green, in fall be under voot; May flow'rs do grow vor June to burn, An' milk-white blooth o' trees do kern, An' ripen on, an' vall in turn; The miller's moss-green wheel mid rot, An' he mid die an' be vorgot, But rivers don't gi'e out, John. A vew short years do bring an' rear A maid--as Jeaene wer--young an' feaeir, An' vewer zummer-ribbons, tied In Zunday knots, do feaede bezide Her cheaek avore her bloom ha' died: Her youth won't stay,--her rwosy look 'S a feaeden flow'r, but time's a brook To run an' not gi'e out, John. An' yet, while things do come an' goo, God's love is steadvast, John, an' true; If winter vrost do chill the ground, 'Tis but to bring the zummer round, All's well a-lost where He's a-vound, Vor if 'tis right, vor Christes seaeke He'll gi'e us mwore than he do teaeke,-- His goodness don't gi'e out, John. MEAKEN UP A MIFF. Vorgi'e me, Jenny, do! an' rise Thy hangen head an' teary eyes, An' speak, vor I've a-took in lies, An' I've a-done thee wrong; But I wer twold,--an' thought 'twer true,-- That Sammy down at Coome an' you Wer at the feaeir, a-walken drough The pleaece the whole day long. An' tender thoughts did melt my heart, An' zwells o' viry pride did dart Lik' lightnen drough my blood; a-peaert Ov your love I should scorn, An' zoo I vow'd, however sweet Your looks mid be when we did meet, I'd trample ye down under veet, Or let ye goo forlorn. But still thy neaeme would always be The sweetest, an' my eyes would zee Among all maidens nwone lik' thee Vor ever any mwore; Zoo by the walks that we've a-took By flow'ry hedge an' zedgy brook, Dear Jenny, dry your eyes, an' look As you've a-look'd avore. Look up, an' let the evenen light But sparkle in thy eyes so bright, As they be open to the light O' zunzet in the west; An' let's stroll here vor half an hour, Where hangen boughs do meaeke a bow'r Above theaese bank, wi' eltrot flow'r An' robinhoods a-drest. HAY-MEAKEN. 'Tis merry ov a zummer's day, Where vo'k be out a-meaeken hay; Where men an' women, in a string, Do ted or turn the grass, an' zing, Wi' cheemen vaices, merry zongs, A-tossen o' their sheenen prongs Wi' eaerms a-zwangen left an' right, In colour'd gowns an' shirtsleeves white; Or, wider spread, a reaeken round The rwosy hedges o' the ground, Where Sam do zee the speckled sneaeke, An' try to kill en wi' his reaeke; An' Poll do jump about an' squall, To zee the twisten slooworm crawl. 'Tis merry where a gay-tongued lot Ov hay-meaekers be all a-squot, On lightly-russlen hay, a-spread Below an elem's lofty head, To rest their weary limbs an' munch Their bit o' dinner, or their nunch; Where teethy reaekes do lie all round By picks a-stuck up into ground. An' wi' their vittles in their laps, An' in their hornen cups their draps O' cider sweet, or frothy eaele, Their tongues do run wi' joke an' teaele. An' when the zun, so low an' red, Do sheen above the leafy head O' zome broad tree, a-rizen high Avore the vi'ry western sky, 'Tis merry where all han's do goo Athirt the groun', by two an' two, A-reaeken, over humps an' hollors, The russlen grass up into rollers. An' woone do row it into line, An' woone do clwose it up behine; An' after them the little bwoys Do stride an' fling their eaerms all woys, Wi' busy picks, an' proud young looks A-meaeken up their tiny pooks. An' zoo 'tis merry out among The vo'k in hay-vield all day long. HAY-CARREN. 'Tis merry ov a zummer's day, When vo'k be out a-haulen hay, Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground, Do meaeke the staddle big an' round; An' grass do stand in pook, or lie In long-back'd weaeles or parsels, dry. There I do vind it stir my heart To hear the frothen hosses snort, A-haulen on, wi' sleek heaeir'd hides, The red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides. Aye; let me have woone cup o' drink, An' hear the linky harness clink, An' then my blood do run so warm, An' put sich strangth 'ithin my eaerm, That I do long to toss a pick, A-pitchen or a-meaeken rick. The bwoy is at the hosse's head, An' up upon the waggon bed The lwoaders, strong o' eaerm do stan', At head, an' back at tail, a man, Wi' skill to build the lwoad upright An' bind the vwolded corners tight; An' at each zide [=o]'m, sprack an' strong, A pitcher wi' his long-stem'd prong, Avore the best two women now A-call'd to reaeky after plough. When I do pitchy, 'tis my pride Vor Jenny Hine to reaeke my zide, An' zee her fling her reaeke, an' reach So vur, an' teaeke in sich a streech; An' I don't shatter hay, an' meaeke Mwore work than needs vor Jenny's reaeke. I'd sooner zee the weaeles' high rows Lik' hedges up above my nose, Than have light work myzelf, an' vind Poor Jeaene a-beaet an' left behind; Vor she would sooner drop down dead. Than let the pitchers get a-head. 'Tis merry at the rick to zee How picks do wag, an' hay do vlee. While woone's unlwoaden, woone do teaeke The pitches in; an' zome do meaeke The lofty rick upright an' roun', An' tread en hard, an' reaeke en down, An' tip en, when the zun do zet, To shoot a sudden vall o' wet. An' zoo 'tis merry any day Where vo'k be out a-carren hay. [Gothic: Eclogue.] THE BEST MAN IN THE VIELD. _Sam and Bob._ SAM. That's slowish work, Bob. What'st a-been about? Thy pooken don't goo on not over sprack. Why I've a-pook'd my weaele, lo'k zee, clear out, An' here I be ageaen a-turnen back. BOB. I'll work wi' thee then, Sammy, any day, At any work dost like to teaeke me at, Vor any money thou dost like to lay. Now, Mister Sammy, what dost think o' that? My weaele is nearly twice so big as thine, Or else, I warnt, I shouldden be behin'. SAM. Ah! hang thee, Bob! don't tell sich whoppen lies. _My_ weaele's the biggest, if do come to size. 'Tis jist the seaeme whatever bist about; Why, when dost goo a-tedden grass, you sloth, Another hand's a-fwo'c'd to teaeke thy zwath, An' ted a half way back to help thee out; An' then a-reaeken rollers, bist so slack, Dost keep the very bwoys an' women back. An' if dost think that thou canst challenge I At any thing,--then, Bob, we'll teaeke a pick a-piece, An' woonce theaese zummer, goo an' try To meaeke a rick a-piece. A rick o' thine wull look a little funny, When thou'st a-done en, I'll bet any money. BOB. You noggerhead! last year thou meaed'st a rick, An' then we had to trig en wi' a stick. An' what did John that tipp'd en zay? Why zaid He stood a-top o'en all the while in dread, A-thinken that avore he should a-done en He'd tumble over slap wi' him upon en. SAM. You yoppen dog! I warnt I meaede my rick So well's thou meaed'st thy lwoad o' hay last week. They hadden got a hundred yards to haul en, An' then they vound 'twer best to have en boun', Vor if they hadden, 'twould a-tumbl'd down; An' after that I zeed en all but vallen, An' trigg'd en up wi' woone o'm's pitchen pick, To zee if I could meaeke en ride to rick; An' when they had the dumpy heap unboun', He vell to pieces flat upon the groun'. BOB. Do shut thy lyen chops! What dosten mind Thy pitchen to me out in Gully-plot, A-meaeken o' me wait (wast zoo behind) A half an hour vor ev'ry pitch I got? An' how didst groun' thy pick? an' how didst quirk To get en up on end? Why hadst hard work To rise a pitch that wer about so big 'S a goodish crow's nest, or a wold man's wig! Why bist so weak, dost know, as any roller: Zome o' the women vo'k will beaet thee hollor. SAM. You snub-nos'd flopperchops! I pitch'd so quick, That thou dost know thou hadst a hardish job To teaeke in all the pitches off my pick; An' dissen zee me groun' en, nother, Bob. An' thou bist stronger, thou dost think, than I? Girt bandy-lags! I jist should like to try. We'll goo, if thou dost like, an' jist zee which Can heave the mwost, or car the biggest nitch. BOB. There, Sam, do meaeke me zick to hear thy braggen! Why bissen strong enough to car a flagon. SAM. You grinnen fool! why I'd zet thee a-blowen, If thou wast wi' me vor a day a-mowen. I'd wear my cwoat, an' thou midst pull thy rags off, An' then in half a zwath I'd mow thy lags off. BOB. Thee mow wi' me! Why coossen keep up wi' me: Why bissen fit to goo a-vield to skimmy, Or mow down docks an' thistles! Why I'll bet A shillen, Samel, that thou cassen whet. SAM. Now don't thee zay much mwore than what'st a-zaid, Or else I'll knock thee down, heels over head. BOB. Thou knock me down, indeed! Why cassen gi'e A blow half hard enough to kill a bee. SAM. Well, thou shalt veel upon thy chops and snout. BOB. Come on, then, Samel; jist let's have woone bout. WHERE WE DID KEEP OUR FLAGON. When we in mornen had a-drow'd The grass or russlen hay abrode, The lit'some maidens an' the chaps, Wi' bits o' nunchens in their laps, Did all zit down upon the knaps Up there, in under hedge, below The highest elem o' the row, Where we did keep our flagon. There we could zee green vields at hand, Avore a hunderd on beyand, An' rows o' trees in hedges roun' Green meaeds, an' zummerleaezes brown, An' thorns upon the zunny down, While aier, vrom the rocken zedge In brook, did come along the hedge, Where we did keep our flagon. There laughen chaps did try in play To bury maidens up in hay, As gigglen maidens tried to roll The chaps down into zome deep hole, Or sting wi' nettles woone o'm's poll; While John did hele out each his drap O' eaele or cider, in his lap Where he did keep the flagon. Woone day there spun a whirlwind by Where Jenny's clothes wer out to dry; An' off vled frocks, a'most a-catch'd By smock-frocks wi' their sleeves outstratch'd, An' caps a-frill'd an' eaeperns patch'd; An' she a-steaeren in a fright, Wer glad enough to zee em light Where we did keep our flagon. An' when white clover wer a-sprung Among the eegrass, green an' young, An' elder-flowers wer a-spread Among the rwosen white an' red, An' honeyzucks wi' hangen head,-- O' Zunday evenens we did zit To look all roun' the grounds a bit, Where we'd a-kept our flagon. WEEK'S END IN ZUMMER, IN THE WOLD VO'K'S TIME. His aunt an' uncle,--ah! the kind Wold souls be often in my mind: A better couple never stood In shoes, an' vew be voun' so good. _She_ cheer'd the work-vo'k in their tweils Wi' timely bits an' draps, an' smiles; An' _he_ paid all o'm at week's end, Their money down to goo an' spend. In zummer, when week's end come roun' The hay-meaekers did come vrom groun', An' all zit down, wi' weary bwones, Within the yard a-peaeved wi' stwones, Along avore the peaeles, between The yard a-steaen'd an' open green. There women zot wi' bare-neck'd chaps, An' maidens wi' their sleeves an' flaps To screen vrom het their eaerms an' polls. An' men wi' beards so black as coals: Girt stocky Jim, an' lanky John, An' poor wold Betty dead an' gone; An' cleaen-grown Tom so spry an' strong, An' Liz the best to pitch a zong, That now ha' nearly half a score O' childern zwarmen at her door; An' whindlen Ann, that cried wi' fear To hear the thunder when 'twer near,-- A zickly maid, so peaele's the moon, That voun' her zun goo down at noon; An' blushen Jeaene so shy an' meek, That seldom let us hear her speak, That wer a-coorted an' undone By Farmer Woodley's woldest son; An' after she'd a-been vorzook, Wer voun' a-drown'd in Longmeaed brook. An' zoo, when _he_'d a-been all roun', An' paid em all their wages down, _She_ us'd to bring vor all, by teaele A cup o' cider or ov eaele, An' then a tutty meaede o' lots O' blossoms vrom her flower-nots, To wear in bands an' button-holes At church, an' in their evenen strolls. The pea that rangled to the oves, An' columbines an' pinks an' cloves, Sweet rwosen vrom the prickly tree, An' jilliflow'rs, an' jessamy; An' short-liv'd pinies, that do shed Their leaves upon a eaerly bed. She didden put in honeyzuck: She'd nwone, she zaid, that she could pluck Avore wild honeyzucks, a-vound In ev'ry hedge ov ev'ry ground. Zoo maid an' woman, bwoy an' man, Went off, while zunzet air did fan Their merry zunburnt feaezen; zome Down leaene, an' zome drough parrocks hwome. Ah! who can tell, that ha'nt a-vound, The sweets o' week's-end comen round! When Zadurday do bring woone's mind Sweet thoughts o' Zunday clwose behind; The day that's all our own to spend Wi' God an' wi' an e'thly friend. The worold's girt vo'k, wi' the best O' worldly goods mid be a-blest; But Zunday is the poor man's peaert, To seaeve his soul an' cheer his heart. THE MEAD A-MOW'D. When sheaedes do vall into ev'ry hollow, An' reach vrom trees half athirt the groun'; An' banks an' walls be a-looken yollow, That be a-turn'd to the zun gwain down; Drough hay in cock, O, We all do vlock, O, Along our road vrom the meaed a-mow'd. An' when the last swayen lwoad's a-started Up hill so slow to the lofty rick, Then we so weary but merry-hearted, Do shoulder each [=o]'s a reaeke an' pick, Wi' empty flagon, Behind the waggon, To teaeke our road vrom the meaed a-mow'd. When church is out, an' we all so slowly About the knap be a-spreaden wide, How gay the paths be where we do strolly Along the leaene an' the hedge's zide; But nwone's a voun', O, Up hill or down, O, So gay's the road drough the meaed a-mow'd. An' when the visher do come, a-drowen His flutt'ren line over bleaedy zedge, Drough groun's wi' red thissle-heads a-blowen, An' watchen o't by the water's edge; Then he do love, O, The best to rove, O, Along his road drough the meaed a-mow'd. THE SKY A-CLEAREN. The dreven scud that overcast The zummer sky is all a-past, An' softer air, a-blowen drough The quiv'ren boughs, do sheaeke the vew Last rain drops off the leaves lik' dew; An' peaeviers, now a-getten dry, Do steam below the zunny sky That's now so vast a-cleaeren. The sheaedes that wer a-lost below The stormy cloud, ageaen do show Their mocken sheaepes below the light; An' house-walls be a-looken white, An' vo'k do stir woonce mwore in zight, An' busy birds upon the wing Do whiver roun' the boughs an' zing, To zee the sky a-clearen. Below the hill's an ash; below The ash, white elder-flow'rs do blow: Below the elder is a bed O' robinhoods o' blushen red; An' there, wi' nunches all a-spread, The hay-meaekers, wi' each a cup O' drink, do smile to zee hold up The rain, an' sky a-cleaeren. 'Mid blushen maidens, wi' their zong, Still draw their white-stemm'd reaekes among The long-back'd weaeles an' new-meaede pooks, By brown-stemm'd trees an' cloty brooks; But have noo call to spweil their looks By work, that God could never meaeke Their weaker han's to underteaeke, Though skies mid be a-cleaeren. 'Tis wrong vor women's han's to clips The zull an' reap-hook, speaedes an' whips; An' men abroad, should leaeve, by right, Woone faithful heart at hwome to light Their bit o' vier up at night, An' hang upon the hedge to dry Their snow-white linen, when the sky In winter is a-cleaeren. THE EVENEN STAR O' ZUMMER. When vu'st along theaese road vrom mill, I zeed ye hwome all up the hill, The poplar tree, so straight an' tall, Did rustle by the watervall; An' in the leaeze the cows wer all A-lyen down to teaeke their rest An' slowly zunk toward the west The evenen star o' zummer. In parrock there the hay did lie In weaele below the elems, dry; An' up in hwome-groun' Jim, that know'd We all should come along thik road, D a-tied the grass in knots that drow'd Poor Poll, a-watchen in the West Woone brighter star than all the rest,-- The evenen star o' zummer. The stars that still do zet an' rise, Did sheen in our forefather's eyes; They glitter'd to the vu'st men's zight, The last will have em in their night; But who can vind em half so bright As I thought thik peaele star above My smilen Jeaene, my zweet vu'st love, The evenen star o' zummer. How sweet's the mornen fresh an' new, Wi' sparklen brooks an' glitt'ren dew; How sweet's the noon wi' sheaedes a-drow'd Upon the groun' but leaetely mow'd, An' bloomen flowers all abrode; But sweeter still, as I do clim', Theaese woody hill in evenen dim 'S the evenen star o' zummer. THE CLOTE. _(Water-lily.)_ O zummer clote! when the brook's a-gliden So slow an' smooth down his zedgy bed, Upon thy broad leaves so seaefe a-riden The water's top wi' thy yollow head, By alder's heads, O, An' bulrush beds, O. Thou then dost float, goolden zummer clote! The grey-bough'd withy's a-leaenen lowly Above the water thy leaves do hide; The benden bulrush, a-swayen slowly, Do skirt in zummer thy river's zide; An' perch in shoals, O, Do vill the holes, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote! Oh! when thy brook-drinken flow'r's a-blowen, The burnen zummer's a-zetten in; The time o' greenness, the time o' mowen, When in the hay-vield, wi' zunburnt skin, The vo'k do drink, O, Upon the brink, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote! Wi' eaerms a-spreaden, an' cheaeks a-blowen, How proud wer I when I vu'st could zwim Athirt the pleaece where thou bist a-growen, Wi' thy long more vrom the bottom dim; While cows, knee-high, O, In brook, wer nigh, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote! Ov all the brooks drough the meaeds a-winden, Ov all the meaeds by a river's brim, There's nwone so feaeir o' my own heart's vinden, As where the maidens do zee thee swim, An' stan' to teaeke, O, Wi' long-stemm'd reaeke, O, Thy flow'r afloat, goolden zummer clote! I GOT TWO VIELDS. I got two vields, an' I don't ceaere What squire mid have a bigger sheaere. My little zummer-leaeze do stratch All down the hangen, to a patch O' meaed between a hedge an' rank Ov elems, an' a river bank. Where yollow clotes, in spreaden beds O' floaten leaves, do lift their heads By benden bulrushes an' zedge A-swayen at the water's edge, Below the withy that do spread Athirt the brook his grey-leav'd head. An' eltrot flowers, milky white, Do catch the slanten evenen light; An' in the meaeple boughs, along The hedge, do ring the blackbird's zong; Or in the day, a-vleen drough The leafy trees, the whoa'se gookoo Do zing to mowers that do zet Their zives on end, an' stan' to whet. From my wold house among the trees A leaene do goo along the leaeze O' yollow gravel, down between Two mossy banks vor ever green. An' trees, a-hangen overhead, Do hide a trinklen gully-bed, A-cover'd by a bridge vor hoss Or man a-voot to come across. Zoo wi' my hwomestead, I don't ceaere What squire mid have a bigger sheaere! POLLY BE-EN UPZIDES WI' TOM. Ah! yesterday, d'ye know, I voun' Tom Dumpy's cwoat an' smock-frock, down Below the pollard out in groun'; An' zoo I slyly stole An' took the smock-frock up, an' tack'd The sleeves an' collar up, an' pack'd Zome nice sharp stwones, all fresh a-crack'd 'Ithin each pocket-hole. An' in the evenen, when he shut Off work, an' come an' donn'd his cwoat, Their edges gi'ed en sich a cut, How we did stan' an' laugh! An' when the smock-frock I'd a-zow'd Kept back his head an' hands, he drow'd Hizzelf about, an' teaev'd, an' blow'd, Lik' any up-tied calf. Then in a veag away he flung His frock, an' after me he sprung, An' mutter'd out sich dreats, an' wrung His vist up sich a size! But I, a-runnen, turn'd an' drow'd Some doust, a-pick'd up vrom the road, Back at en wi' the wind, that blow'd It right into his eyes. An' he did blink, an' vow he'd catch Me zomehow yet, an' be my match. But I wer nearly down to hatch Avore he got vur on; An' up in chammer, nearly dead Wi' runnen, lik' a cat I vled, An' out o' window put my head To zee if he wer gone. An' there he wer, a-prowlen roun' Upon the green; an' I look'd down An' told en that I hoped he voun' He mussen think to peck Upon a body zoo, nor whip The meaere to drow me off, nor tip Me out o' cart ageaen, nor slip Cut hoss-heaeir down my neck. BE'MI'STER. Sweet Be'mi'ster, that bist a-bound By green an' woody hills all round, Wi' hedges, reachen up between A thousan' vields o' zummer green, Where elems' lofty heads do drow Their sheaedes vor hay-meakers below, An' wild hedge-flow'rs do charm the souls O' maidens in their evenen strolls. When I o' Zunday nights wi' Jeaene Do saunter drough a vield or leaene, Where elder-blossoms be a-spread Above the eltrot's milk-white head, An' flow'rs o' blackberries do blow Upon the brembles, white as snow, To be outdone avore my zight By Jeaen's gay frock o' dazzlen white; Oh! then there's nothen that's 'ithout Thy hills that I do ho about,-- Noo bigger pleaece, noo gayer town, Beyond thy sweet bells' dyen soun', As they do ring, or strike the hour, At evenen vrom thy wold red tow'r. No: shelter still my head, an' keep My bwones when I do vall asleep. THATCHEN O' THE RICK. As I wer out in meaed last week, A-thatchen o' my little rick, There green young ee-grass, ankle-high, Did sheen below the cloudless sky; An' over hedge in tother groun', Among the bennets dry an' brown, My dun wold meaere, wi' neck a-freed Vrom Zummer work, did snort an' veed; An' in the sheaede o' leafy boughs, My vew wold ragged-cwoated cows Did rub their zides upon the rails, Or switch em wi' their heaeiry tails. An' as the mornen zun rose high Above my mossy roof clwose by, The blue smoke curreled up between The lofty trees o' feaeden green: A zight that's touchen when do show A busy wife is down below, A-worken hard to cheer woone's tweil Wi' her best feaere, an' better smile. Mid women still in wedlock's yoke Zend up, wi' love, their own blue smoke, An' husbands vind their bwoards a-spread By faithvul hands when I be dead, An' noo good men in ouer land Think lightly o' the wedden band. True happiness do bide alwone Wi' them that ha' their own he'th-stwone To gather wi' their childern roun', A-smilen at the worold's frown. My bwoys, that brought me thatch an' spars, Wer down a-taiten on the bars, Or zot a-cutten wi' a knife, Dry eltrot-roots to meaeke a fife; Or dreven woone another round The rick upon the grassy ground. An', as the aier vrom the west Did fan my burnen feaece an' breast, An' hoppen birds, wi' twitt'ren beaks, Did show their sheenen spots an' streaks, Then, wi' my heart a-vill'd wi' love An' thankvulness to God above, I didden think ov anything That I begrudg'd o' lord or king; Vor I ha' round me, vur or near, The mwost to love an' nwone to fear, An' zoo can walk in any pleaece, An' look the best man in the feaece. What good do come to eaechen heads, O' lien down in silken beds? Or what's a coach, if woone do pine To zee woone's naighbour's twice so fine? Contentment is a constant feaest, He's richest that do want the leaest. BEES A-ZWARMEN. Avore we went a-milken, vive Or six o's here wer all alive A-teaeken bees that zwarm'd vrom hive; An' we'd sich work to catch The hummen rogues, they led us sich A dance all over hedge an' ditch; An' then at last where should they pitch, But up in uncle's thatch? Dick rung a sheep-bell in his han'; Liz beaet a cannister, an' Nan Did bang the little fryen-pan Wi' thick an' thumpen blows; An' Tom went on, a-carren roun' A bee-pot up upon his crown, Wi' all his edge a-reachen down Avore his eyes an' nose. An' woone girt bee, wi' spitevul hum, Stung Dicky's lip, an' meaede it come All up amost so big's a plum; An' zome, a-vleen on, Got all roun' Liz, an' meaede her hop An' scream, a-twirlen lik' a top, An' spring away right backward, flop Down into barken pon': An' Nan' gi'ed Tom a roguish twitch Upon a bank, an' meaede en pitch Right down, head-voremost, into ditch,-- Tom coulden zee a wink. An' when the zwarm wer seaefe an' sound In mother's bit o' bee-pot ground, She meaede us up a treat all round O' sillibub to drink. READEN OV A HEAD-STWONE. As I wer readen ov a stwone In Grenley church-yard all alwone, A little maid ran up, wi' pride To zee me there, an' push'd a-zide A bunch o' bennets that did hide A verse her father, as she zaid, Put up above her mother's head, To tell how much he loved her: The verse wer short, but very good, I stood an' larn'd en where I stood:-- "Mid God, dear Meaery, gi'e me greaece To vind, lik' thee, a better pleaece, Where I woonce mwore mid zee thy feaece; An' bring thy childern up to know His word, that they mid come an' show Thy soul how much I lov'd thee." "Where's father, then," I zaid, "my chile?" "Dead too," she answer'd wi' a smile; "An' I an' brother Jim do bide At Betty White's, o' tother zide O' road." "Mid He, my chile," I cried, "That's father to the fatherless, Become thy father now, an' bless, An' keep, an' leaed, an' love thee." Though she've a-lost, I thought, so much, Still He don't let the thoughts o't touch Her litsome heart by day or night; An' zoo, if we could teaeke it right, Do show He'll meaeke his burdens light To weaker souls, an' that his smile Is sweet upon a harmless chile, When they be dead that lov'd it. ZUMMER EVENEN DANCE. Come out to the parrock, come out to the tree, The maidens an' chaps be a-waiten vor thee; There's Jim wi' his fiddle to play us some reels, Come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels. Come, all the long grass is a-mow'd an' a-carr'd, An' the turf is so smooth as a bwoard an' so hard; There's a bank to zit down, when y'ave danced a reel drough, An' a tree over head vor to keep off the dew. There be rwoses an' honeyzucks hangen among The bushes, to put in thy weaest; an' the zong O' the nightingeaele's heaerd in the hedges all roun'; An' I'll get thee a glow-worm to stick in thy gown. There's Meaery so modest, an' Jenny so smart, An' Mag that do love a good rompse to her heart; There's Joe at the mill that do zing funny zongs, An' short-lagged Dick, too, a-waggen his prongs. Zoo come to the parrock, come out to the tree, The maidens an' chaps be a-waiten vor thee; There's Jim wi' his fiddle to play us some reels,-- Come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels. [Gothic: Eclogue.] THE VEAIRIES. _Simon an' Samel._ SIMON. There's what the vo'k do call a veaeiry ring Out there, lo'k zee. Why, 'tis an oddish thing. SAMEL. Ah! zoo do seem. I wunder how do come! What is it that do meaeke it, I do wonder? SIMON. Be hang'd if I can tell, I'm sure! But zome Do zay do come by lightnen when do thunder; An' zome do say sich rings as thik ring there is, Do grow in dancen-tracks o' little veaeiries, That in the nights o' zummer or o' spring Do come by moonlight, when noo other veet Do tread the dewy grass, but their's, an' meet An' dance away together in a ring. SAMEL. An' who d'ye think do work the fiddlestick? A little veaeiry too, or else wold Nick! SIMON. Why, they do zay, that at the veaeiries' ball, There's nar a fiddle that's a-heaer'd at all; But they do play upon a little pipe A-meaede o' kexes or o' straws, dead ripe, A-stuck in row (zome short an' longer zome) Wi' slime o' snails, or bits o' plum-tree gum, An' meaeke sich music that to hear it sound, You'd stick so still's a pollard to the ground. SAMEL. What do em dance? 'Tis plain by theaese green wheels, They don't frisk in an' out in dree-hand reels; Vor else, instead o' theaese here girt round O, The'd cut us out a figure aight (8), d'ye know. SIMON. Oh! they ha' jigs to fit their little veet. They woulden dance, you know, at their fine ball, The dree an' vow'r han' reels that we do sprawl An' kick about in, when we men do meet. SAMEL. An' zoo have zome vo'k, in their midnight rambles, A-catch'd the veaeiries, then, in theaesem gambols. SIMON. Why, yes; but they be off lik' any shot, So soon's a man's a-comen near the spot SAMEL. But in the day-time where do veaeiries hide? Where be their hwomes, then? where do veaeiries bide? SIMON. Oh! they do get away down under ground, In hollow pleaezen where they can't be vound. But still my gramfer, many years agoo, (He liv'd at Grenley-farm, an milk'd a deaeiry), If what the wolder vo'k do tell is true, Woone mornen eaerly vound a veaeiry. SAMEL. An' did he stop, then, wi' the good wold bwoy? Or did he soon contrive to slip awoy? SIMON. Why, when the vo'k were all asleep, a-bed, The veaeiries us'd to come, as 'tis a-zaid, Avore the vire wer cwold, an' dance an hour Or two at dead o' night upon the vloor; Var they, by only utteren a word Or charm, can come down chimney lik' a bird; Or draw their bodies out so long an' narrow, That they can vlee drough keyholes lik' an arrow. An' zoo woone midnight, when the moon did drow His light drough window, roun' the vloor below, An' crickets roun' the bricken he'th did zing, They come an' danced about the hall in ring; An' tapp'd, drough little holes noo eyes could spy, A kag o' poor aunt's meaed a-stannen by. An' woone o'm drink'd so much, he coulden mind The word he wer to zay to meaeke en small; He got a-dather'd zoo, that after all Out tothers went an' left en back behind. An' after he'd a-beaet about his head, Ageaen the keyhole till he wer half dead, He laid down all along upon the vloor Till gramfer, comen down, unlocked the door: An' then he zeed en ('twer enough to frighten en) Bolt out o' door, an' down the road lik' lightenen. FALL. CORN A-TURNEN YOLLOW. The windless copse ha' sheaedy boughs, Wi' blackbirds' evenen whistles; The hills ha' sheep upon their brows, The zummerleaeze ha' thistles: The meaeds be gay in grassy May, But, oh! vrom hill to hollow, Let me look down upon a groun' O' corn a-turnen yollow. An' pease do grow in tangled beds, An' beaens be sweet to snuff, O; The teaeper woats do bend their heads, The barley's beard is rough, O. The turnip green is fresh between The corn in hill or hollow, But I'd look down upon a groun' O' wheat a-turnen yollow. 'Tis merry when the brawny men Do come to reap it down, O, Where glossy red the poppy head 'S among the stalks so brown, O. 'Tis merry while the wheat's in hile, Or when, by hill or hollow, The leaezers thick do stoop to pick The ears so ripe an' yollow. A-HAULEN O' THE CORN. Ah! yesterday, you know, we carr'd The piece o' corn in Zidelen Plot, An' work'd about it pretty hard, An' vound the weather pretty hot. 'Twer all a-tied an' zet upright In tidy hile o' Monday night; Zoo yesterday in afternoon We zet, in eaernest, ev'ry woone A-haulen o' the corn. The hosses, wi' the het an' lwoad, Did froth, an' zwang vrom zide to zide, A-gwain along the dousty road, An' seem'd as if they would a-died. An' wi' my collar all undone, An' neck a-burnen wi' the zun, I got, wi' work, an' doust, an' het, So dry at last, I coulden spet, A-haulen o' the corn. At uncle's orcha'd, gwain along, I begged some apples, vor to quench My drith, o' Poll that wer among The trees: but she, a saucy wench, Toss'd over hedge some crabs vor fun. I squail'd her, though, an' meaede her run; An' zoo she gie'd me, vor a treat, A lot o' stubberds vor to eat. A-haulen o' the corn. An' up at rick, Jeaene took the flagon, An' gi'ed us out zome eaele; an' then I carr'd her out upon the waggon, Wi' bread an' cheese to gi'e the men. An' there, vor fun, we dress'd her head Wi' nodden poppies bright an' red, As we wer catchen vrom our laps, Below a woak, our bits an' draps, A-haulen o' the corn. HARVEST HWOME. _The vu'st peaert. The Supper._ Since we wer striplens naighbour John, The good wold merry times be gone: But we do like to think upon What we've a-zeed an' done. When I wer up a hardish lad, At harvest hwome the work-vo'k had Sich suppers, they wer jumpen mad Wi' feaesten an' wi' fun. At uncle's, I do mind, woone year, I zeed a vill o' hearty cheer; Fat beef an' pudden, eaele an' beer, Vor ev'ry workman's crop An' after they'd a-gie'd God thanks, They all zot down, in two long ranks, Along a teaeble-bwoard o' planks, Wi' uncle at the top. An' there, in platters, big and brown, Wer red fat beaecon, an' a roun' O' beef wi' gravy that would drown A little rwoasten pig; Wi' beaens an' teaeties vull a zack, An' cabbage that would meaeke a stack, An' puddens brown, a-speckled black Wi' figs, so big's my wig. An' uncle, wi' his elbows out, Did carve, an' meaeke the gravy spout; An' aunt did gi'e the mugs about A-frothen to the brim. Pleaetes werden then ov e'then ware, They ate off pewter, that would bear A knock; or wooden trenchers, square, Wi' zalt-holes at the rim. An' zoo they munch'd their hearty cheer, An' dipp'd their beards in frothy-beer, An' laugh'd, an' jok'd--they couldden hear What woone another zaid. An' all o'm drink'd, wi' woone accword, The wold vo'k's health: an' beaet the bwoard, An' swung their eaerms about, an' roar'd, Enough to crack woone's head. HARVEST HWOME. _Second Peaert. What they did after Supper._ Zoo after supper wer a-done, They clear'd the teaebles, an' begun To have a little bit o' fun, As long as they mid stop. The wold woones took their pipes to smoke, An' tell their teaeles, an' laugh an' joke, A-looken at the younger vo'k, That got up vor a hop. Woone screaep'd away, wi' merry grin, A fiddle stuck below his chin; An' woone o'm took the rollen pin, An' beaet the fryen pan. An' tothers, dancen to the soun', Went in an' out, an' droo an' roun', An' kick'd, an' beaet the tuen down, A-laughen, maid an' man. An' then a maid, all up tip-tooe, Vell down; an' woone o'm wi' his shoe Slit down her pocket-hole in two, Vrom top a-most to bottom. An' when they had a-danc'd enough, They got a-playen blindman's buff, An' sard the maidens pretty rough, When woonce they had a-got em. An' zome did drink, an' laugh, an' roar, An' lots o' teaeles they had in store, O' things that happen'd years avore To them, or vo'k they know'd. An' zome did joke, an' zome did zing, An' meaeke the girt wold kitchen ring; Till uncle's cock, wi' flappen wing, Stratch'd out his neck an' crow'd. A ZONG OV HARVEST HWOME. The ground is clear. There's nar a ear O' stannen corn a-left out now, Vor win' to blow or rain to drow; 'Tis all up seaefe in barn or mow. Here's health to them that plough'd an' zow'd; Here's health to them that reap'd an' mow'd, An' them that had to pitch an' lwoad, Or tip the rick at Harvest Hwome. _The happy zight,--the merry night,_ _The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._ An' mid noo harm o' vire or storm Beval the farmer or his corn; An' ev'ry zack o' zeed gi'e back A hunderd-vwold so much in barn. An' mid his Meaeker bless his store, His wife an' all that she've a-bore, An' keep all evil out o' door, Vrom Harvest Hwome to Harvest Hwome. _The happy zight,--the merry night,_ _The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._ Mid nothen ill betide the mill, As day by day the miller's wheel Do dreve his clacks, an' heist his zacks, An' vill his bins wi' show'ren meal: Mid's water never overflow His dousty mill, nor zink too low, Vrom now till wheat ageaen do grow, An' we've another Harvest Hwome. _The happy zight,--the merry night,_ _The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._ Drough cisterns wet an' malt-kil's het, Mid barley pay the malter's pains; An' mid noo hurt bevall the wort, A-bweilen vrom the brewer's grains. Mid all his beer keep out o' harm Vrom bu'sted hoop or thunder storm, That we mid have a mug to warm Our merry hearts nex' Harvest Hwome. _The happy zight,--the merry night,_ _The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._ Mid luck an' jay the beaeker pay, As he do hear his vier roar, Or nimbly catch his hot white batch, A-reeken vrom the oven door. An' mid it never be too high Vor our vew zixpences to buy, When we do hear our childern cry Vor bread, avore nex' Harvest Hwome. _The happy zight,--the merry night,_ _The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._ Wi' jay o' heart mid shooters start The whirren pa'tridges in vlocks; While shots do vlee drough bush an' tree, An' dogs do stan' so still as stocks. An' let em ramble round the farms Wi' guns 'ithin their bended eaerms, In goolden zunsheen free o' storms, Rejaicen vor the Harvest Hwome. _The happy zight,--the merry night,_ _The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._ POLL'S JACK-DAW. Ah! Jimmy vow'd he'd have the law Ov ouer cousin Poll's Jack-daw, That had by day his withy jail A-hangen up upon a nail, Ageaen the elem tree, avore The house, jist over-right the door, An' twitted vo'k a-passen by A-most so plain as you or I; Vor hardly any day did pass 'Ithout Tom's teachen o'm zome sa'ce; Till by-an'-by he call'd em all 'Soft-polls' an' 'gawkeys,' girt an' small. An' zoo, as Jim went down along The leaene a-whisslen ov a zong, The saucy Daw cried out by rote "Girt Soft-poll!" lik' to split his droat. Jim stopp'd an' grabbled up a clot, An' zent en at en lik' a shot; An' down went Daw an' cage avore The clot, up thump ageaen the door. Zoo out run Poll an' Tom, to zee What all the meaenen o't mid be; "Now who did that?" zaid Poll. "Who whurr'd Theaese clot?" "Girt Soft-poll!" cried the bird. An' when Tom catch'd a glimpse o' Jim, A-looken all so red an' slim, An' slinken on, he vled, red hot, Down leaene to catch en, lik' a shot; But Jim, that thought he'd better trust To lags than vistes, tried em vu'st. An' Poll, that zeed Tom woulden catch En, stood a-smilen at the hatch. An' zoo he vollow'd en for two Or dree stwones' drows, an' let en goo. THE IVY. Upon theaese knap I'd sooner be The ivy that do climb the tree, Than bloom the gayest rwose a-tied An' trimm'd upon the house's zide. The rwose mid be the maidens' pride, But still the ivy's wild an' free; An' what is all that life can gi'e, 'Ithout a free light heart, John? The creepen sheaede mid steal too soon Upon the rwose in afternoon; But here the zun do drow his het Vrom when do rise till when do zet, To dry the leaves the rain do wet. An' evenen air do bring along The merry deaeiry-maiden's zong, The zong of free light hearts, John. Oh! why do vo'k so often chain Their pinen minds vor love o' gain, An' gi'e their innocence to rise A little in the worold's eyes? If pride could lift us to the skies, What man do value God do slight, An' all is nothen in his zight 'Ithout an honest heart, John. An ugly feaece can't bribe the brooks To show it back young han'some looks, Nor crooked vo'k intice the light To cast their zummer sheaedes upright: Noo goold can blind our Meaeker's zight. An' what's the odds what cloth do hide The bosom that do hold inside A free an' honest heart, John? THE WELSHNUT TREE. When in the evenen the zun's a-zinken, A drowen sheaedes vrom the yollow west, An' mother, weary, 's a-zot a thinken, Wi' vwolded eaerms by the vire at rest, Then we do zwarm, O, Wi' such a charm, O, So vull o' glee by the welshnut tree. A-leaeven father in-doors, a-leinen' In his girt chair in his easy shoes, Or in the settle so high behine en, While down bezide en the dog do snooze, Our tongues do run, O, Enough to stun, O, Your head wi' glee by the welshnut tree. There we do play 'thread the woman's needle.' An' slap the maidens a-darten drough: Or try who'll ax em the hardest riddle, Or soonest tell woone a-put us, true; Or zit an' ring, O, The bells, ding, ding, O, Upon our knee by the welshnut tree. An' zome do goo out, an' hide in orcha't, An' tothers, slily a-stealen by, Where there's a dark cunnen pleaece, do sarch it, Till they do zee em an' cry, "I spy," An' thik a-vound, O, Do gi'e a bound, O, To get off free to the welshnut tree. Poll went woone night, that we midden vind her, Inzide a woak wi' a hollow moot, An' drough a hole near the groun' behind her, I pok'd a stick in, an' catch'd her voot; An' out she scream'd, O, An' jump'd, an' seem'd, O, A-most to vlee to the welshnut tree. An' when, at last, at the drashel, mother Do call us, smilen, in-door to rest, Then we do cluster by woone another, To zee hwome them we do love the best: An' then do sound, O, "Good night," all round, O, To end our glee by the welshnut tree. JENNY OUT VROM HWOME. O wild-reaeven west winds; as you do roar on, The elems do rock an' the poplars do ply, An' weaeve do dreve weaeve in the dark-water'd pon',-- Oh! where do ye rise vrom, an' where do ye die? O wild-reaeven winds I do wish I could vlee Wi' you, lik' a bird o' the clouds, up above The ridge o' the hill an' the top o' the tree, To where I do long vor, an' vo'k I do love. Or else that in under theaese rock I could hear, In the soft-zwellen sounds you do leaeve in your road, Zome words you mid bring me, vrom tongues that be dear, Vrom friends that do love me, all scatter'd abrode. O wild-reaeven winds! if you ever do roar By the house an' the elems vrom where I'm a-come, Breathe up at the window, or call at the door, An' tell you've a-voun' me a-thinken o' hwome. GRENLEY WATER. The sheaedeless darkness o' the night Can never blind my mem'ry's zight; An' in the storm, my fancy's eyes Can look upon their own blue skies. The laggen moon mid fail to rise, But when the daylight's blue an' green Be gone, my fancy's zun do sheen At hwome at Grenley Water. As when the work-vo'k us'd to ride In waggon, by the hedge's zide, Drough evenen sheaedes that trees cast down Vrom lofty stems athirt the groun'; An' in at house the mug went roun', While ev'ry merry man prais'd up The pretty maid that vill'd his cup, The maid o' Grenley Water. There I do seem ageaen to ride The hosses to the water-zide, An' zee the visher fling his hook Below the withies by the brook; Or Fanny, wi' her blushen look, Car on her pail, or come to dip Wi' ceaereful step, her pitcher's lip Down into Grenley Water. If I'd a farm wi' vower ploughs, An' vor my deaeiry fifty cows; If Grenley Water winded down Drough two good miles o' my own groun'; If half ov Ashknowle Hill wer brown Wi' my own corn,--noo growen pride Should ever meaeke me cast azide The maid o' Grenley Water. THE VEAIRY VEET THAT I DO MEET. When dewy fall's red leaves do vlee Along the grass below the tree, Or lie in yollow beds a-shook Upon the shallow-water'd brook, Or drove 'ithin a sheaedy nook; Then softly, in the evenen, down The knap do steal along the groun' The veaeiry veet that I do meet Below the row o' beech trees. 'Tis jist avore the candle-light Do redden windows up at night, An' peaeler stars do light the vogs A-risen vrom the brooks an' bogs, An' when in barkens yoppen dogs Do bark at vo'k a-comen near, Or growl a-lis'enen to hear The veaeiry veet that I do meet Below the row o' beech trees. Dree times a-year do bless the road O' womanhood a-gwain abrode: When vu'st her litty veet do tread The eaerly May's white deaeisy bed: When leaves be all a-scattered dead; An' when the winter's vrozen grass Do glissen in the zun lik' glass Vor veaeiry veet that I do meet Below the row o' beech trees. MORNEN. When vu'st the breaken day is red, An' grass is dewy wet, An' roun' the blackberry's a-spread The spider's gliss'nen net, Then I do dreve the cows across The brook that's in a vog, While they do trot, an' bleaere, an' toss Their heads to hook the dog; Vor the cock do gi'e me warnen, An' light or dark, So brisk's a lark, I'm up at break o' mornen. Avore the maiden's sleep's a-broke By window-striken zun, Avore the busy wife's vu'st smoke Do curl above the tun, My day's begun. An' when the zun 'S a-zinken in the west, The work the mornen brought's a-done, An' I do goo to rest, Till the cock do gi'e me warnen; An' light or dark, So brisk's a lark, I'm up ageaen nex' mornen. We can't keep back the daily zun, The wind is never still, An' never ha' the streams a-done A-runnen down at hill. Zoo they that ha' their work to do, Should do't so soon's they can; Vor time an' tide will come an' goo, An' never wait vor man, As the cock do gi'e me warnen; When, light or dark, So brisk's a lark, I'm up so rathe in mornen. We've leaezes where the air do blow, An' meaeds wi' deaeiry cows, An' copse wi' lewth an' sheaede below The overhangen boughs. An' when the zun, noo time can tire, 'S a-quench'd below the west, Then we've, avore the bleaezen vire, A settle vor to rest,-- To be up ageaen nex' mornen So brisk's a lark, When, light or dark, The cock do gi'e us warnen. OUT A-NUTTEN. Last week, when we'd a haul'd the crops, We went a-nutten out in copse, Wi' nutten-bags to bring hwome vull, An' beaky nutten-crooks to pull The bushes down; an' all o's wore Wold clothes that wer in rags avore, An' look'd, as we did skip an' zing, Lik' merry gipsies in a string, A-gwain a-nutten. Zoo drough the stubble, over rudge An' vurrow, we begun to trudge; An' Sal an' Nan agreed to pick Along wi' me, an' Poll wi' Dick; An' they went where the wold wood, high An' thick, did meet an' hide the sky; But we thought we mid vind zome good Ripe nuts among the shorter wood, The best vor nutten. We voun' zome bushes that did feaece The downcast zunlight's highest pleaece, Where clusters hung so ripe an' brown, That some slipp'd shell an' vell to groun'. But Sal wi' me zoo hitch'd her lag In brembles, that she coulden wag; While Poll kept clwose to Dick, an' stole The nuts vrom's hinder pocket-hole, While he did nutty. An' Nanny thought she zaw a sneaeke, An' jump'd off into zome girt breaeke, An' tore the bag where she'd a-put Her sheaere, an' shatter'd ev'ry nut. An' out in vield we all zot roun' A white-stemm'd woak upon the groun', Where yollor evenen light did strik' Drough yollow leaves, that still wer thick In time o' nutten, An' twold ov all the luck we had Among the bushes, good an' bad! Till all the maidens left the bwoys, An' skipp'd about the leaeze all woys Vor musherooms, to car back zome, A treat vor father in at hwome. Zoo off we trudg'd wi' clothes in slents An' libbets, jis' lik' Jack-o'-lents, Vrom copse a-nutten. TEAKEN IN APPLES. We took the apples in last week, An' got, by night, zome eaechen backs A-stoopen down all day to pick So many up in mawns an' zacks. An' there wer Liz so proud an' prim, An' dumpy Nan, an' Poll so sly; An' dapper Tom, an' loppen Jim, An' little Dick, an' Fan, an' I. An' there the lwoaded tree bent low, Behung wi' apples green an' red; An' springen grass could hardly grow, Drough windvalls down below his head. An' when the maidens come in roun' The heavy boughs to vill their laps, We slily shook the apples down Lik' hail, an' gi'ed their backs some raps. An' zome big apple, Jimmy flung To squail me, gi'ed me sich a crack; But very shortly his ear rung, Wi' woone I zent to pay en back. An' after we'd a-had our squails, Poor Tom, a-jumpen in a bag, Wer pinch'd by all the maiden's nails, An' rolled down into hwome-groun' quag. An' then they carr'd our Fan all roun', 'Ithin a mawn, till zome girt stump Upset en over on the groun', An' drow'd her out along-straight, plump. An' in the cider-house we zot Upon the windlass Poll an' Nan, An' spun 'em roun' till they wer got So giddy that they coulden stan'. MEAPLE LEAVES BE YOLLOW. Come, let's stroll down so vur's the poun', Avore the sparklen zun is down: The zummer's gone, an' days so feaeir As theaese be now a-getten reaere. The night, wi' mwore than daylight's sheaere O' wat'ry sky, do wet wi' dew The ee-grass up above woone's shoe, An' meaeple leaves be yollow. The last hot doust, above the road, An' vu'st dead leaves ha' been a-blow'd By playsome win's where spring did spread The blossoms that the zummer shed; An' near blue sloos an' conkers red The evenen zun, a zetten soon, Do leaeve a-quiv'ren to the moon, The meaeple leaves so yollow. Zoo come along, an' let's injay The last fine weather while do stay; While thou canst hang, wi' ribbons slack, Thy bonnet down upon thy back, Avore the winter, cwold an' black, Do kill thy flowers, an' avore Thy bird-cage is a-took in door, Though meaeple leaves be yollow. NIGHT A-ZETTEN IN. When leaezers wi' their laps o' corn Noo longer be a-stoopen, An' in the stubble, all vorlorn, Noo poppies be a-droopen; When theaese young harvest-moon do weaene, That now've his horns so thin, O, We'll leaeve off walken in the leaene, While night's a zetten in, O. When zummer doust is all a-laid Below our litty shoes, O; When all the rain-chill'd flow'rs be dead, That now do drink the dews, O; When beauty's neck, that's now a-show'd, 'S a-muffled to the chin, O; We'll leaeve off walken in the road, When night's a-zetten in, O. But now, while barley by the road Do hang upon the bough, O, A-pull'd by branches off the lwoad A-riden hwome to mow, O; While spiders roun' the flower-stalks Ha' cobwebs yet to spin, O, We'll cool ourzelves in out-door walks, When night's a-zetten in, O. While down at vword the brook so small, That leaetely wer so high, O, Wi' little tinklen sounds do vall In roun' the stwones half dry, O; While twilight ha' sich air in store, To cool our zunburnt skin, O, We'll have a ramble out o' door, When night's a-zetten in, O. THE WEATHER-BEATEN TREE. The woaken tree, a-beaet at night By stormy winds wi' all their spite, Mid toss his lim's, an' ply, an' mwoan, Wi' unknown struggles all alwone; An' when the day do show his head, A-stripp'd by winds at last a-laid, How vew mid think that didden zee, How night-time had a-tried thik tree. An' happy vo'k do seldom know How hard our unknown storms do blow, The while our heads do slowly bend Below the trials God do zend, Like shiv'ren bennets, beaere to all The dreven winds o' dark'nen fall. An' zoo in tryen hardships we Be lik' the weather beaeten tree. But He will never meaeke our sheaere O' sorrow mwore than we can bear, But meaeke us zee, if 'tis His will, That He can bring us good vrom ill; As after winter He do bring, In His good time, the zunny spring, An' leaves, an' young vo'k vull o' glee A-dancen roun' the woaken tree. True love's the ivy that do twine Unwith'ren roun' his mossy rine, When winter's zickly zun do sheen Upon its leaves o' glossy green, So patiently a-holden vast Till storms an' cwold be all a-past, An' only liven vor to be A-meaeted to the woaken tree. SHRODON FEAeIR. _The vu'st Peaert._ An' zoo's the day wer warm an' bright, An' nar a cloud wer up in zight, We wheedled father vor the meaere An' cart, to goo to Shrodon feaeir. An' Poll an' Nan run off up stairs, To shift their things, as wild as heaeres; An' pull'd out, each o'm vrom her box, Their snow-white leaece an' newest frocks, An' put their bonnets on, a-lined Wi' blue, an' sashes tied behind; An' turn'd avore the glass their feaece An' back, to zee their things in pleaece; While Dick an' I did brush our hats An' cwoats, an' cleaen ourzelves lik' cats. At woone or two o'clock, we vound Ourzelves at Shrodon seaefe an' sound, A-strutten in among the rows O' tilted stannens an' o' shows, An' girt long booths wi' little bars Chock-vull o' barrels, mugs, an' jars, An' meat a-cooken out avore The vier at the upper door; Where zellers bwold to buyers shy Did hollow round us, "What d'ye buy?" An' scores o' merry tongues did speak At woonce, an' childern's pipes did squeak, An' horns did blow, an' drums did rumble, An' bawlen merrymen did tumble; An' woone did all but want an edge To peaert the crowd wi', lik' a wedge. We zaw the dancers in a show Dance up an' down, an' to an' fro, Upon a rwope, wi' chalky zoles, So light as magpies up on poles; An' tumblers, wi' their streaks an' spots, That all but tied theirzelves in knots. An' then a conjurer burn'd off Poll's han'kerchief so black's a snoff, An' het en, wi' a single blow, Right back ageaen so white as snow. An' after that, he fried a fat Girt ceaeke inzide o' my new hat; An' yet, vor all he did en brown, He didden even zweal the crown. SHRODON FEAeR. _The rest o't._ An' after that we met wi' zome O' Mans'on vo'k, but jist a-come, An' had a raffle vor a treat All roun', o' gingerbread to eat; An' Tom meaede leaest, wi' all his sheaekes, An' paid the money vor the ceaekes, But wer so lwoth to put it down As if a penny wer a poun'. Then up come zidelen Sammy Heaere, That's fond o' Poll, an' she can't bear, A-holden out his girt scram vist, An' ax'd her, wi' a grin an' twist, To have zome nuts; an' she, to hide Her laughen, turn'd her head azide, An' answer'd that she'd rather not, But Nancy mid. An' Nan, so hot As vier, zaid 'twer quite enough Vor Poll to answer vor herzuf: She had a tongue, she zaid, an' wit Enough to use en, when 'twer fit. An' in the dusk, a-riden round Drough Okford, who d'ye think we vound But Sam ageaen, a-gwaein vrom feaeir Astride his broken-winded meaere. An' zoo, a-hetten her, he tried To keep up clwose by ouer zide: But when we come to Hayward-brudge, Our Poll gi'ed Dick a meaenen nudge, An' wi' a little twitch our meaere Flung out her lags so lights a heaere, An' left poor Sammy's skin an' bwones Behind, a-kicken o' the stwones. MARTIN'S TIDE. Come, bring a log o' cleft wood, Jack, An' fling en on ageaen the back, An' zee the outside door is vast,-- The win' do blow a cwoldish blast. Come, so's! come, pull your chairs in roun' Avore the vire; an' let's zit down, An' keep up Martin's-tide, vor I Shall keep it up till I do die. 'Twer Martinmas, and ouer feaeir, When Jeaene an' I, a happy peaeir, Vu'st walk'd, a-keepen up the tide, Among the stan'ens, zide by zide; An' thik day twel'month, never failen, She gi'ed me at the chancel railen A heart--though I do sound her praise-- As true as ever beaet in stays. How vast the time do goo! Do seem But yesterday,--'tis lik' a dream! Ah, s[=o]'s! 'tis now zome years agoo You vu'st knew me, an' I knew you; An' we've a-had zome bits o' fun, By winter vire an' zummer zun. Aye; we've a-prowl'd an' rigg'd about Lik' cats, in harm's way mwore than out, An' busy wi' the tricks we play'd In fun, to outwit chap or maid. An' out avore the bleaezen he'th, Our naisy tongues, in winter me'th, 'V a-shook the warmen-pan, a-hung Bezide us, till his cover rung. There, 'twer but tother day thik chap, Our Robert, wer a child in lap; An' Poll's two little lags hung down Vrom thik wold chair a span vrom groun', An' now the saucy wench do stride About wi' steps o' dree veet wide. How time do goo! A life do seem As 'twer a year; 'tis lik' a dream! GUY FAUX'S NIGHT. Guy Faux's night, dost know, we chaps, A-putten on our woldest traps, Went up the highest o' the knaps, An' meaede up such a vier! An' thou an' Tom wer all we miss'd, Vor if a sarpent had a-hiss'd Among the rest in thy sprack vist, Our fun 'd a-been the higher. We chaps at hwome, an' Will our cousin, Took up a half a lwoad o' vuzzen; An' burn'd a barrel wi' a dozen O' faggots, till above en The fleaemes, arisen up so high 'S the tun, did snap, an' roar, an' ply, Lik' vier in an' oven. An' zome wi' hissen squibs did run, To pay off zome what they'd a-done, An' let em off so loud's a gun Ageaen their smoken polls; An' zome did stir their nimble pags Wi' crackers in between their lags, While zome did burn their cwoats to rags, Or wes'cots out in holes. An' zome o'm's heads lost half their locks, An' zome o'm got their white smock-frocks Jist fit to vill the tinder-box, Wi' half the backs o'm off; An' Dick, that all o'm vell upon, Vound woone flap ov his cwoat-tail gone, An' tother jist a-hangen on, A-zweal'd so black's a snoff. [Gothic: Eclogue.] THE COMMON A-TOOK IN. _Thomas an' John._ THOMAS. Good morn t'ye, John. How b'ye? how b'ye? Zoo you be gwain to market, I do zee. Why, you be quite a-lwoaded wi' your geese. JOHN. Ees, Thomas, ees. Why, I'm a-getten rid ov ev'ry goose An' goslen I've a-got: an' what is woose, I fear that I must zell my little cow. THOMAS. How zoo, then, John? Why, what's the matter now? What, can't ye get along? B'ye run a-ground? An' can't pay twenty shillens vor a pound? What can't ye put a lwoaf on shelf? JOHN. Ees, now; But I do fear I shan't 'ithout my cow. No; they do mean to teaeke the moor in, I do hear, An' 'twill be soon begun upon; Zoo I must zell my bit o' stock to-year, Because they woon't have any groun' to run upon. THOMAS. Why, what d'ye tell o'? I be very zorry To hear what they be gwain about; But yet I s'pose there'll be a 'lotment vor ye, When they do come to mark it out. JOHN. No; not vor me, I fear. An' if there should, Why 'twoulden be so handy as 'tis now; Vor 'tis the common that do do me good, The run for my vew geese, or vor my cow. THOMAS. Ees, that's the job; why 'tis a handy thing To have a bit o' common, I do know, To put a little cow upon in Spring, The while woone's bit ov orcha'd grass do grow. JOHN. Aye, that's the thing, you zee. Now I do mow My bit o' grass, an' meaeke a little rick; An' in the zummer, while do grow, My cow do run in common vor to pick A bleaede or two o' grass, if she can vind em, Vor tother cattle don't leaeve much behind em. Zoo in the evenen, we do put a lock O' nice fresh grass avore the wicket; An' she do come at vive or zix o'clock, As constant as the zun, to pick it. An' then, bezides the cow, why we do let Our geese run out among the emmet hills; An' then when we do pluck em, we do get Vor zeaele zome veathers an' zome quills; An' in the winter we do fat em well, An' car em to the market vor to zell To gentlevo'ks, vor we don't oft avvword To put a goose a-top ov ouer bwoard; But we do get our feaest,--vor we be eaeble To clap the giblets up a-top o' teaeble. THOMAS. An' I don't know o' many better things, Than geese's heads and gizzards, lags an' wings. JOHN. An' then, when I ha' nothen else to do, Why I can teaeke my hook an' gloves, an' goo To cut a lot o' vuzz and briars Vor heten ovens, or vor lighten viers. An' when the childern be too young to eaern A penny, they can g'out in zunny weather, An' run about, an' get together A bag o' cow-dung vor to burn. THOMAS. 'Tis handy to live near a common; But I've a-zeed, an' I've a-zaid, That if a poor man got a bit o' bread, They'll try to teaeke it vrom en. But I wer twold back tother day, That they be got into a way O' letten bits o' groun' out to the poor. JOHN. Well, I do hope 'tis true, I'm sure; An' I do hope that they will do it here, Or I must goo to workhouse, I do fear. [Gothic: Eclogue.] TWO FARMS IN WOONE. _Robert an' Thomas._ ROBERT. You'll lose your meaester soon, then, I do vind; He's gwain to leaeve his farm, as I do larn, At Mielmas; an' I be zorry vor'n. What, is he then a little bit behind? THOMAS. O no! at Mielmas his time is up, An' thik there sly wold fellow, Farmer Tup, A-fearen that he'd get a bit o' bread, 'V a-been an' took his farm here over's head. ROBERT. How come the Squire to treat your meaester zoo? THOMAS. Why, he an' meaester had a word or two. ROBERT. Is Farmer Tup a-gwain to leaeve his farm? He han't a-got noo young woones vor to zwarm. Poor over-reachen man! why to be sure He don't want all the farms in parish, do er? THOMAS. Why ees, all ever he can come across, Last year, you know, he got away the eaecre Or two o' ground a-rented by the beaeker, An' what the butcher had to keep his hoss; An' vo'k do beaenhan' now, that meaester's lot Will be a-drowd along wi' what he got. ROBERT. That's it. In theaese here pleaece there used to be Eight farms avore they wer a-drowd together, An' eight farm-housen. Now how many be there? Why after this, you know there'll be but dree. THOMAS. An' now they don't imploy so many men Upon the land as work'd upon it then, Vor all they midden crop it worse, nor stock it. The lan'lord, to be sure, is into pocket; Vor half the housen been down, 'tis clear, Don't cost so much to keep em up, a-near. But then the jobs o' work in wood an' morter Do come I 'spose, you know, a little shorter; An' many that wer little farmers then, Be now a-come all down to leaeb'ren men; An' many leaeb'ren men, wi' empty hands, Do live lik' drones upon the worker's lands. ROBERT. Aye, if a young chap, woonce, had any wit To try an' scrape together zome vew pound, To buy some cows an' teaeke a bit o' ground, He mid become a farmer, bit by bit. But, hang it! now the farms be all so big, An' bits o' groun' so skeae'ce, woone got no scope; If woone could seaeve a poun', woone couldden hope To keep noo live stock but a little pig. THOMAS. Why here wer vourteen men, zome years agoo, A-kept a-drashen half the winter drough; An' now, woone's drashels be'n't a bit o' good. They got machines to drashy wi', plague teaeke em! An' he that vu'st vound out the way to meaeke em, I'd drash his busy zides vor'n if I could! Avore they took away our work, they ought To meaeke us up the bread our leaebour bought. ROBERT. They hadden need meaeke poor men's leaebour less, Vor work a'ready is uncommon skeae'ce. THOMAS. Ah! Robert! times be badish vor the poor; An' worse will come, I be a-fear'd, if Moore In theaese year's almanick do tell us right. ROBERT. Why then we sartainly must starve. Good night! WINTER THE VROST. Come, run up hwome wi' us to night, Athirt the vield a-vroze so white, Where vrosty sheaedes do lie below The winter ricks a-tipp'd wi' snow, An' lively birds, wi' waggen tails, Do hop upon the icy rails, An' rime do whiten all the tops O' bush an' tree in hedge an' copse, In wind's a-cutten keen. Come, maidens, come: the groun's a-vroze Too hard to-night to spweil your clothes. You got noo pools to waddle drough, Nor clay a-pullen off your shoe: An' we can trig ye at the zide, To keep ye up if you do slide: Zoo while there's neither wet nor mud, 'S the time to run an' warm your blood, In winds a-cutten keen. Vor young men's hearts an' maiden's eyes Don't vreeze below the cwoldest skies, While they in twice so keen a blast Can wag their brisk lim's twice so vast! Though vier-light, a-flick'ren red Drough vrosty window-peaenes, do spread Vrom wall to wall, vrom he'th to door, Vor us to goo an' zit avore, Vrom winds a-cutten keen. A BIT O' FUN. We thought you woulden leaeve us quite So soon as what you did last night; Our fun jist got up to a height As you about got hwome. The frisken chaps did skip about, An' cou'se the maidens in an' out, A-meaeken such a randy-rout, You coulden hear a drum. An' Tom, a-springen after Bet Blind-vwolded, whizz'd along, an' het Poor Grammer's zide, an' overzet Her chair, at blind-man's buff; An' she, poor soul, as she did vall, Did show her snags o' teeth an' squall, An' what, she zaid, wer wo'se than all, She shatter'd all her snuff. An' Bet, a-hoppen back vor fear O' Tom, struck uncle zomewhere near, An' meaede his han' spill all his beer Right down her poll an' back; An' Joe, in middle o' the din, Slipt out a bit, an' soon come in Wi' all below his dapper chin A-jumpen in a zack. An' in a twinklen tother chaps Jist hung en to a crook wi' straps, An' meaede en bear the maidens' slaps, An' prickens wi' a pin. An' Jim, a-catchen Poll, poor chap, In back-house in the dark, vell slap Athirt a tub o' barm,--a trap She set to catch en in. An' then we zot down out o' breath, An' meaede a circle roun' the he'th, A-keepen up our harmless me'th, Till supper wer a-come. An' after we'd a-had zome prog, All tother chaps begun to jog, Wi' sticks to lick a thief or dog, To zee the maidens hwome. FANNYS BE'TH-DAY. How merry, wi' the cider cup, We kept poor Fanny's be'th-day up! An' how our busy tongues did run An' hands did wag, a-meaeken fun! What playsome anticks zome [=o]'s done! An' how, a-reelen roun' an' roun', We beaet the merry tuen down, While music wer a-sounden! The maidens' eyes o' black an' blue Did glisten lik' the mornen dew; An' while the cider-mug did stand A-hissen by the bleaezen brand, An' uncle's pipe wer in his hand, How little he or we did think How peaele the zetten stars did blink While music wer a-sounden. An' Fanny's last young _teen_ begun, Poor maid, wi' thik day's risen zun, An' we all wish'd her many mwore Long years wi' happiness in store; An' as she went an' stood avore The vier, by her father's zide, Her mother dropp'd a tear o' pride While music wer a-sounden. An' then we did all kinds o' tricks Wi' han'kerchiefs, an' strings, an' sticks: An' woone did try to overmatch Another wi' zome cunnen catch, While tothers slyly tried to hatch Zome geaeme; but yet, by chap an' maid. The dancen wer the mwost injay'd, While music wer a-sounden. The briskest chap ov all the lot Wer Tom, that danc'd hizzelf so hot, He doff'd his cwoat an' jump'd about, Wi' girt new shirt-sleeves all a-strout, Among the maidens screamen out, A-thinken, wi' his strides an' stamps, He'd squot their veet wi' his girt clamps, While music wer a-sounden. Then up jump'd uncle vrom his chair, An' pull'd out aunt to meaeke a peaeir; An' off he zet upon his tooe, So light's the best that beaet a shoe, Wi' aunt a-crien "Let me goo:" While all ov us did laugh so loud, We drown'd the tuen o' the croud, While music wer a-sounden. A-comen out o' passage, Nan, Wi' pipes an' cider in her han', An' watchen uncle up so sprack, Vorgot her veet, an' vell down smack Athirt the house-dog's shaggy back, That wer in passage vor a snooze, Beyond the reach o' dancers' shoes, While music wer a-sounden. WHAT DICK AN' I DID. Last week the Browns ax'd nearly all The naighbours to a randy, An' left us out o't, girt an' small, Vor all we liv'd so handy; An' zoo I zaid to Dick, "We'll trudge, When they be in their fun, min; An' car up zome'hat to the rudge, An' jis' stop up the tun, min." Zoo, wi' the ladder vrom the rick, We stole towards the house, An' crope in roun' behind en, lik' A cat upon a mouse. Then, looken roun', Dick whisper'd "How Is theaese job to be done, min: Why we do want a faggot now, Vor stoppen up the tun, min." "Stan' still," I answer'd; "I'll teaeke ceaere O' that: why dussen zee The little grinden stwone out there, Below the apple-tree? Put up the ladder; in a crack Shalt zee that I wull run, min, An' teaeke en up upon my back, An' soon stop up the tun, min." Zoo up I clomb upon the thatch, An' clapp'd en on; an' slided Right down ageaen, an' run drough hatch, Behind the hedge, an' hided. The vier that wer clear avore, Begun to spweil their fun, min; The smoke all roll'd toward the door, Vor I'd a-stopp'd the tun, min. The maidens cough'd or stopp'd their breath, The men did hauk an' spet; The wold vo'k bundled out from he'th Wi' eyes a-runnen wet. "'T'ool choke us all," the wold man cried, "Whatever's to be done, min? Why zome'hat is a-vell inside O' chimney drough the tun, min." Then out they scamper'd all, vull run, An' out cried Tom, "I think The grinden-stwone is up on tun, Vor I can zee the wink. This is some kindness that the vo'k At Woodley have a-done, min; I wish I had em here, I'd poke Their numskulls down the tun, min." Then off he zet, an' come so quick 'S a lamplighter, an' brote The little ladder in vrom rick, To clear the chimney's droat. While I, a-chucklen at the joke, A-slided down, to run, min, To hidelock, had a-left the vo'k As bad as na'r a tun, min. GRAMMER'S SHOES. I do seem to zee Grammer as she did use Vor to show us, at Chris'mas, her wedden shoes, An' her flat spreaden bonnet so big an' roun' As a girt pewter dish a-turn'd upside down; When we all did draw near In a cluster to hear O' the merry wold soul how she did use To walk an' to dance wi' her high-heel shoes. She'd a gown wi' girt flowers lik' hollyhocks, An' zome stockens o' gramfer's a-knit wi' clocks, An' a token she kept under lock an' key,-- A small lock ov his heaeir off avore 't wer grey. An' her eyes wer red, An' she shook her head, When we'd all a-look'd at it, an' she did use To lock it away wi' her wedden shoes. She could tell us such teaeles about heavy snows, An' o' rains an' o' floods when the waters rose All up into the housen, an' carr'd awoy All the bridge wi' a man an' his little bwoy; An' o' vog an' vrost, An' o' vo'k a-lost, An' o' peaerties at Chris'mas, when she did use Vor to walk hwome wi' gramfer in high-heel shoes. Ev'ry Chris'mas she lik'd vor the bells to ring, An' to have in the zingers to heaer em zing The wold carols she heaerd many years a-gone, While she warm'd em zome cider avore the bron'; An' she'd look an' smile At our dancen, while She did tell how her friends now a-gone did use To reely wi' her in their high-heel shoes. Ah! an' how she did like vor to deck wi' red Holly-berries the window an' wold clock's head, An' the clavy wi' boughs o' some bright green leaves, An' to meaeke twoast an' eaele upon Chris'mas eves; But she's now, drough greaece, In a better pleaece, Though we'll never vorget her, poor soul, nor lose Gramfer's token ov heaeir, nor her wedden shoes. ZUNSHEEN IN THE WINTER. The winter clouds, that long did hide The zun, be all a-blown azide, An' in the light, noo longer dim, Do sheen the ivy that do clim' The tower's zide an' elem's stim; An' holmen bushes, in between The leafless thorns, be bright an' green To zunsheen o' the winter. The trees, that yesterday did twist In wind's a-dreven rain an' mist, Do now drow sheaedes out, long an' still; But roaren watervals do vill Their whirlen pools below the hill, Where, wi' her pail upon the stile, A-gwain a-milken Jeaene do smile To zunsheen o' the winter. The birds do sheaeke, wi' playsome skips, The rain-drops off the bushes' tips, A-chirripen wi' merry sound; While over all the grassy ground The wind's a-whirlen round an' round So softly, that the day do seem Mwore lik' a zummer in a dream, Than zunsheen in the winter. The wold vo'k now do meet abrode, An' tell o' winter's they've a-know'd; When snow wer long above the groun', Or floods broke all the bridges down, Or wind unheal'd a half the town,-- The teaeles o' wold times long a-gone, But ever dear to think upon, The zunsheen o' their winter. Vor now to them noo brook can run, Noo hill can feaece the winter zun, Noo leaves can vall, noo flow'rs can feaede, Noo snow can hide the grasses bleaede, Noo vrost can whiten in the sheaede, Noo day can come, but what do bring To mind ageaen their early spring, That's now a-turn'd to winter. THE WEEPEN LEADY. When, leaete o' nights, above the green By thik wold house, the moon do sheen, A leaedy there, a-hangen low Her head, 's a-walken to an' fro In robes so white's the driven snow, Wi' woone eaerm down, while woone do rest All lily-white athirt the breast O' thik poor weepen leaedy. The whirlen wind an' whis'len squall Do sheaeke the ivy by the wall, An' meaeke the plyen tree-tops rock, But never ruffle her white frock; An' slammen door an' rattlen lock, That in thik empty house do sound, Do never seem to meaeke look round Thik ever downcast leaedy. A leaedy, as the teaele do goo, That woonce liv'd there, an' lov'd too true, Wer by a young man cast azide. A mother sad, but not a bride; An' then her father, in his pride An' anger, offer'd woone o' two Vull bitter things to undergoo To thik poor weepen leaedy: That she herzelf should leaeve his door, To darken it ageaen noo mwore; Or that her little playsome chile, A-zent away a thousand mile, Should never meet her eyes to smile An' play ageaen; till she, in sheaeme, Should die an' leaeve a tarnish'd neaeme, A sad vorseaeken leaedy. "Let me be lost," she cried, "the while I do but know vor my poor chile;" An' left the hwome ov all her pride, To wander drough the worold wide, Wi' grief that vew but she ha' tried: An' lik' a flow'r a blow ha' broke, She wither'd wi' the deadly stroke, An' died a weepen leaedy. An' she do keep a-comen on To zee her father dead an' gone, As if her soul could have noo rest Avore her teaery cheaek's a-prest By his vorgiven kiss. Zoo blest Be they that can but live in love, An' vind a pleaece o' rest above Unlik' the weepen leaedy. THE HAPPY DAYS WHEN I WER YOUNG. In happy days when I wer young, An' had noo ho, an' laugh'd an' zung, The maid wer merry by her cow, An' men wer merry wi' the plough; But never talk'd, at hwome or out O' doors, o' what's a-talk'd about By many now,--that to despise The laws o' God an' man is wise. Wi' daily health, an' daily bread, An' thatch above their shelter'd head, They velt noo fear, an' had noo spite, To keep their eyes awake at night; But slept in peace wi' God on high An' man below, an' fit to die. O' grassy meaed an' woody nook, An' waters o' the winden brook, That sprung below the vu'st dark sky That rain'd, to run till seas be dry; An' hills a-stannen on while all The works o' man do rise an' vall; An' trees the toddlen child do vind At vu'st, an' leaeve at last behind; I wish that you could now unvwold The peace an' jaey o' times o' wold; An' tell, when death do still my tongue, O' happy days when I wer young. Vrom where wer all this venom brought, To kill our hope an' taint our thought? Clear brook! thy water coulden bring Such venom vrom thy rocky spring; Nor could it come in zummer blights, Or reaeven storms o' winter nights, Or in the cloud an' viry stroke O' thunder that do split the woak. O valley dear! I wish that I 'D a-liv'd in former times, to die Wi' all the happy souls that trod Thy turf in peaece, an' died to God; Or gone wi' them that laugh'd an' zung In happy days when I wer young! IN THE STILLNESS O' THE NIGHT. Ov all the housen o' the pleaece, There's woone where I do like to call By day or night the best ov all, To zee my Fanny's smilen feaece; An' there the steaetely trees do grow, A-rocken as the win' do blow, While she do sweetly sleep below, In the stillness o' the night. An' there, at evenen, I do goo A-hoppen over geaetes an' bars, By twinklen light o' winter stars, When snow do clumper to my shoe; An' zometimes we do slyly catch A chat an hour upon the stratch, An' peaert wi' whispers at the hatch In the stillness o' the night. An' zometimes she do goo to zome Young naighbours' housen down the pleaece, An' I do get a clue to treaece Her out, an' goo to zee her hwome; An' I do wish a vield a mile, As she do sweetly chat an' smile Along the drove, or at the stile, In the stillness o' the night. THE SETTLE AN' THE GIRT WOOD VIRE. Ah! naighbour John, since I an' you Wer youngsters, ev'ry thing is new. My father's vires wer all o' logs O' cleft-wood, down upon the dogs Below our clavy, high, an' brode Enough to teaeke a cart an' lwoad, Where big an' little all zot down At bwoth zides, an' bevore, all roun'. An' when I zot among em, I Could zee all up ageaen the sky Drough chimney, where our vo'k did hitch The zalt-box an' the beaecon-vlitch, An' watch the smoke on out o' vier, All up an' out o' tun, an' higher. An' there wer beaecon up on rack, An' pleaetes an' dishes on the tack; An' roun' the walls wer heaerbs a-stowed In peaepern bags, an' blathers blowed. An' just above the clavy-bwoard Wer father's spurs, an' gun, an' sword; An' there wer then, our girtest pride, The settle by the vier zide. Ah! gi'e me, if I wer a squier, The settle an' the girt wood vier. But they've a-wall'd up now wi' bricks The vier pleaece vor dogs an' sticks, An' only left a little hole To teaeke a little greaete o' coal, So small that only twos or drees Can jist push in an' warm their knees. An' then the carpets they do use, B[=e]n't fit to tread wi' ouer shoes; An' chairs an' couches be so neat, You mussen teaeke em vor a seat: They be so fine, that vo'k mus' pleaece All over em an' outer ceaese, An' then the cover, when 'tis on, Is still too fine to loll upon. Ah! gi'e me, if I wer a squier, The settle an' the girt wood vier. Carpets, indeed! You coulden hurt The stwone-vloor wi' a little dirt; Vor what wer brought in doors by men, The women soon mopp'd out ageaen. Zoo we did come vrom muck an' mire, An' walk in straight avore the vier; But now, a man's a-kept at door At work a pirty while, avore He's screaep'd an' rubb'd, an' cleaen and fit To goo in where his wife do zit. An' then if he should have a whiff In there, 'twould only breed a miff: He c[=a]nt smoke there, vor smoke woon't goo 'Ithin the footy little flue. Ah! gi'e me, if I wer a squier, The settle an' the girt wood vier. THE CARTER. O, I be a carter, wi' my whip A-smacken loud, as by my zide, Up over hill, an' down the dip, The heavy lwoad do slowly ride. An' I do haul in all the crops, An' I do bring in vuzz vrom down; An' I do goo vor wood to copse, An' car the corn an' straw to town. An' I do goo vor lime, an' bring Hwome cider wi' my sleek-heaeir'd team, An' smack my limber whip an' zing, While all their bells do gaily cheeme. An' I do always know the pleaece To gi'e the hosses breath, or drug; An' ev'ry hoss do know my feaece, An' mind my '_mether ho_! an' _whug_! An' merry hay-meaekers do ride Vrom vield in zummer wi' their prongs, In my blue waggon, zide by zide Upon the reaeves, a-zingen zongs. An' when the vrost do catch the stream, An' oves wi' icicles be hung, My panten hosses' breath do steam In white-grass'd vields, a-haulen dung. An' mine's the waggon fit vor lwoads, An' mine be lwoads to cut a rout; An' mine's a team, in routy rwoads, To pull a lwoaded waggon out. A zull is nothen when do come Behind their lags; an' they do teaeke A roller as they would a drum, An' harrow as they would a reaeke. O! I be a carter, wi' my whip A-smacken loud, as by my zide, Up over hill, an' down the dip, The heavy lwoad do slowly ride. CHRIS'MAS INVITATION. Come down to-morrow night; an' mind, Don't leaeve thy fiddle-bag behind; We'll sheaeke a lag, an' drink a cup O' eaele, to keep wold Chris'mas up. An' let thy sister teaeke thy eaerm, The walk won't do her any harm; There's noo dirt now to spweil her frock, The ground's a-vroze so hard's a rock. You won't meet any stranger's feaece, But only naighbours o' the pleaece, An' Stowe, an' Combe; an' two or dree Vrom uncle's up at Rookery. An' thou wu'lt vind a rwosy feaece, An' peaeir ov eyes so black as sloos, The prettiest woones in all the pleaece,-- I'm sure I needen tell thee whose. We got a back-bran', dree girt logs So much as dree ov us can car; We'll put em up athirt the dogs, An' meaeke a vier to the bar. An' ev'ry woone shall tell his teaele, An' ev'ry woone shall zing his zong, An' ev'ry woone wull drink his eaele To love an' frien'ship all night long. We'll snap the tongs, we'll have a ball, We'll sheaeke the house, we'll lift the ruf, We'll romp an' meaeke the maidens squall, A catchen o'm at blind-man's buff. Zoo come to-morrow night; an' mind, Don't leaeve thy fiddle-bag behind; We'll sheaeke a lag, an' drink a cup O' eaele, to keep wold Chris'mas up. KEEPEN UP O' CHRIS'MAS. An' zoo you didden come athirt, To have zome fun last night: how wer't? Vor we'd a-work'd wi' all our might To scour the iron things up bright, An' brush'd an' scrubb'd the house all drough; An' brought in vor a brand, a plock O' wood so big's an uppen-stock, An' hung a bough o' misseltoo, An' ax'd a merry friend or two, To keepen up o' Chris'mas. An' there wer wold an' young; an' Bill, Soon after dark, stalk'd up vrom mill. An' when he wer a-comen near, He whissled loud vor me to hear; Then roun' my head my frock I roll'd, An' stood in orcha'd like a post, To meaeke en think I wer a ghost. But he wer up to't, an' did scwold To vind me stannen in the cwold, A keepen up o' Chris'mas. We play'd at forfeits, an' we spun The trencher roun', an' meaede such fun! An' had a geaeme o' dree-ceaerd loo, An' then begun to hunt the shoe. An' all the wold vo'k zitten near, A-chatten roun' the vier pleaece, Did smile in woone another's feaece. An' sheaeke right hands wi' hearty cheer, An' let their left hands spill their beer, A keepen up o' Chris'mas. ZITTEN OUT THE WOLD YEAR. Why, rain or sheen, or blow or snow, I zaid, if I could stand so's, I'd come, vor all a friend or foe, To sheaeke ye by the hand, so's; An' spend, wi' kinsvo'k near an' dear, A happy evenen, woonce a year, A-zot wi' me'th Avore the he'th To zee the new year in, so's. There's Jim an' Tom, a-grown the size O' men, girt lusty chaps, so's, An' Fanny wi' her sloo-black eyes, Her mother's very dap's, so's; An' little Bill, so brown's a nut, An' Poll a gigglen little slut, I hope will shoot Another voot The year that's comen in, so's. An' there, upon his mother's knee, So peaert do look about, so's, The little woone ov all, to zee His vu'st wold year goo out, so's An' zoo mid God bless all o's still, Gwain up or down along the hill, To meet in glee Ageaen to zee A happy new year in, so's. The wold clock's han' do softly steal Up roun' the year's last hour, so's; Zoo let the han'-bells ring a peal, Lik' them a-hung in tow'r, so's. Here, here be two vor Tom, an' two Vor Fanny, an' a peaeir vor you; We'll meaeke em swing, An' meaeke em ring, The merry new year in, so's. Tom, mind your time there; you be wrong. Come, let your bells all sound, so's: A little clwoser, Poll; ding, dong! There, now 'tis right all round, so's. The clock's a-striken twelve, d'ye hear? Ting, ting, ding, dong! Farewell, wold year! 'Tis gone, 'tis gone!-- Goo on, goo on, An' ring the new woone in, so's! WOAK WER GOOD ENOUGH WOONCE. Ees: now mahogany's the goo, An' good wold English woak won't do. I wish vo'k always mid avvword Hot meals upon a woaken bwoard, As good as thik that took my cup An' trencher all my growen up. Ah! I do mind en in the hall, A-reachen all along the wall, Wi' us at father's end, while tother Did teaeke the maidens wi' their mother; An' while the risen steam did spread In curlen clouds up over head, Our mouths did wag, an' tongues did run, To meaeke the maidens laugh o' fun. A woaken bedstead, black an' bright, Did teaeke my weary bwones at night, Where I could stratch an' roll about Wi' little fear o' vallen out; An' up above my head a peaeir Ov ugly heads a-carv'd did steaere, An' grin avore a bright vull moon A'most enough to frighten woone. An' then we had, vor cwoats an' frocks, Woak cwoffers wi' their rusty locks An' neaemes in nails, a-left behind By kinsvo'k dead an' out o' mind; Zoo we did get on well enough Wi' things a-meaede ov English stuff. But then, you know, a woaken stick Wer cheap, vor woaken trees wer thick. When poor wold Gramfer Green wer young, He zaid a squirrel mid a-sprung Along the dell, vrom tree to tree, Vrom Woodcomb all the way to Lea; An' woak wer all vo'k did avvword, Avore his time, vor bed or bwoard. LULLABY. The rook's nest do rock on the tree-top Where vew foes can stand; The martin's is high, an' is deep In the steep cliff o' zand. But thou, love, a-sleepen where vootsteps Mid come to thy bed, Hast father an' mother to watch thee An' shelter thy head. Lullaby, Lilybrow. Lie asleep; Blest be thy rest. An' zome birds do keep under ruffen Their young vrom the storm, An' zome wi' nest-hoodens o' moss And o' wool, do lie warm. An' we wull look well to the houseruf That o'er thee mid leaek, An' the blast that mid beaet on thy winder Shall not smite thy cheaek. Lullaby, Lilibrow. Lie asleep; Blest be thy rest. MEARY-ANN'S CHILD. Meary-Ann wer alwone wi' her beaeby in eaerms, In her house wi' the trees over head, Vor her husban' wer out in the night an' the storms, In his business a-tweilen vor bread; An' she, as the wind in the elems did roar, Did grievy vor Robert all night out o' door. An' her kinsvo'k an' nai'bours did zay ov her chile, (Under the high elem tree), That a prettier never did babble or smile Up o' top ov a proud mother's knee; An' his mother did toss en, an' kiss en, an' call En her darlen, an' life, an' her hope, an' her all. But she vound in the evenen the chile werden well, (Under the dark elem tree), An' she thought she could gi'e all the worold to tell, Vor a truth what his ailen mid be; An' she thought o'en last in her prayers at night, An' she look'd at en last as she put out the light. An' she vound en grow wo'se in the dead o' the night, (Under the dark elem tree), An' she press'd en ageaen her warm bosom so tight, An' she rock'd en so sorrowfully; An' there laid a-nestlen the poor little bwoy, Till his struggles grew weak, an' his cries died awoy. An' the moon wer a-sheenen down into the pleaece, (Under the dark elem tree), An' his mother could zee that his lips an' his feaece Wer so white as cleaen axen could be; An' her tongue wer a-tied an' her still heart did zwell, Till her senses come back wi' the vu'st tear that vell. Never mwore can she veel his warm feaece in her breast, (Under the green elem tree), Vor his eyes be a-shut, an' his hands be at rest, An' he's now vrom his pain a-zet free; Vor his soul, we do know, is to heaven a-vled, Where noo pain is a-known, an' noo tears be a-shed. [Gothic: Eclogue.] FATHER COME HWOME. _John, Wife, an' Child._ CHILD. O mother, mother! be the teaeties done? Here's father now a-comen down the track, Hes got his nitch o' wood upon his back, An' such a speaeker in en! I'll be bound, He's long enough to reach vrom ground Up to the top ov ouer tun; 'Tis jist the very thing vor Jack an' I To goo a-colepecksen wi' by an' by. WIFE. The teaeties must be ready pretty nigh; Do teaeke woone up upon the fork' an' try. The ceaeke upon the vier, too, 's a-burnen, I be afeaerd: do run an' zee, an' turn en. JOHN. Well, mother! here I be woonce mwore, at hwome. WIFE. Ah! I be very glad you be a-come. You be a-tired an' cwold enough, I s'pose; Zit down an' rest your bwones, an' warm your nose. JOHN. Why I be nippy: what is there to eat? WIFE. Your supper's nearly ready. I've a got Some teaeties here a-doen in the pot; I wish wi' all my heart I had some meat. I got a little ceaeke too, here, a-beaeken o'n Upon the vier. 'Tis done by this time though. He's nice an' moist; vor when I wer a-meaeken o'n I stuck some bits ov apple in the dough. CHILD. Well, father; what d'ye think? The pig got out This mornen; an' avore we zeed or heaerd en, He run about, an' got out into geaerden, An' routed up the groun' zoo wi' his snout! JOHN. Now only think o' that! You must contrive To keep en in, or else he'll never thrive. CHILD. An' father, what d'ye think? I voun' to-day The nest where thik wold hen ov our's do lay: 'Twer out in orcha'd hedge, an' had vive aggs. WIFE. Lo'k there: how wet you got your veet an' lags! How did ye get in such a pickle, Jahn? JOHN. I broke my hoss, an' been a-fwo'ced to stan' All's day in mud an' water vor to dig, An' meaede myzelf so wetshod as a pig. CHILD. Father, teaeke off your shoes, then come, and I Will bring your wold woones vor ye, nice an' dry. WIFE. An' have ye got much hedgen mwore to do? JOHN. Enough to last vor dree weeks mwore or zoo. WIFE. An' when y'ave done the job you be about, D'ye think you'll have another vound ye out? JOHN. O ees, there'll be some mwore: vor after that, I got a job o' trenchen to goo at; An' then zome trees to shroud, an' wood to vell,-- Zoo I do hope to rub on pretty well Till zummer time; an' then I be to cut The wood an' do the trenchen by the tut. CHILD. An' nex' week, father, I'm a-gwain to goo A-picken stwones, d'ye know, vor Farmer True. WIFE. An' little Jack, you know, 's a-gwain to eaern A penny too, a-keepen birds off corn. JOHN. O brave! What wages do 'e meaen to gi'e? WIFE. She dreppence vor a day, an' twopence he. JOHN. Well, Polly; thou must work a little spracker When thou bist out, or else thou wu'ten pick A dungpot lwoad o' stwones up very quick. CHILD. Oh! yes I shall. But Jack do want a clacker: An' father, wull ye teaeke an' cut A stick or two to meaeke his hut. JOHN. You wench! why you be always up a-baggen. I be too tired now to-night, I'm sure, To zet a-doen any mwore: Zoo I shall goo up out o' the way o' the waggon. [Gothic: Eclogue.] A GHOST. _Jem an' Dick._ JEM. This is a darkish evenen; b'ye a-feaerd O' zights? Theaese leaene's a-haunted, I've a heaerd. DICK. No, I be'nt much a-feaer'd. If vo'k don't strive To over-reach me while they be alive, I don't much think the dead wull ha' the will To come back here to do me any ill. An' I've a-been about all night, d'ye know, Vrom candle-lighten till the cock did crow; But never met wi' nothen bad enough To be much wo'se than what I be myzuf; Though I, lik' others, have a-heaerd vo'k zay The girt house is a-haunted, night an' day. JEM. Aye; I do mind woone winter 'twer a-zaid The farmer's vo'k could hardly sleep a-bed, They heaerd at night such scuffens an' such jumpens, Such ugly naises an' such rottlen thumpens. DICK. Aye, I do mind I heaerd his son, young Sammy, Tell how the chairs did dance an' doors did slammy; He stood to it--though zome vo'k woulden heed en-- He didden only hear the ghost, but zeed en; An', hang me! if I han't a'most a-shook, To hear en tell what ugly sheaepes it took. Did zometimes come vull six veet high, or higher, In white, he zaid, wi' eyes lik' coals o' vier; An' zometimes, wi' a feaece so peaele as milk, A smileless leaedy, all a-deck'd in silk. His heaeir, he zaid, did use to stand upright, So stiff's a bunch o' rushes, wi' his fright. JEM. An' then you know that zome'hat is a-zeed Down there in leaene, an' over in the meaed, A-comen zometimes lik' a slinken hound, Or rollen lik' a vleece along the ground. An' woonce, when gramfer wi' his wold grey meaere Wer riden down the leaene vrom Shroton feaeir, It roll'd so big's a pack ov wool across The road just under en, an' leaem'd his hoss. DICK. Aye; did ye ever hear--vo'k zaid 'twer true-- O' what bevell Jack Hine zome years agoo? Woone vrosty night, d'ye know, at Chris'mas tide, Jack, an' another chap or two bezide, 'D a-been out, zomewhere up at tother end O' parish, to a naighbour's house to spend A merry hour, an' mid a-took a cup Or two o' eaele a-keepen Chris'mas up; Zoo I do lot 'twer leaete avore the peaerty 'D a-burnt their bron out; I do lot, avore They thought o' turnen out o' door 'Twer mornen, vor their friendship then wer hearty. Well; clwose ageaen the vootpath that do leaed Vrom higher parish over withy-meaed, There's still a hollow, you do know: they tried there, In former times, to meaeke a cattle-pit, But gie'd it up, because they coulden get The water any time to bide there. Zoo when the merry fellows got Just overright theaese lwonesome spot, Jack zeed a girt big house-dog wi' a collar, A-stannen down in thik there hollor. Lo'k there, he zaid, there's zome girt dog a-prowlen: I'll just goo down an' gi'e'n a goodish lick Or two wi' theaese here groun'-ash stick, An' zend the shaggy rascal hwome a-howlen. Zoo there he run, an' gi'ed en a good whack Wi' his girt ashen stick a-thirt his back; An', all at woonce, his stick split right all down In vower pieces; an' the pieces vled Out ov his hand all up above his head, An' pitch'd in vower corners o' the groun'. An' then he velt his han' get all so num', He coulden veel a vinger or a thum'; An' after that his eaerm begun to zwell, An' in the night a-bed he vound The skin o't peelen off all round. 'Twer near a month avore he got it well. JEM. That wer vor hetten [=o]'n. He should a let en Alwone d'ye zee: 'twer wicked vor to het en. SUNDRY PIECES. A ZONG. O Jenny, don't sobby! vor I shall be true; Noo might under heaven shall peaert me vrom you. My heart will be cwold, Jenny, when I do slight The zwell o' thy bosom, thy eyes' sparklen light. My kinsvo'k would fain zee me teaeke vor my meaete A maid that ha' wealth, but a maid I should heaete; But I'd sooner leaebour wi' thee vor my bride, Than live lik' a squier wi' any bezide. Vor all busy kinsvo'k, my love will be still A-zet upon thee lik' the vir in the hill; An' though they mid worry, an' dreaten, an' mock, My head's in the storm, but my root's in the rock. Zoo, Jenny, don't sobby! vor I shall be true; Noo might under heaven shall peaert me vrom you. My heart will be cwold, Jenny, when I do slight The zwell o' thy bosom, thy eyes' sparklen light. THE MAID VOR MY BRIDE. Ah! don't tell o' maidens! the woone vor my bride Is little lik' too many maidens bezide,-- Not branten, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind. She's straight an' she's slender, but not over tall, Wi' lim's that be lightsome, but not over small; The goodness o' heaven do breathe in her feaece, An' a queen, to be steaetely, must walk wi' her peaece. Her frocks be a-meaede all becomen an' plain, An' cleaen as a blossom undimm'd by a stain; Her bonnet ha' got but two ribbons, a-tied Up under her chin, or let down at the zide. When she do speak to woone, she don't steaere an' grin; There's sense in her looks, vrom her eyes to her chin, An' her words be so kind, an' her speech is so meek, As her eyes do look down a-beginnen to speak. Her skin is so white as a lily, an' each Ov her cheaeks is so downy an' red as a peach; She's pretty a-zitten; but oh! how my love Do watch her to madness when woonce she do move. An' when she do walk hwome vrom church drough the groun', Wi' woone eaerm in mine, an' wi' woone a-hung down, I do think, an' do veel mwore o' sheaeme than o' pride, That do meaeke me look ugly to walk by her zide. Zoo don't talk o' maiden's! the woone vor my bride Is but little lik' too many maidens bezide,-- Not branten, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind. THE HWOMESTEAD. If I had all the land my zight Can overlook vrom Chalwell hill, Vrom Sherborn left to Blanvord right, Why I could be but happy still. An' I be happy wi' my spot O' freehold ground an' mossy cot, An' shoulden get a better lot If I had all my will. My orcha'd's wide, my trees be young; An' they do bear such heavy crops, Their boughs, lik' onion-rwopes a-hung, Be all a-trigg'd to year, wi' props. I got some geaerden groun' to dig, A parrock, an' a cow an' pig; I got zome cider vor to swig, An' eaele o' malt an' hops. I'm landlord o' my little farm, I'm king 'ithin my little pleaece; I don't break laws, an' don't do harm, An' bent a-feaer'd o' noo man's feaece. When I'm a-cover'd wi' my thatch, Noo man do deaere to lift my latch; Where honest han's do shut the hatch, There fear do leaeve the pleaece. My lofty elem trees do screen My brown-ruf'd house, an' here below, My geese do strut athirt the green, An' hiss an' flap their wings o' snow; As I do walk along a rank Ov apple trees, or by a bank, Or zit upon a bar or plank, To see how things do grow. THE FARMER'S WOLDEST D[=A]'TER. No, no! I ben't a-runnen down The pretty maiden's o' the town, Nor wishen o'm noo harm; But she that I would marry vu'st, To sheaere my good luck or my crust, 'S a-bred up at a farm. In town, a maid do zee mwore life, An' I don't under-reaete her; But ten to woone the sprackest wife 'S a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter. Vor she do veed, wi' tender ceaere, The little woones, an' peaert their heaeir, An' keep em neat an' pirty; An' keep the saucy little chaps O' bwoys in trim wi' dreats an' slaps, When they be wild an' dirty. Zoo if you'd have a bus'len wife, An' childern well look'd after, The maid to help ye all drough life 'S a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter. An' she can iorn up an' vwold A book o' clothes wi' young or wold, An' zalt an' roll the butter; An' meaeke brown bread, an' elder wine, An' zalt down meat in pans o' brine, An' do what you can put her. Zoo if you've wherewi', an' would vind A wife wo'th looken [=a]'ter, Goo an' get a farmer in the mind To gi'e ye his woldest d[=a]'ter. Her heart's so innocent an' kind, She idden thoughtless, but do mind Her mother an' her duty; An' liven blushes, that do spread Upon her healthy feaece o' red, Do heighten all her beauty; So quick's a bird, so neat's a cat, So cheerful in her neaetur, The best o' maidens to come at 'S a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter. UNCLE OUT O' DEBT AN' OUT O' DANGER. Ees; uncle had thik small hwomestead, The leaezes an' the bits o' mead, Besides the orcha'd in his prime, An' copse-wood vor the winter time. His wold black meaere, that draw'd his cart, An' he, wer seldom long apeaert; Vor he work'd hard an' paid his woy, An' zung so litsom as a bwoy, As he toss'd an' work'd, An' blow'd an' quirk'd, "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feaece a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peaeir Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meaere." His meaere's long vlexy vetlocks grow'd Down roun' her hoofs so black an' brode; Her head hung low, her tail reach'd down A-bobben nearly to the groun'. The cwoat that uncle mwostly wore Wer long behind an' straight avore, An' in his shoes he had girt buckles, An' breeches button'd round his huckles; An' he zung wi' pride, By's wold meaere's zide, "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feaece a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peaeir Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." An' he would work,--an' lwoad, an' shoot, An' spur his heaps o' dung or zoot; Or car out hay, to sar his vew Milch cows in corners dry an' lew; Or dreve a zyve, or work a pick, To pitch or meaeke his little rick; Or thatch en up wi' straw or zedge, Or stop a shard, or gap, in hedge; An' he work'd an' flung His eaerms, an' zung "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feaece a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peaeir Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." An' when his meaere an' he'd a-done Their work, an' tired ev'ry bwone, He zot avore the vire, to spend His evenen wi' his wife or friend; An' wi' his lags out-stratch'd vor rest, An' woone hand in his wes'coat breast, While burnen sticks did hiss an' crack, An' fleaemes did bleaezy up the back, There he zung so proud In a bakky cloud, "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feaece a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peaeir Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." From market how he used to ride, Wi' pot's a-bumpen by his zide Wi' things a-bought--but not vor trust, Vor what he had he paid vor vu'st; An' when he trotted up the yard, The calves did bleaery to be sar'd, An' pigs did scoat all drough the muck, An' geese did hiss, an' hens did cluck; An' he zung aloud, So pleased an' proud, "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feaece a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peaeir Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." When he wer joggen hwome woone night Vrom market, after candle-light, (He mid a-took a drop o' beer, Or midden, vor he had noo fear,) Zome ugly, long-lagg'd, herren ribs, Jump'd out an' ax'd en vor his dibs; But he soon gi'ed en such a mawlen, That there he left en down a-sprawlen, While he jogg'd along Wi' his own wold zong, "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feaece a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peaeir Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." THE CHURCH AN' HAPPY ZUNDAY. Ah! ev'ry day mid bring a while O' eaese vrom all woone's ceaere an' tweil, The welcome evenen, when 'tis sweet Vor tired friends wi' weary veet, But litsome hearts o' love, to meet; An' yet while weekly times do roll, The best vor body an' vor soul 'S the church an' happy Zunday. Vor then our loosen'd souls do rise Wi' holy thoughts beyond the skies, As we do think o' _Him_ that shed His blood vor us, an' still do spread His love upon the live an' dead; An' how He gi'ed a time an' pleaece To gather us, an' gi'e us greaece,-- The church an' happy Zunday. There, under leaenen mossy stwones, Do lie, vorgot, our fathers' bwones, That trod this groun' vor years agoo, When things that now be wold wer new; An' comely maidens, mild an' true, That meaede their sweet-hearts happy brides, An' come to kneel down at their zides At church o' happy Zundays. 'Tis good to zee woone's naighbours come Out drough the churchyard, vlocken hwome, As woone do nod, an' woone do smile, An' woone do toss another's chile; An' zome be sheaeken han's, the while Poll's uncle, chucken her below Her chin, do tell her she do grow, At church o' happy Zundays. Zoo while our blood do run in vains O' liven souls in theaesum plains, Mid happy housen smoky round The church an' holy bit o' ground; An' while their wedden bells do sound, Oh! mid em have the meaens o' greaece, The holy day an' holy pleaece, The church an' happy Zunday. THE WOLD WAGGON. The girt wold waggon uncle had, When I wer up a hardish lad, Did stand, a-screen'd vrom het an' wet, In zummer at the barken geaete, Below the elems' spreaeden boughs, A-rubb'd by all the pigs an' cows. An' I've a-clom his head an' zides, A-riggen up or jumpen down A-playen, or in happy rides Along the leaene or drough the groun', An' many souls be in their greaeves, That rod' together on his reaeves; An' he, an' all the hosses too, 'V a-ben a-done vor years agoo. Upon his head an' tail wer pinks, A-painted all in tangled links; His two long zides wer blue,--his bed Bent slightly upward at the head; His reaeves rose upward in a bow Above the slow hind-wheels below. Vour hosses wer a-kept to pull The girt wold waggon when 'twer vull; The black meaere _Smiler_, strong enough To pull a house down by herzuf, So big, as took my widest strides To straddle halfway down her zides; An' champen _Vi'let_, sprack an' light, That foam'd an' pull'd wi' all her might: An' _Whitevoot_, leaezy in the treaece, Wi' cunnen looks an' show-white feaece; Bezides a bay woone, short-tail _Jack_, That wer a treaece-hoss or a hack. How many lwoads o' vuzz, to scald The milk, thik waggon have a-haul'd! An' wood vrom copse, an' poles vor rails. An' bayens wi' their bushy tails; An' loose-ear'd barley, hangen down Outzide the wheels a'most to groun', An' lwoads o' hay so sweet an' dry, A-builded straight, an' long, an' high; An' hay-meaekers, a-zitten roun' The reaeves, a-riden hwome vrom groun', When Jim gi'ed Jenny's lips a-smack, An' jealous Dicky whipp'd his back, An' maidens scream'd to veel the thumps A-gi'ed by trenches an' by humps. But he, an' all his hosses too, 'V a-ben a-done vor years agoo. THE DREVEN O' THE COMMON.[B] In the common by our hwome There wer freely-open room, Vor our litty veet to roam By the vuzzen out in bloom. That wi' prickles kept our lags Vrom the skylark's nest ov aggs; While the peewit wheel'd around Wi' his cry up over head, Or he sped, though a-limpen, o'er the ground. There we heaerd the whickr'en meaere Wi' her vaice a-quiv'ren high; Where the cow did loudly bleaere By the donkey's vallen cry. While a-stoopen man did zwing His bright hook at vuzz or ling Free o' fear, wi' wellglov'd hands, O' the prickly vuzz he vell'd, Then sweet-smell'd as it died in faggot bands. When the hayward drove the stock In a herd to zome oone pleaece, Thither vo'k begun to vlock, Each to own his beaestes feaece. While the geese, bezide the stream, Zent vrom gapen bills a scream, An' the cattle then avound, Without right o' greaezen there, Went to bleaere bray or whicker in the pound. [Footnote B: The Driving of the Common was by the _Hayward_ who, whenever he thought fit, would drive all the cattle into a corner and impound all heads belonging to owners without a right of commonage for them, so that they had to ransom them by a fine.] THE COMMON A-TOOK IN. Oh! no, Poll, no! Since they've a-took The common in, our lew wold nook Don't seem a-bit as used to look When we had runnen room; Girt banks do shut up ev'ry drong, An' stratch wi' thorny backs along Where we did use to run among The vuzzen an' the broom. Ees; while the ragged colts did crop The nibbled grass, I used to hop The emmet-buts, vrom top to top, So proud o' my spry jumps: Wi' thee behind or at my zide, A-skippen on so light an' wide 'S thy little frock would let thee stride, Among the vuzzy humps. Ah while the lark up over head Did twitter, I did search the red Thick bunch o' broom, or yollow bed O' vuzzen vor a nest; An' thou di'st hunt about, to meet Wi' strawberries so red an' sweet, Or clogs or shoes off hosses veet, Or wild thyme vor thy breast; Or when the cows did run about A-stung, in zummer, by the stout, Or when they play'd, or when they foueght, Di'st stand a-looken on: An' where white geese, wi' long red bills, Did veed among the emmet-hills, There we did goo to vind their quills Alongzide o' the pon'. What fun there wer among us, when The hayward come, wi' all his men, To dreve the common, an' to pen Strange cattle in the pound; The cows did bleaere, the men did shout An' toss their eaerms an' sticks about, An' vo'ks, to own their stock, come out Vrom all the housen round. A WOLD FRIEND. Oh! when the friends we us'd to know, 'V a-been a-lost vor years; an' when Zome happy day do come, to show Their feaezen to our eyes ageaen, Do meaeke us look behind, John, Do bring wold times to mind, John, Do meaeke hearts veel, if they be steel, All warm, an' soft, an' kind, John. When we do lose, still gay an' young, A vaice that us'd to call woone's neaeme, An' after years ageaen his tongue Do sound upon our ears the seaeme, Do kindle love anew, John, Do wet woone's eyes wi' dew, John, As we do sheaeke, vor friendship's seaeke, His vist an' vind en true, John. What tender thoughts do touch woone's soul, When we do zee a meaed or hill Where we did work, or play, or stroll, An' talk wi' vaices that be still; 'Tis touchen vor to treaece, John, Wold times drough ev'ry pleaece, John; But that can't touch woone's heart so much, As zome wold long-lost feaece, John. THE RWOSE THAT DECK'D HER BREAST. Poor Jenny wer her Robert's bride Two happy years, an' then he died; An' zoo the wold vo'k meaede her come, Vorseaeken, to her maiden hwome. But Jenny's merry tongue wer dum'; An' round her comely neck she wore A murnen kerchif, where avore The rwose did deck her breast. She walk'd alwone, wi' eye-balls wet, To zee the flow'rs that she'd a-zet; The lilies, white's her maiden frocks, The spike, to put 'ithin her box, Wi' columbines an' hollyhocks; The jilliflow'r an' nodden pink, An' rwose that touch'd her soul to think Ov woone that deck'd her breast. Vor at her wedden, just avore Her maiden hand had yet a-wore A wife's goold ring, wi' hangen head She walk'd along thik flower-bed, Where stocks did grow, a-stained wi' red, An' meaerygoolds did skirt the walk, An' gather'd vrom the rwose's stalk A bud to deck her breast. An' then her cheaek, wi' youthvul blood Wer bloomen as the rwoses bud; But now, as she wi' grief do pine, 'Tis peaele's the milk-white jessamine. But Robert have a-left behine A little beaeby wi' his feaece, To smile, an' nessle in the pleaece Where the rwose did deck her breast. NANNY'S COW. Ov all the cows, among the rest Wer woone that Nanny lik'd the best; An' after milken us'd to stan' A-veeden o' her, vrom her han', Wi' grass or hay; an' she know'd Ann, An' in the evenen she did come The vu'st, a-beaeten uep roun' hwome Vor Ann to come an' milk her. Her back wer hollor as a bow, Her lags wer short, her body low; Her head wer small, her horns turn'd in Avore Her feaece so sharp's a pin: Her eyes wer vull, her ears wer thin, An' she wer red vrom head to tail, An' didden start nor kick the pail, When Nanny zot to milk her. But losses zoon begun to vall On Nanny's father, that wi' all His tweil he voun', wi' breaken heart, That he mus' leaeve his ground, an' peaert Wi' all his beaest an' hoss an' cart; An', what did touch en mwost, to zell The red cow Nanny lik'd so well, An' lik'd vor her to milk her. Zalt tears did run vrom Nanny's eyes, To hear her restless father's sighs. But as vor me, she mid be sure I wont vorzeaeke her now she's poor, Vor I do love her mwore an' mwore; An' if I can but get a cow An' parrock, I'll vulvil my vow, An' she shall come an' milk her. THE SHEP'ERD BWOY. When the warm zummer breeze do blow over the hill, An' the vlock's a-spread over the ground; When the vaice o' the busy wold sheep dog is still, An' the sheep-bells do tinkle all round; Where noo tree vor a sheaede but the thorn is a-vound, There, a zingen a zong, Or a-whislen among The sheep, the young shep'erd do bide all day long. When the storm do come up wi' a thundery cloud That do shut out the zunlight, an' high Over head the wild thunder do rumble so loud, An' the lightnen do flash vrom the sky, Where noo shelter's a-vound but his hut, that is nigh, There out ov all harm, In the dry an' the warm, The poor little shep'erd do smile at the storm. When the cwold winter win' do blow over the hill, An' the hore-vrost do whiten the grass, An' the breath o' the no'th is so cwold, as to chill The warm blood ov woone's heart as do pass; When the ice o' the pond is so slipp'ry as glass, There, a-zingen a zong, Or a-whislen among The sheep, the poor shep'erd do bide all day long. When the shearen's a-come, an' the shearers do pull In the sheep, hangen back a-gwain in, Wi' their roun' zides a-heaven in under their wool, To come out all a-clipp'd to the skin; When the feaesten, an' zingen, an fun do begin, Vor to help em, an' sheaere All their me'th an' good feaere, The poor little shep'erd is sure to be there. HOPE A-LEFT BEHIND. Don't try to win a maiden's heart, To leaeve her in her love,--'tis wrong: 'Tis bitter to her soul to peaert Wi' woone that is her sweetheart long. A maid's vu'st love is always strong; An' if do fail, she'll linger on, Wi' all her best o' pleasure gone, An' hope a-left behind her. Thy poor lost Jenny wer a-grow'd So kind an' thoughtvul vor her years, When she did meet wi' vo'k a-know'd The best, her love did speak in tears. She walk'd wi' thee, an' had noo fears O' thy unkindness, till she zeed Herzelf a-cast off lik' a weed, An' hope a-left behind her. Thy slight turn'd peaele her cherry lip; Her sorrow, not a-zeed by eyes, Wer lik' the mildew, that do nip A bud by darksome midnight skies. The day mid come, the zun mid rise, But there's noo hope o' day nor zun; The storm ha' blow'd, the harm's a-done, An' hope's a-left behind her. The time will come when thou wouldst gi'e The worold vor to have her smile, Or meet her by the parrock tree, Or catch her jumpen off the stile; Thy life's avore thee vor a while, But thou wilt turn thy mind in time, An' zee the deed as 'tis,--a crime, An' hope a-left behind thee. Zoo never win a maiden's heart, But her's that is to be thy bride, An' play drough life a manly peaert, An' if she's true when time ha' tried Her mind, then teaeke her by thy zide. True love will meaeke thy hardships light, True love will meaeke the worold bright, When hope's a-left behind thee. A GOOD FATHER. No; mind thy father. When his tongue Is keen, he's still thy friend, John, Vor wolder vo'k should warn the young How wickedness will end, John; An' he do know a wicked youth Would be thy manhood's beaene, An' zoo would bring thee back ageaen 'Ithin the ways o' truth. An' mind en still when in the end His leaebour's all a-done, John, An' let en vind a steadvast friend In thee his thoughtvul son, John; Vor he did win what thou didst lack Avore couldst work or stand, An' zoo, when time do num' his hand, Then pay his leaebour back. An' when his bwones be in the dust, Then honour still his neaeme, John; An' as his godly soul wer just, Let thine be voun' the seaeme, John. Be true, as he wer true, to men, An' love the laws o' God; Still tread the road that he've a-trod, An' live wi' him ageaen. THE BEAM IN GRENLEY CHURCH. In church at Grenley woone mid zee A beam vrom wall to wall; a tree That's longer than the church is wide, An' zoo woone end o'n's drough outside,-- Not cut off short, but bound all round Wi' lead, to keep en seaefe an' sound. Back when the builders vu'st begun The church,--as still the teaele do run,-- A man work'd wi' em; no man knew Who 'twer, nor whither he did goo. He wer as harmless as a chile, An' work'd 'ithout a frown or smile, Till any woaths or strife did rise To overcast his sparklen eyes: An' then he'd call their minds vrom strife, To think upon another life. He wer so strong, that all alwone He lifted beams an' blocks o' stwone, That others, with the girtest pains, Could hardly wag wi' bars an' chains; An' yet he never used to stay O' Zaturdays, to teaeke his pay. Woone day the men wer out o' heart, To have a beam a-cut too short; An' in the evenen, when they shut Off work, they left en where 'twer put; An' while dumb night went softly by Towards the vi'ry western sky, A-lullen birds, an' shutten up The deaeisy an' the butter cup, They went to lay their heavy heads An' weary bwones upon their beds. An' when the dewy mornen broke, An' show'd the worold, fresh awoke, Their godly work ageaen, they vound The beam they left upon the ground A-put in pleaece, where still do bide, An' long enough to reach outzide. But he unknown to tother men Wer never there at work ageaen: Zoo whether he mid be a man Or angel, wi' a helpen han', Or whether all o't wer a dream, They didden deaere to cut the beam. THE VAICES THAT BE GONE. When evenen sheaedes o' trees do hide A body by the hedge's zide, An' twitt'ren birds, wi' playsome flight, Do vlee to roost at comen night, Then I do saunter out o' zight In orcha'd, where the pleaece woonce rung Wi' laughs a-laugh'd an' zongs a-zung By vaices that be gone. There's still the tree that bore our swing, An' others where the birds did zing; But long-leav'd docks do overgrow The groun' we trampled heaere below, Wi' merry skippens to an' fro Bezide the banks, where Jim did zit A-playen o' the clarinit To vaices that be gone. How mother, when we us'd to stun Her head wi' all our naisy fun, Did wish us all a-gone vrom hwome: An' now that zome be dead, an' zome A-gone, an' all the pleaece is dum', How she do wish, wi' useless tears, To have ageaen about her ears The vaices that be gone. Vor all the maidens an' the bwoys But I, be marri'd off all woys, Or dead an' gone; but I do bide At hwome, alwone, at mother's zide, An' often, at the evenen-tide, I still do saunter out, wi' tears, Down drough the orcha'd, where my ears Do miss the vaices gone. POLL. When out below the trees, that drow'd Their scraggy lim's athirt the road, While evenen zuns, a'most a-zet, Gi'ed goolden light, but little het, The merry chaps an' maidens met, An' look'd to zomebody to neaeme Their bit o' fun, a dance or geaeme, 'Twer Poll they cluster'd round. An' after they'd a-had enough O' snappen tongs, or blind-man's buff, O' winter nights, an' went an' stood Avore the vire o' bleaezen wood, Though there wer maidens kind an' good, Though there wer maidens feaeir an' tall, 'Twer Poll that wer the queen o'm all, An' Poll they cluster'd round. An' when the childern used to catch A glimpse o' Poll avore the hatch, The little things did run to meet Their friend wi' skippen tott'ren veet An' thought noo other kiss so sweet As hers; an' nwone could vind em out Such geaemes to meaeke em jump an' shout, As Poll they cluster'd round. An' now, since she've a-left em, all The pleaece do miss her, girt an' small. In vain vor them the zun do sheen Upon the lwonesome rwoad an' green; Their zwing do hang vorgot between The leaenen trees, vor they've a-lost The best o' maidens, to their cost, The maid they cluster'd round. LOOKS A-KNOW'D AVORE. While zome, a-gwain from pleaece to pleaece, Do daily meet wi' zome new feaece, When my day's work is at an end, Let me zit down at hwome, an' spend A happy hour wi' zome wold friend, An' by my own vire-zide rejaice In zome wold naighbour's welcome vaice, An' looks I know'd avore, John. Why is it, friends that we've a-met By zuns that now ha' long a-zet, Or winter vires that bleaezed for wold An' young vo'k, now vor ever cwold, Be met wi' jay that can't be twold? Why, 'tis because they friends have all Our youthvul spring ha' left our fall,-- The looks we know'd avore, John. 'Tis lively at a feaeir, among The chatten, laughen, shiften drong, When wold an' young, an' high an' low, Do streamy round, an' to an' fro; But what new feaece that we don't know, Can ever meaeke woone's warm heart dance Among ten thousan', lik' a glance O' looks we know'd avore, John. How of'en have the wind a-shook The leaves off into yonder brook, Since vu'st we two, in youthvul strolls, Did ramble roun' them bubblen shoals! An' oh! that zome o' them young souls, That we, in jay, did play wi' then Could come back now, an' bring ageaen The looks we know'd avore, John. So soon's the barley's dead an' down, The clover-leaf do rise vrom groun', An' wolder feaezen do but goo To be a-vollow'd still by new; But souls that be a-tried an' true Shall meet ageaen beyond the skies, An' bring to woone another's eyes The looks they know'd avore, John. THE MUSIC O' THE DEAD. When music, in a heart that's true, Do kindle up wold loves anew, An' dim wet eyes, in feaeirest lights, Do zee but inward fancy's zights; When creepen years, wi' with'ren blights, 'V a-took off them that wer so dear, How touchen 'tis if we do hear The tuens o' the dead, John. When I, a-stannen in the lew O' trees a storm's a-beaeten drough, Do zee the slanten mist a-drove By spitevul winds along the grove, An' hear their hollow sounds above My shelter'd head, do seem, as I Do think o' zunny days gone by. Lik' music vor the dead, John. Last night, as I wer gwain along The brook, I heaerd the milk-maid's zong A-ringen out so clear an' shrill Along the meaeds an' roun' the hill. I catch'd the tuen, an' stood still To hear 't; 'twer woone that Jeaene did zing A-vield a-milken in the spring,-- Sweet music o' the dead, John. Don't tell o' zongs that be a-zung By young chaps now, wi' sheaemeless tongue: Zing me wold ditties, that would start The maiden's tears, or stir my heart To teaeke in life a manly peaert,-- The wold vo'k's zongs that twold a teaele, An' vollow'd round their mugs o' eaele, The music o' the dead, John. THE PLEAeCE A TEAeLE'S A-TWOLD O'. Why tidden vields an' runnen brooks, Nor trees in Spring or fall; An' tidden woody slopes an' nooks, Do touch us mwost ov all; An' tidden ivy that do cling By housen big an' wold, O, But this is, after all, the thing,-- The pleaece a teaele's a-twold o'. At Burn, where mother's young friends know'd The vu'st her maiden neaeme, The zunny knaps, the narrow road An' green, be still the seaeme; The squier's house, an' ev'ry ground That now his son ha' zwold, O, An' ev'ry wood he hunted round 'S a pleaece a teaele's a-twold o'. The maid a-lov'd to our heart's core, The dearest of our kin, Do meaeke us like the very door Where they went out an' in. 'Tis zome'hat touchen that bevel Poor flesh an' blood o' wold, O, Do meaeke us like to zee so well The pleaece a teaele's a-twold o'. When blushen Jenny vu'st did come To zee our Poll o' nights, An' had to goo back leaetish hwome, Where vo'k did zee the zights, A-chatten loud below the sky So dark, an' winds so cwold, O, How proud wer I to zee her by The pleaece the teaele's a-twold o'. Zoo whether 'tis the humpy ground That wer a battle viel', Or mossy house, all ivy-bound, An' vallen down piece-meal; Or if 'tis but a scraggy tree, Where beauty smil'd o' wold, O, How dearly I do like to zee The pleaece a teaele's a-twold o'. AUNT'S TANTRUMS. Why ees, aunt Anne's a little staid, But kind an' merry, poor wold maid! If we don't cut her heart wi' slights, She'll zit an' put our things to rights, Upon a hard day's work, o' nights; But zet her up, she's jis' lik' vier, An' woe betide the woone that's nigh 'er. When she is in her tantrums. She'll toss her head, a-steppen out Such strides, an' fling the pails about; An' slam the doors as she do goo, An' kick the cat out wi' her shoe, Enough to het her off in two. The bwoys do bundle out o' house, A-lassen they should get a towse, When aunt is in her tantrums. She whurr'd, woone day, the wooden bowl In such a veag at my poor poll; It brush'd the heaeir above my crown, An' whizz'd on down upon the groun', An' knock'd the bantam cock right down, But up he sprung, a-teaeken flight Wi' tothers, clucken in a fright, Vrom aunt in such a tantrum! But Dick stole in, an' reach'd en down The biggest blather to be voun', An' crope an' put en out o' zight Avore the vire, an' plimm'd en tight An crack'd en wi' the slice thereright She scream'd, an' bundled out o' house, An' got so quiet as a mouse,-- It frighten'd off her tantrum. THE STWONEN PWORCH. A new house! Ees, indeed! a small Straight, upstart thing, that, after all, Do teaeke in only half the groun' The wold woone did avore 'twer down; Wi' little windows straight an' flat, Not big enough to zun a-cat, An' dealen door a-meaede so thin, A puff o' wind would blow en in, Where woone do vind a thing to knock So small's the hammer ov a clock, That wull but meaeke a little click About so loud's a clock do tick! Gi'e me the wold house, wi' the wide An' lofty-lo'ted rooms inside; An' wi' the stwonen pworch avore The nail-bestudded woaken door, That had a knocker very little Less to handle than a bittle, That het a blow that vled so loud Drough house as thunder drough a cloud. An' meaede the dog behind the door Growl out so deep's a bull do roar. In all the house, o' young an' wold, There werden woone but could a-twold When he'd noo wish to seek abrode Mwore jay than thik wold pworch bestow'd! For there, when yollow evenen shed His light ageaen the elem's head, An' gnots did whiver in the zun, An' uncle's work wer all a-done, His whiffs o' melten smoke did roll Above his benden pipe's white bowl, While he did chat, or, zitten dumb, Injay his thoughts as they did come. An' Jimmy, wi' his crowd below His chin, did dreve his nimble bow In tuens vor to meaeke us spring A-reelen, or in zongs to zing, An' there, between the dark an' light, Zot Poll by Willy's zide at night A-whisp'ren, while her eyes did zwim In jay avore the twilight dim; An' when (to know if she wer near) Aunt call'd, did cry, "Ees, mother; here." No, no; I woulden gi'e thee thanks Vor fine white walls an' vloors o' planks, Nor doors a-paeinted up so fine. If I'd a wold grey house o' mine, Gi'e me vor all it should be small, A stwonen pworch instead [=o]'t all. FARMER'S SONS. Ov all the chaps a-burnt so brown By zunny hills an' hollors, Ov all the whindlen chaps in town Wi' backs so weak as rollers, There's narn that's half so light o' heart, (I'll bet, if thou't zay "done," min,) An' narn that's half so strong an' smart, 'S a merry farmer's son, min. He'll fling a stwone so true's a shot, He'll jump so light's a cat; He'll heave a waight up that would squot A weakly fellow flat. He wont gi'e up when things don't fay, But turn em into fun, min; An' what's hard work to zome, is play Avore a farmer's son, min. His bwony eaerm an' knuckly vist ('Tis best to meaeke a friend o't) Would het a fellow, that's a-miss'd, Half backward wi' the wind o't. Wi' such a chap at hand, a maid Would never goo a nun, min; She'd have noo call to be afraid Bezide a farmer's son, min. He'll turn a vurrow, drough his langth, So straight as eyes can look, Or pitch all day, wi' half his strangth, At ev'ry pitch a pook; An' then goo vower mile, or vive, To vind his friends in fun, min, Vor maiden's be but dead alive 'Ithout a farmer's son, min. Zoo jay be in his heart so light, An' manly feaece so brown; An' health goo wi' en hwome at night, Vrom meaed, or wood, or down. O' rich an' poor, o' high an' low, When all's a-said an' done, min, The smartest chap that I do know, 'S a worken farmer's son, min. JEAeNE. We now mid hope vor better cheer, My smilen wife o' twice vive year. Let others frown, if thou bist near Wi' hope upon thy brow, Jeaene; Vor I vu'st lov'd thee when thy light Young sheaepe vu'st grew to woman's height; I loved thee near, an' out o' zight, An' I do love thee now, Jeaene. An' we've a-trod the sheenen bleaede Ov eegrass in the zummer sheaede, An' when the leaeves begun to feaede Wi' zummer in the weaene, Jeaene; An' we've a-wander'd drough the groun' O' swayen wheat a-turnen brown, An' we've a-stroll'd together roun' The brook an' drough the leaene, Jeane. An' nwone but I can ever tell Ov all thy tears that have a-vell When trials meaede thy bosom zwell, An' nwone but thou o' mine, Jeaene; An' now my heart, that heav'd wi' pride Back then to have thee at my zide, Do love thee mwore as years do slide, An' leaeve them times behine, Jeaene. THE DREE WOAKS. By the brow o' thik hangen I spent all my youth, In the house that did peep out between The dree woaks, that in winter avworded their lewth, An' in zummer their sheaede to the green; An' there, as in zummer we play'd at our geaemes, We [=e]ach own'd a tree, Vor we wer but dree, An' zoo the dree woaks wer a-call'd by our neaemes. An' two did grow scraggy out over the road, An' they wer call'd Jimmy's an' mine; An' tother wer Jeaennet's, much kindlier grow'd, Wi' a knotless an' white ribbed rine. An' there, o' fine nights avore gwaein in to rest, We did dance, vull o' life, To the sound o' the fife, Or play at some geaeme that poor Jeaennet lik'd best. Zoo happy wer we by the woaks o' the green, Till we lost sister Jeaennet, our pride; Vor when she wer come to her last blushen _teen_, She suddenly zicken'd an' died. An' avore the green leaves in the fall wer gone by, The lightnen struck dead Her woaken tree's head, An' left en a-stripp'd to the wintery sky. But woone ov his eaecorns, a-zet in the Fall, Come up the Spring after, below The trees at her head-stwone 'ithin the church-wall, An' mother, to see how did grow, Shed a tear; an' when father an' she wer bwoth dead, There they wer laid deep, Wi' their Jeaennet, to sleep, Wi' her at his zide, an' her tree at her head. An' vo'k do still call the wold house the dree woaks, Vor thik is a-reckon'd that's down, As mother, a-neaemen her childern to vo'ks, Meaede dree when but two wer a-voun'; An' zaid that hereafter she knew she should zee Why God, that's above, Vound fit in his love To strike wi' his han' the poor maid an' her tree. THE HWOMESTEAD A-VELL INTO HAND. The house where I wer born an' bred, Did own his woaken door, John, When vu'st he shelter'd father's head, An' gramfer's long avore, John. An' many a ramblen happy chile, An' chap so strong an' bwold, An' bloomen maid wi' playsome smile, Did call their hwome o' wold Thik ruf so warm, A kept vrom harm By elem trees that broke the storm. An' in the orcha'd out behind, The apple-trees in row, John, Did sway wi' moss about their rind Their heads a-nodden low, John. An' there, bezide zome groun' vor corn, Two strips did skirt the road; In woone the cow did toss her horn, While tother wer a-mow'd, In June, below The lofty row Ov trees that in the hedge did grow. A-worken in our little patch O' parrock, rathe or leaete, John, We little ho'd how vur mid stratch The squier's wide esteaete, John. Our hearts, so honest an' so true, Had little vor to fear; Vor we could pay up all their due An' gi'e a friend good cheer At hwome, below The lofty row O' trees a-swayen to an' fro. An' there in het, an' there in wet, We tweil'd wi' busy hands, John; Vor ev'ry stroke o' work we het, Did better our own lands, John. But after me, ov all my kin, Not woone can hold em on; Vor we can't get a life put in Vor mine, when I'm a-gone Vrom thik wold brown Thatch ruf, a-boun' By elem trees a-growen roun'. Ov eight good hwomes, where, I can mind Vo'k liv'd upon their land, John, But dree be now a-left behind; The rest ha' vell in hand, John, An' all the happy souls they ved Be scatter'd vur an' wide. An' zome o'm be a-wanten bread, Zome, better off, ha' died, Noo mwore to ho, Vor homes below The trees a-swayen to an' fro. An' I could leaed ye now all round The parish, if I would, John, An' show ye still the very ground Where vive good housen stood, John In broken orcha'ds near the spot, A vew wold trees do stand; But dew do vall where vo'k woonce zot About the burnen brand In housen warm, A-kept vrom harm By elems that did break the storm. THE GUIDE POST. Why thik wold post so long kept out, Upon the knap, his eaerms astrout, A-zenden on the weary veet By where the dree cross roads do meet; An' I've a-come so much thik woy, Wi' happy heart, a man or bwoy, That I'd a-meaede, at last, a'most A friend o' thik wold guiden post. An' there, wi' woone white eaerm he show'd, Down over bridge, the Leyton road; Wi' woone, the leaene a-leaeden roun' By Bradlinch Hill, an' on to town; An' wi' the last, the way to turn Drough common down to Rushiburn,-- The road I lik'd to goo the mwost Ov all upon the guiden post. The Leyton road ha' lofty ranks Ov elem trees upon his banks; The woone athirt the hill do show Us miles o' hedgy meaeds below; An' he to Rushiburn is wide Wi' strips o' green along his zide, An' ouer brown-ruf'd house a-most In zight o' thik wold guiden post. An' when the hay-meaekers did zwarm O' zummer evenens out vrom farm. The merry maidens an' the chaps, A-peaerten there wi' jokes an' slaps, Did goo, zome woone way off, an' zome Another, all a-zingen hwome; Vor vew o'm had to goo, at mwost, A mile beyond the guiden post. Poor Nanny Brown, woone darkish night, When he'd a-been a-painted white, Wer frighten'd, near the gravel pits, So dead's a hammer into fits, A-thinken 'twer the ghost she know'd Did come an' haunt the Leyton road; Though, after all, poor Nanny's ghost Turn'd out to be the guiden post. GWAIN TO FEAeIR. To morrow stir so brisk's you can, An' get your work up under han'; Vor I an' Jim, an' Poll's young man, Shall goo to feaeir; an' zoo, If you wull let us gi'e ye a eaerm Along the road, or in the zwarm O' vo'k, we'll keep ye out o' harm, An' gi'e ye a feaeiren too. We won't stay leaete there, I'll be boun'; We'll bring our sheaedes off out o' town A mile, avore the zun is down, If he's a sheenen clear. Zoo when your work is all a-done, Your mother can't but let ye run An' zee a little o' the fun, There's nothen there to fear. JEAeNE O' GRENLEY MILL. When in happy times we met, Then by look an' deed I show'd, How my love wer all a-zet In the smiles that she bestow'd. She mid have, o' left an' right, Maidens feaeirest to the zight; I'd a-chose among em still, Pretty Jeaene o' Grenley Mill. She wer feaeirer, by her cows In her work-day frock a-drest, Than the rest wi' scornvul brows All a-flanten in their best. Gay did seem, at feaest or feaeir, Zights that I had her to sheaere; Gay would be my own heart still, But vor Jeaene o' Grenley Mill. Jeaene--a-checken ov her love-- Leaen'd to woone that, as she guess'd, Stood in worldly wealth above Me she know'd she lik'd the best. He wer wild, an' soon run drough All that he'd a-come into, Heartlessly a-treaten ill Pretty Jeaene o' Grenley Mill. Oh! poor Jenny! thou'st a tore Hopen love vrom my poor heart, Losen vrom thy own small store, All the better, sweeter peaert. Hearts a-slighted must vorseaeke Slighters, though a-doom'd to break; I must scorn, but love thee still, Pretty Jeaene o' Grenley Mill. Oh! if ever thy soft eyes Could ha' turn'd vrom outward show, To a lover born to rise When a higher woone wer low; If thy love, when zoo a-tried, Could ha' stood ageaen thy pride, How should I ha' lov'd thee still, Pretty Jeaene o' Grenley Mill. THE BELLS OV ALDERBURNHAM. While now upon the win' do zwell The church-bells' evenen peal, O, Along the bottom, who can tell How touch'd my heart do veel, O. To hear ageaen, as woonce they rung In holidays when I wer young, Wi' merry sound A-ringen round, The bells ov Alderburnham. Vor when they rung their gayest peals O' zome sweet day o' rest, O, We all did ramble drough the viels, A-dress'd in all our best, O; An' at the bridge or roaren weir, Or in the wood, or in the gleaere Ov open ground, Did hear ring round The bells ov Alderburnham. They bells, that now do ring above The young brides at church-door, O, Woonce rung to bless their mother's love, When they were brides avore, O. An' sons in tow'r do still ring on The merry peals o' fathers gone, Noo mwore to sound, Or hear ring round, The bells ov Alderburnham. Ov happy peaeirs, how soon be zome A-wedded an' a-peaerted! Vor woone ov jay, what peals mid come To zome o's broken-hearted! The stronger mid the sooner die, The gayer mid the sooner sigh; An' who do know What grief's below The bells ov Alderburnham! But still 'tis happiness to know That there's a God above us; An' he, by day an' night, do ho Vor all ov us, an' love us, An' call us to His house, to heal Our hearts, by his own Zunday peal Ov bells a-rung Vor wold an' young, The bells ov Alderburnham. THE GIRT WOLD HOUSE O' MOSSY STWONE. The girt wold house o' mossy stwone, Up there upon the knap alwone, Had woonce a bleaezen kitchen-vier, That cook'd vor poor-vo'k an' a squier. The very last ov all the reaece That liv'd the squier o' the pleaece, Died off when father wer a-born, An' now his kin be all vorlorn Vor ever,--vor he left noo son To teaeke the house o' mossy stwone. An' zoo he vell to other hands, An' gramfer took en wi' the lands: An' there when he, poor man, wer dead, My father shelter'd my young head. An' if I wer a squier, I Should like to spend my life, an' die In thik wold house o' mossy stwone, Up there upon the knap alwone. Don't talk ov housen all o' brick, Wi' rocken walls nine inches thick, A-trigg'd together zide by zide In streets, wi' fronts a straddle wide, Wi' yards a-sprinkled wi' a mop, Too little vor a vrog to hop; But let me live an' die where I Can zee the ground, an' trees, an' sky. The girt wold house o' mossy stwone Had wings vor either sheaede or zun: Woone where the zun did glitter drough, When vu'st he struck the mornen dew; Woone feaeced the evenen sky, an' woone Push'd out a pworch to zweaty noon: Zoo woone stood out to break the storm, An' meaede another lew an' warm. An' there the timber'd copse rose high, Where birds did build an' heaeres did lie, An' beds o' graegles in the lew, Did deck in May the ground wi' blue. An' there wer hills an' slopen grounds, That they did ride about wi' hounds; An' drough the meaed did creep the brook Wi' bushy bank an' rushy nook, Where perch did lie in sheaedy holes Below the alder trees, an' shoals O' gudgeon darted by, to hide Theirzelves in hollows by the zide. An' there by leaenes a-winden deep, Wer mossy banks a-risen steep; An' stwonen steps, so smooth an' wide, To stiles an' vootpaths at the zide. An' there, so big's a little ground, The geaerden wer a-wall'd all round: An' up upon the wall wer bars A-sheaeped all out in wheels an' stars, Vor vo'k to walk, an' look out drough Vrom trees o' green to hills o' blue. An' there wer walks o' peaevement, broad Enough to meaeke a carriage-road, Where steaetely leaedies woonce did use To walk wi' hoops an' high-heel shoes, When yonder hollow woak wer sound, Avore the walls wer ivy-bound, Avore the elems met above The road between em, where they drove Their coach all up or down the road A-comen hwome or gwain abroad. The zummer air o' theaese green hill 'V a-heav'd in bosoms now all still, An' all their hopes an' all their tears Be unknown things ov other years. But if, in heaven, souls be free To come back here; or there can be An e'thly pleaece to meaeke em come To zee it vrom a better hwome,-- Then what's a-twold us mid be right, That still, at dead o' tongueless night, Their gauzy sheaepes do come an' glide By vootways o' their youthvul pride. An' while the trees do stan' that grow'd Vor them, or walls or steps they know'd Do bide in pleaece, they'll always come To look upon their e'thly hwome. Zoo I would always let alwone The girt wold house o' mossy stwone: I woulden pull a wing o'n down, To meaeke ther speechless sheaedes to frown; Vor when our souls, mid woonce become Lik' their's, all bodiless an' dumb, How good to think that we mid vind Zome thought vrom them we left behind, An' that zome love mid still unite The hearts o' blood wi' souls o' light. Zoo, if 'twer mine, I'd let alwone The girt wold house o' mossy stwone. A WITCH. There's thik wold hag, Moll Brown, look zee, jus' past! I wish the ugly sly wold witch Would tumble over into ditch; I woulden pull her out not very vast. No, no. I don't think she's a bit belied, No, she's a witch, aye, Molly's evil-eyed. Vor I do know o' many a-withren blight A-cast on vo'k by Molly's mutter'd spite; She did, woone time, a dreadvul deael o' harm To Farmer Gruff's vo'k, down at Lower Farm. Vor there, woone day, they happened to offend her, An' not a little to their sorrow, Because they woulden gi'e or lend her Zome'hat she come to bag or borrow; An' zoo, they soon began to vind That she'd agone an' left behind Her evil wish that had such pow'r, That she did meaeke their milk an' eaele turn zour, An' addle all the aggs their vowls did lay; They coulden vetch the butter in the churn, An' all the cheese begun to turn All back ageaen to curds an' whey; The little pigs, a-runnen wi' the zow, Did zicken, zomehow, noobody know'd how, An' vall, an' turn their snouts toward the sky. An' only gi'e woone little grunt, and die; An' all the little ducks an' chicken Wer death-struck out in yard a-picken Their bits o' food, an' vell upon their head, An' flapp'd their little wings an' drapp'd down dead. They coulden fat the calves, they woulden thrive; They coulden seaeve their lambs alive; Their sheep wer all a-coath'd, or gi'ed noo wool; The hosses vell away to skin an' bwones, An' got so weak they coulden pull A half a peck o' stwones: The dog got dead-alive an' drowsy, The cat vell zick an' woulden mousy; An' every time the vo'k went up to bed, They wer a-hag-rod till they wer half dead. They us'd to keep her out o' house, 'tis true, A-nailen up at door a hosses shoe; An' I've a-heaerd the farmer's wife did try To dawk a needle or a pin In drough her wold hard wither'd skin, An' draw her blood, a-comen by: But she could never vetch a drap, For pins would ply an' needless snap Ageaen her skin; an' that, in coo'se, Did meaeke the hag bewitch em woo'se. [Gothic: Eclogue.] THE TIMES. _John an' Tom._ JOHN. Well, Tom, how be'st? Zoo thou'st a-got thy neaeme Among the leaguers, then, as I've a heaerd. TOM. Aye, John, I have, John; an' I ben't afeaerd To own it. Why, who woulden do the seaeme? We shant goo on lik' this long, I can tell ye. Bread is so high an' wages be so low, That, after worken lik' a hoss, you know, A man can't eaern enough to vill his belly. JOHN. Ah! well! Now there, d'ye know, if I wer sure That theaesem men would gi'e me work to do All drough the year, an' always pay me mwore Than I'm a-eaernen now, I'd jein em too. If I wer sure they'd bring down things so cheap, That what mid buy a pound o' mutton now Would buy the hinder quarters, or the sheep, Or what wull buy a pig would buy a cow: In short, if they could meaeke a shillen goo In market just so vur as two, Why then, d'ye know, I'd be their man; But, hang it! I don't think they can. TOM. Why ees they can, though you don't know't, An' theaesem men can meaeke it clear. Why vu'st they'd zend up members ev'ry year To Parli'ment, an' ev'ry man would vote; Vor if a fellow midden be a squier, He mid be just so fit to vote, an' goo To meaeke the laws at Lon'on, too, As many that do hold their noses higher. Why shoulden fellows meaeke good laws an' speeches A-dressed in fusti'n cwoats an' cord'roy breeches? Or why should hooks an' shovels, zives an' axes, Keep any man vrom voten o' the taxes? An' when the poor've a-got a sheaere In meaeken laws, they'll teaeke good ceaere To meaeke some good woones vor the poor. Do stan' by reason, John; because The men that be to meaeke the laws, Will meaeke em vor theirzelves, you mid be sure. JOHN. Ees, that they wull. The men that you mid trust To help you, Tom, would help their own zelves vu'st. TOM. Aye, aye. But we would have a better plan O' voten, than the woone we got. A man, As things be now, d'ye know, can't goo an' vote Ageaen another man, but he must know't. We'll have a box an' balls, vor voten men To pop their hands 'ithin, d'ye know; an' then, If woone don't happen vor to lik' a man, He'll drop a little black ball vrom his han', An' zend en hwome ageaen. He woon't be led To choose a man to teaeke away his bread. JOHN. But if a man you midden like to 'front, Should chance to call upon ye, Tom, zome day, An' ax ye vor your vote, what could ye zay? Why if you woulden answer, or should grunt Or bark, he'd know you'd meaen "I won't." To promise woone a vote an' not to gi'e't, Is but to be a liar an' a cheat. An' then, bezides, when he did count the balls, An' vind white promises a-turn'd half black; Why then he'd think the voters all a pack O' rogues together,--ev'ry woone o'm false. An' if he had the power, very soon Perhaps he'd vall upon em, ev'ry woone. The times be pinchen me, so well as you, But I can't tell what ever they can do. TOM. Why meaeke the farmers gi'e their leaebouren men Mwore wages,--half or twice so much ageaen As what they got. JOHN. But, Thomas, you can't meaeke A man pay mwore away than he can teaeke. If you do meaeke en gi'e, to till a vield, So much ageaen as what the groun' do yield, He'll shut out farmen--or he'll be a goose-- An' goo an' put his money out to use. Wages be low because the hands be plenty; They mid be higher if the hands wer skenty. Leaebour, the seaeme's the produce o' the yield, Do zell at market price--jist what 'till yield. Thou wouldsten gi'e a zixpence, I do guess, Vor zix fresh aggs, if zix did zell for less. If theaesem vo'k could come an' meaeke mwore lands, If they could teaeke wold England in their hands An' stratch it out jist twice so big ageaen, They'd be a-doen some'hat vor us then. TOM. But if they wer a-zent to Parli'ment To meaeke the laws, dost know, as I've a-zaid, They'd knock the corn-laws on the head; An' then the landlards must let down their rent, An' we should very soon have cheaper bread: Farmers would gi'e less money vor their lands. JOHN. Aye, zoo they mid, an' prices mid be low'r Vor what their land would yield; an' zoo their hands Would be jist where they wer avore. An' if theaese men wer all to hold together, They coulden meaeke new laws to change the weather! They ben't so mighty as to think o' frightenen The vrost an' rain, the thunder an' the lightenen! An' as vor me, I don't know what to think O' them there fine, big-talken, cunnen, Strange men, a-comen down vrom Lon'on. Why they don't stint theirzelves, but eat an' drink The best at public-house where they do stay; They don't work gratis, they do get their pay. They woulden pinch theirzelves to do us good, Nor gi'e their money vor to buy us food. D'ye think, if we should meet em in the street Zome day in Lon'on, they would stand a treat? TOM. They be a-paid, because they be a-zent By corn-law vo'k that be the poor man's friends, To tell us all how we mid gain our ends, A-zenden peaepers up to Parli'ment. JOHN. Ah! teaeke ceaere how dost trust em. Dost thou know The funny feaeble o' the pig an' crow? Woone time a crow begun to strut an' hop About some groun' that men'd a-been a-drillen Wi' barley or some wheat, in hopes o' villen Wi' good fresh corn his empty crop. But lik' a thief, he didden like the pains O' worken hard to get en a vew grains; Zoo while the sleeky rogue wer there a-hunten, Wi' little luck, vor corns that mid be vound A-pecken vor, he heaerd a pig a-grunten Just tother zide o' hedge, in tother ground. "Ah!" thought the cunnen rogue, an' gi'ed a hop, "Ah! that's the way vor me to vill my crop; Aye, that's the plan, if nothen don't defeaet it. If I can get thik pig to bring his snout In here a bit an' turn the barley out, Why, hang it! I shall only have to eat it." Wi' that he vled up straight upon a woak, An' bowen, lik' a man at hustens, spoke: "My friend," zaid he, "that's poorish liven vor ye In thik there leaeze. Why I be very zorry To zee how they hard-hearted vo'k do sarve ye. You can't live there. Why! do they meaen to starve ye?" "Ees," zaid the pig, a-grunten, "ees; What wi' the hosses an' the geese, There's only docks an' thissles here to chaw. Instead o' liven well on good warm straw, I got to grub out here, where I can't pick Enough to meaeke me half an ounce o' flick." "Well," zaid the crow, "d'ye know, if you'll stan' that, You mussen think, my friend, o' getten fat. D'ye want some better keep? Vor if you do, Why, as a friend, I be a-come to tell ye, That if you'll come an' jus' get drough Theaese gap up here, why you mid vill your belly. Why, they've a-been a-drillen corn, d'ye know, In theaese here piece o' groun' below; An' if you'll just put in your snout, An' run en up along a drill, Why, hang it! you mid grub it out, An' eat, an' eat your vill. Their idden any fear that vo'k mid come, Vor all the men be jist a-gone in hwome." The pig, believen ev'ry single word That wer a-twold en by the cunnen bird Wer only vor his good, an' that 'twer true, Just gi'ed a grunt, an' bundled drough, An' het his nose, wi' all his might an' main, Right up a drill, a-routen up the grain; An' as the cunnen crow did gi'e a caw A-praisen [=o]'n, oh! he did veel so proud! An' work'd, an' blow'd, an' toss'd, an' ploughed The while the cunnen crow did vill his maw. An' after worken till his bwones Did eaeche, he soon begun to veel That he should never get a meal, Unless he dined on dirt an' stwones. "Well," zaid the crow, "why don't ye eat?" "Eat what, I wonder!" zaid the heaeiry plougher. A-brislen up an' looken rather zour; "I don't think dirt an' flints be any treat." "Well," zaid the crow, "why you be blind. What! don't ye zee how thick the corn do lie Among the dirt? An' don't ye zee how I Do pick up all that you do leaeve behind? I'm zorry that your bill should be so snubby." "No," zaid the pig, "methinks that I do zee My bill will do uncommon well vor thee, Vor thine wull peck, an' mine wull grubby." An' just wi' this a-zaid by mister Flick To mister Crow, wold John the farmer's man Come up, a-zwingen in his han' A good long knotty stick, An' laid it on, wi' all his might, The poor pig's vlitches, left an' right; While mister Crow, that talk'd so fine O' friendship, left the pig behine, An' vled away upon a distant tree, Vor pigs can only grub, but crows can vlee. TOM. Aye, thik there teaele mid do vor childern's books: But you wull vind it hardish for ye To frighten me, John, wi' a storry O' silly pigs an' cunnen rooks. If we be grubben pigs, why then, I s'pose, The farmers an' the girt woones be the crows. JOHN. 'Tis very odd there idden any friend To poor-vo'k hereabout, but men mus' come To do us good away from tother end Ov England! Han't we any frien's near hwome? I mus' zay, Thomas, that 'tis rather odd That strangers should become so very civil,-- That ouer vo'k be childern o' the Devil, An' other vo'k be all the vo'k o' God! If we've a-got a friend at all, Why who can tell--I'm sure thou cassen-- But that the squier, or the pa'son, Mid be our friend, Tom, after all? The times be hard, 'tis true! an' they that got His blessens, shoulden let theirzelves vorget How 'tis where the vo'k do never zet A bit o' meat within their rusty pot. The man a-zitten in his easy chair To flesh, an' vowl, an' vish, should try to speaere The poor theaese times, a little vrom his store; An' if he don't, why sin is at his door. TOM. Ah! we won't look to that; we'll have our right,-- If not by feaeir meaens, then we wull by might. We'll meaeke times better vor us; we'll be free Ov other vo'k an' others' charity. JOHN. Ah! I do think you mid as well be quiet; You'll meaeke things wo'se, i'-ma'-be, by a riot. You'll get into a mess, Tom, I'm afeaerd; You'll goo vor wool, an' then come hwome a-sheaer'd. POEMS OF RURAL LIFE. SECOND COLLECTION. BLACKMWORE MAIDENS. The primrwose in the sheaede do blow, The cowslip in the zun, The thyme upon the down do grow, The clote where streams do run; An' where do pretty maidens grow An' blow, but where the tow'r Do rise among the bricken tuns, In Blackmwore by the Stour. If you could zee their comely gait, An' pretty feaeces' smiles, A-trippen on so light o' waight, An' steppen off the stiles; A-gwain to church, as bells do swing An' ring 'ithin the tow'r, You'd own the pretty maidens' pleaece Is Blackmwore by the Stour. If you vrom Wimborne took your road, To Stower or Paladore, An' all the farmers' housen show'd Their daughters at the door; You'd cry to bachelors at hwome-- "Here, come: 'ithin an hour You'll vind ten maidens to your mind, In Blackmwore by the Stour." An' if you look'd 'ithin their door, To zee em in their pleaece, A-doen housework up avore Their smilen mother's feaece; You'd cry--"Why, if a man would wive An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r, Then let en look en out a wife In Blackmwore by the Stour." As I upon my road did pass A school-house back in May, There out upon the beaeten grass Wer maidens at their play; An' as the pretty souls did tweil An' smile, I cried, "The flow'r O' beauty, then, is still in bud In Blackmwore by the Stour." MY ORCHA'D IN LINDEN LEA. 'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaeded, By the woak tree's mossy moot, The sheenen grass-bleaedes, timber-sheaeded, Now do quiver under voot; An' birds do whissle over head, An' water's bubblen in its bed, An' there vor me the apple tree Do leaen down low in Linden Lea. When leaves that leaetely wer a-springen Now do feaede 'ithin the copse, An' painted birds do hush their zingen Up upon the timber's tops; An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red, In cloudless zunsheen, over head, Wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree Do leaen down low in Linden Lea. Let other vo'k meaeke money vaster In the air o' dark-room'd towns, I don't dread a peevish meaester; Though noo man do heed my frowns, I be free to goo abrode, Or teaeke ageaen my hwomeward road To where, vor me, the apple tree Do leaen down low in Linden Lea. BISHOP'S CAUNDLE. At peace day, who but we should goo To Caundle vor an' hour or two: As gay a day as ever broke Above the heads o' Caundle vo'k, Vor peace, a-come vor all, did come To them wi' two new friends at hwome. Zoo while we kept, wi' nimble peaece, The wold dun tow'r avore our feaece, The air, at last, begun to come Wi' drubbens ov a beaeten drum; An' then we heaerd the horns' loud droats Play off a tuen's upper notes; An' then ageaen a-risen cheaerm Vrom tongues o' people in a zwarm: An' zoo, at last, we stood among The merry feaeces o' the drong. An' there, wi' garlands all a-tied In wreaths an' bows on every zide, An' color'd flags, a fluttren high An' bright avore the sheenen sky, The very guide-post wer a-drest Wi' posies on his eaerms an' breast. At last, the vo'k zwarm'd in by scores An' hundreds droo the high barn-doors, To dine on English feaere, in ranks, A-zot on chairs, or stools, or planks, By bwoards a-reachen, row an' row, Wi' cloths so white as driven snow. An' while they took, wi' merry cheer, Their pleaeces at the meat an' beer, The band did blow an' beaet aloud Their merry tuens to the crowd; An' slowly-zwingen flags did spread Their hangen colors over head. An' then the vo'k, wi' jay an' pride, Stood up in stillness, zide by zide, Wi' downcast heads, the while their friend Rose up avore the teaeble's end, An' zaid a timely greaece, an' blest The welcome meat to every guest. An' then arose a mingled naise O' knives an' pleaetes, an' cups an' trays, An' tongues wi' merry tongues a-drown'd Below a deaf'nen storm o' sound. An' zoo, at last, their worthy host Stood up to gi'e em all a twoast, That they did drink, wi' shouts o' glee, An' whirlen eaerms to dree times dree. An' when the bwoards at last wer beaere Ov all the cloths an' goodly feaere, An' froth noo longer rose to zwim Within the beer-mugs sheenen rim, The vo'k, a-streamen drough the door, Went out to geaemes they had in store An' on the blue-reaev'd waggon's bed, Above his vower wheels o' red, Musicians zot in rows, an' play'd Their tuens up to chap an' maid, That beaet, wi' playsome tooes an' heels, The level ground in nimble reels. An' zome ageaen, a-zet in line, An' starten at a given sign, Wi' outreach'd breast, a-breathen quick Droo op'nen lips, did nearly kick Their polls, a-runnen sich a peaece, Wi' streamen heaeir, to win the reaece. An' in the house, an' on the green, An' in the shrubb'ry's leafy screen, On ev'ry zide we met sich lots O' smilen friends in happy knots, That I do think, that drough the feaest In Caundle, vor a day at leaest, You woudden vind a scowlen feaece Or dumpy heart in all the pleaece. HAY MEAKEN--NUNCHEN TIME. _Anne an' John a-ta'ken o't._ A. Back here, but now, the jobber John Come by, an' cried, "Well done, zing on, I thought as I come down the hill, An' heaerd your zongs a-ringen sh'ill, Who woudden like to come, an' fling A peaeir o' prongs where you did zing?" J. Aye, aye, he woudden vind it play, To work all day a-meaeken hay, Or pitchen o't, to eaerms a-spread By lwoaders, yards above his head, 'T'ud meaeke en wipe his drippen brow. A. Or else a-reaeken after plow. J. Or worken, wi' his nimble pick, A-stiffled wi' the hay, at rick. A. Our Company would suit en best, When we do teaeke our bit o' rest, At nunch, a-gather'd here below The sheaede theaese wide-bough'd woak do drow, Where hissen froth mid rise, an' float In horns o' eaele, to wet his droat. J. Aye, if his zwellen han' could drag A meat-slice vrom his dinner bag. 'T'ud meaeke the busy little chap Look rather glum, to zee his lap Wi' all his meal ov woone dry croust, An' vinny cheese so dry as doust. A. Well, I don't grumble at my food, 'Tis wholesome, John, an' zoo 'tis good. J. Whose reaeke is that a-lyen there? Do look a bit the woo'se vor wear. A. Oh! I mus' get the man to meaeke A tooth or two vor thik wold reaeke, 'Tis leaebour lost to strik a stroke Wi' him, wi' half his teeth a-broke. J. I should ha' thought your han' too fine To break your reaeke, if I broke mine. A. The ramsclaws thin'd his wooden gum O' two teeth here, an' here were zome That broke when I did reaeke a patch O' groun' wi' Jimmy, vor a match: An' here's a gap ov woone or two A-broke by Simon's clumsy shoe, An' when I gi'ed his poll a poke, Vor better luck, another broke. In what a veag have you a-swung Your pick, though, John? His stem's a-sprung. J. When I an' Simon had a het O' pooken, yonder, vor a bet, The prongs o'n gi'ed a tump a poke, An' then I vound the stem a-broke, But they do meaeke the stems o' picks O' stuff so brittle as a kicks. A. There's poor wold Jeaene, wi' wrinkled skin, A-tellen, wi' her peaked chin, Zome teaele ov her young days, poor soul. Do meaeke the young-woones smile. 'Tis droll. What is it? Stop, an' let's goo near. I do like theaese wold teaeles. Let's hear. A FATHER OUT, AN' MOTHER HWOME. The snow-white clouds did float on high In shoals avore the sheenen sky, An' runnen weaeves in pon' did cheaese Each other on the water's feaece, As hufflen win' did blow between The new-leav'd boughs o' sheenen green. An' there, the while I walked along The path, drough leaeze, above the drong, A little maid, wi' bloomen feaece, Went on up hill wi' nimble peaece, A-leaenen to the right-han' zide, To car a basket that did ride, A-hangen down, wi' all his heft, Upon her elbow at her left. An' yet she hardly seem'd to bruise The grass-bleaedes wi' her tiny shoes, That pass'd each other, left an' right. In steps a'most too quick vor zight. But she'd a-left her mother's door A-bearen vrom her little store Her father's welcome bit o' food, Where he wer out at work in wood; An' she wer bless'd wi' mwore than zwome-- A father out, an' mother hwome. An' there, a-vell'd 'ithin the copse, Below the timber's new-leav'd tops, Wer ashen poles, a-casten straight, On primrwose beds, their langthy waight; Below the yollow light, a-shed Drough boughs upon the vi'let's head, By climen ivy, that did reach, A sheenen roun' the dead-leav'd beech. An' there her father zot, an' meaede His hwomely meal bezide a gleaede; While she, a-croopen down to ground, Did pull the flowers, where she vound The droopen vi'let out in blooth, Or yollow primrwose in the lewth, That she mid car em proudly back, An' zet em on her mother's tack; Vor she wer bless'd wi' mwore than zwome-- A father out, an' mother hwome. A father out, an' mother hwome, Be blessens soon a-lost by zome; A-lost by me, an' zoo I pray'd They mid be speaer'd the little maid. RIDDLES. _Anne an' Joey a-ta'ken._ A. A plague! theaese cow wont stand a bit, Noo sooner do she zee me zit Ageaen her, than she's in a trot, A-runnen to zome other spot. J. Why 'tis the dog do sceaere the cow, He worried her a-vield benow. A. Goo in, Ah! _Liplap_, where's your tail! J. He's off, then up athirt the rail. Your cow there, Anne's a-come to hand A goodish milcher. A. If she'd stand, But then she'll steaere an' start wi' fright To zee a dumbledore in flight. Last week she het the pail a flought, An' flung my meal o' milk half out. J. Ha! Ha! But Anny, here, what lout Broke half your small pail's bottom out? A. What lout indeed! What, do ye own The neaeme? What dropp'd en on a stwone? J. Hee! Hee! Well now he's out o' trim Wi' only half a bottom to en; Could you still vill en' to the brim An' yit not let the milk run drough en? A. Aye, as for nonsense, Joe, your head Do hold it all so tight's a blather, But if 'tis any good, do shed It all so leaeky as a lather. Could you vill pails 'ithout a bottom, Yourself that be so deeply skill'd? J. Well, ees, I could, if I'd a-got em Inside o' bigger woones a-vill'd. A. La! that _is_ zome'hat vor to hatch! Here answer me theaese little catch. Down under water an' o' top o't I went, an' didden touch a drop o't, J. Not when at mowen time I took An' pull'd ye out o' Longmeaed brook, Where you'd a-slidder'd down the edge An' zunk knee-deep bezide the zedge, A-tryen to reaeke out a clote. A. Aye I do hear your chucklen droat When I athirt the brudge did bring Zome water on my head vrom spring. Then under water an' o' top o't, Wer I an' didden touch a drop o't. J. O Lauk! What thik wold riddle still, Why that's as wold as Duncliffe Hill; "A two-lagg'd thing do run avore An' run behind a man, An' never run upon his lags Though on his lags do stan'." What's that? I don't think you do know. There idden sich a thing to show. Not know? Why yonder by the stall 'S a wheel-barrow bezide the wall, Don't he stand on his lags so trim, An' run on nothen but his wheels wold rim. A. There's _horn_ vor Goodman's eye-zight seaeke; There's _horn_ vor Goodman's mouth to teaeke; There's _horn_ vor Goodman's ears, as well As _horn_ vor Goodman's nose to smell-- What _horns_ be they, then? Do your hat Hold wit enough to tell us that? J. Oh! _horns_! but no, I'll tell ye what, My cow is hornless, an' she's _knot_. A. _Horn_ vor the _mouth's_ a hornen cup. J. An' eaele's good stuff to vill en up. A. An' _horn_ vor _eyes_ is horn vor light, Vrom Goodman's lantern after night; _Horn_ vor the _ears_ is woone to sound Vor hunters out wi' ho'se an' hound; But _horn_ that vo'k do buy to smell o' Is _hart's-horn_. J. Is it? What d'ye tell o' How proud we be, vor ben't we smart? Aye, _horn_ is _horn_, an' hart is hart. Well here then, Anne, while we be at it, 'S a ball vor you if you can bat it. On dree-lags, two-lags, by the zide O' vower-lags, woonce did zit wi' pride, When vower-lags, that velt a prick, Vrom zix-lags, het two lags a kick. An' two an' dree-lags vell, all vive, Slap down, zome dead an' zome alive. A. Teeh! heeh! what have ye now then, Joe, At last, to meaeke a riddle o'? J. Your dree-lagg'd stool woone night did bear Up you a milken wi' a peaeir; An' there a zix-lagg'd stout did prick Your vow'r-lagg'd cow, an meaeke her kick, A-hetten, wi' a pretty pat, Your stool an' you so flat's a mat. You scrambled up a little dirty, But I do hope it didden hurt ye. A. You hope, indeed! a likely ceaese, Wi' thik broad grin athirt your feaece You saucy good-vor-nothen chap, I'll gi'e your grinnen feaece a slap, Your drawlen tongue can only run To turn a body into fun. J. Oh! I woont do 't ageaen. Oh dear! Till next time, Anny. Oh my ear! Oh! Anne, why you've a-het my hat 'Ithin the milk, now look at that. A. Do sar ye right, then, I don't ceaere. I'll thump your noddle,--there--there--there. DAY'S WORK A-DONE. And oh! the jay our rest did yield, At evenen by the mossy wall, When we'd a-work'd all day a-vield, While zummer zuns did rise an' vall; As there a-letten Goo all fretten, An' vorgetten all our tweils, We zot among our childern's smiles. An' under skies that glitter'd white, The while our smoke, arisen blue, Did melt in aier, out o' zight, Above the trees that kept us lew; Wer birds a-zingen, Tongues a-ringen, Childern springen, vull o' jay, A-finishen the day in play. An' back behind, a-stannen tall, The cliff did sheen to western light; An' while avore the water-vall, A-rottlen loud, an' foamen white. The leaves did quiver, Gnots did whiver, By the river, where the pool, In evenen air did glissen cool. An' childern there, a-runnen wide, Did play their geaemes along the grove, Vor though to us 'twer jay to bide At rest, to them 'twer jay to move. The while my smilen Jeaene, beguilen, All my tweilen, wi' her ceaere, Did call me to my evenen feaere. LIGHT OR SHEAeDE. A Maytide's evenen wer a-dyen, Under moonsheen, into night, Wi' a streamen wind a-sighen By the thorns a-bloomen white. Where in sheaede, a-zinken deeply, Wer a nook, all dark but lew, By a bank, arisen steeply, Not to let the win' come drough. Should my love goo out, a-showen All her smiles, in open light; Or, in lewth, wi' wind a-blowen, Stay in darkness, dim to zight? Stay in sheaede o' bank or wallen, In the warmth, if not in light; Words alwone vrom her a-vallen, Would be jay vor all the night. THE WAGGON A-STOODED. _Dree o'm a-ta'ken o't._ (1) Well, here we be, then, wi' the vu'st poor lwoad O' vuzz we brought, a-stooded in the road. (2) The road, George, no. There's na'r a road. That's wrong. If we'd a road, we mid ha' got along. (1) Noo road! Ees 'tis, the road that we do goo. (2) Do goo, George, no. The pleaece we can't get drough. (1) Well, there, the vu'st lwoad we've a-haul'd to day Is here a-stooded in theaese bed o' clay. Here's rotten groun'! an' how the wheels do cut! The little woone's a-zunk up to the nut. (3) An' yeet this rotten groun' don't reach a lug. (1) Well, come, then, gi'e the plow another tug. (2) They meaeres wull never pull the waggon out, A-lwoaded, an' a-stooded in thik rout. (3) We'll try. Come, _Smiler_, come! C'up, _Whitevoot_, gee! (2) White-voot wi' lags all over mud! Hee! Hee! (3) 'Twoon't wag. We shall but snap our gear, An' overstrain the meaeres. 'Twoon't wag, 'tis clear. (1) That's your work, William. No, in coo'se, 'twoon't wag. Why did ye dr[=e]ve en into theaese here quag? The vore-wheels be a-zunk above the nuts. (3) What then? I coulden leaeve the beaeten track, To turn the waggon over on the back Ov woone o' theaesem wheel-high emmet-butts. If you be sich a dr[=e]ver, an' do know't, You dr[=e]ve the plow, then; but you'll overdrow 't. (1) I dr[=e]ve the plow, indeed! Oh! ees, what, now The wheels woont wag, then, _I_ mid dr[=e]ve the plow! We'd better dig away the groun' below The wheels. (2) There's na'r a speaede to dig wi'. (1) An' teaeke an' cut a lock o' frith, an' drow Upon the clay. (2) Nor hook to cut a twig wi'. (1) Oh! here's a bwoy a-comen. Here, my lad, Dost know vor a'r a speaede, that can be had? (B) At father's. (1) Well, where's that? (Bwoy) At Sam'el Riddick's. (1) Well run, an' ax vor woone. Fling up your heels, An' mind: a speaede to dig out theaesem wheels, An' hook to cut a little lock o' widdicks. (3) Why, we shall want zix ho'ses, or a dozen, To pull the waggon out, wi' all theaese vuzzen. (1) Well, we mus' lighten en; come, Jeaemes, then, hop Upon the lwoad, an' jus' fling off the top. (2) If I can clim' en; but 'tis my consait, That I shall overzet en wi' my waight. (1) You overzet en! No, Jeaemes, he won't vall, The lwoad's a-built so firm as any wall. (2) Here! lend a hand or shoulder vor my knee Or voot. I'll scramble to the top an' zee What I can do. Well, here I be, among The fakkets, vor a bit, but not vor long. Heigh, George! Ha! ha! Why this wull never stand. Your firm 's a wall, is all so loose as zand; 'Tis all a-come to pieces. Oh! Teaeke ceaere! Ho! I'm a-vallen, vuzz an' all! Hae! There! (1) Lo'k there, thik fellor is a-vell lik' lead, An' half the fuzzen wi 'n, heels over head! There's all the vuzz a-lyen lik' a staddle, An' he a-deaeb'd wi' mud. Oh! Here's a caddle! (3) An' zoo you soon got down zome vuzzen, Jimmy. (2) Ees, I do know 'tis down. I brought it wi' me. (3) Your lwoad, George, wer a rather slick-built thing, But there, 'twer prickly vor the hands! Did sting? (1) Oh! ees, d'ye teaeke me vor a nincompoop, No, no. The lwoad wer up so firm's a rock, But two o' theaesem emmet-butts would knock The tightest barrel nearly out o' hoop. (3) Oh! now then, here 's the bwoy a-bringen back The speaede. Well done, my man. That idder slack. (2) Well done, my lad, sha't have a ho'se to ride When thou'st a meaere. (Bwoy) Next never's-tide. (3) Now let's dig out a spit or two O' clay, a-vore the little wheels; Oh! so's, I can't pull up my heels, I be a-stogg'd up over shoe. (1) Come, William, dig away! Why you do spuddle A'most so weak's a child. How you do muddle! Gi'e me the speaede a-bit. A pig would rout It out a'most so nimbly wi' his snout. (3) Oh! so's, d'ye hear it, then. How we can thunder! How big we be, then George! what next I wonder? (1) Now, William, gi'e the waggon woone mwore twitch, The wheels be free, an' 'tis a lighter nitch. (3) Come, _Smiler_, gee! C'up, _White-voot_. (1) That wull do. (2) Do wag. (1) Do goo at last. (3) Well done. 'Tis drough. (1) Now, William, till you have mwore ho'ses' lags, Don't dr[=e]ve the waggon into theaesem quags. (3) You build your lwoads up tight enough to ride. (1) I can't do less, d'ye know, wi' you vor guide. GWAIN DOWN THE STEPS VOR WATER. While zuns do roll vrom east to west To bring us work, or leaeve us rest, There down below the steep hill-zide, Drough time an' tide, the spring do flow; An' mothers there, vor years a-gone, Lik' daughters now a-comen on, To bloom when they be weak an' wan, Went down the steps vor water. An' what do yonder ringers tell A-ringen changes, bell by bell; Or what's a-show'd by yonder zight O' vo'k in white, upon the road, But that by John o' Woodleys zide, There's now a-blushen vor his bride, A pretty maid that vu'st he spied, Gwain down the steps vor water. Though she, 'tis true, is feaeir an' kind, There still be mwore a-left behind; So cleaen 's the light the zun do gi'e, So sprack 's a bee when zummer's bright; An' if I've luck, I woont be slow To teaeke off woone that I do know, A-trippen gaily to an' fro, Upon the steps vor water. Her father idden poor--but vew In parish be so well to do; Vor his own cows do swing their tails Behind his pails, below his boughs: An' then ageaen to win my love, Why, she's as hwomely as a dove, An' don't hold up herzelf above Gwain down the steps vor water. Gwain down the steps vor water! No! How handsome it do meaeke her grow. If she'd be straight, or walk abrode, To tread her road wi' comely gait, She coulden do a better thing To zet herzelf upright, than bring Her pitcher on her head, vrom spring Upon the steps, wi' water. No! don't ye neaeme in woone seaeme breath Wi' bachelors, the husband's he'th; The happy pleaece, where vingers thin Do pull woone's chin, or pat woone's feaece. But still the bleaeme is their's, to slight Their happiness, wi' such a zight O' maidens, mornen, noon, an' night, A-gwain down steps vor water. ELLEN BRINE OV ALLENBURN. Noo soul did hear her lips complain, An' she's a-gone vrom all her pain, An' others' loss to her is gain For she do live in heaven's love; Vull many a longsome day an' week She bore her ailen, still, an' meek; A-worken while her strangth held on, An' guiden housework, when 'twer gone. Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn, Oh! there be souls to murn. The last time I'd a-cast my zight Upon her feaece, a-feaeded white, Wer in a zummer's mornen light In hall avore the smwold'ren vier, The while the childern beaet the vloor, In play, wi' tiny shoes they wore, An' call'd their mother's eyes to view The feaet's their little limbs could do. Oh! Ellen Brine ov Allenburn, They childern now mus' murn. Then woone, a-stoppen vrom his reaece, Went up, an' on her knee did pleaece His hand, a-looken in her feaece, An' wi' a smilen mouth so small, He zaid, "You promised us to goo To Shroton feaeir, an' teaeke us two!" She heaerd it wi' her two white ears, An' in her eyes there sprung two tears, Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn Did veel that they mus' murn. September come, wi' Shroton feaeir, But Ellen Brine wer never there! A heavy heart wer on the meaere Their father rod his hwomeward road. 'Tis true he brought zome feaerens back, Vor them two childern all in black; But they had now, wi' playthings new, Noo mother vor to shew em to, Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn Would never mwore return. THE MOTHERLESS CHILD. The zun'd a-zet back tother night, But in the zetten pleaece The clouds, a-redden'd by his light, Still glow'd avore my feaece. An' I've a-lost my Meaery's smile, I thought; but still I have her chile, Zoo like her, that my eyes can treaece The mother's in her daughter's feaece. O little feaece so near to me, An' like thy mother's gone; why need I zay Sweet night cloud, wi' the glow o' my lost day, Thy looks be always dear to me. The zun'd a-zet another night; But, by the moon on high, He still did zend us back his light Below a cwolder sky. My Meaery's in a better land I thought, but still her chile's at hand, An' in her chile she'll zend me on Her love, though she herzelf's a-gone. O little chile so near to me, An' like thy mother gone; why need I zay, Sweet moon, the messenger vrom my lost day, Thy looks be always dear to me. THE LEAeDY'S TOWER. An' then we went along the gleaedes O' zunny turf, in quiv'ren sheaedes, A-winden off, vrom hand to hand, Along a path o' yollow zand, An' clomb a stickle slope, an' vound An open patch o' lofty ground, Up where a steaetely tow'r did spring, So high as highest larks do zing. "Oh! Meaester Collins," then I zaid, A-looken up wi' back-flung head; Vor who but he, so mild o' feaece, Should teaeke me there to zee the pleaece. "What is it then theaese tower do meaen, A-built so feaeir, an' kept so cleaen?" "Ah! me," he zaid, wi' thoughtvul feaece, "'Twer grief that zet theaese tower in pleaece. The squier's e'thly life's a-blest Wi' gifts that mwost do teaeke vor best; The lofty-pinion'd rufs do rise To screen his head vrom stormy skies; His land's a-spreaden roun' his hall, An' hands do leaebor at his call; The while the ho'se do fling, wi' pride, His lofty head where he do guide; But still his e'thly jay's a-vled, His woone true friend, his wife, is dead. Zoo now her happy soul's a-gone, An' he in grief's a-ling'ren on, Do do his heart zome good to show His love to flesh an' blood below. An' zoo he rear'd, wi' smitten soul, Theaese Leaedy's Tower upon the knowl. An' there you'll zee the tow'r do spring Twice ten veet up, as roun's a ring, Wi' pillars under mwolded eaeves, Above their heads a-carv'd wi' leaves; An' have to peaece, a-walken round His voot, a hunderd veet o' ground. An' there, above his upper wall, A rounded tow'r do spring so tall 'S a springen arrow shot upright, A hunderd giddy veet in height. An' if you'd like to strain your knees A-climen up above the trees, To zee, wi' slowly wheelen feaece, The vur-sky'd land about the pleaece, You'll have a flight o' steps to wear Vor forty veet, up steaeir by steaeir, That roun' the risen tow'r do wind, Like withwind roun' the saplen's rind, An' reach a landen, wi' a seat, To rest at last your weary veet, 'Ithin a breast be-screenen wall, To keep ye vrom a longsome vall. An' roun' the winden steaeirs do spring Aight stwonen pillars in a ring, A-reachen up their heavy strangth Drough forty veet o' slender langth, To end wi' carved heads below The broad-vloor'd landen's airy bow. Aight zides, as you do zee, do bound The lower builden on the ground, An' there in woone, a two-leav'd door Do zwing above the marble vloor: An' aye, as luck do zoo betide Our comen, wi' can goo inside. The door is oben now. An' zoo The keeper kindly let us drough. There as we softly trod the vloor O' marble stwone, 'ithin the door, The echoes ov our vootsteps vled Out roun' the wall, and over head; An' there a-painted, zide by zide, In memory o' the squier's bride, In zeven paintens, true to life, Wer zeven zights o' wedded life." Then Meaester Collins twold me all The teaeles a-painted roun' the wall; An' vu'st the bride did stan' to plight Her wedden vow, below the light A-shooten down, so bright's a fleaeme, In drough a churches window freaeme. An' near the bride, on either hand, You'd zee her comely bridemaids stand, Wi' eyelashes a-bent in streaeks O' brown above their bloomen cheaeks: An' sheenen feaeir, in mellow light, Wi' flowen heaeir, an' frocks o' white. "An' here," good Meaester Collins cried, "You'll zee a creaedle at her zide, An' there's her child, a-lyen deep 'Ithin it, an' a-gone to sleep, Wi' little eyelashes a-met In fellow streaeks, as black as jet; The while her needle, over head, Do nimbly leaed the snow-white thread, To zew a robe her love do meaeke Wi' happy leaebor vor his seaeke. "An' here a-geaen's another pleaece, Where she do zit wi' smilen feaece, An' while her bwoy do leaen, wi' pride, Ageaen her lap, below her zide, Her vinger tip do leaed his look To zome good words o' God's own book. "An' next you'll zee her in her pleaece, Avore her happy husband's feaece, As he do zit, at evenen-tide, A-resten by the vier-zide. An' there the childern's heads do rise Wi' laughen lips, an' beamen eyes, Above the bwoard, where she do lay Her sheenen tacklen, wi' the tea. "An' here another zide do show Her vinger in her scizzars' bow Avore two daughters, that do stand, Wi' leaernsome minds, to watch her hand A-sheaepen out, wi' skill an' ceaere, A frock vor them to zew an' wear. "Then next you'll zee her bend her head Above her ailen husband's bed, A-fannen, wi' an inward pray'r, His burnen brow wi' beaeten air; The while the clock, by candle light, Do show that 'tis the dead o' night. "An' here ageaen upon the wall, Where we do zee her last ov all, Her husband's head's a-hangen low, 'Ithin his hands in deepest woe. An' she, an angel ov his God, Do cheer his soul below the rod, A-liften up her han' to call His eyes to writen on the wall, As white as is her spotless robe, 'Hast thou remembered my servant Job?' "An' zoo the squier, in grief o' soul, Built up the Tower upon the knowl." FATHERHOOD. Let en zit, wi' his dog an' his cat, Wi' their noses a-turn'd to the vier, An' have all that a man should desire; But there idden much reaedship in that. Whether vo'k mid have childern or no, Wou'dden meaeke mighty odds in the main; They do bring us mwore jay wi' mwore ho, An' wi' nwone we've less jay wi' less pain We be all lik' a zull's idle sheaere out, An' shall rust out, unless we do wear out, Lik' do-nothen, rue-nothen, Dead alive dumps. As vor me, why my life idden bound To my own heart alwone, among men; I do live in myzelf, an' ageaen In the lives o' my childern all round: I do live wi' my bwoy in his play, An' ageaen wi' my maid in her zongs; An' my heart is a-stirr'd wi' their jay, An' would burn at the zight o' their wrongs. I ha' nine lives, an' zoo if a half O'm do cry, why the rest o'm mid laugh All so playvully, jayvully, Happy wi' hope. Tother night I come hwome a long road, When the weather did sting an' did vreeze; An' the snow--vor the day had a-snow'd-- Wer avroze on the boughs o' the trees; An' my tooes an' my vingers wer num', An' my veet wer so lumpy as logs, An' my ears wer so red's a cock's cwom'; An' my nose wer so cwold as a dog's; But so soon's I got hwome I vorgot Where my limbs wer a-cwold or wer hot, When wi' loud cries an' proud cries They coll'd me so cwold. Vor the vu'st that I happen'd to meet Come to pull my girtcwoat vrom my eaerm, An' another did rub my feaece warm, An' another hot-slipper'd my veet; While their mother did cast on a stick, Vor to keep the red vier alive; An' they all come so busy an' thick As the bees vlee-en into their hive, An' they meaede me so happy an' proud, That my heart could ha' crow'd out a-loud; They did tweil zoo, an' smile zoo, An' coll me so cwold. As I zot wi' my teacup, at rest, There I pull'd out the tays I did bring; Men a-kicken, a-wagg'd wi' a string, An' goggle-ey'd dolls to be drest; An' oh! vrom the childern there sprung Such a charm when they handled their tays, That vor pleasure the bigger woones wrung Their two hands at the zight o' their jays; As the bwoys' bigger vaices vell in Wi' the maidens a-titteren thin, An' their dancen an' prancen, An' little mouth's laughs. Though 'tis hard stripes to breed em all up, If I'm only a-blest vrom above, They'll meaeke me amends wi' their love, Vor their pillow, their pleaete, an' their cup; Though I shall be never a-spweil'd Wi' the sarvice that money can buy; Still the hands ov a wife an' a child Be the blessens ov low or ov high; An' if there be mouths to be ved, He that zent em can zend me their bread, An' will smile on the chile That's a-new on the knee. THE MAID O' NEWTON. In zummer, when the knaps wer bright In cool-air'd evenen's western light, An' hay that had a-dried all day, Did now lie grey, to dewy night; I went, by happy chance, or doom, Vrom Broadwoak Hill, athirt to Coomb, An' met a maid in all her bloom: The feairest maid o' Newton. She bore a basket that did ride So light, she didden leaen azide; Her feaece wer oval, an' she smil'd So sweet's a child, but walk'd wi' pride. I spoke to her, but what I zaid I didden know; wi' thoughts a-vled, I spoke by heart, an' not by head, Avore the maid o' Newton. I call'd her, oh! I don't know who, 'Twer by a neaeme she never knew; An' to the heel she stood upon, She then brought on her hinder shoe, An' stopp'd avore me, where we met, An' wi' a smile woone can't vorget, She zaid, wi' eyes a-zwimmen wet, "No, I be woone o' Newton." Then on I rambled to the west, Below the zunny hangen's breast, Where, down athirt the little stream, The brudge's beam did lie at rest: But all the birds, wi' lively glee, Did chirp an' hop vrom tree to tree, As if it wer vrom pride, to zee Goo by the maid o' Newton. By fancy led, at evenen's glow, I woonce did goo, a-roven slow, Down where the elems, stem by stem, Do stan' to hem the grove below; But after that, my veet vorzook The grove, to seek the little brook At Coomb, where I mid zometimes look, To meet the maid o' Newton. CHILDHOOD. Aye, at that time our days wer but vew, An' our lim's wer but small, an' a-growen; An' then the feaeir worold wer new, An' life wer all hopevul an' gay; An' the times o' the sprouten o' leaves, An' the cheaek-burnen seasons o' mowen, An' binden o' red-headed sheaves, Wer all welcome seasons o' jay. Then the housen seem'd high, that be low, An' the brook did seem wide that is narrow, An' time, that do vlee, did goo slow, An' veelens now feeble wer strong, An' our worold did end wi' the neaemes Ov the Sha'sbury Hill or Bulbarrow; An' life did seem only the geaemes That we play'd as the days rolled along. Then the rivers, an' high-timber'd lands, An' the zilvery hills, 'ithout buyen, Did seem to come into our hands Vrom others that own'd em avore; An' all zickness, an' sorrow, an' need, Seem'd to die wi' the wold vo'k a-dyen, An' leaeve us vor ever a-freed Vrom evils our vorefathers bore. But happy be childern the while They have elders a-liven to love em, An' teaeke all the wearisome tweil That zome hands or others mus' do; Like the low-headed shrubs that be warm, In the lewth o' the trees up above em, A-screen'd vrom the cwold blowen storm That the timber avore em must rue. MEAeRY'S SMILE. When mornen winds, a-blowen high, Do zweep the clouds vrom all the sky, An' laurel-leaves do glitter bright, The while the newly broken light Do brighten up, avore our view, The vields wi' green, an' hills wi' blue; What then can highten to my eyes The cheerful feaece ov e'th an' skies, But Meaery's smile, o' Morey's Mill, My rwose o' Mowy Lea. An' when, at last, the evenen dews Do now begin to wet our shoes; An' night's a-riden to the west, To stop our work, an' gi'e us rest, Oh! let the candle's ruddy gleaere But brighten up her sheenen heaeir; Or else, as she do walk abroad, Let moonlight show, upon the road, My Meaery's smile, o' Morey's Mill, My rwose o' Mowy Lea. An' O! mid never tears come on, To wash her feaece's blushes wan, Nor kill her smiles that now do play Like sparklen weaeves in zunny May; But mid she still, vor all she's gone Vrom souls she now do smile upon, Show others they can vind woone jay To turn the hardest work to play. My Meaery's smile, o' Morey's Mill, My rwose o' Mowy Lea. MEAeRY WEDDED. The zun can zink, the stars mid rise, An' woods be green to sheenen skies; The cock mid crow to mornen light, An' workvo'k zing to vallen night; The birds mid whissle on the spray, An' childern leaep in merry play, But our's is now a lifeless pleaece, Vor we've a-lost a smilen feaece-- Young Meaery Meaed o' merry mood, Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded. The dog that woonce wer glad to bear Her fondlen vingers down his heaeir, Do leaen his head ageaen the vloor, To watch, wi' heavy eyes, the door; An' men she zent so happy hwome O' Zadurdays, do seem to come To door, wi' downcast hearts, to miss Wi' smiles below the clematis, Young Meaery Meaed o' merry mood, Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded. When they do draw the evenen blind, An' when the evenen light's a-tin'd, The cheerless vier do drow a gleaere O' light ageaen her empty chair; An' wordless gaps do now meaeke thin Their talk where woonce her vaice come in. Zoo lwonesome is her empty pleaece, An' blest the house that ha' the feaece O' Meaery Meaed, o' merry mood, Now she's a-woo'd and wedded. The day she left her father's he'th, Though sad, wer kept a day o' me'th, An' dry-wheel'd waggons' empty beds Wer left 'ithin the tree-screen'd sheds; An' all the hosses, at their eaese, Went snorten up the flow'ry leaese, But woone, the smartest for the roaed, That pull'd away the dearest lwoad-- Young Meaery Meaed o' merry mood, That wer a-woo'd an' wedded. THE STWONEN BWOY UPON THE PILLAR. Wi' smokeless tuns an' empty halls, An' moss a-clingen to the walls, In ev'ry wind the lofty tow'rs Do teaeke the zun, an' bear the show'rs; An' there, 'ithin a geaet a-hung, But vasten'd up, an' never swung, Upon the pillar, all alwone, Do stan' the little bwoy o' stwone; 'S a poppy bud mid linger on, Vorseaeken, when the wheat's a-gone. An' there, then, wi' his bow let slack, An' little quiver at his back, Drough het an' wet, the little chile Vrom day to day do stan' an' smile. When vu'st the light, a-risen weak, At break o' day, do smite his cheaek, Or while, at noon, the leafy bough Do cast a sheaede a-thirt his brow, Or when at night the warm-breath'd cows Do sleep by moon-belighted boughs; An' there the while the rooks do bring Their scroff to build their nest in Spring, Or zwallows in the zummer day Do cling their little huts o' clay, 'Ithin the rainless sheaedes, below The steadvast arches' mossy bow. Or when, in Fall, the woak do shed The leaves, a-wither'd, vrom his head, An' western win's, a-blowen cool, Do dreve em out athirt the pool, Or Winter's clouds do gather dark An' wet, wi' rain, the elem's bark, You'll zee his pretty smile betwixt His little sheaede-mark'd lips a-fix'd; As there his little sheaepe do bide Drough day an' night, an' time an' tide, An' never change his size or dress, Nor overgrow his prettiness. But, oh! thik child, that we do vind In childhood still, do call to mind A little bwoy a-call'd by death, Long years agoo, vrom our sad he'th; An' I, in thought, can zee en dim The seaeme in feaece, the seaeme in lim', My heaeir mid whiten as the snow, My limbs grow weak, my step wear slow, My droopen head mid slowly vall Above the han'-staff's glossy ball, An' yeet, vor all a wid'nen span Ov years, mid change a liven man, My little child do still appear To me wi' all his childhood's gear, 'Ithout a beard upon his chin, 'Ithout a wrinkle in his skin, A-liven on, a child the seaeme In look, an' sheaepe, an' size, an' neaeme. THE YOUNG THAT DIED IN BEAUTY. If souls should only sheen so bright In heaven as in e'thly light, An' nothen better wer the ceaese, How comely still, in sheaepe an' feaece, Would many reach thik happy pleaece,-- The hopeful souls that in their prime Ha' seem'd a-took avore their time-- The young that died in beauty. But when woone's lim's ha' lost their strangth A-tweilen drough a lifetime's langth, An' over cheaeks a-growen wold The slowly-weaesten years ha' rolled, The deep'nen wrinkle's hollow vwold; When life is ripe, then death do call Vor less ov thought, than when do vall On young vo'ks in their beauty. But pinen souls, wi' heads a-hung In heavy sorrow vor the young, The sister ov the brother dead, The father wi' a child a-vled, The husband when his bride ha' laid Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn, Have all a-vound the time to murn Vor youth that died in beauty. An' yeet the church, where prayer do rise Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi' downcast eyes. An' village greens, a-beaet half beaere By dancers that do meet, an' weaer Such merry looks at feaest an' feaeir, Do gather under leatest skies, Their bloomen cheaeks an' sparklen eyes, Though young ha' died in beauty. But still the dead shall mwore than keep The beauty ov their eaerly sleep; Where comely looks shall never weaer Uncomely, under tweil an' ceaere. The feaeir at death be always feaeir, Still feaeir to livers' thought an' love, An' feaeirer still to God above, Than when they died in beauty. FAIR EMILY OV YARROW MILL. Dear Yarrowham, 'twer many miles Vrom thy green meaeds that, in my walk, I met a maid wi' winnen smiles, That talk'd as vo'k at hwome do talk; An' who at last should she be vound, Ov all the souls the sky do bound, But woone that trod at vu'st thy groun' Fair Emily ov Yarrow Mill. But thy wold house an' elmy nook, An' wall-screen'd geaerden's mossy zides, Thy grassy meaeds an' zedgy brook, An' high-bank'd leaenes, wi' sheaedy rides, Wer all a-known to me by light Ov eaerly days, a-quench'd by night, Avore they met the younger zight Ov Emily ov Yarrow Mill. An' now my heart do leaep to think O' times that I've a-spent in play, Bezide thy river's rushy brink, Upon a deaeizybed o' May; I lov'd the friends thy land ha' bore, An' I do love the paths they wore, An' I do love thee all the mwore, Vor Emily ov Yarrow Mill. When bright above the e'th below The moon do spread abroad his light, An' air o' zummer nights do blow Athirt the vields in playsome flight, 'Tis then delightsome under all The sheaedes o' boughs by path or wall, But mwostly thine when they do vall On Emily ov Yarrow Mill. THE SCUD. Aye, aye, the leaene wi' flow'ry zides A-kept so lew, by hazzle-wrides, Wi' beds o' graegles out in bloom, Below the timber's windless gloon An' geaete that I've a-swung, An' rod as he's a-hung, When I wer young, in Woakley Coomb. 'Twer there at feaest we all did pass The evenen on the leaenezide grass, Out where the geaete do let us drough, Below the woak-trees in the lew, In merry geaemes an' fun That meaede us skip an' run, Wi' burnen zun, an' sky o' blue. But still there come a scud that drove The titt'ren maidens vrom the grove; An' there a-left wer flow'ry mound, 'Ithout a vaice, 'ithout a sound, Unless the air did blow, Drough ruslen leaves, an' drow, The rain drops low, upon the ground. I linger'd there an' miss'd the naise; I linger'd there an' miss'd our jays; I miss'd woone soul beyond the rest; The maid that I do like the best. Vor where her vaice is gay An' where her smiles do play, There's always jay vor ev'ry breast. Vor zome vo'k out abroad ha' me'th, But nwone at hwome bezide the he'th; An' zome ha' smiles vor strangers' view; An' frowns vor kith an' kin to rue; But her sweet vaice do vall, Wi' kindly words to all, Both big an' small, the whole day drough. An' when the evenen sky wer peaele, We heaerd the warblen nightengeaele, A-drawen out his lwonesome zong, In winden music down the drong; An' Jenny vrom her he'th, Come out, though not in me'th, But held her breath, to hear his zong. Then, while the bird wi' oben bill Did warble on, her vaice wer still; An' as she stood avore me, bound In stillness to the flow'ry mound, "The bird's a jay to zome," I thought, "but when he's dum, Her vaice will come, wi' sweeter sound." MINDEN HOUSE. 'Twer when the vo'k wer out to hawl A vield o' hay a day in June, An' when the zun begun to vall Toward the west in afternoon, Woone only wer a-left behind To bide indoors, at hwome, an' mind The house, an' answer vo'k avore The geaete or door,--young Fanny Deaene. The air 'ithin the geaerden wall Wer deadly still, unless the bee Did hummy by, or in the hall The clock did ring a-hetten dree, An' there, wi' busy hands, inside The iron ceaesement, oben'd wide, Did zit an' pull wi' nimble twitch Her tiny stitch, young Fanny Deaene. As there she zot she heaerd two blows A-knock'd upon the rumblen door, An' laid azide her work, an' rose, An' walk'd out feaeir, athirt the vloor; An' there, a-holden in his hand His bridled meaere, a youth did stand, An' mildly twold his neaeme and pleaece Avore the feaece o' Fanny Deaene. He twold her that he had on hand Zome business on his father's zide, But what she didden understand; An' zoo she ax'd en if he'd ride Out where her father mid be vound, Bezide the plow, in Cowslip Ground; An' there he went, but left his mind Back there behind, wi' Fanny Deaene. An' oh! his hwomeward road wer gay In air a-blowen, whiff by whiff, While sheenen water-weaeves did play An' boughs did sway above the cliff; Vor Time had now a-show'd en dim The jay it had in store vor him; An' when he went thik road ageaen His errand then wer Fanny Deaene. How strangely things be brought about By Providence, noo tongue can tell, She minded house, when vo'k wer out, An' zoo mus' bid the house farewell; The bees mid hum, the clock mid call The lwonesome hours 'ithin the hall, But in behind the woaken door, There's now noo mwore a Fanny Deaene. THE LOVELY MAID OV ELWELL MEAeD. A maid wi' many gifts o' greaece, A maid wi' ever-smilen feaece, A child o' yours my chilhood's pleaece, O leaenen lawns ov Allen; 'S a-walken where your stream do flow, A-blushen where your flowers do blow, A-smilen where your zun do glow, O leaenen lawns ov Allen. An' good, however good's a-waigh'd, 'S the lovely maid ov Elwell Meaed. An' oh! if I could teaeme an' guide The winds above the e'th, an' ride As light as shooten stars do glide, O leaenen lawns ov Allen, To you I'd teaeke my daily flight, Drough dark'nen air in evenen's light, An' bid her every night "Good night," O leaenen lawns ov Allen. Vor good, however good's a-waigh'd, 'S the lovely maid ov Elwell Meaed. An' when your hedges' slooes be blue, By blackberries o' dark'nen hue, An' spiders' webs behung wi' dew, O leaenen lawns ov Allen Avore the winter air's a-chill'd, Avore your winter brook's a-vill'd Avore your zummer flow'rs be kill'd, O leaenen lawns ov Allen; I there would meet, in white array'd, The lovely maid ov Elwell Meaed. For when the zun, as birds do rise, Do cast their sheaedes vrom autum' skies, A-sparklen in her dewy eyes, O leaenen lawns ov Allen Then all your mossy paths below The trees, wi' leaves a-vallen slow, Like zinken fleaekes o' yollow snow, O leaenen lawns ov Allen. Would be mwore teaeken where they stray'd The lovely maid ov Elwell Meaed. OUR FATHERS' WORKS. Ah! I do think, as I do tread Theaese path, wi' elems overhead, A-climen slowly up vrom Bridge, By easy steps, to Broadwoak Ridge, That all theaese roads that we do bruise Wi' hosses' shoes, or heavy lwoads; An' hedges' bands, where trees in row Do rise an' grow aroun' the lands, Be works that we've a-vound a-wrought By our vorefathers' ceaere an' thought. They clear'd the groun' vor grass to teaeke The pleaece that bore the bremble breaeke, An' drain'd the fen, where water spread, A-lyen dead, a beaene to men; An' built the mill, where still the wheel Do grind our meal, below the hill; An' turn'd the bridge, wi' arch a-spread, Below a road, vor us to tread. They vound a pleaece, where we mid seek The gifts o' greaece vrom week to week; An' built wi' stwone, upon the hill, A tow'r we still do call our own; With bells to use, an' meaeke rejaice, Wi' giant vaice, at our good news: An' lifted stwones an' beams to keep The rain an' cwold vrom us asleep. Zoo now mid nwone ov us vorget The pattern our vorefathers zet; But each be faein to underteaeke Some work to meaeke vor others' gain, That we mid leaeve mwore good to sheaere, Less ills to bear, less souls to grieve, An' when our hands do vall to rest, It mid be vrom a work a-blest. THE WOLD VO'K DEAD. My days, wi' wold vo'k all but gone, An' childern now a-comen on, Do bring me still my mother's smiles In light that now do show my chile's; An' I've a-sheaer'd the wold vo'ks' me'th, Avore the burnen Chris'mas he'th, At friendly bwoards, where feaece by feaece, Did, year by year, gi'e up its pleaece, An' leaeve me here, behind, to tread The ground a-trod by wold vo'k dead. But wold things be a-lost vor new, An' zome do come, while zome do goo: As wither'd beech-tree leaves do cling Among the nesh young buds o' Spring; An' fretten worms ha' slowly wound, Droo beams the wold vo'k lifted sound, An' trees they planted little slips Ha' stems that noo two eaerms can clips; An' grey an' yollow moss do spread On buildens new to wold vo'k dead. The backs of all our zilv'ry hills, The brook that still do dreve our mills, The roads a-climen up the brows O' knaps, a-screen'd by meaeple boughs, Wer all a-mark'd in sheaede an' light Avore our wolder fathers' zight, In zunny days, a-gied their hands For happy work, a-tillen lands, That now do yield their childern bread Till they do rest wi' wold vo'k dead. But liven vo'k, a-grieven on, Wi' lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone, Do zee their goodness, but do vind All else a-stealen out o' mind; As air do meaeke the vurthest land Look feaeirer than the vield at hand, An' zoo, as time do slowly pass, So still's a sheaede upon the grass, Its wid'nen speaece do slowly shed A glory roun' the wold vo'k dead. An' what if good vo'ks' life o' breath Is zoo a-hallow'd after death, That they mid only know above, Their times o' faith, an' jay, an' love, While all the evil time ha' brought 'S a-lost vor ever out o' thought; As all the moon that idden bright, 'S a-lost in darkness out o' zight; And all the godly life they led Is glory to the wold vo'k dead. If things be zoo, an' souls above Can only mind our e'thly love, Why then they'll veel our kindness drown The thoughts ov all that meaede em frown. An' jay o' jays will dry the tear O' sadness that do trickle here, An' nothen mwore o' life than love, An' peace, will then be know'd above. Do good, vor that, when life's a-vled, Is still a pleasure to the dead. CULVER DELL AND THE SQUIRE. There's noo pleaece I do like so well, As Elem Knap in Culver Dell, Where timber trees, wi' lofty shouds, Did rise avore the western clouds; An' stan' ageaen, wi' veathery tops, A-swayen up in North-Hill Copse. An' on the east the mornen broke Above a dewy grove o' woak: An' noontide shed its burnen light On ashes on the southern height; An' I could vind zome teaeles to tell, O' former days in Culver Dell. An' all the vo'k did love so well The good wold squire o' Culver Dell, That used to ramble drough the sheaedes O' timber, or the burnen gleaedes, An' come at evenen up the leaeze Wi' red-eaer'd dogs bezide his knees. An' hold his gun, a-hangen drough His eaermpit, out above his tooe. Wi' kindly words upon his tongue, Vor vo'k that met en, wold an' young, Vor he did know the poor so well 'S the richest vo'k in Culver Dell. An' while the woaek, wi' spreaden head, Did sheaede the foxes' verny bed; An' runnen heaeres, in zunny gleaedes, Did beaet the grasses' quiv'ren' bleaedes; An' speckled pa'tridges took flight In stubble vields a-feaeden white; Or he could zee the pheasant strut In sheaedy woods, wi' painted cwoat; Or long-tongued dogs did love to run Among the leaves, bezide his gun; We didden want vor call to dwell At hwome in peace in Culver Dell. But now I hope his kindly feaece Is gone to vind a better pleaece; But still, wi' vo'k a-left behind He'll always be a-kept in mind, Vor all his springy-vooted hounds Ha' done o' trotten round his grounds, An' we have all a-left the spot, To teaeke, a-scatter'd, each his lot; An' even Father, lik' the rest, Ha' left our long vorseaeken nest; An' we should vind it sad to dwell, Ageaen at hwome in Culver Dell. The airy mornens still mid smite Our windows wi' their rwosy light, An' high-zunn'd noons mid dry the dew On growen groun' below our shoe; The blushen evenen still mid dye, Wi' viry red, the western sky; The zunny spring-time's quicknen power Mid come to oben leaf an' flower; An' days an' tides mid bring us on Woone pleasure when another's gone. But we must bid a long farewell To days an' tides in Culver Dell. OUR BE'THPLACE. How dear's the door a latch do shut, An' geaerden that a hatch do shut, Where vu'st our bloomen cheaeks ha' prest The pillor ov our childhood's rest; Or where, wi' little tooes, we wore The paths our fathers trod avore; Or clim'd the timber's bark aloft, Below the zingen lark aloft, The while we heaerd the echo sound Drough all the ringen valley round. A lwonesome grove o' woak did rise, To screen our house, where smoke did rise, A-twisten blue, while yeet the zun Did langthen on our childhood's fun; An' there, wi' all the sheaepes an' sounds O' life, among the timber'd grounds, The birds upon their boughs did zing, An' milkmaids by their cows did zing, Wi' merry sounds, that softly died, A-ringen down the valley zide. By river banks, wi' reeds a-bound, An' sheenen pools, wi' weeds a-bound, The long-neck'd gander's ruddy bill To snow-white geese did cackle sh'ill; An' striden peewits heaesten'd by, O' tiptooe wi' their screamen cry; An' stalken cows a-lowen loud, An' strutten cocks a-crowen loud, Did rouse the echoes up to mock Their mingled sounds by hill an' rock. The stars that clim'd our skies all dark, Above our sleepen eyes all dark, An' zuns a-rollen round to bring The seasons on, vrom Spring to Spring, Ha' vled, wi' never-resten flight, Drough green-bough'd day, an' dark-tree'd night; Till now our childhood's pleaeces there, Be gay wi' other feaeces there, An' we ourselves do vollow on Our own vorelivers dead an' gone. THE WINDOW FREAeM'D WI' STWONE. When Pentridge House wer still the nest O' souls that now ha' better rest, Avore the vier burnt to ground His beams an' walls, that then wer sound, 'Ithin a nail-bestudded door, An' passage wi' a stwonen vloor, There spread the hall, where zun-light shone In drough a window freaem'd wi' stwone. A clavy-beam o' sheenen woak Did span the he'th wi' twisten smoke, Where fleaemes did shoot in yollow streaks, Above the brands, their flashen peaks; An' aunt did pull, as she did stand O'-tip-tooe, wi' her lifted hand, A curtain feaeded wi' the zun, Avore the window freaem'd wi' stwone. When Hwome-ground grass, below the moon, Wer damp wi' evenen dew in June, An' aunt did call the maidens in Vrom walken, wi' their shoes too thin, They zot to rest their litty veet Upon the window's woaken seat, An' chatted there, in light that shone In drough the window freaem'd wi' stwone. An' as the seasons, in a ring, Roll'd slowly roun' vrom Spring to Spring, An' brought em on zome holy-tide, When they did cast their tools azide; How glad it meaede em all to spy In Stwonylands their friends draw nigh, As they did know em all by neaeme Out drough the window's stwonen freaeme. O evenen zun, a-riden drough The sky, vrom Sh'oton Hill o' blue, To leaeve the night a-brooden dark At Stalbridge, wi' its grey-wall'd park; Small jay to me the vields do bring, Vor all their zummer birds do zing, Since now thy beams noo mwore do fleaeme In drough the window's stwonen freaeme. THE WATER-SPRING IN THE LEANE. Oh! aye! the spring 'ithin the leaene, A-leaeden down to Lyddan Brook; An' still a-nesslen in his nook, As weeks do pass, an' moons do weaene. Nwone the drier, Nwone the higher, Nwone the nigher to the door Where we did live so long avore. An' oh! what vo'k his mossy brim Ha' gathered in the run o' time! The wife a-blushen in her prime; The widow wi' her eyezight dim; Maidens dippen, Childern sippen, Water drippen, at the cool Dark wallen ov the little pool. Behind the spring do lie the lands My father till'd, vrom Spring to Spring, Awaeiten on vor time to bring The crops to pay his weary hands. Wheat a-growen, Beaens a-blowen, Grass vor mowen, where the bridge Do leaed to Ryall's on the ridge. But who do know when liv'd an' died The squier o' the mwoldren hall; That lined en wi' a stwonen wall, An' steaen'd so cleaen his wat'ry zide? We behind en, Now can't vind en, But do mind en, an' do thank His meaeker vor his little tank. THE POPLARS. If theaese day's work an' burnen sky 'V'a-zent hwome you so tired as I, Let's zit an' rest 'ithin the screen O' my wold bow'r upon the green; Where I do goo myself an' let The evenen aier cool my het, When dew do wet the grasses bleaedes, A-quiv'ren in the dusky sheaedes. There yonder poplar trees do play Soft music, as their heads do sway, While wind, a-rustlen soft or loud, Do stream ageaen their lofty sh'oud; An' seem to heal the ranklen zore My mind do meet wi' out o' door, When I've a-bore, in downcast mood, Zome evil where I look'd vor good. O' they two poplars that do rise So high avore our naighbours' eyes, A-zet by gramfer, hand by hand, Wi' grammer, in their bit o' land; The woone upon the western zide Wer his, an' woone wer grammer's pride, An' since they died, we all do teaeke Mwore ceaere o'm vor the wold vo'k's seaeke. An' there, wi' stems a-growen tall Avore the houses mossy wall, The while the moon ha' slowly past The leafy window, they've a-cast Their sheaedes 'ithin the window peaene; While childern have a-grown to men, An' then ageaen ha' left their beds, To bear their childern's heavy heads. THE LINDEN ON THE LAWN. No! Jenny, there's noo pleaece to charm My mind lik' yours at Woakland farm, A-peaerted vrom the busy town, By longsome miles ov airy down, Where woonce the meshy wall did gird Your flow'ry geaerden, an' the bird Did zing in zummer wind that stirr'd The spreaeden linden on the lawn. An' now ov all the trees wi' sheaedes A-wheelen round in Blackmwore gleaedes, There's noo tall poplar by the brook, Nor elem that do rock the rook, Nor ash upon the shelven ledge, Nor low-bough'd woak bezide the hedge, Nor withy up above the zedge, So dear's thik linden on the lawn. Vor there, o' zummer nights, below The wall, we zot when air did blow, An' sheaeke the dewy rwose a-tied Up roun' the window's stwonen zide. An' while the carter rod' along A-zingen, down the dusky drong, There you did zing a sweeter zong Below the linden on the lawn. An' while your warbled ditty wound Drough playsome flights o' mellow sound, The nightengeaele's sh'ill zong, that broke The stillness ov the dewy woak, Rung clear along the grove, an' smote To sudden stillness ev'ry droat; As we did zit, an' hear it float Below the linden on the lawn. Where dusky light did softly vall 'Ithin the stwonen-window'd hall, Avore your father's blinken eyes, His evenen whiff o' smoke did rise, An' vrom the bedroom window's height Your little John, a-cloth'd in white, An' gwain to bed, did cry "good night" Towards the linden on the lawn. But now, as Dobbin, wi' a nod Vor ev'ry heavy step he trod, Did bring me on, to-night, avore The geaebled house's pworched door, Noo laughen child a-cloth'd in white, Look'd drough the stwonen window's light, An' noo vaice zung, in dusky night, Below the linden on the lawn. An' zoo, if you should ever vind My kindness seem to grow less kind, An' if upon my clouded feaece My smile should yield a frown its pleaece, Then, Jenny, only laugh an' call My mind 'ithin the geaerden wall, Where we did play at even-fall, Below the linden on the lawn. OUR ABODE IN ARBY WOOD. Though ice do hang upon the willows Out bezide the vrozen brook, An' storms do roar above our pillows, Drough the night, 'ithin our nook; Our evenen he'th's a-glowen warm, Drough wringen vrost, an' roaren storm, Though winds mid meaeke the wold beams sheaeke, In our abode in Arby Wood. An' there, though we mid hear the timber Creake avore the windy rain; An' climen ivy quiver, limber, Up ageaen the window peaene; Our merry vaices then do sound, In rollen glee, or dree-vaice round; Though wind mid roar, 'ithout the door, Ov our abode in Arby Wood. SLOW TO COME, QUICK AGONE. Ah! there's a house that I do know Besouth o' yonder trees, Where northern winds can hardly blow But in a softest breeze. An' there woonce sounded zongs an' teaeles Vrom vaice o' maid or youth, An' sweeter than the nightengeaele's Above the copses lewth. How swiftly there did run the brooks, How swift wer winds in flight, How swiftly to their roost the rooks Did vlee o'er head at night. Though slow did seem to us the peaece O' comen days a-head, That now do seem as in a reaece Wi' air-birds to ha' vled. THE VIER-ZIDE. 'Tis zome vo'ks jay to teaeke the road, An' goo abro'd, a-wand'ren wide, Vrom shere to shere, vrom pleaece to pleaece, The swiftest peaece that vo'k can ride. But I've a jay 'ithin the door, Wi' friends avore the vier-zide. An' zoo, when winter skies do lour, An' when the Stour's a-rollen wide, Drough bridge-voot rails, a-painted white, To be at night the traveller's guide, Gi'e me a pleaece that's warm an' dry, A-zitten nigh my vier-zide. Vor where do love o' kith an' kin, At vu'st begin, or grow an' wride, Till souls a-lov'd so young, be wold, Though never cwold, drough time nor tide But where in me'th their gather'd veet Do often meet--the vier-zide. If, when a friend ha' left the land, I shook his hand a-most wet-eyed, I velt too well the ob'nen door Would leaed noo mwore where he did bide An' where I heaerd his vaices sound, In me'th around the vier-zide. As I've a-zeed how vast do vall The mwold'ren hall, the wold vo'ks pride, Where merry hearts wer woonce a-ved Wi' daily bread, why I've a-sigh'd, To zee the wall so green wi' mwold, An' vind so cwold the vier-zide. An' Chris'mas still mid bring his me'th To ouer he'th, but if we tried To gather all that woonce did wear Gay feaeces there! Ah! zome ha' died, An' zome be gone to leaeve wi' gaps O' missen laps, the vier-zide. But come now, bring us in your hand, A heavy brand o' woak a-dried, To cheer us wi' his het an' light, While vrosty night, so starry-skied, Go gather souls that time do speaere To zit an' sheaere our vier-zide. KNOWLWOOD. I don't want to sleep abrode, John, I do like my hwomeward road, John; An' like the sound o' Knowlwood bells the best. Zome would rove vrom pleaece to pleaece, John, Zome would goo from feaece to feaece, John, But I be happy in my hwomely nest; An' slight's the hope vor any pleaece bezide, To leaeve the plain abode where love do bide. Where the shelven knap do vall, John, Under trees a-springen tall, John; 'Tis there my house do show his sheenen zide, Wi' his walls vor ever green, John, Under ivy that's a screen, John, Vrom wet an' het, an' ev'ry changen tide, An' I do little ho vor goold or pride, To leaeve the plain abode where love do bide. There the benden stream do flow, John, By the mossy bridge's bow, John; An' there the road do wind below the hill; There the miller, white wi' meal, John, Deafen'd wi' his foamy wheel, John, Do stan' o' times a-looken out o' mill: The while 'ithin his lightly-sheaeken door. His wheaten flour do whiten all his floor. When my daily work's a-done, John, At the zetten o' the zun, John, An' I all day 've a-play'd a good man's peaert, I do vind my ease a-blest, John, While my conscience is at rest, John; An' while noo worm's a-left to fret my heart; An' who vor finer hwomes o' restless pride, Would pass the plain abode where peace do bide? By a windor in the west, John, There upon my fiddle's breast, John, The strings do sound below my bow's white heaeir; While a zingen drush do sway, John, Up an' down upon a spray, John, An' cast his sheaede upon the window square; Vor birds do know their friends, an' build their nest, An' love to roost, where they can live at rest. Out o' town the win' do bring, John, Peals o' bells when they do ring, John, An' roun' me here, at hand, my ear can catch The maid a-zingen by the stream, John, Or carter whislen wi' his team, John, Or zingen birds, or water at the hatch; An' zoo wi' sounds o' vaice, an' bird an' bell, Noo hour is dull 'ithin our rwosy dell. An' when the darksome night do hide, John, Land an' wood on ev'ry zide, John; An' when the light's a-burnen on my bwoard, Then vor pleasures out o' door, John, I've enough upon my vloor, John: My Jenny's loven deed, an' look, an' word, An' we be lwoth, lik' culvers zide by zide, To leaeve the plain abode where love do bide. HALLOWED PLEAeCES. At Woodcombe farm, wi' ground an' tree Hallow'd by times o' youthvul glee, At Chris'mas time I spent a night Wi' feaeces dearest to my zight; An' took my wife to tread, woonce mwore, Her maiden hwome's vorseaeken vloor, An' under stars that slowly wheel'd Aloft, above the keen-air'd vield, While night bedimm'd the rus'len copse, An' darken'd all the ridges' tops, The hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung Wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young. There, on the he'th's well-hetted ground, Hallow'd by times o' zitten round, The brimvul mug o' cider stood An' hiss'd avore the bleaezen wood; An' zome, a-zitten knee by knee, Did tell their teaeles wi' hearty glee, An' others gamboll'd in a roar O' laughter on the stwonen vloor; An' while the moss o' winter-tide Clung chilly roun' the house's zide, The hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung Wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young. There, on the pworches bench o' stwone, Hallow'd by times o' youthvul fun, We laugh'd an' sigh'd to think o' neaemes That rung there woonce, in evenen geaemes; An' while the swayen cypress bow'd, In chilly wind, his darksome sh'oud An' honeyzuckles, beaere o' leaeves, Still reach'd the window-sheaeden eaves Up where the clematis did trim The stwonen arches mossy rim, The hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung Wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young. There, in the geaerden's wall-bound square, Hallow'd by times o' strollen there, The winter wind, a-hufflen loud, Did sway the pear-tree's leafless sh'oud, An' beaet the bush that woonce did bear The damask rwose vor Jenny's heaeir; An' there the walk o' peaeven stwone That burn'd below the zummer zun, Struck icy-cwold drough shoes a-wore By maidens vrom the hetted vloor In hall, a-hung wi' holm, where rung Vull many a tongue o' wold an' young. There at the geaete that woonce wer blue Hallow'd by times o' passen drough, Light strawmotes rose in flaggen flight, A-floated by the winds o' night, Where leafy ivy-stems did crawl In moonlight on the windblown wall, An' merry maidens' vaices vled In echoes sh'ill, vrom wall to shed, As shiv'ren in their frocks o' white They come to bid us there "Good night," Vrom hall, a-hung wi' holm, that rung Wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young. There in the narrow leaene an' drong Hallow'd by times o' gwain along, The lofty ashes' leafless sh'ouds Rose dark avore the clear-edged clouds, The while the moon, at girtest height, Bespread the pooly brook wi' light, An' as our child, in loose-limb'd rest, Lay peaele upon her mother's breast, Her waxen eyelids seal'd her eyes Vrom darksome trees, an' sheenen skies, An' halls a-hung wi' holm, that rung Wi' many a tongue, o' wold an' young. THE WOLD WALL. Here, Jeaene, we vu'st did meet below The leafy boughs, a-swingen slow, Avore the zun, wi' evenen glow, Above our road, a-beamen red; The grass in zwath wer in the meaeds, The water gleam'd among the reeds In air a-steaelen roun' the hall, Where ivy clung upon the wall. Ah! well-a-day! O wall adieu! The wall is wold, my grief is new. An' there you walk'd wi' blushen pride, Where softly-wheelen streams did glide, Drough sheaedes o' poplars at my zide, An' there wi' love that still do live, Your feaece did wear the smile o' youth, The while you spoke wi' age's truth, An' wi' a rwosebud's mossy ball, I deck'd your bosom vrom the wall. Ah! well-a-day! O wall adieu! The wall is wold, my grief is new. But now when winter's rain do vall, An' wind do beaet ageaen the hall, The while upon the wat'ry wall In spots o' grey the moss do grow; The ruf noo mwore shall overspread The pillor ov our weary head, Nor shall the rwose's mossy ball Behang vor you the house's wall. Ah! well-a-day! O wall adieu! The wall is wold, my grief is new. BLEAeKE'S HOUSE IN BLACKMWORE. John Bleaeke he had a bit o' ground Come to en by his mother's zide; An' after that, two hunderd pound His uncle left en when he died; "Well now," cried John, "my mind's a-bent To build a house, an' pay noo rent." An' Meaery gi'ed en her consent. "Do, do,"--the maidens cried "True, true,"--his wife replied. "Done, done,--a house o' brick or stwone," Cried merry Bleaeke o' Blackmwore. Then John he call'd vor men o' skill, An' builders answer'd to his call; An' met to reckon, each his bill; Vor vloor an' window, ruf an' wall. An' woone did mark it on the groun', An' woone did think, an' scratch his crown, An' reckon work, an' write it down: "Zoo, zoo,"--woone treaedesman cried, "True, true,"--woone mwore replied. "Aye, aye,--good work, an' have good pay," Cried merry Bleaeke o' Blackmwore. The work begun, an' trowels rung, An' up the bricken wall did rise, An' up the slanten refters sprung, Wi' busy blows, an' lusty cries! An' woone brought planks to meaeke a vloor, An' woone did come wi' durns or door, An' woone did zaw, an' woone did bore, "Brick, brick,--there down below, Quick, quick,--why b'ye so slow?" "Lime, lime,--why we do weaeste the time, Vor merry Bleaeke o' Blackmwore." The house wer up vrom groun' to tun, An' thatch'd ageaen the rainy sky, Wi' windows to the noonday zun, Where rushy Stour do wander by. In coo'se he had a pworch to screen The inside door, when win's wer keen, An' out avore the pworch, a green. "Here! here!"--the childern cried: "Dear! dear!"--the wife replied; "There, there,--the house is perty feaeir," Cried merry Bleaeke o' Blackmwore. Then John he ax'd his friends to warm His house, an' they, a goodish batch, Did come alwone, or eaerm in eaerm, All roads, a-meaeken vor his hatch: An' there below the clavy beam The kettle-spout did zing an' steam; An' there wer ceaekes, an' tea wi' cream. "Lo! lo!"--the women cried; "Ho! ho!"--the men replied; "Health, health,--attend ye wi' your wealth, Good merry Bleaeke o' Blackmwore." Then John, a-prais'd, flung up his crown, All back a-laughen in a roar. They prais'd his wife, an' she look'd down A-simperen towards the vloor. Then up they sprung a-dancen reels, An' up went tooes, an' up went heels, A-winden roun' in knots an' wheels. "Brisk, brisk,"--the maidens cried; "Frisk, frisk,"--the men replied; "Quick, quick,--there wi' your fiddle-stick," Cried merry Bleaeke o' Blackmwore. An' when the morrow's zun did sheen, John Bleaeke beheld, wi' jay an' pride, His bricken house, an' pworch, an' green, Above the Stour's rushy zide. The zwallows left the lwonesome groves, To build below the thatchen 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 Bleaeke o' Blackmwore. JOHN BLEAeKE AT HWOME AT NIGHT. No: where the woak do overspread, The grass begloom'd below his head, An' water, under bowen zedge, A-springen vrom the river's edge, Do ripple, as the win' do blow, An' sparkle, as the sky do glow; An' grey-leav'd withy-boughs do cool, Wi' darksome sheaedes, the clear-feaeced pool, My chimny smoke, 'ithin the lew O' trees is there arisen blue; Avore the night do dim our zight, Or candle-light, a-sheenen bright, Do sparkle drough the window. When crumpled leaves o' Fall do bound Avore the wind, along the ground, An' wither'd bennet-stems do stand A-quiv'ren on the chilly land; The while the zun, wi' zetten rim, Do leaeve the workman's pathway dim; An' sweet-breath'd childern's hangen heads Be laid wi' kisses, on their beds; Then I do seek my woodland nest, An' zit bezide my vier at rest, While night's a-spread, where day's a-vled, An' lights do shed their beams o' red, A-sparklen drough the window. If winter's whistlen winds do vreeze The snow a-gather'd on the trees, An' sheaedes o' poplar stems do vall In moonlight up athirt the wall; An' icicles do hang below The oves, a-glitt'ren in a row, An' risen stars do slowly ride Above the ruf's upslanten zide; Then I do lay my weary head Asleep upon my peaceful bed, When middle-night ha' quench'd the light Ov embers bright, an' candles white A-beamen drough the window. MILKEN TIME. 'Twer when the busy birds did vlee, Wi' sheenen wings, vrom tree to tree, To build upon the mossy lim', Their hollow nestes' rounded rim; The while the zun, a-zinken low, Did roll along his evenen bow, I come along where wide-horn'd cows, 'Ithin a nook, a-screen'd by boughs, Did stan' an' flip the white-hoop'd pails Wi' heaeiry tufts o' swingen tails; An' there wer Jenny Coom a-gone Along the path a vew steps on. A-beaeren on her head, upstraight, Her pail, wi' slowly-riden waight, An' hoops a-sheenen, lily-white, Ageaen the evenen's slanten light; An' zo I took her pail, an' left Her neck a-freed vrom all his heft; An' she a-looken up an' down, Wi' sheaepely head an' glossy crown, Then took my zide, an' kept my peaece A-talken on wi' smilen feaece, An' zetten things in sich a light, I'd fain ha' heaer'd her talk all night; An' when I brought her milk avore The geaete, she took it in to door, An' if her pail had but allow'd Her head to vall, she would ha' bow'd, An' still, as 'twer, I had the zight Ov her sweet smile droughout the night. WHEN BIRDS BE STILL. Vor all the zun do leaeve the sky, An' all the sounds o' day do die, An' noo mwore veet do walk the dim Vield-path to clim' the stiel's bars, Yeet out below the rizen stars, The dark'nen day mid leaeve behind Woone tongue that I shall always vind, A-whisperen kind, when birds be still. Zoo let the day come on to spread His kindly light above my head, Wi' zights to zee, an' sounds to hear, That still do cheer my thoughtvul mind; Or let en goo, an' leaeve behind An' hour to stroll along the gleaedes, Where night do drown the beeches' sheaedes, On grasses' bleaedes, when birds be still. Vor when the night do lull the sound O' cows a-bleaeren out in ground, The sh'ill-vaic'd dog do stan' an' bark 'Ithin the dark, bezide the road; An' when noo cracklen waggon's lwoad Is in the leaene, the wind do bring The merry peals that bells do ring O ding-dong-ding, when birds be still. Zoo teaeke, vor me, the town a-drown'd, 'Ithin a storm o' rumblen sound, An' gi'e me vaices that do speak So soft an' meek, to souls alwone; The brook a-gurglen round a stwone, An' birds o' day a-zingen clear, An' leaves, that I mid zit an' hear A-rustlen near, when birds be still. RIDEN HWOME AT NIGHT. Oh! no, I quite injay'd the ride Behind wold Dobbin's heavy heels, Wi' Jeaene a-prattlen at my zide, Above our peaeir o' spinnen wheels, As grey-rin'd ashes' swayen tops Did creak in moonlight in the copse, Above the quiv'ren grass, a-beaet By wind a-blowen drough the geaet. If weary souls did want their sleep, They had a-zent vor sleep the night; Vor vo'k that had a call to keep Awake, lik' us, there still wer light. An' He that shut the sleepers' eyes, A-waiten vor the zun to rise, Ha' too much love to let em know The ling'ren night did goo so slow. But if my wife did catch a zight O' zome queer pollard, or a post, Poor soul! she took en in her fright To be a robber or a ghost. A two-stump'd withy, wi' a head, Mus' be a man wi' eaerms a-spread; An' foam o' water, round a rock, Wer then a drownen leaedy's frock. Zome staddle stwones to bear a mow, Wer dancen veaeries on the lag; An' then a snow-white sheeted cow Could only be, she thought, their flag, An owl a-vleen drough the wood Wer men on watch vor little good; An' geaetes a slam'd by wind, did goo, She thought, to let a robber drough. But after all, she lik'd the zight O' cows asleep in glitt'ren dew; An' brooks that gleam'd below the light, An' dim vield paths 'ithout a shoe. An' gaily talk'd bezide my ears, A-laughen off her needless fears: Or had the childern uppermost In mind, instead o' thief or ghost. An' when our house, wi' open door, Did rumble hollow round our heads, She heaesten'd up to tother vloor, To zee the childern in their beds; An' vound woone little head awry, Wi' woone a-turn'd toward the sky; An' wrung her hands ageaen her breast, A-smilen at their happy rest. ZUN-ZET. Where the western zun, unclouded, Up above the grey hill-tops, Did sheen drough ashes, lofty sh'ouded On the turf bezide the copse, In zummer weather, We together, Sorrow-slighten, work-vorgetten. Gambol'd wi' the zun a-zetten. There, by flow'ry bows o' bramble, Under hedge, in ash-tree sheaedes, The dun-heair'd ho'se did slowly ramble On the grasses' dewy bleaedes, Zet free o' lwoads, An' stwony rwoads, Vorgetvul o' the lashes fretten, Grazen wi' the zun a-zetten. There wer rooks a-beaeten by us Drough the air, in a vlock, An' there the lively blackbird, nigh us, On the meaeple bough did rock, Wi' ringen droat, Where zunlight smote The yollow boughs o' zunny hedges Over western hills' blue edges. Waters, drough the meaeds a-purlen, Glissen'd in the evenen's light, An' smoke, above the town a-curlen, Melted slowly out o' zight; An' there, in glooms Ov unzunn'd rooms, To zome, wi' idle sorrows fretten, Zuns did set avore their zetten. We were out in geaemes and reaeces, Loud a-laughen, wild in me'th, Wi' windblown heaeir, an' zunbrown'd feaeces, Leaepen on the high-sky'd e'th, Avore the lights Wer tin'd o' nights, An' while the gossamer's light netten Sparkled to the zun a-zetten. SPRING. Now the zunny air's a-blowen Softly over flowers a-growen; An' the sparklen light do quiver On the ivy-bough an' river; Bleaeten lambs, wi' woolly feaeces, Now do play, a-runnen reaeces; An' the springen Lark's a-zingen, Lik' a dot avore the cloud, High above the ashes sh'oud. Housen, in the open brightness, Now do sheen in spots o' whiteness; Here an' there, on upland ledges, In among the trees an' hedges, Where, along by vlocks o' sparrows, Chatt'ren at the ploughman's harrows. Dousty rwoaded, Errand-lwoaded; Jenny, though her cloak is thin, Do wish en hwome upon the pin. Zoo come along, noo longer heedvul Ov the vier, leaetely needvul, Over grass o' slopen leaezes, Zingen zongs in zunny breezes; Out to work in copse, a-mooten, Where the primrwose is a-shooten, An in gladness, Free o' sadness, In the warmth o' Spring vorget Leafless winter's cwold an' wet. THE ZUMMER HEDGE. As light do gleaere in ev'ry ground, Wi' boughy hedges out a-round A-climmen up the slopen brows O' hills, in rows o' sheaedy boughs: The while the hawthorn buds do blow As thick as stars, an' white as snow; Or cream-white blossoms be a-spread About the guelder-rwoses' head; How cool's the sheaede, or warm's the lewth, Bezide a zummer hedge in blooth. When we've a-work'd drough longsome hours, Till dew's a-dried vrom dazzlen flow'rs, The while the climmen zun ha' glow'd Drough mwore than half his daily road: Then where the sheaedes do slily pass Athirt our veet upon the grass, As we do rest by lofty ranks Ov elems on the flow'ry banks; How cool's the sheaede, or warm's the lewth, Bezide a zummer hedge in blooth. But oh! below woone hedge's zide Our jay do come a-most to pride; Out where the high-stemm'd trees do stand, In row bezide our own free land, An' where the wide-leav'd clote mid zwim 'Ithin our water's rushy rim: An' rain do vall, an' zuns do burn, An' each in season, and in turn, To cool the sheaede or warm the lewth Ov our own zummer hedge in blooth. How soft do sheaeke the zummer hedge-- How soft do sway the zummer zedge-- How bright be zummer skies an' zun-- How bright the zummer brook do run; An' feaeir the flow'rs do bloom, to feaede Behind the swayen mower's bleaede; An' sweet be merry looks o' jay, By weaeles an' pooks o' June's new hay, Wi' smilen age, an laughen youth, Bezide the zummer hedge in blooth. THE WATER CROWVOOT. O' small-feaec'd flow'r that now dost bloom To stud wi' white the shallow Frome, An' leaeve the clote to spread his flow'r On darksome pools o' stwoneless Stour, When sof'ly-rizen airs do cool The water in the sheenen pool, Thy beds o' snow-white buds do gleam So feaeir upon the sky-blue stream, As whitest clouds, a-hangen high Avore the blueness o' the sky; An' there, at hand, the thin-heaeir'd cows, In airy sheaedes o' withy boughs, Or up bezide the mossy rails, Do stan' an' zwing their heavy tails, The while the ripplen stream do flow Below the dousty bridge's bow; An' quiv'ren water-gleams do mock The weaeves, upon the sheaeded rock; An' up athirt the copen stwone The laitren bwoy do leaen alwone, A-watchen, wi' a stedvast look, The vallen waters in the brook, The while the zand o' time do run An' leaeve his errand still undone. An' oh! as long's thy buds would gleam Above the softly-sliden stream, While sparklen zummer-brooks do run Below the lofty-climen zun, I only wish that thou could'st stay Vor noo man's harm, an' all men's jay. But no, the waterman 'ull weaede Thy water wi' his deadly bleaede, To slay thee even in thy bloom, Fair small-feaeced flower o' the Frome. THE LILAC. Dear lilac-tree, a-spreaden wide Thy purple blooth on ev'ry zide, As if the hollow sky did shed Its blue upon thy flow'ry head; Oh! whether I mid sheaere wi' thee Thy open air, my bloomen tree, Or zee thy blossoms vrom the gloom, 'Ithin my zunless worken-room, My heart do leaep, but leaep wi' sighs, At zight o' thee avore my eyes, For when thy grey-blue head do sway In cloudless light, 'tis Spring, 'tis May. 'Tis Spring, 'tis May, as May woonce shed His glowen light above thy head-- When thy green boughs, wi' bloomy tips, Did sheaede my childern's laughen lips; A-screenen vrom the noonday gleaere Their rwosy cheaeks an' glossy heaeir; The while their mother's needle sped, Too quick vor zight, the snow-white thread, Unless her han', wi' loven ceaere, Did smooth their little heads o' heaeir; Or wi' a sheaeke, tie up anew Vor zome wild voot, a slippen shoe; An' I did leaen bezide thy mound Ageaen the deaesy-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. THE BLACKBIRD. 'Twer out at Penley I'd a-past A zummer day that went too vast, An' when the zetten zun did spread On western clouds a vi'ry red; The elems' leafy limbs wer still Above the gravel-bedded rill, An' under en did warble sh'ill, Avore the dusk, the blackbird. An' there, in sheaedes o' darksome yews, Did vlee the maidens on their tooes, A-laughen sh'ill wi' merry feaece When we did vind their hiden pleaece. 'Ithin the loose-bough'd ivys gloom, Or lofty lilac, vull in bloom, Or hazzle-wrides that gi'ed em room Below the zingen blackbird. Above our heads the rooks did vlee To reach their nested elem-tree, An' splashen vish did rise to catch The wheelen gnots above the hatch; An' there the miller went along, A-smilen, up the sheaedy drong, But yeet too deaf to hear the zong A-zung us by the blackbird. An' there the sh'illy-bubblen brook Did leaeve behind his rocky nook, To run drough meaeds a-chill'd wi' dew, Vrom hour to hour the whole night drough; But still his murmurs wer a-drown'd By vaices that mid never sound Ageaen together on that ground, Wi' whislens o' the blackbird. THE SLANTEN LIGHT O' FALL. Ah! Jeaene, my maid, I stood to you, When you wer christen'd, small an' light, Wi' tiny eaerms o' red an' blue, A-hangen in your robe o' white. We brought ye to the hallow'd stwone, Vor Christ to teaeke ye vor his own, When harvest work wer all a-done, An' time brought round October zun-- The slanten light o' Fall. An' I can mind the wind wer rough, An' gather'd clouds, but brought noo storms, An' you did nessle warm enough, 'Ithin your smilen mother's eaerms. The whindlen grass did quiver light, Among the stubble, feaeded white, An' if at times the zunlight broke Upon the ground, or on the vo'k, 'Twer slanten light o' Fall. An' when we brought ye drough the door O' Knapton Church, a child o' greaece, There cluster'd round a'most a score O' vo'k to zee your tiny feaece. An' there we all did veel so proud, To zee an' op'nen in the cloud, An' then a stream o' light break drough, A-sheenen brightly down on you-- The slanten light o' Fall. But now your time's a-come to stand In church, a-blushen at my zide, The while a bridegroom vrom my hand Ha' took ye vor his faithvul bride. Your christen neaeme we gi'd ye here, When Fall did cool the weaesten year; An' now, ageaen, we brought ye drough The doorway, wi' your surneaeme new, In slanten light o' Fall. An' zoo vur, Jeaene, your life is feaeir, An' God ha' been your steadvast friend, An' mid ye have mwore jay than ceaere, Vor ever, till your journey's end. An' I've a-watch'd ye on wi' pride, But now I soon mus' leaeve your zide, Vor you ha' still life's spring-tide zun, But my life, Jeaene, is now a-run To slanten light o' Fall. THISSLEDOWN. The thissledown by wind's a-roll'd In Fall along the zunny plain, Did catch the grass, but lose its hold, Or cling to bennets, but in vain. But when it zwept along the grass, An' zunk below the hollow's edge, It lay at rest while winds did pass Above the pit-bescreenen ledge. The plain ha' brightness wi' his strife, The pit is only dark at best, There's pleasure in a worksome life, An' sloth is tiresome wi' its rest. Zoo, then, I'd sooner beaer my peaert, Ov all the trials vo'k do rue, Than have a deadness o' the heart, Wi' nothen mwore to veel or do. THE MAY-TREE. I've a-come by the May-tree all times o' the year, When leaves wer a-springen, When vrost wer a-stingen, When cool-winded mornen did show the hills clear, When night wer bedimmen the vields vur an' near. When, in zummer, his head wer as white as a sheet, Wi' white buds a-zwellen, An' blossom, sweet-smellen, While leaves wi' green leaves on his bough-zides did meet, A-sheaeden the deaeisies down under our veet. When the zun, in the Fall, wer a-wanderen wan, An' haws on his head Did sprinkle en red, Or bright drops o' rain wer a-hung loosely on, To the tips o' the sprigs when the scud wer a-gone. An' when, in the winter, the zun did goo low, An' keen win' did huffle, But never could ruffle The hard vrozen feaece o' the water below, His limbs wer a-fringed wi' the vrost or the snow. LYDLINCH BELLS. When skies wer peaele wi' twinklen stars, An' whislen air a-risen keen; An' birds did leaeve the icy bars To vind, in woods, their mossy screen; When vrozen grass, so white's a sheet, Did scrunchy sharp below our veet, An' water, that did sparkle red At zunzet, wer a-vrozen dead; The ringers then did spend an hour A-ringen changes up in tow'r; Vor Lydlinch bells be good vor sound, An' liked by all the naighbours round. An' while along the leafless boughs O' ruslen hedges, win's did pass, An' orts ov hay, a-left by cows, Did russle on the vrozen grass, An' maidens' pails, wi' all their work A-done, did hang upon their vurk, An' they, avore the fleaemen brand, Did teaeke their needle-work in hand, The men did cheer their heart an hour A-ringen changes up in tow'r; Vor Lydlinch bells be good vor sound, An' liked by all the naighbours round. There sons did pull the bells that rung Their mothers' wedden peals avore, The while their fathers led em young An' blushen vrom the churches door, An' still did cheem, wi' happy sound, As time did bring the Zundays round, An' call em to the holy pleaece Vor heav'nly gifts o' peace an' greaece; An' vo'k did come, a-streamen slow Along below the trees in row, While they, in merry peals, did sound The bells vor all the naighbours round. An' when the bells, wi' changen peal, Did smite their own vo'ks window-peaenes, Their sof'en'd sound did often steal Wi' west winds drough the Bagber leaenes; Or, as the win' did shift, mid goo Where woody Stock do nessle lew, Or where the risen moon did light The walls o' Thornhill on the height; An' zoo, whatever time mid bring To meaeke their vive clear vaices zing, Still Lydlinch bells wer good vor sound, An' liked by all the naighbours round. THE STAGE COACH. Ah! when the wold vo'k went abroad They thought it vast enough, If vow'r good ho'ses beaet the road Avore the coach's ruf; An' there they zot, A-cwold or hot, An' roll'd along the ground, While the whip did smack On the ho'ses' back, An' the wheels went swiftly round, Good so's; The wheels went swiftly round. Noo iron rails did streak the land To keep the wheels in track. The coachman turn'd his vow'r-in-hand, Out right, or left, an' back; An' he'd stop avore A man's own door, To teaeke en up or down: While the reins vell slack On the ho'ses' back, Till the wheels did rottle round ageaen; Till the wheels did rottle round. An' there, when wintry win' did blow, Athirt the plain an' hill, An' the zun wer peaele above the snow, An' ice did stop the mill, They did laugh an' joke Wi' cwoat or cloke, So warmly roun' em bound, While the whip did crack On the ho'ses' back, An' the wheels did trundle round, d'ye know; The wheels did trundle round. An' when the rumblen coach did pass Where hufflen winds did roar, They'd stop to teaeke a warmen glass By the sign above the door; An' did laugh an' joke An' ax the vo'k The miles they wer vrom town, Till the whip did crack On the ho'ses back, An' the wheels did truckle roun', good vo'k; The wheels did truckle roun'. An' gaily rod wold age or youth, When zummer light did vall On woods in leaf, or trees in blooth, Or girt vo'ks parkzide wall. An' they thought they past The pleaeces vast, Along the dousty groun', When the whip did smack On the ho'ses' back, An' the wheels spun swiftly roun'. Them days The wheels spun swiftly roun'. WAYFEAREN. The sky wer clear, the zunsheen glow'd On droopen flowers drough the day, As I did beaet the dousty road Vrom hinder hills, a-feaeden gray; Drough hollows up the hills, Vrom knaps along by mills, Vrom mills by churches tow'rs, wi' bells That twold the hours to woody dells. An' when the winden road do guide The thirsty vootman where mid flow The water vrom a rock bezide His vootsteps, in a sheenen bow; The hand a-hollow'd up Do beaet a goolden cup, To catch an' drink it, bright an' cool, A-vallen light 'ithin the pool. Zoo when, at last, I hung my head Wi' thirsty lips a-burnen dry, I come bezide a river-bed Where water flow'd so blue's the sky; An' there I meaede me up O' coltsvoot leaf a cup, Where water vrom his lip o' gray, Wer sweet to sip thik burnen day. But when our work is right, a jay Do come to bless us in its train, An' hardships ha' zome good to pay The thoughtvul soul vor all their paein: The het do sweeten sheaede, An' weary lim's ha' meaede A bed o' slumber, still an' sound, By woody hill or grassy mound. An' while I zot in sweet delay Below an elem on a hill, Where boughs a-halfway up did sway In sheaedes o' lim's above em still, An' blue sky show'd between The flutt'ren leaeves o' green; I woulden gi'e that gloom an' sheaede Vor any room that weaelth ha' meaede. But oh! that vo'k that have the roads Where weary-vooted souls do pass, Would leaeve bezide the stwone vor lwoads, A little strip vor zummer grass; That when the stwones do bruise An' burn an' gall our tooes, We then mid cool our veet on beds O' wild-thyme sweet, or deaeisy-heads. THE LEANE. They do zay that a travellen chap Have a-put in the newspeaeper now, That the bit o' green ground on the knap Should be all a-took in vor the plough. He do fancy 'tis easy to show That we can be but stunpolls at best, Vor to leaeve a green spot where a flower can grow, Or a voot-weary walker mid rest. Tis hedge-grubben, Thomas, an' ledge-grubben, Never a-done While a sov'ren mwore's to be won. The road, he do zay, is so wide As 'tis wanted vor travellers' wheels, As if all that did travel did ride An' did never get galls on their heels. He would leaeve sich a thin strip o' groun', That, if a man's veet in his shoes Wer a-burnen an' zore, why he coulden zit down But the wheels would run over his tooes. Vor 'tis meaeke money, Thomas, an' teaeke money, What's zwold an' bought Is all that is worthy o' thought. Years agoo the leaene-zides did bear grass, Vor to pull wi' the geeses' red bills, That did hiss at the vo'k that did pass, Or the bwoys that pick'd up their white quills. But shortly, if vower or vive Ov our goslens do creep vrom the agg, They must mwope in the geaerden, mwore dead than alive, In a coop, or a-tied by the lag. Vor to catch at land, Thomas, an' snatch at land, Now is the plan; Meaeke money wherever you can. The childern wull soon have noo pleaece Vor to play in, an' if they do grow, They wull have a thin musheroom feaece, Wi' their bodies so sumple as dough. But a man is a-meaede ov a child, An' his limbs do grow worksome by play; An' if the young child's little body's a-spweil'd, Why, the man's wull the sooner decay. But wealth is wo'th now mwore than health is wo'th; Let it all goo, If't 'ull bring but a sov'ren or two. Vor to breed the young fox or the heaere, We can gi'e up whole eaecres o' ground, But the greens be a-grudg'd, vor to rear Our young childern up healthy an' sound, Why, there woont be a-left the next age A green spot where their veet can goo free; An' the goocoo wull soon be committed to cage Vor a trespass in zomebody's tree. Vor 'tis locken up, Thomas, an' blocken up, Stranger or brother, Men mussen come nigh woone another. Woone day I went in at a geaete, Wi' my child, where an echo did sound, An' the owner come up, an' did reaete Me as if I would car off his ground. But his vield an' the grass wer a-let, An' the damage that he could a-took Wer at mwost that the while I did open the geaete I did rub roun' the eye on the hook. But 'tis dreven out, Thomas, an' heven out. Trample noo grounds, Unless you be after the hounds. Ah! the Squier o' Culver-dell Hall Wer as diff'rent as light is vrom dark, Wi' zome vo'k that, as evenen did vall, Had a-broke drough long grass in his park; Vor he went, wi' a smile, vor to meet Wi' the trespassers while they did pass, An' he zaid, "I do fear you'll catch cwold in your veet, You've a-walk'd drough so much o' my grass." His mild words, Thomas, cut em like swords, Thomas, Newly a-whet, An' went vurder wi' them than a dreat. THE RAILROAD. I took a flight, awhile agoo, Along the rails, a stage or two, An' while the heavy wheels did spin An' rottle, wi' a deafnen din, In clouds o' steam, the zweepen train Did shoot along the hill-bound plain, As sheaedes o' birds in flight, do pass Below em on the zunny grass. An' as I zot, an' look'd abrode On leaenen land an' winden road, The ground a-spread along our flight Did vlee behind us out o' zight; The while the zun, our heav'nly guide, Did ride on wi' us, zide by zide. An' zoo, while time, vrom stage to stage, Do car us on vrom youth to age, The e'thly pleasures we do vind Be soon a-met, an' left behind; But God, beholden vrom above Our lowly road, wi' yearnen love, Do keep bezide us, stage by stage, Vrom be'th to youth, vrom youth to age. THE RAILROAD. An' while I went 'ithin a train, A-riden on athirt the plain, A-cleaeren swifter than a hound, On twin-laid rails, the zwimmen ground; I cast my eyes 'ithin a park, Upon a woak wi' grey-white bark, An' while I kept his head my mark, The rest did wheel around en. An' when in life our love do cling The clwosest round zome single thing, We then do vind that all the rest Do wheel roun' that, vor vu'st an' best; Zoo while our life do last, mid nought But what is good an' feaeir be sought, In word or deed, or heart or thought, An' all the rest wheel round it. SEATS. When starbright maidens be to zit In silken frocks, that they do wear, The room mid have, as 'tis but fit, A han'some seat vor vo'k so feaeir; But we, in zun-dried vield an' wood, Ha' seats as good's a goolden chair. Vor here, 'ithin the woody drong, A ribbed elem-stem do lie, A-vell'd in Spring, an' stratch'd along A bed o' graegles up knee-high, A sheaedy seat to rest, an' let The burnen het o' noon goo by. Or if you'd look, wi' wider scope, Out where the gray-tree'd plain do spread, The ash bezide the zunny slope, Do sheaede a cool-air'd deaeisy bed, An' grassy seat, wi' spreaden eaves O' rus'len leaves, above your head. An' there the train mid come in zight, Too vur to hear a-rollen by, A-breathen quick, in heaesty flight, His breath o' tweil, avore the sky, The while the waggon, wi' his lwoad, Do crawl the rwoad a-winden nigh. Or now theaese happy holiday Do let vo'k rest their weaery lim's, An' lwoaded hay's a-hangen gray, Above the waggon-wheels' dry rims, The meaed ha' seats in weaeles or pooks, By winden brooks, wi' crumblen brims. Or if you'd gi'e your thoughtvul mind To yonder long-vorseaeken hall, Then teaeke a stwonen seat behind The ivy on the broken wall, An' learn how e'thly wealth an' might Mid clim' their height, an' then mid vall. SOUND O' WATER. I born in town! oh no, my dawn O' life broke here beside theaese lawn; Not where pent air do roll along, In darkness drough the wall-bound drong, An' never bring the goo-coo's zong, Nor sweets o' blossoms in the hedge, Or benden rush, or sheenen zedge, Or sounds o' flowen water. The air that I've a-breath'd did sheaeke The draps o' rain upon the breaeke, An' bear aloft the swingen lark, An' huffle roun' the elem's bark, In boughy grove, an' woody park, An' brought us down the dewy dells, The high-wound zongs o' nightingeaeles. An' sounds o' flowen water. An' when the zun, wi' vi'ry rim, 'S a-zinken low, an' wearen dim, Here I, a-most too tired to stand, Do leaeve my work that's under hand In pathless wood or oben land, To rest 'ithin my thatchen oves, Wi' ruslen win's in leafy groves, An' sounds o' flowen water. TREES BE COMPANY. When zummer's burnen het's a-shed Upon the droopen grasses head, A-dreven under sheaedy leaves The workvo'k in their snow-white sleeves, We then mid yearn to clim' the height, Where thorns be white, above the vern; An' air do turn the zunsheen's might To softer light too weak to burn-- On woodless downs we mid be free, But lowland trees be company. Though downs mid show a wider view O' green a-reachen into blue Than roads a-winden in the glen, An' ringen wi' the sounds o' men; The thissle's crown o' red an' blue In Fall's cwold dew do wither brown, An' larks come down 'ithin the lew, As storms do brew, an' skies do frown-- An' though the down do let us free, The lowland trees be company. Where birds do zing, below the zun, In trees above the blue-smok'd tun, An' sheaedes o' stems do overstratch The mossy path 'ithin the hatch; If leaves be bright up over head, When May do shed its glitt'ren light; Or, in the blight o' Fall, do spread A yollow bed avore our zight-- Whatever season it mid be, The trees be always company. When dusky night do nearly hide The path along the hedge's zide, An' dailight's hwomely sounds be still But sounds o' water at the mill; Then if noo feaece we long'd to greet Could come to meet our lwonesome treaece Or if noo peaece o' weary veet, However fleet, could reach its pleaece-- However lwonesome we mid be, The trees would still be company. A PLEAeCE IN ZIGHT. As I at work do look aroun' Upon the groun' I have in view, To yonder hills that still do rise Avore the skies, wi' backs o' blue; 'Ithin the ridges that do vall An' rise roun' Blackmwore lik' a wall, 'Tis yonder knap do teaeke my zight Vrom dawn till night, the mwost ov all. An' there, in May, 'ithin the lewth O' boughs in blooth, be sheaedy walks, An' cowslips up in yollow beds Do hang their heads on downy stalks; An' if the weather should be feaeir When I've a holiday to speaere, I'll teaeke the chance o' getten drough An hour or two wi' zome vo'k there. An' there I now can dimly zee The elem-tree upon the mound, An' there meaeke out the high-bough'd grove An' narrow drove by Redcliff ground; An' there by trees a-risen tall, The glowen zunlight now do vall, Wi' shortest sheaedes o' middle day, Upon the gray wold house's wall. An' I can zee avore the sky A-risen high the churches speer, Wi' bells that I do goo to swing, An' like to ring, an' like to hear; An' if I've luck upon my zide, They bells shall sound bwoth loud an' wide, A peal above they slopes o' gray, Zome merry day wi' Jeaene a bride. GWAIN TO BROOKWELL. At Easter, though the wind wer high, We vound we had a zunny sky, An' zoo wold Dobbin had to trudge His dousty road by knap an' brudge, An' jog, wi' hangen vetterlocks A-sheaeken roun' his heavy hocks, An' us, a lwoad not much too small, A-riden out to Brookwell Hall; An' there in doust vrom Dobbin's heels, An' green light-waggon's vower wheels, Our merry laughs did loudly sound, In rollen winds athirt the ground; While sheenen-ribbons' color'd streaeks Did flutter roun' the maidens' cheaeks, As they did zit, wi' smilen lips, A-reachen out their vinger-tips Toward zome teaeken pleaece or zight That they did shew us, left or right; An' woonce, when Jimmy tried to pleaece A kiss on cousin Polly's feaece, She push'd his hat, wi' wicked leers, Right off above his two red ears, An' there he roll'd along the groun' Wi' spreaden brim an' rounded crown, An' vound, at last, a cowpon's brim, An' launch'd hizzelf, to teaeke a zwim; An' there, as Jim did run to catch His neaeked noddle's bit o' thatch, To zee his strainens an' his strides, We laugh'd enough to split our zides. At Harwood Farm we pass'd the land That father's father had in hand, An' there, in oben light did spread, The very groun's his cows did tread, An' there above the stwonen tun Avore the dazzlen mornen zun, Wer still the rollen smoke, the breath A-breath'd vrom his wold house's he'th; An' there did lie below the door, The drashol' that his vootsteps wore; But there his meaete an' he bwoth died, Wi' hand in hand, an' zide by zide; Between the seaeme two peals a-rung, Two Zundays, though they wer but young, An' laid in sleep, their worksome hands, At rest vrom tweil wi' house or lands. Then vower childern laid their heads At night upon their little beds, An' never rose ageaen below A mother's love, or father's ho: Dree little maidens, small in feaece, An' woone small bwoy, the fourth in pleaece Zoo when their heedvul father died, He call'd his brother to his zide, To meaeke en stand, in hiz own stead, His childern's guide, when he wer dead; But still avore zix years brought round The woodland goo-coo's zummer sound, He weaested all their little store, An' hardship drove em out o' door, To tweil till tweilsome life should end. 'Ithout a single e'thly friend. But soon wi' Harwood back behind, An' out o' zight an' out o' mind, We went a-rottlen on, an' meaede Our way along to Brookwell Sleaede; An' then we vound ourselves draw nigh The Leaedy's Tow'r that rose on high, An' seem'd a-comen on to meet, Wi' growen height, wold Dobbin's veet. BROOKWELL. Well, I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while To beaet the doust a good six mile To zee the pleaece the squier plann'd At Brookwell, now a-meaede by hand; Wi' oben lawn, an' grove, an' pon', An' gravel-walks as cleaen as bron; An' grass a'most so soft to tread As velvet-pile o' silken thread; An' mounds wi' maesh, an' rocks wi' flow'rs, An' ivy-sheaeded zummer bow'rs, An' dribblen water down below The stwonen arches lofty bow. An' there do sound the watervall Below a cavern's maeshy wall, Where peaele-green light do struggle down A leafy crevice at the crown. An' there do gush the foamy bow O' water, white as driven snow: An' there, a zitten all alwone, A little maid o' marble stwone Do leaen her little cheaek azide Upon her lily han', an' bide Bezide the vallen stream to zee Her pitcher vill'd avore her knee. An' then the brook, a-rollen dark Below a leaenen yew-tree's bark, Wi' playsome ripples that do run A-flashen to the western zun, Do shoot, at last, wi' foamy shocks, Athirt a ledge o' craggy rocks, A-casten in his heaesty flight, Upon the stwones a robe o' white; An' then ageaen do goo an' vall Below a bridge's arched wall, Where vo'k agwain athirt do pass Vow'r little bwoys a-cast in brass; An' woone do hold an angler's wand, Wi' steady hand, above the pond; An' woone, a-pweinten to the stream His little vinger-tip, do seem A-showen to his playmeaetes' eyes, Where he do zee the vishes rise; An' woone ageaen, wi' smilen lips, Do put a vish his han' do clips 'Ithin a basket, loosely tied About his shoulder at his zide: An' after that the fourth do stand A-holden back his pretty hand Behind his little ear, to drow A stwone upon the stream below. An' then the housen, that be all Sich pretty hwomes, vrom big to small, A-looken south, do cluster round A zunny ledge o' risen ground, Avore a wood, a-nestled warm, In lewth ageaen the northern storm, Where smoke, a-wreathen blue, do spread Above the tuns o' dusky red, An' window-peaenes do glitter bright Wi' burnen streams o' zummer light, Below the vine, a-train'd to hem Their zides 'ithin his leafy stem, An' rangle on, wi' flutt'ren leaves, Below the houses' thatchen eaves. An' drough a lawn a-spread avore The windows, an' the pworched door, A path do wind 'ithin a hatch, A-vasten'd wi' a clicken latch, An' there up over ruf an' tun, Do stan' the smooth-wall'd church o' stwone, Wi' carved windows, thin an' tall, A-reachen up the lofty wall; An' battlements, a-stannen round The tower, ninety veet vrom ground, Vrom where a teaep'ren speer do spring So high's the mornen lark do zing. Zoo I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while To beaet the doust a good six mile, To zee the pleaece the squier plann'd At Brookwell, now a-meaede by hand. THE SHY MAN. Ah! good Meaester Gwillet, that you mid ha' know'd, Wer a-bred up at Coomb, an' went little abroad: An' if he got in among strangers, he velt His poor heart in a twitter, an' ready to melt; Or if, by ill luck, in his rambles, he met Wi' zome maidens a-titt'ren, he burn'd wi' a het, That shot all drough the lim's o'n, an' left a cwold zweat, The poor little chap wer so shy, He wer ready to drap, an' to die. But at last 'twer the lot o' the poor little man To vall deeply in love, as the best ov us can; An' 'twer noo easy task vor a shy man to tell Sich a dazzlen feaeir maid that he loved her so well; An' woone day when he met her, his knees nearly smote Woone another, an' then wi' a struggle he bro't A vew vords to his tongue, wi' some mwore in his droat. But she, 'ithout doubt, could soon vind Vrom two words that come out, zix behind. Zoo at langth, when he vound her so smilen an' kind, Why he wrote her zome lains, vor to tell her his mind, Though 'twer then a hard task vor a man that wer shy, To be married in church, wi' a crowd stannen by. But he twold her woone day, "I have housen an' lands, We could marry by licence, if you don't like banns," An' he cover'd his eyes up wi' woone ov his han's, Vor his head seem'd to zwim as he spoke, An' the air look'd so dim as a smoke. Well! he vound a good naighbour to goo in his pleaece Vor to buy the goold ring, vor he hadden the feaece. An' when he went up vor to put in the banns, He did sheaeke in his lags, an' did sheaeke in his han's. Then they ax'd vor her neaeme, an' her parish or town, An' he gi'ed em a leaf, wi' her neaeme a-wrote down; Vor he coulden ha' twold em outright, vor a poun', Vor his tongue wer so weak an' so loose, When he wanted to speak 'twer noo use. Zoo they went to be married, an' when they got there All the vo'k wer a-gather'd as if 'twer a feaeir, An' he thought, though his pleaece mid be pleazen to zome, He could all but ha' wish'd that he hadden a-come. The bride wer a-smilen as fresh as a rwose, An' when he come wi' her, an' show'd his poor nose. All the little bwoys shouted, an' cried "There he goes," "There he goes." Oh! vor his peaert he velt As if the poor heart o'n would melt. An' when they stood up by the chancel together, Oh! a man mid ha' knock'd en right down wi' a veather, He did veel zoo asheaem'd that he thought he would rather He werden the bridegroom, but only the father. But, though 'tis so funny to zee en so shy, Yeet his mind is so lowly, his aims be so high, That to do a meaen deed, or to tell woone a lie, You'd vind that he'd shun mwore by half, Than to stan' vor vo'ks fun, or their laugh. THE WINTER'S WILLOW. There Liddy zot bezide her cow, Upon her lowly seat, O; A hood did overhang her brow, Her pail wer at her veet, O; An' she wer kind, an' she wer feaeir, An' she wer young, an' free o' ceaere; Vew winters had a-blow'd her heaeir, Bezide the Winter's Willow. She idden woone a-rear'd in town Where many a gayer lass, O, Do trip a-smilen up an' down, So peaele wi' smoke an' gas, O; But here, in vields o' greaezen herds, Her vaeice ha' mingled sweetest words Wi' evenen cheaerms o' busy birds, Bezide the Winter's Willow. An' when, at last, wi' beaeten breast, I knock'd avore her door, O, She ax'd me in to teaeke the best O' pleaeces on the vloor, O; An' smilen feaeir avore my zight, She blush'd bezide the yollow light O' bleaezen brands, while winds o' night Do sheaeke the Winter's Willow. An' if there's readship in her smile, She don't begrudge to speaere, O, To zomebody, a little while, The empty woaken chair, O; An' if I've luck upon my zide, Why, I do think she'll be my bride Avore the leaves ha' twice a-died Upon the Winter's Willow. Above the coach-wheels' rollen rims She never rose to ride, O, Though she do zet her comely lim's Above the mare's white zide, O; But don't become too proud to stoop An' scrub her milken pail's white hoop, Or zit a-milken where do droop, The wet-stemm'd Winter's Willow. An' I've a cow or two in leaeze, Along the river-zide, O, An' pails to zet avore her knees, At dawn an' evenen-tide, O; An' there she still mid zit, an' look Athirt upon the woody nook Where vu'st I zeed her by the brook Bezide the Winter's Willow. Zoo, who would heed the treeless down, A-beaet by all the storms, O, Or who would heed the busy town, Where vo'k do goo in zwarms, O; If he wer in my house below The elems, where the vier did glow In Liddy's feaece, though winds did blow Ageaen the Winter's Willow. I KNOW WHO. Aye, aye, vull rathe the zun mus' rise To meaeke us tired o' zunny skies, A-sheenen on the whole day drough, From mornen's dawn till evenen's dew. When trees be brown an' meaeds be green, An' skies be blue, an' streams do sheen, An' thin-edg'd clouds be snowy white Above the bluest hills in zight; But I can let the daylight goo, When I've a-met wi'--I know who. In Spring I met her by a bed O' laurels higher than her head; The while a rwose hung white between Her blushes an' the laurel's green; An' then in Fall, I went along The row of elems in the drong, An' heaerd her zing bezide the cows, By yollow leaves o' meaeple boughs; But Fall or Spring is feaeir to view When day do bring me--I know who. An' when, wi' wint'r a-comen roun', The purple he'th's a-feaeden brown, An' hangen vern's a-sheaeken dead, Bezide the hill's besheaeded head: An' black-wing'd rooks do glitter bright Above my head, in peaeler light; Then though the birds do still the glee That sounded in the zummer tree, My heart is light the winter drough, In me'th at night, wi'--I know who. JESSIE LEE. Above the timber's benden sh'ouds, The western wind did softly blow; An' up avore the knap, the clouds Did ride as white as driven snow. Vrom west to east the clouds did zwim Wi' wind that plied the elem's lim'; Vrom west to east the stream did glide, A-sheenen wide, wi' winden brim. How feaeir, I thought, avore the sky The slowly-zwimmen clouds do look; How soft the win's a-streamen by; How bright do roll the weaevy brook: When there, a-passen on my right, A-waiken slow, an' treaden light, Young Jessie Lee come by, an' there Took all my ceaere, an' all my zight. Vor lovely wer the looks her feaece Held up avore the western sky: An' comely wer the steps her peaece Did meaeke a-walken slowly by: But I went east, wi' beaeten breast, Wi' wind, an' cloud, an' brook, vor rest, Wi' rest a-lost, vor Jessie gone So lovely on, toward the west. Blow on, O winds, athirt the hill; Zwim on, O clouds; O waters vall, Down maeshy rocks, vrom mill to mill; I now can overlook ye all. But roll, O zun, an' bring to me My day, if such a day there be, When zome dear path to my abode Shall be the road o' Jessie Lee. TRUE LOVE. As evenen air, in green-treed Spring, Do sheaeke the new-sprung pa'sley bed, An' wither'd ash-tree keys do swing An' vall a-flutt'ren roun' our head: There, while the birds do zing their zong In bushes down the ash-tree drong, Come Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleaece Your vaice an' feaece can meaeke vor me. Below the budden ashes' height We there can linger in the lew, While boughs, a-gilded by the light, Do sheen avore the sky o' blue: But there by zetten zun, or moon A-risen, time wull vlee too soon Wi' Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleaece Her vaice an' feaece can meaeke vor me. Down where the darksome brook do flow, Below the bridge's arched wall, Wi' alders dark, a-leanen low, Above the gloomy watervall; There I've a-led ye hwome at night, Wi' noo feaece else 'ithin my zight But yours so feaeir, an' sweet's the pleaece Your vaice an' feaece ha' meaede me there. An' oh! when other years do come, An' zetten zuns, wi' yollow gleaere, Drough western window-peaenes, at hwome, Do light upon my evenen chair: While day do weaene, an' dew do vall, Be wi' me then, or else in call, As time do vlee, vor sweet's the pleaece Your vaice an' feaece do meaeke vor me. Ah! you do smile, a-thinken light O' my true words, but never mind; Smile on, smile on, but still your flight Would leaeve me little jay behind: But let me not be zoo a-tried Wi' you a-lost where I do bide, O Jessie Lee, in any pleaece Your vaice an' feaece ha' blest vor me. I'm sure that when a soul's a-brought To this our life ov air an' land, Woone mwore's a-mark'd in God's good thought, To help, wi' love, his heart an' hand. An' oh! if there should be in store An angel here vor my poor door, 'Tis Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleaece Her vaice an' feace can meaeke vor me. THE BEAN VIELD. 'Twer where the zun did warm the lewth, An' win' did whiver in the sheaede, The sweet-air'd beaens were out in blooth, Down there 'ithin the elem gleaede; A yollow-banded bee did come, An' softly-pitch, wi' hushen hum, Upon a beaen, an' there did sip, Upon a swayen blossom's lip: An' there cried he, "Aye, I can zee, This blossom's all a-zent vor me." A-jilted up an' down, astride Upon a lofty ho'se a-trot, The meaester then come by wi' pride, To zee the beaens that he'd a-got; An' as he zot upon his ho'se, The ho'se ageaen did snort an' toss His high-ear'd head, an' at the zight Ov all the blossom, black an' white: "Ah! ah!" thought he, the seaeme's the bee, "Theaese beaens be all a-zent vor me." Zoo let the worold's riches breed A strife o' claims, wi' weak and strong, Vor now what cause have I to heed Who's in the right, or in the wrong; Since there do come drough yonder hatch, An' bloom below the house's thatch, The best o' maidens, an' do own That she is mine, an' mine alwone: Zoo I can zee that love do gi'e The best ov all good gifts to me. Vor whose be all the crops an' land A-won an' lost, an' bought, an zwold Or whose, a-roll'd vrom hand to hand, The highest money that's a-twold? Vrom man to man a passen on, 'Tis here to-day, to-morrow gone. But there's a blessen high above It all--a soul o' stedvast love: Zoo let it vlee, if God do gi'e Sweet Jessie vor a gift to me. WOLD FRIENDS A-MET. Aye, vull my heart's blood now do roll, An' gay do rise my happy soul, An' well they mid, vor here our veet Avore woone vier ageaen do meet; Vor you've avoun' my feaece, to greet Wi' welcome words my startlen ear. An' who be you, but John o' Weer, An' I, but William Wellburn. Here, light a candle up, to shed Mwore light upon a wold friend's head, An' show the smile, his feaece woonce mwore Ha' brought us vrom another shore. An' I'll heave on a brand avore The vier back, to meaeke good cheer, O' roaren fleaemes, vor John o' Weer To chat wi' William Wellburn. Aye, aye, it mid be true that zome, When they do wander out vrom hwome, Do leaeve their nearest friends behind, Bwoth out o' zight, an' out o' mind; But John an' I ha' ties to bind Our souls together, vur or near, For, who is he but John o' Weer. An' I, but William Wellburn. Look, there he is, with twinklen eyes, An' elbows down upon his thighs. A-chucklen low, wi' merry grin. Though time ha' roughen'd up his chin, 'Tis still the seaeme true soul 'ithin, As woonce I know'd, when year by year, Thik very chap, thik John o' Weer, Did play wi' William Wellburn. Come, John, come; don't be dead-alive Here, reach us out your clust'r o' vive. Oh! you be happy. Ees, but that Woon't do till you can laugh an' chat. Don't blinky, lik' a purren cat, But leaep an' laugh, an' let vo'k hear What's happen'd, min, that John o' Weer Ha' met wi' William Wellburn. Vor zome, wi' selfishness too strong Vor love, do do each other wrong; An' zome do wrangle an' divide In hets ov anger, bred o' pride; But who do think that time or tide Can breed ill-will in friends so dear, As William wer to John o' Weer, An' John to William Wellburn? If other vo'ks do gleen to zee How loven an' how glad we be, What, then, poor souls, they had but vew Sich happy days, so long agoo, As they that I've a-spent wi' you; But they'd hold woone another dear, If woone o' them wer John o' Weer, An' tother William Wellburn. FIFEHEAD. 'Twer where my fondest thoughts do light, At Fifehead, while we spent the night; The millwheel's resten rim wer dry, An' houn's held up their evenen cry; An' lofty, drough the midnight sky, Above the vo'k, wi' heavy heads, Asleep upon their darksome beds, The stars wer all awake, John. Noo birds o' day wer out to spread Their wings above the gully's bed, An' darkness roun' the elem-tree 'D a-still'd the charmy childern's glee. All he'ths wer cwold but woone, where we Wer gay, 'tis true, but gay an' wise, An' laugh'd in light o' maiden's eyes, That glissen'd wide awake, John. An' when we all, lik' loosen'd hounds, Broke out o' doors, wi' merry sounds, Our friends among the playsome team, All brought us gwaein so vur's the stream. But Jeaene, that there, below a gleam O' light, watch'd woone o's out o' zight; Vor willenly, vor his "Good night," She'd longer bide awake, John. An' while up _Leighs_ we stepp'd along Our grassy path, wi' joke an' zong, There _Plumber_, wi' its woody ground, O' slopen knaps a-screen'd around, Rose dim 'ithout a breath o' sound, The wold abode o' squiers a-gone, Though while they lay a-sleepen on, Their stars wer still awake, John. IVY HALL. If I've a-stream'd below a storm, An' not a-velt the rain, An' if I ever velt me warm, In snow upon the plain, 'Twer when, as evenen skies wer dim, An' vields below my eyes wer dim, I went alwone at evenen-fall, Athirt the vields to Ivy Hall. I voun' the wind upon the hill, Last night, a-roaren loud, An' rubben boughs a-creaken sh'ill Upon the ashes' sh'oud; But oh! the reelen copse mid groan; An' timber's lofty tops mid groan; The hufflen winds be music all, Bezide my road to Ivy Hall. A sheaedy grove o' ribbed woaks, Is Wootton's shelter'd nest, An' woaks do keep the winter's strokes Vrom Knapton's evenen rest. An' woaks ageaen wi' bossy stems, An' elems wi' their mossy stems, Do rise to screen the leafy wall An' stwonen ruf ov Ivy Hall. The darksome clouds mid fling their sleet. An' vrost mid pinch me blue, Or snow mid cling below my veet, An' hide my road vrom view. The winter's only jay ov heart, An' storms do meaeke me gay ov heart, When I do rest, at evenen-fall, Bezide the he'th ov Ivy Hall. There leafy stems do clim' around The mossy stwonen eaves; An' there be window-zides a-bound Wi' quiv'ren ivy-leaves. But though the sky is dim 'ithout, An' feaeces mid be grim 'ithout, Still I ha' smiles when I do call, At evenen-tide, at Ivy Hall. FALSE FRIENDS-LIKE. When I wer still a bwoy, an' mother's pride, A bigger bwoy spoke up to me so kind-like, "If you do like, I'll treat ye wi' a ride In theaese wheel-barrow here." Zoo I wer blind-like To what he had a-worken in his mind-like, An' mounted vor a passenger inside; An' comen to a puddle, perty wide, He tipp'd me in, a-grinnen back behind-like. Zoo when a man do come to me so thick-like, An' sheaeke my hand, where woonce he pass'd me by, An' tell me he would do me this or that, I can't help thinken o' the big bwoy's trick-like. An' then, vor all I can but wag my hat An' thank en, I do veel a little shy. THE BACHELOR. No! I don't begrudge en his life, Nor his goold, nor his housen, nor lands; Teaeke all o't, an' gi'e me my wife, A wife's be the cheapest ov hands. Lie alwone! sigh alwone! die alwone! Then be vorgot. No! I be content wi' my lot. Ah! where be the vingers so feaeir, Vor to pat en so soft on the feaece, To mend ev'ry stitch that do tear, An' keep ev'ry button in pleaece? Crack a-tore! brack a-tore! back a-tore! Buttons a-vled! Vor want ov a wife wi' her thread. Ah! where is the sweet-perty head That do nod till he's gone out o' zight? An' where be the two eaerms a-spread, To show en he's welcome at night? Dine alwone! pine alwone! whine alwone! Oh! what a life! I'll have a friend in a wife. An' when vrom a meeten o' me'th Each husban' do leaed hwome his bride, Then he do slink hwome to his he'th, Wi' his eaerm a-hung down his cwold zide. Slinken on! blinken on! thinken on! Gloomy an' glum; Nothen but dullness to come. An' when he do onlock his door, Do rumble as hollow's a drum, An' the veaeries a-hid roun' the vloor, Do grin vor to see en so glum. Keep alwone! sleep alwone! weep alwone! There let en bide, I'll have a wife at my zide. But when he's a-laid on his bed In a zickness, O, what wull he do! Vor the hands that would lift up his head, An' sheaeke up his pillor anew. Ills to come! pills to come! bills to come! Noo soul to sheaere The trials the poor wratch must bear. MARRIED PEAeIR'S LOVE WALK. Come let's goo down the grove to-night; The moon is up, 'tis all so light As day, an' win' do blow enough To sheaeke the leaves, but tidden rough. Come, Esther, teaeke, vor wold time's seaeke, Your hooded cloke, that's on the pin, An' wrap up warm, an' teaeke my eaerm, You'll vind it better out than in. Come, Etty dear; come out o' door, An' teaeke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. How charmen to our very souls, Wer woonce your evenen maiden strolls, The while the zetten zunlight dyed Wi' red the beeches' western zide, But back avore your vinger wore The wedden ring that's now so thin; An' you did sheaere a mother's ceaere, To watch an' call ye eaerly in. Come, Etty dear; come out o' door, An' teaeke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. An' then ageaen, when you could slight The clock a-striken leaete at night, The while the moon, wi' risen rim, Did light the beeches' eastern lim'. When I'd a-bound your vinger round Wi' thik goold ring that's now so thin, An' you had nwone but me alwone To teaeke ye leaete or eaerly in. Come, Etty dear; come out o' door, An' teaeke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. But often when the western zide O' trees did glow at evenen-tide, Or when the leaeter moon did light The beeches' eastern boughs at night, An' in the grove, where vo'k did rove The crumpled leaves did vlee an' spin, You coulden sheaere the pleasure there: Your work or childern kept ye in. Come, Etty dear, come out o' door, An' teaeke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. But ceaeres that zunk your oval chin Ageaen your bosom's lily skin, Vor all they meaede our life so black, Be now a-lost behind our back. Zoo never mwope, in midst of hope, To slight our blessens would be sin. Ha! ha! well done, now this is fun; When you do like I'll bring ye in. Here, Etty dear; here, out o' door, We'll teaeke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. A WIFE A-PRAIS'D. 'Twer May, but ev'ry leaf wer dry All day below a sheenen sky; The zun did glow wi' yollow gleaere, An' cowslips blow wi' yollow gleaere, Wi' graegles' bells a-droopen low, An' bremble boughs a-stoopen low; While culvers in the trees did coo Above the vallen dew. An' there, wi' heaeir o' glossy black, Bezide your neck an' down your back, You rambled gay a-bloomen feaeir; By boughs o' may a-bloomen feaeir; An' while the birds did twitter nigh, An' water weaeves did glitter nigh, You gather'd cowslips in the lew, Below the vallen dew. An' now, while you've a-been my bride As years o' flow'rs ha' bloom'd an' died, Your smilen feaece ha' been my jay; Your soul o' greaece ha' been my jay; An' wi' my evenen rest a-come, An' zunsheen to the west a-come, I'm glad to teaeke my road to you Vrom vields o' vallen dew. An' when the rain do wet the may, A-bloomen where we woonce did stray, An' win' do blow along so vast, An' streams do flow along so vast; Ageaen the storms so rough abroad, An' angry tongues so gruff abroad, The love that I do meet vrom you Is lik' the vallen dew. An' you be sprack's a bee on wing, In search ov honey in the Spring: The dawn-red sky do meet ye up; The birds vu'st cry do meet ye up; An' wi' your feaece a-smilen on, An' busy hands a-tweilen on, You'll vind zome useful work to do Until the vallen dew. THE WIFE A-LOST. Since I noo mwore do zee your feaece, Up steaeirs or down below, I'll zit me in the lwonesome pleaece, Where flat-bough'd beech do grow: Below the beeches' bough, my love, Where you did never come, An' I don't look to meet ye now, As I do look at hwome. Since you noo mwore be at my zide, In walks in zummer het, I'll goo alwone where mist do ride, Drough trees a-drippen wet: Below the rain-wet bough, my love, Where you did never come, An' I don't grieve to miss ye now, As I do grieve at home. Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard Your vaice do never sound, I'll eat the bit I can avword, A-vield upon the ground; Below the darksome bough, my love, Where you did never dine, An' I don't grieve to miss ye now, As I at hwome do pine. Since I do miss your vaice an' feaece In prayer at eventide, I'll pray wi' woone said vaice vor greaece To goo where you do bide; Above the tree an' bough, my love, Where you be gone avore, An' be a-waiten vor me now, To come vor evermwore. THE THORNS IN THE GEAeTE. Ah! Meaester Collins overtook Our knot o' vo'k a-stannen still, Last Zunday, up on Ivy Hill, To zee how strong the corn did look. An' he stay'd back awhile an' spoke A vew kind words to all the vo'k, Vor good or joke, an' wi' a smile Begun a-playen wi' a chile. The zull, wi' iron zide awry, Had long a-vurrow'd up the vield; The heavy roller had a-wheel'd It smooth vor showers vrom the sky; The bird-bwoy's cry, a-risen sh'ill, An' clacker, had a-left the hill, All bright but still, vor time alwone To speed the work that we'd a-done. Down drough the wind, a-blowen keen, Did gleaere the nearly cloudless sky, An' corn in bleaede, up ancle-high, 'lthin the geaete did quiver green; An' in the geaete a-lock'd there stood A prickly row o' thornen wood Vor vo'k vor food had done their best, An' left to Spring to do the rest. "The geaete," he cried, "a-seal'd wi' thorn Vrom harmvul veet's a-left to hold The bleaede a-springen vrom the mwold, While God do ripen it to corn. An' zoo in life let us vulvil Whatever is our Meaeker's will, An' then bide still, wi' peacevul breast, While He do manage all the rest." ANGELS BY THE DOOR. Oh! there be angels evermwore, A-passen onward by the door, A-zent to teaeke our jays, or come To bring us zome--O Meaerianne. Though doors be shut, an' bars be stout, Noo bolted door can keep em out; But they wull leaeve us ev'ry thing They have to bring--My Meaerianne. An' zoo the days a-stealen by, Wi' zuns a-riden drough the sky, Do bring us things to leaeve us sad, Or meaeke us glad--O Meaerianne. The day that's mild, the day that's stern, Do teaeke, in stillness, each his turn; An' evils at their worst mid mend, Or even end--My Meaerianne. But still, if we can only bear Wi' faith an' love, our pain an' ceaere, We shan't vind missen jays a-lost, Though we be crost--O Meaerianne. But all a-took to heav'n, an' stow'd Where we can't weaeste em on the road, As we do wander to an' fro, Down here below--My Meaerianne. But there be jays I'd soonest choose To keep, vrom them that I must lose; Your workzome hands to help my tweil, Your cheerful smile--O Meaerianne. The Zunday bells o' yonder tow'r, The moonlight sheaedes o' my own bow'r, An' rest avore our vier-zide, At evenen-tide--My Meaerianne. VO'K A-COMEN INTO CHURCH. The church do zeem a touchen zight, When vo'k, a-comen in at door, Do softly tread the long-ail'd vloor Below the pillar'd arches' height, Wi' bells a-pealen, Vo'k a-kneelen, Hearts a-healen, wi' the love An' peaece a-zent em vrom above. An' there, wi' mild an' thoughtvul feaece, Wi' downcast eyes, an' vaices dum', The wold an' young do slowly come, An' teaeke in stillness each his pleaece, A-zinken slowly, Kneelen lowly, Seeken holy thoughts alwone, In pray'r avore their Meaeker's throne. An' there be sons in youthvul pride, An' fathers weak wi' years an' pain, An' daughters in their mother's train. The tall wi' smaller at their zide; Heads in murnen Never turnen, Cheaeks a-burnen, wi' the het O' youth, an' eyes noo tears do wet. There friends do settle, zide by zide, The knower speechless to the known; Their vaice is there vor God alwone To flesh an' blood their tongues be tied. Grief a-wringen, Jay a-zingen, Pray'r a-bringen welcome rest So softly to the troubled breast. WOONE RULE. An' while I zot, wi' thoughtvul mind, Up where the lwonesome Coombs do wind, An' watch'd the little gully slide So crooked to the river-zide; I thought how wrong the Stour did zeem To roll along his ramblen stream, A-runnen wide the left o' south, To vind his mouth, the right-hand zide. But though his stream do teaeke, at mill. An' eastward bend by Newton Hill, An' goo to lay his welcome boon O' daily water round Hammoon, An' then wind off ageaen, to run By Blanvord, to the noonday zun, 'Tis only bound by woone rule all, An' that's to vall down steepest ground. An' zoo, I thought, as we do bend Our way drough life, to reach our end, Our God ha' gi'ed us, vrom our youth, Woone rule to be our guide--His truth. An' zoo wi' that, though we mid teaeke Wide rambles vor our callens' seaeke, What is, is best, we needen fear, An' we shall steer to happy rest. GOOD MEAeSTER COLLINS. Aye, Meaester Collins wer a-blest Wi' greaece, an' now's a-gone to rest; An' though his heart did beaet so meek 'S a little child's, when he did speak, The godly wisdom ov his tongue Wer dew o' greaece to wold an' young. 'Twer woonce, upon a zummer's tide, I zot at Brookwell by his zide, Avore the leaeke, upon the rocks, Above the water's idle shocks, As little playsome weaeves did zwim Ageaen the water's windy brim, Out where the lofty tower o' stwone Did stan' to years o' wind an' zun; An' where the zwellen pillars bore A pworch above the heavy door, Wi' sister sheaedes a-reachen cool Athirt the stwones an' sparklen pool. I spoke zome word that meaede en smile, O' girt vo'k's wealth an' poor vo'k's tweil, As if I pin'd, vor want ov greaece, To have a lord's or squier's pleaece. "No, no," he zaid, "what God do zend Is best vor all o's in the end, An' all that we do need the mwost Do come to us wi' leaest o' cost;-- Why, who could live upon the e'th 'Ithout God's gift ov air vor breath? Or who could bide below the zun If water didden rise an' run? An' who could work below the skies If zun an' moon did never rise? Zoo air an' water, an' the light, Be higher gifts, a-reckon'd right, Than all the goold the darksome clay Can ever yield to zunny day: But then the air is roun' our heads, Abroad by day, or on our beds; Where land do gi'e us room to bide, Or seas do spread vor ships to ride; An' He do zend his waters free, Vrom clouds to lands, vrom lands to sea: An' mornen light do blush an' glow, 'Ithout our tweil--'ithout our ho. "Zoo let us never pine, in sin, Vor gifts that ben't the best to win; The heaps o' goold that zome mid pile, Wi' sleepless nights an' peaceless tweil; Or manor that mid reach so wide As Blackmwore is vrom zide to zide, Or kingly sway, wi' life or death, Vor helpless childern ov the e'th: Vor theaese ben't gifts, as He do know, That He in love should vu'st bestow; Or else we should have had our sheaere O'm all wi' little tweil or ceaere. "Ov all His choicest gifts, His cry Is, 'Come, ye moneyless, and buy.' Zoo blest is he that can but lift His prayer vor a happy gift." HERRENSTON. Zoo then the leaedy an' the squier, At Chris'mas, gather'd girt an' small, Vor me'th, avore their roaren vier, An! roun' their bwoard, 'ithin the hall; An' there, in glitt'ren rows, between The roun'-rimm'd pleaetes, our knives did sheen, Wi' frothy eaele, an' cup an' can, Vor maid an' man, at Herrenston. An' there the jeints o' beef did stand, Lik' cliffs o' rock, in goodly row; Where woone mid quarry till his hand Did tire, an' meaeke but little show; An' after we'd a-took our seat, An' greaece had been a-zaid vor meat, We zet to work, an' zoo begun Our feaest an' fun at Herrenston. An' mothers there, bezide the bwoards, Wi' little childern in their laps, Did stoop, wi' loven looks an' words, An' veed em up wi' bits an' draps; An' smilen husbands went in quest O' what their wives did like the best; An' you'd ha' zeed a happy zight, Thik merry night, at Herrenston. An' then the band, wi' each his leaf O' notes, above us at the zide, Play'd up the praise ov England's beef An' vill'd our hearts wi' English pride; An' leafy chains o' garlands hung, Wi' dazzlen stripes o' flags, that swung Above us, in a bleaeze o' light, Thik happy night, at Herrenston. An' then the clerk, avore the vier, Begun to lead, wi' smilen feaece, A carol, wi' the Monkton quire, That rung drough all the crowded pleaece. An' dins' o' words an' laughter broke In merry peals drough clouds o' smoke; Vor hardly wer there woone that spoke, But pass'd a joke, at Herrenston. Then man an' maid stood up by twos, In rows, drough passage, out to door, An' gaily beaet, wi' nimble shoes, A dance upon the stwonen floor. But who is worthy vor to tell, If she that then did bear the bell, Wer woone o' Monkton, or o' Ceaeme, Or zome sweet neaeme ov Herrenston. Zoo peace betide the girt vo'k's land, When they can stoop, wi' kindly smile, An' teaeke a poor man by the hand, An' cheer en in his daily tweil. An' oh! mid He that's vur above The highest here, reward their love, An' gi'e their happy souls, drough greaece, A higher pleaece than Herrenston. OUT AT PLOUGH. Though cool avore the sheenen sky Do vall the sheaedes below the copse, The timber-trees, a-reachen high, Ha' zunsheen on their lofty tops, Where yonder land's a-lyen plow'd, An' red, below the snow-white cloud, An' vlocks o' pitchen rooks do vwold Their wings to walk upon the mwold. While floods be low, An' buds do grow, An' air do blow, a-broad, O. But though the air is cwold below The creaken copses' darksome screen, The truest sheaede do only show How strong the warmer zun do sheen; An' even times o' grief an' pain, Ha' good a-comen in their train, An' 'tis but happiness do mark The sheaedes o' sorrow out so dark. As tweils be sad, Or smiles be glad, Or times be bad, at hwome, O An' there the zunny land do lie Below the hangen, in the lew, Wi' vurrows now a-crumblen dry, Below the plowman's dousty shoe; An' there the bwoy do whissel sh'ill, Below the skylark's merry bill, Where primrwose beds do deck the zides O' banks below the meaeple wrides. As trees be bright Wi' bees in flight, An' weather's bright, abroad, O. An' there, as sheenen wheels do spin Vull speed along the dousty rwoad, He can but stan', an' wish 'ithin His mind to be their happy lwoad, That he mid gaily ride, an' goo To towns the rwoad mid teaeke en drough, An' zee, for woonce, the zights behind The bluest hills his eyes can vind, O' towns, an' tow'rs, An' downs, an' flow'rs, In zunny hours, abroad, O. But still, vor all the weather's feaeir, Below a cloudless sky o' blue, The bwoy at plough do little ceaere How vast the brightest day mid goo; Vor he'd be glad to zee the zun A-zetten, wi' his work a-done, That he, at hwome, mid still injay His happy bit ov evenen play, So light's a lark Till night is dark, While dogs do bark, at hwome, O. THE BWOAT. Where cows did slowly seek the brink O' _Stour_, drough zunburnt grass, to drink; Wi' vishen float, that there did zink An' rise, I zot as in a dream. The dazzlen zun did cast his light On hedge-row blossom, snowy white, Though nothen yet did come in zight, A-stirren on the strayen stream; Till, out by sheaedy rocks there show'd, A bwoat along his foamy road, Wi' thik feaeir maid at mill, a-row'd Wi' Jeaene behind her brother's oars. An' steaetely as a queen o' vo'k, She zot wi' floaten scarlet cloak, An' comen on, at ev'ry stroke, Between my withy-sheaeded shores. The broken stream did idly try To show her sheaepe a-riden by, The rushes brown-bloom'd stems did ply, As if they bow'd to her by will. The rings o' water, wi' a sock, Did break upon the mossy rock, An' gi'e my beaeten heart a shock, Above my float's up-leapen quill. Then, lik' a cloud below the skies, A-drifted off, wi' less'nen size, An' lost, she floated vrom my eyes, Where down below the stream did wind; An' left the quiet weaeves woonce mwore To zink to rest, a sky-blue'd vloor, Wi' all so still's the clote they bore, Aye, all but my own ruffled mind. THE PLEAeCE OUR OWN AGEAeN. Well! thanks to you, my faithful Jeaene, So worksome wi' your head an' hand, We seaeved enough to get ageaen My poor vorefather's plot o' land. 'Twer folly lost, an' cunnen got, What should ha' come to me by lot. But let that goo; 'tis well the land Is come to hand, by be'th or not. An' there the brook, a-winden round The parrick zide, do run below The grey-stwon'd bridge wi' gurglen sound, A-sheaeded by the arches' bow; Where former days the wold brown meaere, Wi' father on her back, did wear Wi' heavy shoes the grav'ly leaene, An' sheaeke her meaene o' yollor heaeir. An' many zummers there ha' glow'd, To shrink the brook in bubblen shoals, An' warm the doust upon the road, Below the trav'ller's burnen zoles. An' zome ha' zent us to our bed In grief, an' zome in jay ha' vled; But vew ha' come wi' happier light Than what's now bright, above our head. The brook did peaert, zome years agoo, Our Grenley meaeds vrom Knapton's Ridge But now you know, between the two, A-road's a-meaede by Grenley Bridge. Zoo why should we shrink back at zight Ov hindrances we ought to slight? A hearty will, wi' God our friend, Will gain its end, if 'tis but right. [Gothic: Eclogue.] _John an' Thomas._ THOMAS. How b'ye, then, John, to-night; an' how Be times a-waggen on w' ye now? I can't help slackenen my peaece When I do come along your pleaece, To zee what crops your bit o' groun' Do bear ye all the zummer roun'. 'Tis true you don't get fruit nor blooth, 'Ithin the glassen houses' lewth; But if a man can rear a crop Where win' do blow an' rain can drop, Do seem to come, below your hand, As fine as any in the land. JOHN. Well, there, the geaerden stuff an' flow'rs Don't leaeve me many idle hours; But still, though I mid plant or zow, 'Tis Woone above do meaeke it grow. THOMAS. Aye, aye, that's true, but still your strip O' groun' do show good workmanship: You've onions there nine inches round, An' turmits that would waigh a pound; An' cabbage wi' its hard white head, An' teaeties in their dousty bed, An' carrots big an' straight enough Vor any show o' geaerden stuff; An' trees ov apples, red-skinn'd balls An' purple plums upon the walls, An' peas an' beaens; bezides a store O' heaerbs vor ev'ry pain an' zore. JOHN. An' over hedge the win's a-heaerd, A ruslen drough my barley's beard; An' swayen wheat do overspread Zix ridges in a sheet o' red; An' then there's woone thing I do call The girtest handiness ov all: My ground is here at hand, avore My eyes, as I do stand at door; An' zoo I've never any need To goo a mile to pull a weed. THOMAS. No, sure, a miel shoulden stratch Between woone's geaerden an' woone's hatch. A man would like his house to stand Bezide his little bit o' land. JOHN. Ees. When woone's groun' vor geaerden stuff Is roun' below the house's ruf, Then woone can spend upon woone's land Odd minutes that mid lie on hand, The while, wi' night a-comen on, The red west sky's a-wearen wan; Or while woone's wife, wi' busy hands, Avore her vier o' burnen brands, Do put, as best she can avword, Her bit o' dinner on the bwoard. An' here, when I do teaeke my road, At breakfast-time, agwain abrode, Why, I can zee if any plot O' groun' do want a hand or not; An' bid my childern, when there's need, To draw a reaeke or pull a weed, Or heal young beaens or peas in line, Or tie em up wi' rods an' twine, Or peel a kindly withy white To hold a droopen flow'r upright. THOMAS. No. Bits o' time can zeldom come To much on groun' a mile vrom hwome. A man at hwome should have in view The jobs his childern's hands can do, An' groun' abrode mid teaeke em all Beyond their mother's zight an' call, To get a zoaken in a storm, Or vall, i' may be, into harm. JOHN. Ees. Geaerden groun', as I've a-zed, Is better near woone's bwoard an' bed. PENTRIDGE BY THE RIVER. Pentridge!--oh! my heart's a-zwellen Vull o' jay wi' vo'k a-tellen Any news o' thik wold pleaece, An' the boughy hedges round it, An' the river that do bound it Wi' his dark but glis'nen feaece. Vor there's noo land, on either hand, To me lik' Pentridge by the river. Be there any leaves to quiver On the aspen by the river? Doo he sheaede the water still, Where the rushes be a-growen, Where the sullen Stour's a-flowen Drough the meaeds vrom mill to mill? Vor if a tree wer dear to me, Oh! 'twer thik aspen by the river. There, in eegrass new a-shooten, I did run on even vooten, Happy, over new-mow'd land; Or did zing wi' zingen drushes While I plaited, out o' rushes, Little baskets vor my hand; Bezide the clote that there did float, Wi' yollow blossoms, on the river. When the western zun's a vallen, What sh'ill vaice is now a-callen Hwome the deaeiry to the pails; Who do dreve em on, a-flingen Wide-bow'd horns, or slowly zwingen Right an' left their tufty tails? As they do goo a-huddled drough The geaete a-leaeden up vrom river. Bleaeded grass is now a-shooten Where the vloor wer woonce our vooten, While the hall wer still in pleaece. Stwones be looser in the wallen; Hollow trees be nearer vallen; Ev'ry thing ha' chang'd its feaece. But still the neaeme do bide the seaeme-- 'Tis Pentridge--Pentridge by the river. WHEAT. In brown-leav'd Fall the wheat a-left 'Ithin its darksome bed, Where all the creaken roller's heft Seal'd down its lowly head, Sprung sheaeken drough the crumblen mwold, Green-yollow, vrom below, An' bent its bleaedes, a-glitt'ren cwold, At last in winter snow. Zoo luck betide The upland zide, Where wheat do wride, In corn-vields wide, By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O. An' while the screamen bird-bwoy shook Wi' little zun-burnt hand, His clacker at the bright-wing'd rook, About the zeeded land; His meaester there did come an' stop His bridle-champen meaere, Wi' thankvul heart, to zee his crop A-comen up so feaeir. As there awhile By geaete or stile, He gi'ed the chile A cheeren smile, By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O. At last, wi' eaers o' darksome red, The yollow stalks did ply, A-swayen slow, so heavy 's lead, In air a-blowen by; An' then the busy reapers laid In row their russlen grips, An' sheaeves, a-leaenen head by head, Did meaeke the stitches tips. Zoo food's a-vound, A-comen round, Vrom zeed in ground, To sheaves a-bound, By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O. An' now the wheat, in lofty lwoads, Above the meaeres' broad backs, Do ride along the cracklen rwoads, Or dousty waggon-tracks. An' there, mid every busy pick, Ha' work enough to do; An' where, avore, we built woone rick, Mid theaese year gi'e us two; Wi' God our friend, An' wealth to spend, Vor zome good end, That times mid mend, In towns, an' Do'set Downs, O. Zoo let the merry thatcher veel Fine weather on his brow, As he, in happy work, do kneel Up roun' the new-built mow, That now do zwell in sich a size, An' rise to sich a height, That, oh! the miller's wistful eyes Do sparkle at the zight An' long mid stand, A happy band, To till the land, Wi' head an' hand, By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O. THE MEAeD IN JUNE. Ah! how the looks o' sky an' ground Do change wi' months a-stealen round, When northern winds, by starry night, Do stop in ice the river's flight; Or brooks in winter rains do zwell, Lik' rollen seas athirt the dell; Or trickle thin in zummer-tide; Among the mossy stwones half dried; But still, below the zun or moon, The fearest vield's the meaed in June. An' I must own, my heart do beaet Wi' pride avore my own blue geaete, Where I can bid the steaetely tree Be cast, at langth, avore my knee; An' clover red, an' deaezies feair, An' gil'cups wi' their yollow gleaere, Be all a-match'd avore my zight By wheelen buttervlees in flight, The while the burnen zun at noon Do sheen upon my meaed in June. An' there do zing the swingen lark So gay's above the finest park, An' day do sheaede my trees as true As any steaetely avenue; An' show'ry clouds o' Spring do pass To shed their rain on my young grass, An' air do blow the whole day long, To bring me breath, an' teaeke my zong, An' I do miss noo needvul boon A-gi'ed to other meaeds in June. An' when the bloomen rwose do ride Upon the boughy hedge's zide, We haymeaekers, in snow-white sleeves, Do work in sheaedes o' quiv'ren leaves, In afternoon, a-liften high Our reaekes avore the viery sky, A-reaeken up the hay a-dried By day, in lwongsome weaeles, to bide In chilly dew below the moon, O' shorten'd nights in zultry June. An' there the brook do softly flow Along, a-benden in a bow, An' vish, wi' zides o' zilver-white, Do flash vrom shoals a dazzlen light; An' alders by the water's edge, Do sheaede the ribbon-bleaeded zedge, An' where, below the withy's head, The zwimmen clote-leaves be a-spread, The angler is a-zot at noon Upon the flow'ry bank in June. Vor all the aier that do bring My little meaed the breath o' Spring, By day an' night's a-flowen wide Above all other vields bezide; Vor all the zun above my ground 'S a-zent vor all the naighbours round, An' rain do vall, an' streams do flow, Vor lands above, an' lands below, My bit o' meaed is God's own boon, To me alwone, vrom June to June. EARLY RISEN. The air to gi'e your cheaeks a hue O' rwosy red, so feair to view, Is what do sheaeke the grass-bleaedes gray At breaek o' day, in mornen dew; Vor vo'k that will be rathe abrode, Will meet wi' health upon their road. But biden up till dead o' night, When han's o' clocks do stan' upright, By candle-light, do soon consume The feaece's bloom, an' turn it white. An' light a-cast vrom midnight skies Do blunt the sparklen ov the eyes. Vor health do weaeke vrom nightly dreams Below the mornen's eaerly beams, An' leaeve the dead-air'd houses' eaves, Vor quiv'ren leaves, an' bubblen streams, A-glitt'ren brightly to the view, Below a sky o' cloudless blue. ZELLEN WOONE'S HONEY TO BUY ZOME'HAT SWEET. Why, his heart's lik' a popple, so hard as a stwone, Vor 'tis money, an' money's his ho, An' to handle an' reckon it up vor his own, Is the best o' the jays he do know. Why, vor money he'd gi'e up his lags an' be leaeme, Or would peaert wi' his zight an' be blind, Or would lose vo'k's good will, vor to have a bad neaeme, Or his peace, an' have trouble o' mind. But wi' ev'ry good thing that his meaenness mid bring, He'd pay vor his money, An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet. He did whisper to me, "You do know that you stood By the Squier, wi' the vote that you had, You could ax en to help ye to zome'hat as good, Or to vind a good pleaece vor your lad." "Aye, aye, but if I wer beholden vor bread To another," I zaid, "I should bind All my body an' soul to the nod of his head, An' gi'e up all my freedom o' mind." An' then, if my pain wer a-zet wi' my gain, I should pay vor my money, An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet. Then, if my bit o' brook that do wind so vur round, Wer but his, why, he'd straighten his bed, An' the wold stunpole woak that do stan' in my ground, Shoudden long sheaede the grass wi' his head. But if I do vind jay where the leaves be a-shook On the limbs, wi' their sheaedes on the grass, Or below, in the bow o' the withy-bound nook, That the rock-washen water do pass, Then wi' they jays a-vled an' zome goold in their stead, I should pay vor my money, An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet. No, be my lot good work, wi' the lungs well in play, An' good rest when the body do tire, Vor the mind a good conscience, wi' hope or wi' jay, Vor the body, good lewth, an' good vire, There's noo good o' goold, but to buy what 'ull meaeke Vor our happiness here among men; An' who would gi'e happiness up vor the seaeke O' zome money to buy it ageaen? Vor 'twould seem to the eyes ov a man that is wise, Lik' money vor money, Or zellen woone's honey to buy zome'hat sweet. DOBBIN DEAD. _Thomas_ (1) _an' John_ (2) _a-ta'en o't._ 2. I do veel vor ye, Thomas, vor I be a-feaer'd You've a-lost your wold meaere then, by what I've a-heaerd. 1. Ees, my meaere is a-gone, an' the cart's in the shed Wi' his wheelbonds a-rusten, an' I'm out o' bread; Vor what be my han's vor to eaern me a croust, Wi' noo meaere's vower legs vor to trample the doust. 2. Well, how did it happen? He vell vrom the brim Ov a cliff, as the teaele is, an' broke ev'ry lim'. 1. Why, I gi'ed en his run, an' he shook his wold meaene, An' he rambled a-veeden in Westergap Leaene; An' there he must needs goo a-riggen, an' crope Vor a vew bleaedes o' grass up the wo'st o' the slope; Though I should ha' thought his wold head would ha' know'd That vor stiff lags, lik' his, the best pleaece wer the road. 2. An' you hadden a-kept en so short, he must clim', Lik' a gwoat, vor a bleaede, at the risk ov a lim'. 1. Noo, but there, I'm a-twold, he did clim' an' did slide, An' did screaepe, an' did slip, on the shelven bank-zide, An' at langth lost his vooten, an' roll'd vrom the top, Down, thump, kick, an' higgledly, piggledly, flop. 2. Dear me, that is bad! I do veel vor your loss, Vor a vew years agoo, Thomas, I lost my ho'se. 1. How wer't? If I heaerd it, I now ha' vorgot; Wer the poor thing bewitch'd or a-pweison'd, or what? 2. He wer out, an' a-meaeken his way to the brink O' the stream at the end o' Church Leaene, vor to drink; An' he met wi' zome yew-twigs the men had a-cast Vrom the yew-tree, in churchyard, the road that he past. He wer pweison'd. (1.) O dear, 'tis a hard loss to bear, Vor a tranter's whole bread is a-lost wi' his meaere; But ov all churches' yew-trees, I never zet eyes On a tree that would come up to thik woone vor size. 2. Noo, 'tis long years agone, but do linger as clear In my mind though as if I'd a-heaerd it to year. When King George wer in Do'set, an' show'd us his feaece By our very own doors, at our very own pleaece, That he look'd at thik yew-tree, an' nodded his head, An' he zaid,--an' I'll tell ye the words that he zaid:-- "I'll be bound, if you'll sarch my dominions all drough. That you woon't vind the fellow to thik there wold yew." HAPPINESS. Ah! you do seem to think the ground, Where happiness is best a-vound, Is where the high-peael'd park do reach Wi' elem-rows, or clumps o' beech; Or where the coach do stand avore The twelve-tunn'd house's lofty door, Or men can ride behin' their hounds Vor miles athirt their own wide grounds, An' seldom wi' the lowly; Upon the green that we do tread, Below the welsh-nut's wide-limb'd head, Or grass where apple trees do spread? No, so's; no, no: not high nor low: 'Tis where the heart is holy. 'Tis true its veet mid tread the vloor, 'Ithin the marble-pillar'd door, Where day do cast, in high-ruf'd halls. His light drough lofty window'd walls; An' wax-white han's do never tire Wi' strokes ov heavy work vor hire, An' all that money can avword Do lwoad the zilver-brighten'd bwoard: Or mid be wi' the lowly, Where turf's a-smwolderen avore The back, to warm the stwonen vloor An' love's at hwome 'ithin the door? No, so's; no, no; not high nor low: 'Tis where the heart is holy. An' ceaere can come 'ithin a ring O' sworded guards, to smite a king, Though he mid hold 'ithin his hands The zwarmen vo'k o' many lands; Or goo in drough the iron-geaete Avore the house o' lofty steaete; Or reach the miser that do smile A-builden up his goolden pile; Or else mid smite the lowly, That have noo pow'r to loose or bind Another's body, or his mind, But only hands to help mankind. If there is rest 'ithin the breast, 'Tis where the heart is holy. GRUFFMOODY GRIM. Aye, a sad life his wife must ha' led, Vor so snappish he's leaetely a-come, That there's nothen but anger or dread Where he is, abroad or at hwome; He do wreak all his spite on the bwones O' whatever do vlee, or do crawl; He do quarrel wi' stocks, an' wi' stwones, An' the rain, if do hold up or vall; There is nothen vrom mornen till night Do come right to Gruffmoody Grim. Woone night, in his anger, he zwore At the vier, that didden burn free: An' he het zome o't out on the vloor, Vor a vlanker it cast on his knee. Then he kicked it vor burnen the child, An' het it among the cat's heairs; An' then beaet the cat, a-run wild, Wi' a spark on her back up the steairs: Vor even the vier an' fleaeme Be to bleaeme wi' Gruffmoody Grim. Then he snarl'd at the tea in his cup, Vor 'twer all a-got cwold in the pot, But 'twer woo'se when his wife vill'd it up Vrom the vier, vor 'twer then scalden hot; Then he growl'd that the bread wer sich stuff As noo hammer in parish could crack, An' flung down the knife in a huff; Vor the edge o'n wer thicker'n the back. Vor beaekers an' meaekers o' tools Be all fools wi' Gruffmoody Grim. Oone day as he vish'd at the brook, He flung up, wi' a quick-handed knack, His long line, an' his high-vleen hook Wer a-hitch'd in zome briars at his back. Then he zwore at the brembles, an' prick'd His beaere hand, as he pull'd the hook free; An' ageaen, in a rage, as he kick'd At the briars, wer a-scratch'd on the knee. An' he wish'd ev'ry bremble an' briar Wer o' vier, did Gruffmoody Grim. Oh! he's welcome, vor me, to breed dread Wherever his sheaede mid alight, An' to live wi' noo me'th round his head, An' noo feaece wi' a smile in his zight; But let vo'k be all merry an' zing At the he'th where my own logs do burn, An' let anger's wild vist never swing In where I have a door on his durn; Vor I'll be a happier man, While I can, than Gruffmoody Grim. To zit down by the vier at night, Is my jay--vor I woon't call it pride,-- Wi' a brand on the bricks, all alight, An' a pile o' zome mwore at the zide. Then tell me o' zome'hat that's droll, An' I'll laugh till my two zides do eaeche Or o' naighbours in sorrow o' soul, An' I'll tweil all the night vor their seaeke; An' show that to teaeke things amiss Idden bliss, to Gruffmoody Grim. An' then let my child clim' my lag, An' I'll lift en, wi' love, to my chin; Or my maid come an' coax me to bag Vor a frock, an' a frock she shall win; Or, then if my wife do meaeke light O' whatever the bwoys mid ha' broke, It wull seem but so small in my zight, As a leaf a-het down vrom a woak An' not meaeke me ceaeper an' froth Vull o' wrath, lik' Gruffmoody Grim. THE TURN O' THE DAYS. O the wings o' the rook wer a-glitteren bright, As he wheel'd on above, in the zun's evenen light, An' noo snow wer a-left, but in patches o' white, On the hill at the turn o' the days. An' along on the slope wer the beaere-timber'd copse, Wi' the dry wood a-sheaeken, wi' red-twigged tops. Vor the dry-flowen wind, had a-blow'd off the drops O' the rain, at the turn o' the days. There the stream did run on, in the sheaede o' the hill, So smooth in his flowen, as if he stood still, An' bright wi' the skylight, did slide to the mill, By the meaeds, at the turn o' the days. An' up by the copse, down along the hill brow, Wer vurrows a-cut down, by men out at plough, So straight as the zunbeams, a-shot drough the bough O' the tree at the turn o' the days. Then the boomen wold clock in the tower did mark His vive hours, avore the cool evenen wer dark, An' ivy did glitter a-clung round the bark O' the tree, at the turn o' the days. An' women a-fraid o' the road in the night, Wer a-heaestenen on to reach hwome by the light, A-casten long sheaedes on the road, a-dried white, Down the hill, at the turn o' the days. The father an' mother did walk out to view The moss-bedded snow-drop, a-sprung in the lew, An' hear if the birds wer a-zingen anew, In the boughs, at the turn o' the days. An' young vo'k a-laughen wi' smooth glossy feaece, Did hie over vields, wi' a light-vooted peaece, To friends where the tow'r did betoken a pleaece Among trees, at the turn o' the days. THE SPARROW CLUB. Last night the merry farmers' sons, Vrom biggest down to leaest, min, Gi'ed in the work of all their guns, An' had their sparrow feaest, min. An' who vor woone good merry soul Should goo to sheaere their me'th, min, But Gammon Gay, a chap so droll, He'd meaeke ye laugh to death, min. Vor heads o' sparrows they've a-shot They'll have a prize in cwein, min, That is, if they can meaeke their scot, Or else they'll pay a fine, min. An' all the money they can teaeke 'S a-gather'd up there-right, min, An' spent in meat an' drink, to meaeke A supper vor the night, min. Zoo when they took away the cloth, In middle of their din, min, An' cups o' eaele begun to froth, Below their merry chin, min. An' when the zong, by turn or chaice, Went roun' vrom tongue to tongue, min, Then Gammon pitch'd his merry vaice, An' here's the zong he zung, min. _Zong._ If you'll but let your clackers rest Vrom jabberen an' hooten, I'll teaeke my turn, an' do my best, To zing o' sparrow shooten. Since every woone mus' pitch his key, An' zing a zong, in coo'se, lads, Why sparrow heads shall be to-day The heads o' my discoo'se, lads. We'll zend abroad our viery hail Till ev'ry foe's a-vled, lads, An' though the rogues mid all turn tail, We'll quickly show their head, lads. In corn, or out on oben ground, In bush, or up in tree, lads, If we don't kill em, I'll be bound, We'll meaeke their veathers vlee, lads. Zoo let the belted spwortsmen brag When they've a-won a neaeme, so's, That they do vind, or they do bag, Zoo many head o' geaeme, so's; Vor when our cwein is woonce a-won, By heads o' sundry sizes, Why, who can slight what we've a-done? We've all a-won _head_ prizes. Then teaeke a drap vor harmless fun, But not enough to quarrel; Though where a man do like the gun, He can't but need the barrel. O' goodly feaere, avore we'll start, We'll zit an' teaeke our vill, min; Our supper-bill can be but short, 'Tis but a sparrow-bill, min. GAMMONY GA[:Y]. Oh! thik Gammony Gay is so droll, That if he's at hwome by the he'th, Or wi' vo'k out o' door, he's the soul O' the meeten vor antics an' me'th; He do cast off the thoughts ov ill luck As the water's a-shot vrom a duck; He do zing where his naighbours would cry He do laugh where the rest o's would sigh: Noo other's so merry o' feaece, In the pleaece, as Gammony Gay. An' o' worken days, Oh! he do wear Such a funny roun' hat,--you mid know't-- Wi' a brim all a-strout roun' his heaeir, An' his glissenen eyes down below't; An' a cwoat wi' broad skirts that do vlee In the wind ov his walk, round his knee; An' a peaeir o' girt pockets lik' bags, That do swing an' do bob at his lags: While me'th do walk out drough the pleaece, In the feaece o' Gammony Gay. An' if he do goo over groun' Wi' noo soul vor to greet wi' his words, The feaece o'n do look up an' down, An' round en so quick as a bird's; An' if he do vall in wi' vo'k, Why, tidden vor want ov a joke, If he don't zend em on vrom the pleaece Wi' a smile or a grin on their feaece: An' the young wi' the wold have a-heaerd A kind word vrom Gammony Gay. An' when he do whissel or hum, 'Ithout thinken o' what he's a-doen, He'll beaet his own lags vor a drum, An' bob his gay head to the tuen; An' then you mid zee, 'etween whiles, His feaece all alive wi' his smiles, An' his gay-breathen bozom do rise, An' his me'th do sheen out ov his eyes: An' at last to have praise or have bleaeme, Is the seaeme to Gammony Gay. When he drove his wold cart out, an' broke The nut o' the wheel at a butt. There wer "woo'se things," he cried, wi' a joke. "To grieve at than cracken a nut." An' when he tipp'd over a lwoad Ov his reed-sheaves woone day on the rwoad, Then he spet in his han's, out o' sleeves, An' whissel'd, an' flung up his sheaves, As very vew others can wag, Eaerm or lag, but Gammony Gay. He wer wi' us woone night when the band Wer a-come vor to gi'e us a hop, An' he pull'd Grammer out by the hand All down drough the dance vrom the top; An' Grammer did hobble an' squall, Wi' Gammon a-leaeden the ball; While Gammon did sheaeke up his knee An' his voot, an' zing "Diddle-ee-dee!" An' we laugh'd ourzelves all out o' breath At the me'th o' Gammony Gay. When our tun wer' o' vier he rod Out to help us, an' meaede us sich fun, Vor he clomb up to dreve in a wad O' wet thorns, to the he'th, vrom the tun; An' there he did stamp wi' his voot, To push down the thorns an' the zoot, Till at last down the chimney's black wall Went the wad, an' poor Gammon an' all: An' seaefe on the he'th, wi' a grin On his chin pitch'd Gammony Gay. All the house-dogs do waggle their tails, If they do but catch zight ov his feaece; An' the ho'ses do look over rails, An' do whicker to zee'n at the pleaece; An' he'll always bestow a good word On a cat or a whisselen bird; An' even if culvers do coo, Or an owl is a-cryen "Hoo, hoo," Where he is, there's always a joke To be spoke, by Gammony Gay. THE HEARE. (_Dree o'm a-ta'ken o't._) (1) There be the greyhounds! lo'k! an' there's the heaere! (2) What houn's, the squier's, Thomas? where, then, where? (1) Why, out in Ash Hill, near the barn, behind Thik tree. (3) The pollard? (1) Pollard! no, b'ye blind? (2) There, I do zee em over-right thik cow. (3) The red woone? (1) No, a mile beyand her now. (3) Oh! there's the heaere, a-meaeken for the drong. (2) My goodness! How the dogs do zweep along, A-poken out their pweinted noses' tips. (3) He can't allow hizzelf much time vor slips! (1) They'll hab'en, after all, I'll bet a crown. (2) Done vor a crown. They woon't! He's gwaein to groun'. (3) He is! (1) He idden! (3) Ah! 'tis well his tooes Ha' got noo corns, inside o' hobnail shoes. (1) He's geaeme a runnen too. Why, he do mwore Than eaern his life. (3) His life wer his avore. (1) There, now the dogs wull turn en. (2) No! He's right. (1) He idden! (2) Ees he is! (3) He's out o' zight. (1) Aye, aye. His mettle wull be well a-tried Agwain down Verny Hill, o' tother zide. They'll have en there. (3) O no! a vew good hops Wull teaeke en on to Knapton Lower Copse. (2) An' that's a meesh that he've a-took avore. (3) Ees, that's his hwome. (1) He'll never reach his door. (2) He wull. (1) He woon't. (3) Now, hark, d'ye heaer em now? (2) O! here's a bwoy a-come athirt the brow O' Knapton Hill. We'll ax en. (1) Here, my bwoy! Can'st tell us where's the heaere? (4) He's got awoy. (2) Ees, got awoy, in coo'se, I never zeed A heaere a-scoten on wi' half his speed. (1) Why, there, the dogs be wold, an' half a-done. They can't catch anything wi' lags to run. (2) Vrom vu'st to last they had but little chance O' catchen o'n. (3) They had a perty dance. (1) No, catch en, no! I little thought they would; He know'd his road too well to Knapton Wood. (3) No! no! I wish the squier would let me feaere On rabbits till his hounds do catch thik heaere. NANNY GILL. Ah! they wer times, when Nanny Gill Went so'jeren ageaenst her will, Back when the King come down to view His ho'se an' voot, in red an' blue, An' they did march in rows, An' wheel in lines an' bows, Below the King's own nose; An' guns did pwoint, an' swords did gleaere, A-fighten foes that werden there. Poor Nanny Gill did goo to zell In town her glitt'ren macarel, A-pack'd wi' ceaere, in even lots, A-ho'seback in a peaeir o' pots. An' zoo when she did ride Between her panniers wide, Red-cloked in all her pride, Why, who but she, an' who but broke The road avore her scarlet cloke! But Nanny's ho'se that she did ride, Woonce carr'd a sword ageaen his zide, An' had, to prick en into rank, A so'jer's spurs ageaen his flank; An' zoo, when he got zight O' swords a-gleamen bright, An' men agwain to fight, He set his eyes athirt the ground, An' prick'd his ears to catch the sound. Then Nanny gi'ed his zide a kick, An' het en wi' her limber stick; But suddenly a horn did sound, An' zend the ho'semen on vull bound; An' her ho'se at the zight Went after em, vull flight, Wi' Nanny in a fright, A-pullen, wi' a scream an' grin, Her wold brown rains to hold en in. But no! he went away vull bound, As vast as he could tear the ground, An' took, in line, a so'jer's pleaece, Vor Nanny's cloke an' frighten'd feaece; While vo'k did laugh an' shout To zee her cloke stream out, As she did wheel about, A-cryen, "Oh! la! dear!" in fright, The while her ho'se did play sham fight. MOONLIGHT ON THE DOOR. A-swayen slow, the poplar's head, Above the slopen thatch did ply, The while the midnight moon did shed His light below the spangled sky. An' there the road did reach avore The hatch, all vootless down the hill; An' hands, a-tired by day, wer still, Wi' moonlight on the door. A-boomen deep, did slowly sound The bell, a-tellen middle night; The while the quiv'ren ivy, round The tree, did sheaeke in softest light. But vootless wer the stwone avore The house where I, the maidens guest, At evenen, woonce did zit at rest By moonlight on the door. Though till the dawn, where night's a-meaede The day, the laughen crowds be gay, Let evenen zink wi' quiet sheaede, Where I do hold my little sway. An' childern dear to my heart's core, A-sleep wi' little heaven breast, That pank'd by day in play, do rest Wi' moonlight on the door. But still 'tis good, woonce now an' then To rove where moonlight on the land Do show in vain, vor heedless men, The road, the vield, the work in hand. When curtains be a-hung avore The glitt'ren windows, snowy white, An' vine-leaf sheaedes do sheaeke in light O' moonlight on the door. MY LOVE'S GUARDIAN ANGEL. As in the cool-air'd road I come by, --in the night, Under the moon-clim'd height o' the sky, --in the night, There by the lime's broad lim's as I stay'd, Dark in the moonlight, bough's sheaedows play'd Up on the window-glass that did keep Lew vrom the wind, my true love asleep, --in the night. While in the grey-wall'd height o' the tow'r, --in the night, Sounded the midnight bell wi' the hour, --in the night, There lo! a bright-heaeir'd angel that shed Light vrom her white robe's zilvery thread, Put her vore-vinger up vor to meaeke Silence around lest sleepers mid weaeke, --in the night. "Oh! then," I whisper'd, do I behold --in the night. Linda, my true-love, here in the cwold, --in the night?" "No," she meaede answer, "you do misteaeke: She is asleep, but I that do weaeke, Here be on watch, an' angel a-blest, Over her slumber while she do rest, --in the night." "Zee how the winds, while here by the bough, --in the night, They do pass on, don't smite on her brow, in the night; Zee how the cloud-sheaedes naiseless do zweep Over the house-top where she's asleep. You, too, goo by, in times that be near, You too, as I, mid speak in her ear --in the night." LEEBURN MILL, Ov all the meaeds wi' shoals an' pools, Where streams did sheaeke the limber zedge, An' milken vo'k did teaeke their stools, In evenen zun-light under hedge: Ov all the wears the brook did vill, Or all the hatches where a sheet O' foam did leaep below woone's veet, The pleaece vor me wer Leeburn Mill. An' while below the mossy wheel All day the foamen stream did roar, An' up in mill the floaten meal Did pitch upon the sheaeken vloor. We then could vind but vew han's still, Or veet a-resten off the ground, An' seldom hear the merry sound O' geaemes a-play'd at Leeburn Mill. But when they let the stream goo free, Bezide the drippen wheel at rest, An' leaves upon the poplar-tree Wer dark avore the glowen west; An' when the clock, a-ringen sh'ill, Did slowly beaet zome evenen hour, Oh! then 'ithin the leafy bow'r Our tongues did run at Leeburn Mill. An' when November's win' did blow, Wi' hufflen storms along the plain, An' blacken'd leaves did lie below The neaeked tree, a-zoak'd wi' rain, I werden at a loss to vill The darkest hour o' rainy skies, If I did vind avore my eyes The feaeces down at Leeburn Mill. PRAISE O' DO'SET. We Do'set, though we mid be hwomely, Be'nt asheaem'd to own our pleaece; An' we've zome women not uncomely; Nor asheaem'd to show their feaece: We've a meaed or two wo'th mowen, We've an ox or two we'th showen, In the village, At the tillage, Come along an' you shall vind That Do'set men don't sheaeme their kind. Friend an' wife, Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, Happy, happy, be their life! Vor Do'set dear, Then gi'e woone cheer; D'ye hear? woone cheer! If you in Do'set be a-roamen, An' ha' business at a farm, Then woont ye zee your eaele a-foamen! Or your cider down to warm? Woont ye have brown bread a-put ye, An' some vinny cheese a-cut ye? Butter?--rolls o't! Cream?--why bowls o't! Woont ye have, in short, your vill, A-gi'ed wi' a right good will? Friend an' wife, Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers. Happy, happy, be their life! Vor Do'set dear, Then gi'e woone cheer; D'ye hear? woone cheer! An' woont ye have vor ev'ry shillen, Shillen's wo'th at any shop, Though Do'set chaps be up to zellen, An' can meaeke a tidy swop? Use em well, they'll use you better; In good turns they woont be debtor. An' so comely, An' so hwomely, Be the maidens, if your son Took woone o'm, then you'd cry "Well done!" Friend an' wife, Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, Happy, happy, be their life! Vor Do'set dear, Then gi'e woone cheer; D'ye hear? woone cheer! If you do zee our good men travel, Down a-voot, or on their meaeres, Along the winden leaenes o' gravel, To the markets or the feaeirs,-- Though their ho'ses cwoats be ragged, Though the men be muddy-lagged, Be they roughish, Be they gruffish, They be sound, an' they will stand By what is right wi' heart an' hand. Friend an' wife, Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, Happy, happy, be their life! Vor Do'set dear, Then gi'e woone cheer; D'ye hear? woone cheer! POEMS OF RURAL LIFE. THIRD COLLECTION. WOONE SMILE MWORE. O! Meaery, when the zun went down, Woone night in Spring, wi' vi'ry rim, Behind thik nap wi' woody crown, An' left your smilen feaece so dim; Your little sister there, inside, Wi' bellows on her little knee, Did blow the vier, a-glearen wide Drough window-peaenes, that I could zee,-- As you did stan' wi' me, avore The house, a-peaerten,--woone smile mwore. The chatt'ren birds, a-risen high, An' zinken low, did swiftly vlee Vrom shrinken moss, a-growen dry, Upon the leaenen apple tree. An' there the dog, a-whippen wide His heaeiry tail, an' comen near, Did fondly lay ageaen your zide His coal-black nose an' russet ear: To win what I'd a-won avore, Vrom your gay feaece, his woone smile mwore. An' while your mother bustled sprack, A-getten supper out in hall, An' cast her sheaede, a-whiv'ren black Avore the vier, upon the wall; Your brother come, wi' easy peaece, In drough the slammen geaete, along The path, wi' healthy-bloomen feaece, A-whis'len shrill his last new zong; An' when he come avore the door, He met vrom you his woone smile mwore. Now you that wer the daughter there, Be mother on a husband's vloor, An' mid ye meet wi' less o' ceaere Than what your hearty mother bore; An' if abroad I have to rue The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed, Mid I come hwome to sheaere wi' you What's needvul free o' pinchen need: An' vind that you ha' still in store, My evenen meal, an' woone smile mwore. THE ECHO. About the tow'r an' churchyard wall, Out nearly overright our door, A tongue ov wind did always call Whatever we did call avore. The vaice did mock our neaemes, our cheers, Our merry laughs, our hands' loud claps, An' mother's call "Come, come, my dears" --_my dears_; Or "Do as I do bid, bad chaps" --_bad chaps_. An' when o' Zundays on the green, In frocks an' cwoats as gay as new, We walk'd wi' shoes a-meaede to sheen So black an' bright's a vull-ripe slooe We then did hear the tongue ov air A-mocken mother's vaice so thin, "Come, now the bell do goo vor pray'r" --_vor pray'r_; "'Tis time to goo to church; come in" --_come in_. The night when little Anne, that died, Begun to zicken, back in May, An' she, at dusk ov evenen-tide, Wer out wi' others at their play, Within the churchyard that do keep Her little bed, the vaice o' thin Dark air, mock'd mother's call "To sleep" --_to sleep_; "'Tis bed time now, my love, come in" --_come in_. An' when our Jeaene come out so smart A-married, an' we help'd her in To Henry's newly-painted cart, The while the wheels begun to spin, An' her gay nods, vor all she smil'd, Did sheaeke a tear-drop vrom each eye, The vaice mock'd mother's call, "Dear child" --_dear child_; "God bless ye evermwore; good bye" --_good bye_. VULL A MAN. No, I'm a man, I'm vull a man, You beaet my manhood, if you can. You'll be a man if you can teaeke All steaetes that household life do meaeke. The love-toss'd child, a-croodlen loud, The bwoy a-screamen wild in play, The tall grown youth a-steppen proud, The father staid, the house's stay. No; I can boast if others can, I'm vull a man. A young-cheaek'd mother's tears mid vall, When woone a-lost, not half man-tall, Vrom little hand, a-called vrom play, Do leaeve noo tool, but drop a tay, An' die avore he's father-free To sheaepe his life by his own plan; An' vull an angel he shall be, But here on e'th not vull a man, No; I could boast if others can, I'm vull a man. I woonce, a child, wer father-fed, An' I've a vound my childern bread; My eaerm, a sister's trusty crook, Is now a faithvul wife's own hook; An' I've a-gone where vo'k did zend, An' gone upon my own free mind, An' of'en at my own wits' end. A-led o' God while I wer blind. No; I could boast if others can I'm vull a man. An' still, ov all my tweil ha' won, My loven maid an' merry son, Though each in turn's a jay an' ceaere, 'Ve a-had, an' still shall have, their sheaere: An' then, if God should bless their lives, Why I mid zend vrom son to son My life, right on drough men an' wives, As long, good now, as time do run. No; I could boast if others can, I'm vull a man. NAIGHBOUR PLA[:Y]MEAeTES. O jay betide the dear wold mill, My naighbour playmeaetes' happy hwome, Wi' rollen wheel, an' leaepen foam, Below the overhangen hill, Where, wide an' slow, The stream did flow, An' flags did grow, an' lightly vlee Below the grey-leav'd withy tree, While clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour, Wi' whirlen stwone, an' streamen flour, Did goo the mill by cloty Stour. An' there in geaemes by evenen skies, When Meaery zot her down to rest, The broach upon her panken breast, Did quickly vall an' lightly rise, While swans did zwim In steaetely trim. An' swifts did skim the water, bright Wi' whirlen froth, in western light; An' clack, clack, clack, that happy hour, Wi' whirlen stwone, an' streamen flour, Did goo the mill by cloty Stour. Now mortery jeints, in streaks o' white, Along the geaerden wall do show In May, an' cherry boughs do blow, Wi' bloomen tutties, snowy white, Where rollen round, Wi' rumblen sound, The wheel woonce drown'd the vaice so dear To me. I fain would goo to hear The clack, clack, clack, vor woone short hour, Wi' whirlen stwone, an' streamen flour, Bezide the mill on cloty Stour. But should I vind a-heaven now Her breast wi' air o' thik dear pleaece? Or zee dark locks by such a brow, Or het o' play on such a feaece? No! She's now staid, An' where she play'd, There's noo such maid that now ha' took The pleaece that she ha' long vorsook, Though clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour, Wi' whirlen stwone an' streamen flour, Do goo the mill by cloty Stour. An' still the pulley rwope do heist The wheat vrom red-wheeled waggon beds. An' ho'ses there wi' lwoads of grist, Do stand an' toss their heavy heads; But on the vloor, Or at the door, Do show noo mwore the kindly feaece Her father show'd about the pleaece, As clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour, Wi' whirlen stwone, an' streamen flour, Did goo his mill by cloty Stour. THE LARK. As I, below the mornen sky, Wer out a worken in the lew O' black-stemm'd thorns, a-springen high, Avore the worold-bounden blue, A-reaeken, under woak tree boughs, The orts a-left behin' by cows. Above the grey-grow'd thistle rings, An' deaeisy-buds, the lark, in flight, Did zing a-loft, wi' flappen wings, Tho' mwore in heaeren than in zight; The while my bwoys, in playvul me'th, Did run till they wer out o' breath. Then woone, wi' han'-besheaeded eyes, A-stoppen still, as he did run, Look'd up to zee the lark arise A-zingen to the high-gone zun; The while his brother look'd below Vor what the groun' mid have to show Zoo woone did watch above his head The bird his hands could never teaeke; An' woone, below, where he did tread, Vound out the nest within the breaeke; But, aggs be only woonce a-vound, An' uncaught larks ageaen mid sound. THE TWO CHURCHES. A happy day, a happy year. A zummer Zunday, dazzlen clear, I went athirt vrom Lea to Noke. To goo to church wi' Fanny's vo'k: The sky o' blue did only show A cloud or two, so white as snow, An' air did sway, wi' softest strokes, The eltrot roun' the dark-bough'd woaks. O day o' rest when bells do toll! O day a-blest to ev'ry soul! How sweet the zwells o' Zunday bells. An' on the cowslip-knap at Creech, Below the grove o' steaetely beech, I heaerd two tow'rs a-cheemen clear, Vrom woone I went, to woone drew near, As they did call, by flow'ry ground, The bright-shod veet vrom housen round, A-drownen wi' their holy call, The goocoo an' the water-vall. Die off, O bells o' my dear pleaece, Ring out, O bells avore my feaece, Vull sweet your zwells, O ding-dong bells. Ah! then vor things that time did bring My kinsvo'k, _Lea_ had bells to ring; An' then, ageaen, vor what bevell My wife's, why _Noke_ church had a bell; But soon wi' hopevul lives a-bound In woone, we had woone tower's sound, Vor our high jays all vive bells rung Our losses had woone iron tongue. Oh! ring all round, an' never mwoaen So deep an' slow woone bell alwone, Vor sweet your swells o' vive clear bells. WOAK HILL. When sycamore leaves wer a-spreaden, Green-ruddy, in hedges, Bezide the red doust o' the ridges, A-dried at Woak Hill; I packed up my goods all a-sheenen Wi' long years o' handlen, On dousty red wheels ov a waggon, To ride at Woak Hill. The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellen, I then wer a-leaeven, Had shelter'd the sleek head o' Meaery, My bride at Woak Hill. But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall 'S a-lost vrom the vlooren. Too soon vor my jay an' my childern, She died at Woak Hill. But still I do think that, in soul, She do hover about us; To ho vor her motherless childern, Her pride at Woak Hill. Zoo--lest she should tell me hereafter I stole off 'ithout her, An' left her, uncall'd at house-ridden, To bide at Woak Hill-- I call'd her so fondly, wi' lippens All soundless to others, An' took her wi' air-reachen hand, To my zide at Woak Hill. On the road I did look round, a-talken To light at my shoulder, An' then led her in at the door-way, Miles wide vrom Woak Hill. An' that's why vo'k thought, vor a season, My mind wer a-wandren Wi' sorrow, when I wer so sorely A-tried at Woak Hill. But no; that my Meaery mid never Behold herzelf slighted, I wanted to think that I guided My guide vrom Woak Hill. THE HEDGER. Upon the hedge theaese bank did bear, Wi' lwonesome thought untwold in words, I woonce did work, wi' noo sound there But my own strokes, an' chirpen birds; As down the west the zun went wan, An' days brought on our Zunday's rest, When sounds o' cheemen bells did vill The air, an' hook an' axe wer still. Along the wold town-path vo'k went, An' met unknown, or friend wi' friend, The maid her busy mother zent, The mother wi' noo maid to zend; An' in the light the gleaezier's glass, As he did pass, wer dazzlen bright, Or woone went by wi' down-cast head, A wrapp'd in blackness vor the dead. An' then the bank, wi' risen back, That's now a-most a-trodden down, Bore thorns wi' rind o' sheeny black, An' meaeple stems o' ribby brown; An' in the lewth o' theaese tree heads, Wer primrwose beds a-sprung in blooth, An' here a geaete, a-slammen to, Did let the slow-wheel'd plough roll drough. Ov all that then went by, but vew Be now a-left behine', to beaet The mornen flow'rs or evenen dew, Or slam the woaken vive-bar'd geaete; But woone, my wife, so litty-stepp'd, That have a-kept my path o' life, Wi' her vew errands on the road, Where woonce she bore her mother's lwoad. IN THE SPRING. My love is the maid ov all maidens, Though all mid be comely, Her skin's lik' the jessamy blossom A-spread in the Spring. Her smile is so sweet as a beaeby's Young smile on his mother, Her eyes be as bright as the dew drop A-shed in the Spring. O grey-leafy pinks o' the geaerden, Now bear her sweet blossoms; Now deck wi' a rwose-bud, O briar. Her head in the Spring. O light-rollen wind blow me hither, The vaeice ov her talken, Or bring vrom her veet the light doust, She do tread in the Spring. O zun, meaeke the gil'cups all glitter, In goold all around her; An' meaeke o' the deaeisys' white flowers A bed in the Spring. O whissle gay birds, up bezide her, In drong-way, an' woodlands, O zing, swingen lark, now the clouds, Be a-vled in the Spring. An' who, you mid ax, be my praises A-meaeken so much o', An' oh! 'tis the maid I'm a-hopen To wed in the Spring. THE FLOOD IN SPRING. Last night below the elem in the lew Bright the sky did gleam On water blue, while air did softly blow On the flowen stream, An' there wer gil'cups' buds untwold, An' deaeisies that begun to vwold Their low-stemm'd blossoms vrom my zight Ageaen the night, an' evenen's cwold. But, oh! so cwold below the darksome cloud Soon the night-wind roar'd, Wi' rainy storms that zent the zwollen streams Over ev'ry vword. The while the drippen tow'r did tell The hour, wi' storm-be-smother'd bell, An' over ev'ry flower's bud Roll'd on the flood, 'ithin the dell. But when the zun arose, an' lik' a rwose Shone the mornen sky; An' roun' the woak, the wind a-blowen weak, Softly whiver'd by. Though drown'd wer still the deaisy bed Below the flood, its feaece instead O' flow'ry grown', below our shoes Show'd feaeirest views o' skies o'er head. An' zoo to try if all our faith is true Jay mid end in tears, An' hope, woonce feaeir, mid sadden into fear, Here in e'thly years. But He that tried our soul do know To meaeke us good amends, an' show Instead o' things a-took away, Some higher jay that He'll bestow. COMEN HWOME. As clouds did ride wi' heaesty flight. An' woods did swaey upon the height, An' bleaedes o' grass did sheaeke, below The hedge-row bremble's swingen bow, I come back hwome where winds did zwell, In whirls along the woody gleaedes, On primrwose beds, in windy sheaedes, To Burnley's dark-tree'd dell. There hills do screen the timber's bough, The trees do screen the leaeze's brow, The timber-sheaeded leaeze do bear A beaeten path that we do wear. The path do stripe the leaeze's zide, To willows at the river's edge. Where hufflen winds did sheaeke the zedge An' sparklen weaeves did glide. An' where the river, bend by bend, Do draein our meaed, an' mark its end, The hangen leaeze do teaeke our cows, An' trees do sheaede em wi' their boughs, An' I the quicker beaet the road, To zee a-comen into view, Still greener vrom the sky-line's blue, Wold Burnley our abode. GRAMMER A-CRIPPLED. "The zunny copse ha' birds to zing, The leaeze ha' cows to low, The elem trees ha' rooks on wing, The meaeds a brook to flow, But I can walk noo mwore, to pass The drashel out abrode, To wear a path in theaese year's grass Or tread the wheelworn road," Cried Grammer, "then adieu, O runnen brooks, An' vleen rooks, I can't come out to you. If 'tis God's will, why then 'tis well, That I should bide 'ithin a wall." An' then the childern, wild wi' fun, An' loud wi' jayvul sounds, Sprung in an' cried, "We had a run, A-playen heaere an' hounds; But oh! the cowslips where we stopt In Maycreech, on the knap!" An' vrom their little han's each dropt Some cowslips in her lap. Cried Grammer, "Only zee! I can't teaeke strolls, An' little souls Would bring the vields to me. Since 'tis God's will, an' mus' be well That I should bide 'ithin a wall." "Oh! there be prison walls to hold The han's o' lawless crimes, An' there be walls arear'd vor wold An' zick in tryen times; But oh! though low mid slant my ruf, Though hard my lot mid be, Though dry mid come my daily lwoaf, Mid mercy leaeve me free!" Cried Grammer, "Or adieu To jay; O grounds, An' bird's gay sounds If I mus' gi'e up you, Although 'tis well, in God's good will, That I should bide 'ithin a wall." "Oh! then," we answer'd, "never fret, If we shall be a-blest, We'll work vull hard drough het an' wet To keep your heart at rest: To woaken chair's vor you to vill, For you shall glow the coal, An' when the win' do whissle sh'ill We'll screen it vrom your poll." Cried Grammer, "God is true. I can't but feel He smote to heal My wounded heart in you; An' zoo 'tis well, if 'tis His will, That I be here 'ithin a wall." THE CASTLE RUINS. A happy day at Whitsuntide, As soon's the zun begun to vall, We all stroll'd up the steep hill-zide To Meldon, girt an' small; Out where the castle wall stood high A-mwoldren to the zunny sky. An' there wi' Jenny took a stroll Her youngest sister, Poll, so gay, Bezide John Hind, ah! merry soul, An' mid her wedlock fay; An' at our zides did play an' run My little maid an' smaller son. Above the beaeten mwold upsprung The driven doust, a-spreaden light, An' on the new-leav'd thorn, a-hung, Wer wool a-quiv'ren white; An' corn, a sheenen bright, did bow, On slopen Meldon's zunny brow. There, down the rufless wall did glow The zun upon the grassy vloor, An' weakly-wandren winds did blow, Unhinder'd by a door; An' smokeless now avore the zun Did stan' the ivy-girded tun. My bwoy did watch the daws' bright wings A-flappen vrom their ivy bow'rs; My wife did watch my maid's light springs, Out here an' there vor flow'rs; And John did zee noo tow'rs, the pleaece Vor him had only Polly's feaece. An' there, of all that pried about The walls, I overlook'd em best, An' what o' that? Why, I meaede out Noo mwore than all the rest: That there wer woonce the nest of zome That wer a-gone avore we come. When woonce above the tun the smoke Did wreathy blue among the trees, An' down below, the liven vo'k, Did tweil as brisk as bees; Or zit wi' weary knees, the while The sky wer lightless to their tweil. [Gothic: Eclogue.] JOHN, JEALOUS AT SHROTON FEAeIR. _Jeaene; her Brother; John, her Sweetheart; and Racketen Joe_ JEAeNE. I'm thankvul I be out o' that Thick crowd, an' not asquot quite flat. That ever we should plunge in where the vo'k do drunge So tight's the cheese-wring on the veaet! I've sca'ce a thing a-left in pleaece. 'Tis all a-tore vrom pin an' leaece. My bonnet's like a wad, a-beaet up to a dod, An' all my heaeir's about my feaece. HER BROTHER. Here, come an' zit out here a bit, An' put yourzelf to rights. JOHN. No, Jeaene; no, no! Now you don't show The very wo'st o' plights. HER BROTHER. Come, come, there's little harm adone; Your hoops be out so roun's the zun. JOHN. An' there's your bonnet back in sheaepe. HER BROTHER. An' there's your pin, and there's your ceaepe. JOHN. An' there your curls do match, an' there 'S the vittiest maid in all the feaeir. JEAeNE. Now look, an' tell us who's a-spied Vrom Sturminster, or Manston zide. HER BROTHER. There's ranten Joe! How he do stalk, An' zwang his whip, an' laugh, an' talk! JOHN. An' how his head do wag, avore his steppen lag. Jist like a pigeon's in a walk! HER BROTHER. Heigh! there, then, Joey, ben't we proud JEAeNE. He can't hear you among the crowd. HER BROTHER. Why, no, the thunder peals do drown the sound o' wheels. His own pipe is a-pitched too loud. What, you here too? RACKETEN JOE. Yes, Sir, to you. All o' me that's a-left. JEAeNE. A body plump's a goodish lump Where reaemes ha' such a heft. JOHN. Who lost his crown a-racen? RACKETEN JOE. Who? Zome silly chap abacken you. Well, now, an' how do vo'k treat Jeaene? JEAeNE. Why not wi' feaerens. RACKETEN JOE. What d'ye meaen, When I've a-brought ye such a bunch O' theaese nice ginger-nuts to crunch? An' here, John, here! you teaeke a vew. JOHN. No, keep em all vor Jeaene an' you! RACKETEN JOE. Well, Jeaene, an' when d'ye meaen to come An' call on me, then, up at hwome. You han't a-come athirt, since I'd my voot a-hurt, A-slippen vrom the tree I clomb. JEAeNE. Well, if so be that you be stout On voot ageaen, you'll vind me out. JOHN. Aye, better chaps woont goo, not many steps vor you, If you do hawk yourzelf about. RACKETEN JOE. Wull John, come too? JOHN. No, thanks to you. Two's company, dree's nwone. HER BROTHER. There don't be stung by his mad tongue, 'Tis nothen else but fun. JEAeNE. There, what d'ye think o' my new ceaepe? JOHN. Why, think that 'tis an ugly sheaepe. JEAeNE. Then you should buy me, now theaese feaeir, A mwore becomen woone to wear. JOHN. I buy your ceaepe! No; Joe wull screaepe Up dibs enough to buy your ceaepe. As things do look, to meaeke you fine Is long Joe's business mwore than mine. JEAeNE. Lauk, John, the mwore that you do pout The mwore he'll gl[=e]ne. JOHN. A yelpen lout. EARLY PLA[:Y]MEAeTE. After many long years had a-run, The while I wer a-gone vrom the pleaece, I come back to the vields, where the zun Ov her childhood did show me her feaece. There her father, years wolder, did stoop. An' her brother, wer now a-grow'd staid, An' the apple tree lower did droop. Out in the orcha'd where we had a-play'd, There wer zome things a-seemen the seaeme, But Meaery's a-married away. There wer two little childern a-zent, Wi' a message to me, oh! so feair As the mother that they did zoo ment, When in childhood she play'd wi' me there. Zoo they twold me that if I would come Down to Coomb, I should zee a wold friend, Vor a playmeaete o' mine wer at hwome, An' would stay till another week's end. At the dear pworched door, could I dare To zee Meaery a-married away! On the flower-not, now all a-trod Stwony hard, the green grass wer a-spread, An' the long-slighted woodbine did nod Vrom the wall, wi' a loose-hangen head. An' the martin's clay nest wer a-hung Up below the brown oves, in the dry, An' the rooks had a-rock'd broods o' young On the elems below the May sky; But the bud on the bed, coulden bide, Wi' young Meaery a-married away. There the copse-wood, a-grow'd to a height, Wer a-vell'd, an' the primrwose in blooth, Among chips on the ground a-turn'd white, Wer a-quiv'ren, all beaere ov his lewth. The green moss wer a-spread on the thatch, That I left yollow reed, an' avore The small green, there did swing a new hatch, Vor to let me walk into the door. Oh! the rook did still rock o'er the rick, But wi' Meaery a-married away. PICKEN O' SCROFF. Oh! the wood wer a-vell'd in the copse, An' the moss-bedded primrwose did blow; An' vrom tall-stemmed trees' leafless tops, There did lie but slight sheaedes down below. An' the sky wer a-showen, in drough By the tree-stems, the deepest o' blue, Wi' a light that did vall on an' off The dry ground, a-strew'd over wi' scroff. There the hedge that wer leaetely so high, Wer a-plush'd, an' along by the zide, Where the waggon 'd a-haul'd the wood by, There did reach the deep wheelrouts, a-dried. An' the groun' wi' the sticks wer bespread, Zome a-cut off alive, an' zome dead. An' vor burnen, well wo'th reaeken off, By the childern a-picken o' scroff. In the tree-studded leaeze, where the woak Wer a-spreaden his head out around, There the scrags that the wind had a-broke, Wer a-lyen about on the ground Or the childern, wi' little red hands, Wer a-tyen em up in their bands; Vor noo squier or farmer turn'd off Little childern a-picken o' scroff. There wer woone bloomen child wi' a cloak On her shoulders, as green as the ground; An' another, as gray as the woak, Wi' a bwoy in a brown frock, a-brown'd. An' woone got up, in play, vor to tait, On a woak-limb, a-growen out straight. But she soon wer a-taited down off, By her meaetes out a-picken o' scroff. When they childern do grow to staid vo'k, An' goo out in the worold, all wide Vrom the copse, an' the zummerleaeze woak, Where at last all their elders ha' died, They wull then vind it touchen to bring, To their minds, the sweet springs o' their spring, Back avore the new vo'k did turn off The poor childern a-picken o' scroff. GOOD NIGHT. While down the meaeds wound slow, Water vor green-wheel'd mills, Over the streams bright bow, Win' come vrom dark-back'd hills. Birds on the win' shot along down steep Slopes, wi' a swift-swung zweep. Dim weaen'd the red streak'd west Lim'-weary souls "Good rest." Up on the plough'd hill brow, Still wer the zull's wheel'd beam, Still wer the red-wheel'd plough, Free o' the strong limb'd team, Still wer the shop that the smith meaede ring, Dark where the sparks did spring; Low shot the zun's last beams. Lim'-weary souls "Good dreams." Where I vrom dark bank-sheaedes Turn'd up the west hill road, Where all the green grass bleaedes Under the zunlight glow'd. Startled I met, as the zunbeams play'd Light, wi' a zunsmote maid, Come vor my day's last zight, Zun-brighten'd maid "Good night." WENT HWOME. Upon the slope, the hedge did bound The yield wi' blossom-whited zide, An' charlock patches, yollow-dyed, Did reach along the white-soil'd ground, An' vo'k, a-comen up vrom meaed, Brought gil'cup meal upon the shoe; Or went on where the road did leaed, Wi' smeechy doust from heel to tooe. As noon did smite, wi' burnen light, The road so white, to Meldonley. An' I did tramp the zun-dried ground, By hedge-climb'd hills, a-spread wi' flow'rs, An' watershooten dells, an' tow'rs, By elem-trees a-hemm'd all round, To zee a vew wold friends, about Wold Meldon, where I still ha' zome, That bid me speed as I come out, An' now ha' bid me welcome hwome, As I did goo, while skies wer blue, Vrom view to view, to Meldonley. An' there wer timber'd knaps, that show'd Cool sheaedes, vor rest, on grassy ground, An' thatch-brow'd windows, flower-bound, Where I could wish wer my abode. I pass'd the maid avore the spring, An' shepherd by the thornen tree; An' heaerd the merry drever zing, But met noo kith or kin to me, Till I come down, vrom Meldon's crown To rufs o' brown, at Meldonley. THE HOLLOW WOAK. The woaken tree, so hollow now, To souls ov other times wer sound, An' reach'd on ev'ry zide a bough Above their heads, a-gather'd round, But zome light veet That here did meet In friendship sweet, vor rest or jay, Shall be a-miss'd another May. My childern here, in playvul pride Did zit 'ithin his wooden walls, A-menten steaetely vo'k inside O' castle towers an' lofty halls. But now the vloor An' mossy door That woonce they wore would be too small To teaeke em in, so big an' tall. Theaese year do show, wi' snow-white cloud, An' deaesies in a sprinkled bed, An' green-bough birds a-whislen loud, The looks o' zummer days a-vled; An' grass do grow, An' men do mow, An' all do show the wold times' feaece Wi' new things in the wold things' pleaece. CHILDERN'S CHILDERN. Oh! if my ling'ren life should run, Drough years a-reckoned ten by ten, Below the never-tiren zun, Till beaebes ageaen be wives an' men; An' stillest deafness should ha' bound My ears, at last, vrom ev'ry sound; Though still my eyes in that sweet light, Should have the zight o' sky an' ground: Would then my steaete In time so leaete, Be jay or pain, be pain or jay? When Zunday then, a-weaenen dim, As theaese that now's a-clwosen still, Mid lose the zun's down-zinken rim, In light behind the vier-bound hill; An' when the bells' last peal's a-rung, An' I mid zee the wold an' young A-vlocken by, but shoulden hear, However near, a voot or tongue: Mid zuch a zight, In that soft light Be jay or pain, be pain or jay. If I should zee among em all, In merry youth, a-gliden by, My son's bwold son, a-grown man-tall, Or daughter's daughter, woman-high; An' she mid smile wi' your good feaece, Or she mid walk your comely peaece, But seem, although a-chatten loud, So dumb's a cloud, in that bright pleaece: Would youth so feaeir, A-passen there, Be jay or pain, be pain or jay. 'Tis seldom strangth or comeliness Do leaeve us long. The house do show Men's sons wi' mwore, as they ha' less, An' daughters brisk, vor mothers slow. A dawn do clear the night's dim sky, Woone star do zink, an' woone goo high, An' liven gifts o' youth do vall, Vrom girt to small, but never die: An' should I view, What God mid do, Wi' jay or pain, wi' pain or jay? THE RWOSE IN THE DARK. In zummer, leaete at evenen tide, I zot to spend a moonless hour 'Ithin the window, wi' the zide A-bound wi' rwoses out in flow'r, Bezide the bow'r, vorsook o' birds, An' listen'd to my true-love's words. A-risen to her comely height, She push'd the swingen ceaesement round; And I could hear, beyond my zight, The win'-blow'd beech-tree softly sound, On higher ground, a-swayen slow, On drough my happy hour below. An' tho' the darkness then did hide The dewy rwose's blushen bloom, He still did cast sweet air inside To Jeaene, a-chatten in the room; An' though the gloom did hide her feaece, Her words did bind me to the pleaece. An' there, while she, wi' runnen tongue, Did talk unzeen 'ithin the hall, I thought her like the rwose that flung His sweetness vrom his darken'd ball, 'Ithout the wall, an' sweet's the zight Ov her bright feaece by mornen light. COME. Wull ye come in eaerly Spring, Come at Easter, or in May? Or when Whitsuntide mid bring Longer light to show your way? Wull ye come, if you be true, Vor to quicken love anew. Wull ye call in Spring or Fall? Come now soon by zun or moon? Wull ye come? Come wi' vaice to vaice the while All their words be sweet to hear; Come that feaece to feaece mid smile, While their smiles do seem so dear; Come within the year to seek Woone you have sought woonce a week? Come while flow'rs be on the bow'rs. And the bird o' zong's a-heaerd. Wull ye come? Ees come _to_ ye, an' come _vor_ ye, is my word, I wull come. ZUMMER WINDS. Let me work, but mid noo tie Hold me vrom the oben sky, When zummer winds, in playsome flight, Do blow on vields in noon-day light, Or ruslen trees, in twilight night. Sweet's a stroll, By flow'ry knowl, or blue-feaeced pool That zummer win's do ruffle cool. When the moon's broad light do vill Plains, a-sheenen down the hill; A-glitteren on window glass, O then, while zummer win's do pass The rippled brook, an' swayen grass, Sweet's a walk, Where we do talk, wi' feaeces bright, In whispers in the peacevul night. When the swayen men do mow Flow'ry grass, wi' zweepen blow, In het a-most enough to dry The flat-spread clote-leaf that do lie Upon the stream a-stealen by, Sweet's their rest, Upon the breast o' knap or mound Out where the goocoo's vaice do sound. Where the sleek-heaeir'd maid do zit Out o' door to zew or knit, Below the elem where the spring 'S a-runnen, an' the road do bring The people by to hear her zing, On the green, Where she's a-zeen, an' she can zee, O gay is she below the tree. Come, O zummer wind, an' bring Sounds o' birds as they do zing, An' bring the smell o' bloomen may, An' bring the smell o' new-mow'd hay; Come fan my feaece as I do stray, Fan the heaeir O' Jessie feaeir; fan her cool, By the weaeves o' stream or pool. THE NEAeME LETTERS. When high-flown larks wer on the wing, A warm-air'd holiday in Spring, We stroll'd, 'ithout a ceaere or frown, Up roun' the down at Meldonley; An' where the hawthorn-tree did stand Alwone, but still wi' mwore at hand, We zot wi' sheaedes o' clouds on high A-flitten by, at Meldonley. An' there, the while the tree did sheaede Their gigglen heads, my knife's keen bleaede Carved out, in turf avore my knee, J. L., *T. D., at Meldonley. 'Twer Jessie Lee J. L. did meaen, T. D. did stan' vor Thomas Deaene; The "L" I scratch'd but slight, vor he Mid soon be D, at Meldonley. An' when the vields o' wheat did spread Vrom hedge to hedge in sheets o' red. An' bennets wer a-sheaeken brown. Upon the down at Meldonley, We stroll'd ageaen along the hill, An' at the hawthorn-tree stood still, To zee J. L. vor Jessie Lee, An' my T. D., at Meldonley. The grey-poll'd bennet-stems did hem Each half-hid letter's zunken rim, By leaedy's-vingers that did spread In yollow red, at Meldonley. An' heaerebells there wi' light blue bell Shook soundless on the letter L, To ment the bells when L vor Lee Become a D at Meldonley. Vor Jessie, now my wife, do strive Wi' me in life, an' we do thrive; Two sleek-heaeired meaeres do sprackly pull My waggon vull, at Meldonley; An' small-hoof'd sheep, in vleeces white, Wi' quickly-panken zides, do bite My thymy grass, a-mark'd vor me In black, T. D., at Meldonley. THE NEW HOUSE A-GETTEN WOLD. Ah! when our wedded life begun, Theaese clean-wall'd house of ours wer new; Wi' thatch as yollor as the zun Avore the cloudless sky o' blue; The sky o' blue that then did bound The blue-hilled worold's flow'ry ground. An' we've a-vound it weather-brown'd, As Spring-tide blossoms oben'd white, Or Fall did shed, on zunburnt ground, Red apples from their leafy height: Their leafy height, that Winter soon Left leafless to the cool-feaeced moon. An' rain-bred moss ha' stain'd wi' green The smooth-feaeced wall's white-morter'd streaks, The while our childern zot between Our seats avore the fleaeme's red peaks: The fleaeme's red peaks, till axan white Did quench em vor the long-sleep'd night. The bloom that woonce did overspread Your rounded cheaek, as time went by, A-shrinken to a patch o' red, Did feaede so soft's the evenen sky: The evenen sky, my faithful wife, O' days as feaeir's our happy life. ZUNDAY. In zummer, when the sheaedes do creep Below the Zunday steeple, round The mossy stwones, that love cut deep Wi' neaemes that tongues noo mwore do sound, The leaene do lose the stalken team, An' dry-rimm'd waggon-wheels be still, An' hills do roll their down-shot stream Below the resten wheel at mill. O holy day, when tweil do ceaese, Sweet day o' rest an' greaece an' peaece! The eegrass, vor a while unwrung By hoof or shoe, 's a sheenen bright, An' clover flowers be a-sprung On new-mow'd knaps in beds o' white, An' sweet wild rwoses, up among The hedge-row boughs, do yield their smells. To aier that do bear along The loud-rung peals o' Zunday bells, Upon the day o' days the best, The day o' greaece an' peaece an' rest. By brightshod veet, in peaeir an' peaeir, Wi' comely steps the road's a-took To church, an' work-free han's do beaer Woone's walken stick or sister's book; An' there the bloomen niece do come To zee her aunt, in all her best; Or married daughter do bring hwome Her vu'st sweet child upon her breast, As she do seek the holy pleaece, The day o' rest an' peaece an' greaece. THE PILLAR'D GEAeTE. As I come by, zome years agoo, A-burnt below a sky o' blue, 'Ithin the pillar'd geaete there zung A vaice a-sounden sweet an' young, That meaede me veel awhile to zwim In weaeves o' jay to hear its hymn; Vor all the zinger, angel-bright, Wer then a-hidden vrom my zight, An' I wer then too low To seek a meaete to match my steaete 'Ithin the lofty-pillar'd geaete, Wi' stwonen balls upon the walls: Oh, no! my heart, no, no. Another time as I come by The house, below a dark-blue sky, The pillar'd geaete wer oben wide, An' who should be a-show'd inside, But she, the comely maid whose hymn Woonce meaede my giddy brain to zwim, A-zitten in the sheaede to zew, A-clad in robes as white as snow. What then? could I so low Look out a meaete ov higher steaete So gay 'ithin a pillar'd geaete, Wi' high walls round the smooth-mow'd ground? Oh, no! my heart, no, no. Long years stole by, a-gliden slow, Wi' winter cwold an' zummer glow, An' she wer then a widow, clad In grey; but comely, though so sad; Her husband, heartless to his bride, Spent all her store an' wealth, an' died, Though she noo mwore could now rejaice, Yet sweet did sound her zongless vaice. But had she, in her woe, The higher steaete she had o' leaete 'Ithin the lofty pillar'd geaete, Wi' stwonen balls upon the walls? Oh, no! my heart, no, no. But while she vell, my Meaeker's greaece Led me to teaeke a higher pleaece, An' lighten'd up my mind wi' lore, An' bless'd me wi' a worldly store; But still noo winsome feaece or vaice, Had ever been my wedded chaice; An' then I thought, why do I mwope Alwone without a jay or hope? Would she still think me low? Or scorn a meaete, in my feaeir steaete, In here 'ithin a pillar'd geaete, A happy pleaece wi' her kind feaece? Oh, no! my hope, no, no. I don't stand out 'tis only feaete Do gi'e to each his wedded meaete; But eet there's woone above the rest, That every soul can like the best. An' my wold love's a-kindled new, An' my wold dream's a-come out true; But while I had noo soul to sheaere My good an' ill, an' jaey an ceaere, Should I have bliss below, In gleaemen pleaete an' lofty steaete 'Ithin the lofty pillar'd geaete, Wi' feaeirest flow'rs, an' ponds an' tow'rs? Oh, no! my heart, no, no. ZUMMER STREAM. Ah! then the grassy-meaeded May Did warm the passen year, an' gleam Upon the yellow-grounded stream, That still by beech-tree sheaedes do stray. The light o' weaeves, a-runnen there, Did play on leaves up over head, An' vishes sceaely zides did gleaere, A-darten on the shallow bed, An' like the stream a-sliden on, My zun out-measur'd time's agone. There by the path, in grass knee-high, Wer buttervlees in giddy flight, All white above the deaeisies white, Or blue below the deep blue sky. Then glowen warm wer ev'ry brow, O' maid, or man, in zummer het, An' warm did glow the cheaeks I met That time, noo mwore to meet em now. As brooks, a-sliden on their bed, My season-measur'd time's a-vled. Vrom yonder window, in the thatch, Did sound the maidens' merry words, As I did stand, by zingen birds, Bezide the elem-sheaeded hatch. 'Tis good to come back to the pleaece, Back to the time, to goo noo mwore; 'Tis good to meet the younger feaece A-menten others here avore. As streams do glide by green mead-grass, My zummer-brighten'd years do pass. LINDA DEAeNE. The bright-tunn'd house, a-risen proud, Stood high avore a zummer cloud, An' windy sheaedes o' tow'rs did vall Upon the many-window'd wall; An' on the grassy terrace, bright Wi' white-bloom'd zummer's deaisy beds, An' snow-white lilies nodden heads, Sweet Linda Deaene did walk in white; But ah! avore too high a door, Wer Linda Deaene ov Ellendon. When sparklen brooks an' grassy ground, By keen-air'd Winter's vrost wer bound, An' star-bright snow did streak the forms O' beaere-lim'd trees in darksome storms, Sweet Linda Deaene did lightly glide, Wi' snow-white robe an' rwosy feaece, Upon the smooth-vloor'd hall, to treaece The merry dance o' Chris'mas tide; But oh! not mine be balls so fine As Linda Deaene's at Ellendon. Sweet Linda Deaene do match the skies Wi' sheenen blue o' glisnen eyes, An' feairest blossoms do but show Her forehead's white, an' feaece's glow; But there's a winsome jay above, The brightest hues ov e'th an' skies. The dearest zight o' many eyes, Would be the smile o' Linda's love; But high above my lowly love Is Linda Deaene ov Ellendon. [Gothic: Eclogue.] COME AND ZEE US IN THE ZUMMER. _John; William; William's Bwoy; and William's Maid at Feaeir._ JOHN. Zoo here be your childern, a-sheaeren Your feaeir-day, an' each wi' a feaeiren. WILLIAM. Aye, well, there's noo peace 'ithout comen To stannen an' show, in the zummer. JOHN. An' how is your Jeaene? still as merry As ever, wi' cheaeks lik' a cherry? WILLIAM. Still merry, but beauty's as feaedesome 'S the rain's glowen bow in the zummer. JOHN. Well now, I do hope we shall vind ye Come soon, wi' your childern behind ye, To Stowe, while o' bwoth zides o' hedges, The zunsheen do glow in the zummer. WILLIAM. Well, aye, when the mowen is over, An' ee-grass do whiten wi' clover. A man's a-tired out, vor much walken, The while he do mow in the zummer. WILLIAM'S BWOY. I'll goo, an' we'll zet up a wicket, An' have a good innens at cricket; An' teaeke a good plounce in the water. Where clote-leaves do grow in the zummer. WILLIAM'S MAID. I'll goo, an' we'll play "Thread the needle" Or "Hunten the slipper," or wheedle Young Jemmy to fiddle, an' reely So brisk to an' fro in the zummer. JOHN. An' Jeaene. Mind you don't come 'ithout her, My wife is a-thinken about her; At our house she'll find she's as welcome 'S the rwose that do blow in the zummer. LINDENORE. At Lindenore upon the steep, Bezide the trees a-reachen high, The while their lower limbs do zweep The river-stream a-flowen by; By graegle bells in beds o' blue, Below the tree-stems in the lew, Calm air do vind the rwose-bound door, Ov Ellen Dare o' Lindenore. An' there noo foam do hiss avore Swift bwoats, wi' water-plowen keels, An' there noo broad high-road's a-wore By vur-brought trav'lers' cracklen wheels; Noo crowd's a-passen to and fro, Upon the bridge's high-sprung bow: An' vew but I do seek the door Ov Ellen Dare o' Lindenore. Vor there the town, wi' zun-bright walls, Do sheen vur off, by hills o' grey, An' town-vo'k ha' but seldom calls O' business there, from day to day: But Ellen didden leaeve her ruf To be admir'd, an' that's enough-- Vor I've a-vound 'ithin her door, Feaeir Ellen Dare o' Lindenore. ME'TH BELOW THE TREE. O when theaese elems' crooked boughs, A'most too thin to sheaede the cows, Did slowly swing above the grass As winds o' Spring did softly pass, An' zunlight show'd the shiften sheaede, While youthful me'th wi' laughter loud, Did twist his lim's among the crowd Down there below; up there above Wer bright-ey'd me'th below the tree. Down there the merry vo'k did vill The stwonen doorway, now so still; An' zome did joke, wi' ceaesement wide, Wi' other vo'k a-stood outside, Wi' words that head by head did heed. Below blue sky an' blue-smok'd tun, 'Twer jay to zee an' hear their fun, But sweeter jay up here above Wi' bright-ey'd me'th below the tree. Now unknown veet do beaet the vloor, An' unknown han's do shut the door, An' unknown men do ride abrode, An' hwome ageaen on thik wold road, Drough geaetes all now a-hung anew. Noo mind but mine ageaen can call Wold feaeces back around the wall, Down there below, or here above, Wi' bright-ey'd me'th below the tree. Aye, pride mid seek the crowded pleaece To show his head an' frownen feaece, An' pleasure vlee, wi' goold in hand, Vor zights to zee vrom land to land, Where winds do blow on seas o' blue:-- Noo wealth wer mine to travel wide Vor jay, wi' Pleasure or wi' Pride: My happiness wer here above The feaest, wi' me'th below the tree. The wild rwose now do hang in zight, To mornen zun an' evenen light, The bird do whissle in the gloom, Avore the thissle out in bloom, But here alwone the tree do leaen. The twig that woonce did whiver there Is now a limb a-wither'd beaere: Zoo I do miss the sheaede above My head, an' me'th below the tree. TREAT WELL YOUR WIFE. No, no, good Meaester Collins cried, Why you've a good wife at your zide; Zoo do believe the heart is true That gi'ed up all bezide vor you, An' still beheaeve as you begun To seek the love that you've a-won When woonce in dewy June, In hours o' hope soft eyes did flash, Each bright below his sheaedy lash, A-glisnen to the moon. Think how her girlhood met noo ceaere To peaele the bloom her feaece did weaer, An' how her glossy temple prest Her pillow down, in still-feaeced rest, While sheaedes o' window bars did vall In moonlight on the gloomy wall, In cool-air'd nights o' June; The while her lids, wi' benden streaeks O' lashes, met above her cheaeks, A-bloomen to the moon. Think how she left her childhood's pleaece, An' only sister's long-known feaece, An' brother's jokes so much a-miss'd, An' mother's cheaek, the last a-kiss'd; An' how she lighted down avore Her new abode, a husband's door, Your wedden night in June; Wi' heart that beaet wi' hope an' fear, While on each eye-lash hung a tear, A-glisnen to the moon. Think how her father zot all dum', A-thinken on her, back at hwome, The while grey axan gather'd thick, On dyen embers, on the brick; An' how her mother look'd abrode, Drough window, down the moon-bright road, Thik cloudless night o' June, Wi' tears upon her lashes big As rain-drops on a slender twig, A-glisnen to the moon. Zoo don't zit thoughtless at your cup An' keep your wife a-waeiten up, The while the clock's a-ticken slow The chilly hours o' vrost an' snow, Until the zinken candle's light Is out avore her drowsy sight, A-dimm'd wi' grief too soon; A-leaeven there alwone to murn The feaeden cheaek that woonce did burn, A-bloomen to the moon. THE CHILD AN' THE MOWERS. O, aye! they had woone child bezide, An' a finer your eyes never met, 'Twer a dear little fellow that died In the zummer that come wi' such het; By the mowers, too thoughtless in fun, He wer then a-zent off vrom our eyes, Vrom the light ov the dew-dryen zun,-- Aye! vrom days under blue-hollow'd skies. He went out to the mowers in meaed, When the zun wer a-rose to his height, An' the men wer a-swingen the sneaed, Wi' their eaerms in white sleeves, left an' right; An' out there, as they rested at noon, O! they drench'd en vrom eaele-horns too deep, Till his thoughts wer a-drown'd in a swoon; Aye! his life wer a-smother'd in sleep. Then they laid en there-right on the ground, On a grass-heap, a-zweltren wi' het, Wi' his heaeir all a-wetted around His young feaece, wi' the big drops o' zweat; In his little left palm he'd a-zet, Wi' his right hand, his vore-vinger's tip, As for zome'hat he woulden vorget,-- Aye! zome thought that he woulden let slip. Then they took en in hwome to his bed, An' he rose vrom his pillow noo mwore, Vor the curls on his sleek little head To be blown by the wind out o' door. Vor he died while the haey russled grey On the staddle so leaetely begun: Lik' the mown-grass a-dried by the day,-- Aye! the zwath-flow'r's a-killed by the zun. THE LOVE CHILD. Where the bridge out at Woodley did stride, Wi' his wide arches' cool sheaeded bow, Up above the clear brook that did slide By the popples, befoam'd white as snow: As the gilcups did quiver among The white deaeisies, a-spread in a sheet. There a quick-trippen maid come along,-- Aye, a girl wi' her light-steppen veet. An' she cried "I do pray, is the road Out to Lincham on here, by the meaed?" An' "oh! ees," I meaede answer, an' show'd Her the way it would turn an' would leaed: "Goo along by the beech in the nook, Where the childern do play in the cool, To the steppen stwones over the brook,-- Aye, the grey blocks o' rock at the pool." "Then you don't seem a-born an' a-bred," I spoke up, "at a place here about;" An' she answer'd wi' cheaeks up so red As a pi'ny but leaete a-come out, "No, I liv'd wi' my uncle that died Back in Eaepril, an' now I'm a-come Here to Ham, to my mother, to bide,-- Aye, to her house to vind a new hwome." I'm asheaemed that I wanted to know Any mwore of her childhood or life, But then, why should so feaeir a child grow Where noo father did bide wi' his wife; Then wi' blushes of zunrisen morn, She replied "that it midden be known, "Oh! they zent me away to be born,--[C] Aye, they hid me when zome would be shown." Oh! it meaede me a'most teary-ey'd, An' I vound I a'most could ha' groan'd-- What! so winnen, an' still cast a-zide-- What! so lovely, an' not to be own'd; Oh! a God-gift a-treated wi' scorn, Oh! a child that a squier should own; An' to zend her away to be born!-- Aye, to hide her where others be shown! [Footnote C: Words once spoken to the writer.] HAWTHORN DOWN. All up the down's cool brow I work'd in noontide's gleaere, On where the slow-wheel'd plow 'D a-wore the grass half bare. An' gil'cups quiver'd quick, As air did pass, An' deaeisies huddled thick Among the grass. The while my eaerms did swing Wi' work I had on hand, The quick-wing'd lark did zing Above the green-tree'd land, An' bwoys below me chafed The dog vor fun, An' he, vor all they laef'd, Did meaeke em run. The south zide o' the hill, My own tun-smoke rose blue,-- In North Coomb, near the mill, My mother's wer in view-- Where woonce her vier vor all Ov us did burn, As I have childern small Round mine in turn. An' zoo I still wull cheer Her life wi' my small store, As she do drop a tear Bezide her lwonesome door. The love that I do owe Her ruf, I'll pay, An' then zit down below My own wi' jay. OBEN VIELDS. Well, you mid keep the town an' street, Wi' grassless stwones to beaet your veet, An' zunless windows where your brows Be never cooled by swayen boughs; An' let me end, as I begun, My days in oben air an' zun, Where zummer win's a-blowen sweet, Wi' blooth o' trees as white's a sheet; Or swayen boughs, a-benden low Wi' rip'nen apples in a row, An' we a-risen rathe do meet The bright'nen dawn wi' dewy veet, An' leaeve, at night, the vootless groves, To rest 'ithin our thatchen oves. An' here our childern still do bruise The deaeisy buds wi' tiny shoes, As we did meet avore em, free Vrom ceaere, in play below the tree. An' there in me'th their lively eyes Do glissen to the zunny skies, As air do blow, wi' leaezy peaece To cool, in sheaede, their burnen feaece. Where leaves o' spreaden docks do hide The zawpit's timber-lwoaded zide, An' trees do lie, wi' scraggy limbs, Among the deaeisy's crimson rims. An' they, so proud, wi' eaerms a-spread To keep their balance good, do tread Wi' ceaereful steps o' tiny zoles The narrow zides o' trees an' poles. An' zoo I'll leaeve vor your light veet The peaevement o' the zunless street, While I do end, as I begun, My days in oben air an' zun. WHAT JOHN WER A-TELLEN HIS MIS'ESS OUT IN THE CORN GROUND. Ah! mam! you woonce come here the while The zun, long years agoo, did shed His het upon the wheat in hile, Wi' yollow hau'm an' ears o' red, Wi' little shoes too thin vor walks Upon the scratchen stubble-stalks; You hardly reach'd wi' glossy head, The vore wheel's top o' dousty red. How time's a-vled! How years do vlee! An' there you went an' zot inzide A hile, in air a-streamen cool, As if 'ithin a room, vull wide An' high, you zot to guide an' rule. You leaez'd about the stubbly land, An' soon vill'd up your small left hand Wi' ruddy ears your right hand vound, An' trail'd the stalks along the ground. How time's a-gone! How years do goo! Then in the waggon you did teaeke A ride, an' as the wheels vell down Vrom ridge to vurrow, they did sheaeke On your small head your poppy crown, An' now your little maid, a dear, Your childhood's very daps, is here, Zoo let her stay, that her young feaece Mid put a former year in pleaece. How time do run! How years do roll! SHEAeDES. Come here an' zit a while below Theaese tower, grey and ivy-bound, In sheaede, the while the zun do glow So hot upon the flow'ry ground; An' winds in flight, Do briskly smite The blossoms bright, upon the gleaede, But never stir the sleepen sheaede. As when you stood upon the brink O' yonder brook, wi' back-zunn'd head, Your zunny-grounded sheaede did zink Upon the water's grav'lly bed, Where weaeves could zweep Away, or keep, The gravel heap that they'd a-meaede, But never wash away the sheaede. An' zoo, when you can woonce vulvil What's feaeir, a-tried by heaven's light, Why never fear that evil will Can meaeke a wrong o' your good right. The right wull stand, Vor all man's hand, Till streams on zand, an' wind in gleaedes, Can zweep away the zuncast sheaedes. TIMES O' YEAR. Here did swaey the eltrot flow'rs, When the hours o' night wer vew, An' the zun, wi' eaerly beams Brighten'd streams, an' dried the dew, An' the goocoo there did greet Passers by wi' dousty veet. There the milkmaid hung her brow By the cow, a-sheenen red; An' the dog, wi' upward looks, Watch'd the rooks above his head, An' the brook, vrom bow to bow, Here went swift, an' there wer slow. Now the cwolder-blowen blast, Here do cast vrom elems' heads Feaeded leaves, a-whirlen round, Down to ground, in yollow beds, Ruslen under milkers' shoes, When the day do dry the dews. Soon shall grass, a-vrosted bright, Glisten white instead o' green, An' the wind shall smite the cows, Where the boughs be now their screen. Things do change as years do vlee; What ha' years in store vor me? [Gothic: Eclogue.] RACKETEN JOE. _Racketen Joe; his Sister; his Cousin Fanny; and the Dog._ RACKETEN JOE. Heigh! heigh! here. Who's about? HIS SISTER. Oh! lauk! Here's Joe, a ranten lout, A-meaeken his wild randy-rout. RACKETEN JOE. Heigh! Fanny! How d'ye do? (_slaps her._) FANNY. Oh! fie; why all the woo'se vor you A-slappen o' me, black an' blue, My back! HIS SISTER. A whack! you loose-eaerm'd chap, To gi'e your cousin sich a slap! FANNY. I'll pull the heaeir o'n, I do vow; HIS SISTER. I'll pull the ears o'n. There. THE DOG. Wowh! wow! FANNY. A-comen up the drong, How he did smack his leather thong, A-zingen, as he thought, a zong; HIS SISTER. An' there the pigs did scote Azide, in fright, wi' squeaken droat, Wi' geese a pitchen up a note. Look there. FANNY. His chair! HIS SISTER. He thump'd en down, As if he'd het en into ground. RACKETEN JOE. Heigh! heigh! Look here! the vier is out. HIS SISTER. How he do knock the tongs about! FANNY. Now theaere's his whip-nob, plum Upon the teaeble vor a drum; HIS SISTER. An' there's a dent so big's your thumb. RACKETEN JOE. My hat's awore so quaer. HIS SISTER. 'Tis quaer enough, but not wi' wear; But dabs an' dashes he do bear. RACKETEN JOE. The zow! HIS SISTER. What now? RACKETEN JOE. She's in the plot. A-routen up the flower knot. Ho! Towzer! Here, rout out the zow, Heigh! here, hie at her. Tiss! THE DOG. Wowh! wow! HIS SISTER. How he do rant and roar, An' stump an' stamp about the vloor, An' swing, an' slap, an' slam the door! He don't put down a thing, But he do dab, an' dash, an' ding It down, till all the house do ring. RACKETEN JOE. She's out. FANNY. Noo doubt. HIS SISTER. Athirt the bank, Look! how the dog an' he do pank. FANNY. Stay out, an' heed her now an' then, To zee she don't come in ageaen. ZUMMER AN' WINTER. When I led by zummer streams The pride o' Lea, as naighbours thought her, While the zun, wi' evenen beams, Did cast our sheaedes athirt the water; Winds a-blowen, Streams a-flowen, Skies a-glowen, Tokens ov my jay zoo fleeten, Heighten'd it, that happy meeten. Then, when maid an' man took pleaeces, Gay in winter's Chris'mas dances, Showen in their merry feaeces Kindly smiles an' glisnen glances; Stars a-winken, Day a-shrinken, Sheaedes a-zinken, Brought anew the happy meeten, That did meake the night too fleeten. TO ME. At night, as drough the meaed I took my way, In air a-sweeten'd by the new-meaede hay, A stream a-vallen down a rock did sound, Though out o' zight wer foam an' stwone to me. Behind the knap, above the gloomy copse, The wind did russle in the trees' high tops, Though evenen darkness, an' the risen hill, Kept all the quiv'ren leaves unshown to me, Within the copse, below the zunless sky, I heaerd a nightengeaele, a-warblen high Her lwoansome zong, a-hidden vrom my zight, An' showen nothen but her mwoan to me. An' by a house, where rwoses hung avore The thatch-brow'd window, an' the oben door, I heaerd the merry words, an' hearty laugh O' zome feaeir maid, as eet unknown to me. High over head the white-rimm'd clouds went on, Wi' woone a-comen up, vor woone a-gone; An' feaeir they floated in their sky-back'd flight, But still they never meaede a sound to me. An' there the miller, down the stream did float Wi' all his childern, in his white-sail'd bwoat, Vur off, beyond the stragglen cows in meaed, But zent noo vaice, athirt the ground, to me. An' then a buttervlee, in zultry light, A-wheelen on about me, vier-bright, Did show the gayest colors to my eye, But still did bring noo vaice around to me. I met the merry laugher on the down, Bezide her mother, on the path to town, An' oh! her sheaepe wer comely to the zight, But wordless then wer she a-vound to me. Zoo, sweet ov unzeen things mid be sound, An' feaeir to zight mid soundless things be vound, But I've the laugh to hear, an' feaece to zee, Vor they be now my own, a-bound to me. TWO AN' TWO. The zun, O Jessie, while his feaece do rise In vi'ry skies, a-shedden out his light On yollow corn a-weaeven down below His yollow glow, is gay avore the zight. By two an' two, How goodly things do goo, A-matchen woone another to fulvill The goodness ov their Meaeker's will. How bright the spreaden water in the lew Do catch the blue, a-sheenen vrom the sky; How true the grass do teaeke the dewy bead That it do need, while dousty roads be dry. By peaeir an' peaeir Each thing's a-meaede to sheaere The good another can bestow, In wisdom's work down here below. The lowest lim's o' trees do seldom grow A-spread too low to gi'e the cows a sheaede; The air's to bear the bird, the bird's to rise; Vor light the eyes, vor eyes the light's a-meaede. 'Tis gi'e an' teaeke, An' woone vor others' seaeke; In peaeirs a-worken out their ends, Though men be foes that should be friends. THE LEW O' THE RICK. At eventide the wind wer loud By trees an' tuns above woone's head, An' all the sky wer woone dark cloud, Vor all it had noo rain to shed; An' as the darkness gather'd thick, I zot me down below a rick, Where straws upon the win' did ride Wi' giddy flights, along my zide, Though unmolesten me a-resten, Where I lay 'ithin the lew. My wife's bright vier indoors did cast Its fleaeme upon the window peaenes That screen'd her teaeble, while the blast Vled on in music down the leaenes; An' as I zot in vaiceless thought Ov other zummer-tides, that brought The sheenen grass below the lark, Or left their ricks a-wearen dark, My childern voun' me, an' come roun' me, Where I lay 'ithin the lew. The rick that then did keep me lew Would be a-gone another Fall, An' I, in zome years, in a vew, Mid leaeve the childern, big or small; But He that meaede the wind, an' meaede The lewth, an' zent wi' het the sheaede, Can keep my childern, all alwone O' under me, an' though vull grown Or little lispers, wi' their whispers, There a-lyen in the lew. THE WIND IN WOONE'S FEAeCE. There lovely Jenny past, While the blast did blow On over Ashknowle Hill To the mill below; A-blinken quick, wi' lashes long, Above her cheaeks o' red, Ageaen the wind, a-beaeten strong, Upon her droopen head. Oh! let dry win' blow bleaek, On her cheaek so heaele, But let noo rain-shot chill Meaeke her ill an' peaele; Vor healthy is the breath the blast Upon the hill do yield, An' healthy is the light a cast Vrom lofty sky to vield. An' mid noo sorrow-pang Ever hang a tear Upon the dark lash-heaeir Ov my feaeirest dear; An' mid noo unkind deed o' mine Spweil what my love mid gain, Nor meaeke my merry Jenny pine At last wi' dim-ey'd pain. TOKENS. Green mwold on zummer bars do show That they've a-dripp'd in Winter wet; The hoof-worn ring o' groun' below The tree, do tell o' storms or het; The trees in rank along a ledge Do show where woonce did bloom a hedge; An' where the vurrow-marks do stripe The down, the wheat woonce rustled ripe. Each mark ov things a-gone vrom view-- To eyezight's woone, to soulzight two. The grass ageaen the mwoldren door 'S a token sad o' vo'k a-gone, An' where the house, bwoth wall an' vloor, 'S a-lost, the well mid linger on. What tokens, then, could Meaery gi'e Thaet she'd a-liv'd, an' liv'd vor me, But things a-done vor thought an' view? Good things that nwone ageaen can do, An' every work her love ha' wrought, To eyezight's woone, but two to thought. TWEIL. The rick ov our last zummer's haulen Now vrom grey's a-feaeded dark, An' off the barken rail's a-vallen, Day by day, the rotten bark.-- But short's the time our works do stand, So feaeir's we put em out ov hand, Vor time a-passen, wet an' dry, Do spweil em wi' his changen sky, The while wi' striven hope, we men, Though a-ruen time's undoen, Still do tweil an' tweil ageaen. In wall-zide sheaedes, by leafy bowers, Underneath the swayen tree, O' leaete, as round the bloomen flowers, Lowly humm'd the giddy bee, My childern's small left voot did smite Their tiny speaede, the while the right Did trample on a deaeisy head, Bezide the flower's dousty bed, An' though their work wer idle then, They a-smilen, an' a-tweilen, Still did work an' work ageaen. Now their little limbs be stronger, Deeper now their vaice do sound; An' their little veet be longer, An' do tread on other ground; An' rust is on the little bleaedes Ov all the broken-hafted speaedes, An' flow'rs that wer my hope an' pride Ha' long agoo a-bloom'd an' died, But still as I did leaebor then Vor love ov all them childern small, Zoo now I'll tweil an' tweil ageaen. When the smokeless tun's a-growen Cwold as dew below the stars, An' when the vier noo mwore's a-glowen Red between the window bars, We then do lay our weary heads In peace upon their nightly beds, An' gi'e woone sock, wi' heaven breast, An' then breathe soft the breath o' rest, Till day do call the sons o' men Vrom night-sleep's blackness, vull o' sprackness, Out abroad to tweil ageaen. Where the vaice o' the winds is mildest, In the plain, their stroke is keen; Where their dreatnen vaice is wildest, In the grove, the grove's our screen. An' where the worold in their strife Do dreaten mwost our tweilsome life, Why there Almighty ceaere mid cast A better screen ageaen the blast. Zoo I woon't live in fear o' men, But, man-neglected, God-directed, Still wull tweil an' tweil ageaen. FANCY. In stillness we ha' words to hear, An' sheaepes to zee in darkest night, An' tongues a-lost can hail us near, An' souls a-gone can smile in zight; When Fancy now do wander back To years a-spent, an' bring to mind Zome happy tide a-left behind In' weaesten life's slow-beaten track. When feaeden leaves do drip wi' rain, Our thoughts can ramble in the dry; When Winter win' do zweep the plain We still can have a zunny sky. Vor though our limbs be winter-wrung, We still can zee, wi' Fancy's eyes, The brightest looks ov e'th an' skies, That we did know when we wer young. In pain our thoughts can pass to eaese, In work our souls can be at play, An' leaeve behind the chilly leaese Vor warm-air'd meaeds o' new mow'd hay. When we do vlee in Fancy's flight Vrom daily ills avore our feaece, An' linger in zome happy pleaece Ov me'th an' smiles, an' warmth an' light. THE BROKEN HEART. News o' grief had overteaeken Dark-ey'd Fanny, now vorseaeken; There she zot, wi' breast a-heaven, While vrom zide to zide, wi' grieven, Vell her head, wi' tears a-creepen Down her cheaeks, in bitter weepen. There wer still the ribbon-bow She tied avore her hour ov woe, An' there wer still the han's that tied it Hangen white, Or wringen tight, In ceaere that drown'd all ceaere bezide it. When a man, wi' heartless slighten, Mid become a maiden's blighten, He mid ceaerlessly vorseaeke her, But must answer to her Meaeker; He mid slight, wi' selfish blindness, All her deeds o' loven-kindness, God wull waigh em wi' the slighten That mid be her love's requiten; He do look on each deceiver, He do know What weight o' woe Do breaek the heart ov ev'ry griever. EVENEN LIGHT. The while I took my bit o' rest, Below my house's eastern sheaede, The things that stood in vield an' gleaede Wer bright in zunsheen vrom the west. There bright wer east-ward mound an' wall, An' bright wer trees, arisen tall, An' bright did break 'ithin the brook, Down rocks, the watervall. There deep 'ithin my pworches bow Did hang my heavy woaken door, An' in beyond en, on the vloor, The evenen dusk did gather slow; But bright did gleaere the twinklen spwokes O' runnen carriage wheels, as vo'ks Out east did ride along the road, Bezide the low-bough'd woaks, An' I'd a-lost the zun vrom view, Until ageaen his feaece mid rise, A-sheenen vrom the eastern skies To brighten up the rwose-borne dew; But still his lingren light did gi'e My heart a touchen jay, to zee His beams a-shed, wi' stratchen sheaede, On east-ward wall an' tree. When jay, a-zent me vrom above, Vrom my sad heart is now agone, An' others be a-walken on, Amid the light ov Heaven's love, Oh! then vor loven-kindness seaeke, Mid I rejaeice that zome do teaeke My hopes a-gone, until ageaen My happy dawn do breaek. VIELDS BY WATERVALLS. When our downcast looks be smileless, Under others' wrongs an' slightens, When our daily deeds be guileless, An' do meet unkind requitens, You can meaeke us zome amends Vor wrongs o' foes, an' slights o' friends;-- O flow'ry-gleaeded, timber-sheaeded Vields by flowen watervalls! Here be softest airs a-blowen Drough the boughs, wi' zingen drushes, Up above the streams, a-flowen Under willows, on by rushes. Here below the bright-zunn'd sky The dew-bespangled flow'rs do dry, In woody-zided, stream-divided Vields by flowen watervalls. Waters, wi' their giddy rollens; Breezes wi' their playsome wooens; Here do heal, in soft consolens, Hearts a-wrung wi' man's wrong doens. Day do come to us as gay As to a king ov widest sway, In deaeisy-whiten'd, gil'cup-brighten'd Vields by flowen watervalls. Zome feaeir buds mid outlive blightens, Zome sweet hopes mid outlive sorrow. After days of wrongs an' slightens There mid break a happy morrow. We mid have noo e'thly love; But God's love-tokens vrom above Here mid meet us, here mid greet us, In the vields by watervalls. THE WHEEL ROUTS. 'Tis true I brought noo fortune hwome Wi' Jenny, vor her honey-moon, But still a goodish hansel come Behind her perty soon, Vor stick, an' dish, an' spoon, all vell To Jeaene, vrom Aunt o' Camwy dell. Zoo all the lot o' stuff a-tied Upon the plow, a tidy tod, On gravel-crunchen wheels did ride, Wi' ho'ses, iron-shod, That, as their heads did nod, my whip Did guide along wi' lightsome flip. An' there it rod 'ithin the rwope, Astrain'd athirt, an' strain'd along, Down Thornhay's evenen-lighted slope An' up the beech-tree drong; Where wheels a-bound so strong, cut out On either zide a deep-zunk rout. An' when at Fall the trees wer brown, Above the bennet-bearen land, When beech-leaves slowly whiver'd down. By evenen winds a-fann'd; The routs wer each a band o' red, A-vill'd by drifted beech-leaves dead. An' when, in Winter's leafless light, The keener eastern wind did blow. An' scatter down, avore my zight, A chilly cwoat o' snow; The routs ageaen did show vull bright, In two long streaks o' glitt'ren white. But when, upon our wedden night, The cart's light wheels, a-rollen round, Brought Jenny hwome, they run too light To mark the yielden ground; Or welcome would be vound a peaeir O' green-vill'd routs a-runnen there. Zoo let me never bring 'ithin My dwellen what's a-won by wrong, An' can't come in 'ithout a sin; Vor only zee how long The waggon marks in drong, did show Wi' leaves, wi' grass, wi' groun' wi' snow. NANNY'S NEW ABODE. Now day by day, at lofty height, O zummer noons, the burnen zun 'Ve a-show'd avore our eastward zight, The sky-blue zide ov Hameldon, An' shone ageaen, on new-mow'd ground, Wi' hay a-piled up grey in pook, An' down on leaezes, bennet-brown'd, An' wheat a-vell avore the hook; Till, under elems tall, The leaves do lie on leaenen lands, In leaeter light o' Fall. An' last year, we did zee the red O' dawn vrom Ash-knap's thatchen oves, An' walk on crumpled leaves a-laid In grassy rook-trees' timber'd groves, Now, here, the cooler days do shrink To vewer hours o' zunny sky, While zedge, a-weaeven by the brink O' shallow brooks, do slowly die. An' on the timber tall, The boughs, half beaere, do bend above The bulgen banks in Fall. There, we'd a spring o' water near, Here, water's deep in wink-drain'd wells, The church 'tis true, is nigh out here, Too nigh wi' vive loud-boomen bells. There, naighbours wer vull wide a-spread, But vo'k be here too clwose a-stow'd. Vor childern now do stun woone's head, Wi' naisy play bezide the road, Where big so well as small, The little lad, an' lump'ren lout, Do leaep an' laugh theaese Fall. LEAVES A-VALLEN. There the ash-tree leaves do vall In the wind a-blowen cwolder, An' my childern, tall or small, Since last Fall be woone year wolder. Woone year wolder, woone year dearer, Till when they do leave my he'th, I shall be noo mwore a hearer O' their vaices or their me'th. There dead ash leaves be a-toss'd In the wind, a-blowen stronger, An' our life-time, since we lost Souls we lov'd, is woone year longer. Woone year longer, woone year wider, Vrom the friends that death ha' took, As the hours do teaeke the rider Vrom the hand that last he shook. No. If he do ride at night Vrom the zide the zun went under, Woone hour vrom his western light Needen meaeke woone hour asunder; Woone hour onward, woone hour nigher To the hopeful eastern skies, Where his mornen rim o' vier Soon ageaen shall meet his eyes. Leaves be now a-scatter'd round In the wind, a-blowen bleaker, An' if we do walk the ground Wi' our life-strangth woone year weaker. Woone year weaker, woone year nigher To the pleaece where we shall vind Woone that's deathless vor the dier, Voremost they that dropp'd behind. LIZZIE. O Lizzie is so mild o' mind, Vor ever kind, an' ever true; A-smilen, while her lids do rise To show her eyes as bright as dew. An' comely do she look at night, A-dancen in her skirt o' white, An' blushen wi' a rwose o' red Bezide her glossy head. Feaeir is the rwose o' blushen hue, Behung wi' dew, in mornen's hour, Feaeir is the rwose, so sweet below The noontide glow, bezide the bow'r. Vull feaeir, an' eet I'd rather zee The rwose a-gather'd off the tree, An' bloomen still with blossom red, By Lizzie's glossy head. Mid peace droughout her e'thly day, Betide her way, to happy rest, An' mid she, all her weanen life, Or maid or wife, be loved and blest. Though I mid never zing anew To neaeme the maid so feaeir an' true, A-blushen, wi' a rwose o' red, Bezide her glossy head. BLESSENS A-LEFT. Lik' souls a-toss'd at sea I bore Sad strokes o' trial, shock by shock, An' now, lik' souls a-cast ashore To rest upon the beaeten rock, I still do seem to hear the sound O' weaeves that drove me vrom my track, An' zee my strugglen hopes a-drown'd, An' all my jays a-floated back. By storms a-toss'd, I'll gi'e God praise, Wi' much a-lost I still ha' jays. My peace is rest, my faith is hope, An' freedom's my unbounded scope. Vor faith mid blunt the sting o' fear, An' peace the pangs ov ills a-vound, An' freedom vlee vrom evils near, Wi' wings to vwold on other ground, Wi' much a-lost, my loss is small, Vor though ov e'thly goods bereft, A thousand times well worth em all Be they good blessens now a-left. What e'th do own, to e'th mid vall, But what's my own my own I'll call, My faith, an' peaece, the gifts o' greaece, An' freedom still to shift my pleaece. When I've a-had a tree to screen My meal-rest vrom the high zunn'd-sky, Or ivy-holden wall between My head an' win's a-rustlen by, I had noo call vor han's to bring Their seaev'ry dainties at my nod, But stoop'd a-drinken vrom the spring, An' took my meal, wi' thanks to God, Wi' faith to keep me free o' dread, An' peaece to sleep wi' steadvast head, An' freedom's hands, an' veet unbound To woone man's work, or woone seaeme ground. FALL TIME. The gather'd clouds, a-hangen low, Do meaeke the woody ridge look dim; An' rain-vill'd streams do brisker flow, Arisen higher to their brim. In the tree, vrom lim' to lim', Leaves do drop Vrom the top, all slowly down, Yollow, to the gloomy groun'. The rick's a-tipp'd an' weather-brown'd, An' thatch'd wi' zedge a-dried an' dead; An' orcha'd apples, red half round, Have all a-happer'd down, a-shed Underneath the trees' wide head. Ladders long, Rong by rong, to clim' the tall Trees, be hung upon the wall. The crumpled leaves be now a-shed In mornen winds a-blowen keen; When they wer green the moss wer dead, Now they be dead the moss is green. Low the evenen zun do sheen By the boughs, Where the cows do swing their tails Over the merry milkers' pails. FALL. Now the yollow zun, a-runnen Daily round a smaller bow, Still wi' cloudless sky's a-zunnen All the sheenen land below. Vewer blossoms now do blow, But the fruit's a-showen Reds an' blues, an' purple hues, By the leaves a-glowen. Now the childern be a-pryen Roun' the berried bremble-bow, Zome a-laughen, woone a-cryen Vor the slent her frock do show. Bwoys be out a-pullen low Slooe-boughs, or a-runnen Where, on zides of hazzle-wrides, Nuts do hang a-zunnen. Where do reach roun' wheat-ricks yollow Oves o' thatch, in long-drawn ring, There, by stubbly hump an' hollow, Russet-dappled dogs do spring. Soon my apple-trees wull fling Bloomen balls below em, That shall hide, on ev'ry zide Ground where we do drow em. THE ZILVER-WEED. The zilver-weed upon the green, Out where my sons an' daughters play'd, Had never time to bloom between The litty steps o' bwoy an' maid. But rwose-trees down along the wall, That then wer all the maiden's ceaere, An' all a-trimm'd an' train'd, did bear Their bloomen buds vrom Spring to Fall. But now the zilver leaves do show To zummer day their goolden crown, Wi' noo swift shoe-zoles' litty blow, In merry play to beaet em down. An' where vor years zome busy hand Did train the rwoses wide an' high; Now woone by woone the trees do die, An' vew of all the row do stand. THE WIDOW'S HOUSE. I went hwome in the dead o' the night, When the vields wer all empty o' vo'k, An' the tuns at their cool-winded height Wer all dark, an' all cwold 'ithout smoke; An' the heads o' the trees that I pass'd Wer a-swayen wi' low-ruslen sound, An' the doust wer a-whirl'd wi' the blast, Aye, a smeech wi' the wind on the ground. Then I come by the young widow's hatch, Down below the wold elem's tall head, But noo vinger did lift up the latch, Vor the vo'k wer so still as the dead; But inside, to a tree a-meaede vast, Wer the childern's light swing, a-hung low, An' a-rock'd by the brisk-blowen blast, Aye, a-swung by the win' to an' fro. Vor the childern, wi' pillow-borne head, Had vorgotten their swing on the lawn, An' their father, asleep wi' the dead, Had vorgotten his work at the dawn; An' their mother, a vew stilly hours, Had vorgotten where he sleept so sound, Where the wind wer a-sheaeken the flow'rs, Aye, the blast the feaeir buds on the ground. Oh! the moon, wi' his peaele lighted skies, Have his sorrowless sleepers below. But by day to the zun they must rise To their true lives o' tweil an' ov ho. Then the childern wull rise to their fun, An' their mother mwore sorrow to veel, While the air is a-warm'd by the zun, Aye, the win' by the day's vi'ry wheel. THE CHILD'S GREAeVE. Avore the time when zuns went down On zummer's green a-turn'd to brown, When sheaedes o' swayen wheat-eaers vell Upon the scarlet pimpernel; The while you still mid goo, an' vind 'Ithin the geaerden's mossy wall, Sweet blossoms, low or risen tall, To meaeke a tutty to your mind, In churchyard heav'd, wi' grassy breast, The greaeve-mound ov a beaeby's rest. An' when a high day broke, to call A throng 'ithin the churchyard wall, The mother brought, wi' thoughtvul mind, The feaeirest buds her eyes could vind, To trim the little greaeve, an' show To other souls her love an' loss, An' meaede a Seaevior's little cross O' brightest flow'rs that then did blow, A-droppen tears a-sheenen bright, Among the dew, in mornen light An' woone sweet bud her han' did pleaece Up where did droop the Seaevior's feaece; An' two she zet a-bloomen bright, Where reach'd His hands o' left an' right; Two mwore feaeir blossoms, crimson dyed, Did mark the pleaeces ov his veet, An' woone did lie, a-smellen sweet, Up where the spear did wound the zide Ov Him that is the life ov all Greaeve sleepers, whether big or small. The mother that in faith could zee The Seaevior on the high cross tree Mid be a-vound a-grieven sore, But not to grieve vor evermwore, Vor He shall show her faithvul mind, His chaice is all that she should choose, An' love that here do grieve to lose, Shall be, above, a jay to vind, Wi' Him that evermwore shall keep The souls that He do lay asleep. WENT VROM HWOME. The stream-be-wander'd dell did spread Vrom height to woody height, An' meaeds did lie, a grassy bed, Vor elem-sheaeden light. The milkmaid by her white-horn'd cow, Wi' pail so white as snow, Did zing below the elem bough A-swayen to an' fro. An' there the evenen's low-shot light Did smite the high tree-tops, An' rabbits vrom the grass, in fright, Did leaep 'ithin the copse. An' there the shepherd wi' his crook. An' dog bezide his knee, Went whisslen by, in air that shook The ivy on the tree. An' on the hill, ahead, wer bars A-showen dark on high, Avore, as eet, the evenen stars Did twinkle in the sky, An' then the last sweet evenen-tide That my long sheaede vell there, I went down Brindon's thymy zide, To my last sleep at Ware. THE FANCY FEAeIR AT MAIDEN NEWTON. The Frome, wi' ever-water'd brink, Do run where shelven hills do zink Wi' housen all a-cluster'd roun' The parish tow'rs below the down. An' now, vor woonce, at leaest, ov all The pleaecen where the stream do vall, There's woone that zome to-day mid vind, Wi' things a-suited to their mind. An' that's out where the Fancy Feaeir Is on at Maiden Newton. An' vo'k, a-smarten'd up, wull hop Out here, as ev'ry train do stop, Vrom up the line, a longish ride, An' down along the river-zide. An' zome do beaet, wi' heels an' tooes, The leaenes an' paths, in nimble shoes, An' bring, bezides, a biggish knot, Ov all their childern that can trot, A-vlocken where the Fancy Feaeir Is here at Maiden Newton. If you should goo, to-day, avore A _Chilfrome_ house or _Downfrome_ door, Or _Frampton's_ park-zide row, or look Drough quiet _Wraxall's_ slopy nook, Or elbow-streeted _Catt'stock_, down By _Castlehill's_ cwold-winded crown, An' zee if vo'k be all at hwome, You'd vind em out--they be a-come Out hither, where the Fancy Feaeir Is on at Maiden Newton. Come, young men, come, an' here you'll vind A gift to please a maiden's mind; Come, husbands, here be gifts to please Your wives, an' meaeke em smile vor days; Come, so's, an' buy at Fancy Feaeir A keepseaeke vor your friends elsewhere; You can't but stop an' spend a cwein Wi' leaedies that ha' goods so fine; An' all to meake, vor childern's seaeke, The School at Maiden Newton. THINGS DO COME ROUND. Above the leafless hazzle-wride The wind-drove rain did quickly vall, An' on the meaeple's ribby zide Did hang the rain-drops quiv'ren ball; Out where the brook o' foamy yollow Roll'd along the meaed's deep hollow, An' noo birds wer out to beaet, Wi' flappen wings, the vleen wet O' zunless clouds on flow'rless ground. How time do bring the seasons round! The moss, a-beaet vrom trees, did lie Upon the ground in ashen droves, An' western wind did huffle high, Above the sheds' quick-drippen oves. An' where the ruslen straw did sound So dry, a-shelter'd in the lew, I staied alwone, an' weather-bound, An' thought on times, long years agoo, Wi' water-floods on flow'rless ground. How time do bring the seasons round! We then, in childhood play, did seem In work o' men to teaeke a peaert, A-dreven on our wild bwoy team, Or lwoaden o' the tiny cart. Or, on our little refters, spread The zedgen ruf above our head, But coulden tell, as now we can, Where each would goo to tweil a man. O jays a-lost, an' jays a-vound, How Providence do bring things round! Where woonce along the sky o' blue The zun went roun' his longsome bow, An' brighten'd, to my soul, the view About our little farm below. There I did play the merry geaeme, Wi' childern ev'ry holitide, But coulden tell the vaice or neaeme That time would vind to be my bride. O hwome a-left, O wife a-vound, How Providence do bring things round! An' when I took my manhood's pleaece, A husband to a wife's true vow, I never thought by neaeme or feaece O' childern that be round me now. An' now they all do grow vrom small, Drough life's feaeir sheaepes to big an' tall, I still be blind to God's good plan, To pleaece em out as wife, or man. O thread o' love by God unwound, How He in time do bring things round; ZUMMER THOUGHTS IN WINTER TIME. Well, aye, last evenen, as I shook My locks ov hay by Leecombe brook. The yollow zun did weakly glance Upon the winter meaed askance, A-casten out my narrow sheaede Athirt the brook, an' on the meaed. The while ageaen my lwonesome ears Did russle weatherbeaeten spears, Below the withy's leafless head That overhung the river's bed; I there did think o' days that dried The new-mow'd grass o' zummer-tide, When white-sleev'd mowers' whetted bleaedes Rung sh'ill along the green-bough'd gleaedes, An' maidens gay, wi' playsome chaps, A-zot wi' dinners in their laps, Did talk wi' merry words that rung Around the ring, vrom tongue to tongue; An' welcome, when the leaves ha' died, Be zummer thoughts in winter-tide. I'M OUT O' DOOR. I'm out, when, in the Winter's blast, The zun, a-runnen lowly round, Do mark the sheaedes the hedge do cast At noon, in hoarvrost, on the ground, I'm out when snow's a-lyen white In keen-air'd vields that I do pass, An' moonbeams, vrom above, do smite On ice an' sleeper's window-glass. I'm out o' door, When win' do zweep, By hangen steep, Or hollow deep, At Lindenore. O welcome is the lewth a-vound By rustlen copse, or ivied bank, Or by the hay-rick, weather-brown'd By barken-grass, a-springen rank; Or where the waggon, vrom the team A-freed, is well a-housed vrom wet, An' on the dousty cart-house beam Do hang the cobweb's white-lin'd net. While storms do roar, An' win' do zweep, By hangen steep, Or hollow deep, At Lindenore. An' when a good day's work's a-done An' I do rest, the while a squall Do rumble in the hollow tun, An' ivy-stems do whip the wall. Then in the house do sound about My ears, dear vaices vull or thin, A prayen vor the souls vur out At sea, an' cry wi' bibb'ren chin-- Oh! shut the door. What soul can sleep, Upon the deep, When storms do zweep At Lindenore. GRIEF AN' GLADNESS. "Can all be still, when win's do blow? Look down the grove an' zee The boughs a-swingen on the tree, An' beaeten weaeves below. Zee how the tweilen vo'k do bend Upon their windward track, Wi' ev'ry string, an' garment's end, A-flutt'ren at their back." I cried, wi' sorrow sore a-tried, An' hung, wi' Jenny at my zide, My head upon my breast. Wi' strokes o' grief so hard to bear, 'Tis hard vor souls to rest. Can all be dull, when zuns do glow? Oh! no; look down the grove, Where zides o' trees be bright above; An' weaeves do sheen below; An' neaeked stems o' wood in hedge Do gleaem in streaeks o' light, An' rocks do gleaere upon the ledge O' yonder zunny height, "No, Jeaene, wi' trials now withdrawn, Lik' darkness at a happy dawn." I cried, "Noo mwore despair; Wi' our lost peace ageaen a-vound, 'Tis wrong to harbour ceaere." SLIDEN. When wind wer keen, Where ivy-green Did clwosely wind Roun' woak-tree rind, An' ice shone bright, An' meaeds wer white, wi' thin-spread snow Then on the pond, a-spreaden wide, We bwoys did zweep along the slide, A-striken on in merry row. There ruddy-feaeced, In busy heaeste, We all did wag A spanken lag, To win good speed, When we, straight-knee'd, wi' foreright tooes, Should shoot along the slipp'ry track, Wi' grinden sound, a-getten slack, The slower went our clumpen shoes. Vor zome slow chap, Did teaeke mishap, As he did veel His hinder heel A-het a thump, Wi' zome big lump, o' voot an' shoe. Down vell the voremost wi' a squall, An' down the next went wi' a sprawl, An' down went all the laughen crew. As to an' fro, In merry row, We all went round On ice, on ground The maidens nigh A-stannen shy, did zee us slide, An' in their eaeprons small, did vwold Their little hands, a-got red-cwold, Or slide on ice o' two veet wide. By leafless copse, An' beaere tree-tops, An' zun's low beams, An' ice-boun' streams, An' vrost-boun' mill, A-stannen still. Come wind, blow on, An' gi'e the bwoys, this Chris'mas tide, The glitt'ren ice to meaeke a slide, As we had our slide, years agone. LWONESOMENESS. As I do zew, wi' nimble hand, In here avore the window's light, How still do all the housegear stand Around my lwonesome zight. How still do all the housegear stand Since Willie now 've a-left the land. The rwose-tree's window-sheaeden bow Do hang in leaf, an' win'-blow'd flow'rs, Avore my lwonesome eyes do show Theaese bright November hours. Avore my lwonesome eyes do show Wi' nwone but I to zee em blow. The sheaedes o' leafy buds, avore The peaenes, do sheaeke upon the glass, An' stir in light upon the vloor, Where now vew veet do pass, An' stir in light upon the vloor, Where there's a-stirren nothen mwore. This win' mid dreve upon the main, My brother's ship, a-plowen foam, But not bring mother, cwold, nor rain, At her now happy hwome. But not bring mother, cwold, nor rain, Where she is out o' pain. Zoo now that I'm a-mwopen dumb, A-keepen father's house, do you Come of'en wi' your work vrom hwome, Vor company. Now do. Come of'en wi' your work vrom hwome, Up here a-while. Do come. A SNOWY NIGHT. 'Twer at night, an' a keen win' did blow Vrom the east under peaele-twinklen stars, All a-zweepen along the white snow; On the groun', on the trees, on the bars, Vrom the hedge where the win' russled drough, There a light-russlen snow-doust did vall; An' noo pleaece wer a-vound that wer lew, But the shed, or the ivy-hung wall. Then I knock'd at the wold passage door Wi' the win'-driven snow on my locks; Till, a-comen along the cwold vloor, There my Jenny soon answer'd my knocks. Then the wind, by the door a-swung wide, Flung some snow in her clear-bloomen feaece, An' she blink'd wi' her head all a-zide, An' a-chucklen, went back to her pleaece. An' in there, as we zot roun' the brands, Though the talkers wer mainly the men, Bloomen Jeaene, wi' her work in her hands, Did put in a good word now an' then. An' when I took my leave, though so bleaek Wer the weather, she went to the door, Wi' a smile, an' a blush on the cheaek That the snow had a-smitten avore. THE YEAR-CLOCK. We zot bezide the leaefy wall, Upon the bench at evenfall, While aunt led off our minds vrom ceaere Wi' veaeiry teaeles, I can't tell where: An' vound us woone among her stock O' feaebles, o' the girt Year-clock. His feaece wer blue's the zummer skies, An' wide's the zight o' looken eyes, For hands, a zun wi' glowen feaece, An' peaeler moon wi' swifter peaece, Did wheel by stars o' twinklen light, By bright-wall'd day, an' dark-treed night; An' down upon the high-sky'd land, A-reachen wide, on either hand, Wer hill an' dell wi' win'-sway'd trees, An' lights a-zweepen over seas, An' gleamen cliffs, an' bright-wall'd tow'rs, Wi' sheaedes a-marken on the hours; An' as the feaece, a-rollen round, Brought comely sheaepes along the ground. The Spring did come in winsome steaete Below a glowen rainbow geaete; An' fan wi' air a-blowen weak, Her glossy heaeir, an' rwosy cheaek, As she did shed vrom oben hand, The leaepen zeed on vurrow'd land; The while the rook, wi' heaesty flight, A-floaten in the glowen light, Did bear avore her glossy breast A stick to build her lofty nest, An' strong-limb'd Tweil, wi' steady hands, Did guide along the vallow lands The heavy zull, wi' bright-sheaer'd beam, Avore the weaery oxen team, Wi' Spring a-gone there come behind Sweet Zummer, jay ov ev'ry mind, Wi' feaece a-beamen to beguile Our weaery souls ov ev'ry tweil. While birds did warble in the dell In softest air o' sweetest smell; An' she, so winsome-feaeir did vwold Her comely limbs in green an' goold, An' wear a rwosy wreath, wi' studs O' berries green, an' new-born buds, A-fring'd in colours vier-bright, Wi' sheaepes o' buttervlees in flight. When Zummer went, the next ov all Did come the sheaepe o' brown-feaec'd Fall, A-smilen in a comely gown O' green, a-shot wi' yellow-brown, A-border'd wi' a goolden stripe O' fringe, a-meaede o' corn-ears ripe, An' up ageaen her comely zide, Upon her rounded eaerm, did ride A perty basket, all a-twin'd O' slender stems wi' leaves an' rind, A-vill'd wi' fruit the trees did shed, All ripe, in purple, goold, an' red; An' busy Leaebor there did come A-zingen zongs ov harvest hwome, An' red-ear'd dogs did briskly run Roun' cheervul Leisure wi' his gun, Or stan' an' mark, wi' stedvast zight, The speckled pa'tridge rise in flight. An' next ageaen to mild-feaec'd Fall Did come peaele Winter, last ov all, A-benden down, in thoughtvul mood, Her head 'ithin a snow-white hood A-deck'd wi' icy-jewels, bright An' cwold as twinklen stars o' night; An' there wer weary Leaebor, slack O' veet to keep her vrozen track, A-looken off, wi' wistful eyes, To reefs o' smoke, that there did rise A-melten to the peaele-feaec'd zun, Above the houses' lofty tun. An' there the girt Year-clock did goo By day an' night, vor ever true, Wi' mighty wheels a-rollen round 'Ithout a beaet, 'ithout a sound. NOT GOO HWOME TO-NIGHT. No, no, why you've noo wife at hwome Abiden up till you do come, Zoo leaeve your hat upon the pin, Vor I'm your waiter. Here's your inn, Wi' chair to rest, an' bed to roost; You have but little work to do This vrosty time at hwome in mill, Your vrozen wheel's a-stannen still, The sleepen ice woont grind vor you. No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill. As I come by, to-day, where stood Wi' neaeked trees, the purple wood, The scarlet hunter's ho'ses veet Tore up the sheaeken ground, wind-fleet, Wi' reachen heads, an' panken hides; The while the flat-wing'd rooks in vlock. Did zwim a-sheenen at their height; But your good river, since last night, Wer all a-vroze so still's a rock. No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill. Zee how the hufflen win' do blow, A-whirlen down the giddy snow: Zee how the sky's a-weaeren dim, Behind the elem's neaeked lim'. That there do leaen above the leaene: Zoo teaeke your pleaece bezide the dogs, An' sip a drop o' hwome-brew'd eaele, An' zing your zong or tell your teaele, While I do bait the vier wi' logs. No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill. Your meaere's in steaeble wi' her hocks In straw above her vetterlocks, A-reachen up her meaeney neck, An' pullen down good hay vrom reck, A-meaeken slight o' snow an' sleet; She don't want you upon her back, To vall upon the slippery stwones On Hollyhuel, an' break your bwones, Or miss, in snow, her hidden track. No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill. Here, Jenny, come pull out your key An' hansel, wi' zome tidy tea, The zilver pot that we do owe To your prize butter at the show, An' put zome bread upon the bwoard. Ah! he do smile; now that 'ull do, He'll stay. Here, Polly, bring a light, We'll have a happy hour to-night, I'm thankvul we be in the lew. No, no, he woont goo hwome to-night, Not Robin White, o' Craglin mill. THE HUMSTRUM. Why woonce, at Chris'mas-tide, avore The wold year wer a-reckon'd out, The humstrums here did come about, A-sounden up at ev'ry door. But now a bow do never screaepe A humstrum, any where all round, An' zome can't tell a humstrum's sheaepe, An' never heaerd his jinglen sound. As _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string, As _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang. The strings a-tighten'd lik' to crack Athirt the canister's tin zide, Did reach, a glitt'ren, zide by zide, Above the humstrum's hollow back. An' there the bwoy, wi' bended stick, A-strung wi' heaeir, to meaeke a bow, Did dreve his elbow, light'nen quick, Athirt the strings from high to low. As _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string, As _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang. The mother there did stan' an' hush Her child, to hear the jinglen sound, The merry maid, a-scrubben round Her white-steaev'd pail, did stop her brush. The mis'ess there, vor wold time's seaeke, Had gifts to gi'e, and smiles to show, An' meaester, too, did stan' an' sheaeke His two broad zides, a-chucklen low, While _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string, While _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang. The players' pockets wer a-strout, Wi' wold brown pence, a-rottlen in, Their zwangen bags did soon begin, Wi' brocks an' scraps, to plim well out. The childern all did run an' poke Their heads vrom hatch or door, an' shout A-runnen back to wolder vo'k. Why, here! the humstrums be about! As _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string, As _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang. SHAFTESBURY FEAeIR. When hillborne Paladore did show So bright to me down miles below. As woonce the zun, a-rollen west, Did brighten up his hill's high breast. Wi' walls a-looken dazzlen white, Or yollow, on the grey-topp'd height Of Paladore, as peaele day wore Away so feaeir. Oh! how I wish'd that I wer there. The pleaece wer too vur off to spy The liven vo'k a-passen by; The vo'k too vur vor air to bring The words that they did speak or zing. All dum' to me wer each abode, An' empty wer the down-hill road Vrom Paladore, as peaele day wore Away so feaeir; But how I wish'd that I wer there. But when I clomb the lofty ground Where liven veet an' tongues did sound, At feaeir, bezide your bloomen feaece, The pertiest in all the pleaece, As you did look, wi' eyes as blue As yonder southern hills in view, Vrom Paladore--O Polly dear, Wi' you up there, How merry then wer I at feaeir. Since vu'st I trod thik steep hill-zide My grieven soul 'v a-been a-tried Wi' pain, an' loss o' worldly geaer, An' souls a-gone I wanted near; But you be here to goo up still, An' look to Blackmwore vrom the hill O' Paladore. Zoo, Polly dear, We'll goo up there, An' spend an hour or two at feaeir. The wold brown meaere's a-brought vrom grass, An' rubb'd an' cwomb'd so bright as glass; An' now we'll hitch her in, an' start To feaeir upon the new green cart, An' teaeke our little Poll between Our zides, as proud's a little queen, To Paladore. Aye, Poll a dear, Vor now 'tis feaeir, An' she's a longen to goo there. While Paladore, on watch, do strain Her eyes to Blackmwore's blue-hill'd plaein, While Duncliffe is the traveller's mark, Or cloty Stour's a-rollen dark; Or while our bells do call, vor greaece, The vo'k avore their Seaevior's feaece, Mid Paladore, an' Poll a dear, Vor ever know O' peaece an' plenty down below. THE BEAeTEN PATH. The beaeten path where vo'k do meet A-comen on vrom vur an' near; How many errands had the veet That wore en out along so clear! Where eegrass bleaedes be green in meaed, Where bennets up the leaeze be brown, An' where the timber bridge do leaed Athirt the cloty brook to town, Along the path by mile an' mile, Athirt the yield, an' brook, an' stile, There runnen childern's hearty laugh Do come an' vlee along--win' swift: The wold man's glossy-knobbed staff Do help his veet so hard to lift; The maid do bear her basket by, A-hangen at her breaethen zide; An' ceaereless young men, straight an' spry, Do whissle hwome at eventide, Along the path, a-reachen by Below tall trees an' oben sky. There woone do goo to jay a-head; Another's jay's behind his back. There woone his vu'st long mile do tread, An' woone the last ov all his track. An' woone mid end a hopevul road, Wi' hopeless grief a-teaeken on, As he that leaetely vrom abroad Come hwome to seek his love a-gone, Noo mwore to tread, wi' comely eaese, The beaeten path athirt the leaeze. In tweilsome hardships, year by year, He drough the worold wander'd wide, Still bent, in mind, both vur an' near To come an' meaeke his love his bride. An' passen here drough evenen dew He heaesten'd, happy, to her door, But vound the wold vo'k only two, Wi' noo mwore vootsteps on the vloor, To walk ageaen below the skies, Where beaeten paths do vall an' rise; Vor she wer gone vrom e'thly eyes To be a-kept in darksome sleep, Until the good ageaen do rise A-jay to souls they left to weep. The rwose wer doust that bound her brow; The moth did eat her Zunday ceaepe; Her frock wer out o' fashion now; Her shoes wer dried up out o' sheaepe-- The shoes that woonce did glitter black Along the leaezes beaeten track. RUTH A-RIDEN. Ov all the roads that ever bridge Did bear athirt a river's feaece, Or ho'ses up an' down the ridge Did wear to doust at ev'ry peaece, I'll teaeke the Stalton leaene to tread, By banks wi' primrwose-beds bespread, An' steaetely elems over head, Where Ruth do come a-riden. An' I would rise when vields be grey Wi' mornen dew, avore 'tis dry, An' beaet the doust droughout the day To bluest hills ov all the sky; If there, avore the dusk o' night, The evenen zun, a-sheenen bright, Would pay my leaebors wi' the zight O' Ruth--o' Ruth a-riden. Her healthy feaece is rwosy feaeir, She's comely in her gait an' lim', An' sweet's the smile her feaece do wear, Below her cap's well-rounded brim; An' while her skirt's a-spreaeden wide, In vwolds upon the ho'se's zide, He'll toss his head, an' snort wi' pride, To trot wi' Ruth a-riden. An' as her ho'se's rottlen peaece Do slacken till his veet do beaet A slower trot, an' till her feaece Do bloom avore the tollman's geaete; Oh! he'd be glad to oben wide His high-back'd geaete, an' stand azide, A-given up his toll wi' pride, Vor zight o' Ruth a-riden. An' oh! that Ruth could be my bride, An' I had ho'ses at my will, That I mid teaeke her by my zide, A-riden over dell an' hill; I'd zet wi' pride her litty tooe 'Ithin a stirrup, sheenen new, An' leaeve all other jays to goo Along wi' Ruth a-riden. If maidens that be weaek an' peaele A-mwopen in the house's sheaede, Would wish to be so blithe and heaele As you did zee young Ruth a-meaede; Then, though the zummer zun mid glow, Or though the Winter win' mid blow, They'd leaep upon the saddle's bow, An' goo, lik' Ruth, a-riden. While evenen light do sof'ly gild The moss upon the elem's bark, Avore the zingen bird's a-still'd, Or woods be dim, or day is dark, Wi' quiv'ren grass avore his breast, In cowslip beds, do lie at rest, The ho'se that now do goo the best Wi' rwosy Ruth a-riden. BEAUTY UNDECKED. The grass mid sheen when wat'ry beaeds O' dew do glitter on the meaeds, An' thorns be bright when quiv'ren studs O' rain do hang upon their buds-- As jewels be a-meaede by art To zet the plainest vo'k off smart. But sheaeken ivy on its tree, An' low-bough'd laurel at our knee, Be bright all day, without the gleaere, O' drops that duller leaeves mid weaer-- As Jeaene is feaeir to look upon In plainest gear that she can don. MY LOVE IS GOOD. My love is good, my love is feaeir, She's comely to behold, O, In ev'rything that she do wear, Altho' 'tis new or wold, O. My heart do leaep to see her walk, So straight do step her veet, O, My tongue is dum' to hear her talk, Her vaice do sound so sweet, O. The flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green Do bear but vew, so good an' true. When she do zit, then she do seem The feaeirest to my zight, O, Till she do stan' an' I do deem, She's feaeirest at her height, O. An' she do seem 'ithin a room The feaeirest on a floor, O, Till I ageaen do zee her bloom Still feaeirer out o' door, O. Where flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green Do bear but vew, so good an' true. An' when the deaeisies be a-press'd Below her vootsteps waight, O, Do seem as if she look'd the best Ov all in walken gait, O. Till I do zee her zit upright Behind the ho'ses neck, O, A-holden wi' the rain so tight His tossen head in check, O, Where flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green Do bear but vew, so good an' true. I wish I had my own free land To keep a ho'se to ride, O, I wish I had a ho'se in hand To ride en at her zide, O. Vor if I wer as high in rank As any duke or lord, O, Or had the goold the richest bank Can shovel from his horde, O, I'd love her still, if even then She wer a leaeser in a glen. HEEDLESS O' MY LOVE. Oh! I vu'st know'd o' my true love, As the bright moon up above, Though her brightness wer my pleasure, She wer heedless o' my love. Tho' 'twer all gay to my eyes, Where her feaeir feaece did arise, She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts, Than the high moon in the skies. Oh! I vu'st heaerd her a-zingen, As a sweet bird on a tree, Though her zingen wer my pleasure, 'Twer noo zong she zung to me. Though her sweet vaice that wer nigh, Meaede my wild heart to beat high, She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts, Than the birds would passers by. Oh! I vu'st know'd her a-weepen, As a rain-dimm'd mornen sky, Though her teaer-draps dimm'd her blushes, They wer noo draps I could dry. Ev'ry bright tear that did roll, Wer a keen pain to my soul, But noo heaert's pang she did then veel, Wer vor my words to console. But the wold times be a-vanish'd, An' my true love is my bride. An' her kind heart have a-meaede her. As an angel at my zide; I've her best smiles that mid play, I've her me'th when she is gay, When her tear-draps be a-rollen, I can now wipe em away. THE DO'SET MILITIA. Hurrah! my lads, vor Do'set men! A-muster'd here in red ageaen; All welcome to your ranks, a-spread Up zide to zide, to stand, or wheel, An' welcome to your files, to head The steady march wi' tooe to heel; Welcome to marches slow or quick! Welcome to gath'rens thin or thick; God speed the Colonel on the hill,[D] An' Mrs Bingham,[E] off o' drill. When you've a-handled well your lock, An' flung about your rifle stock Vrom han' to shoulder, up an' down; When you've a-lwoaded an' a-vired, Till you do come back into town, Wi' all your loppen limbs a-tired, An you be dry an' burnen hot, Why here's your tea an' coffee pot At Mister Greenen's penny till, Wi' Mrs Bingham off o' drill. Last year John Hinley's mother cried, "Why my bwoy John is quite my pride! Vor he've a-been so good to-year, An' han't a-mell'd wi' any squabbles, An' han't a-drown'd his wits in beer, An' han't a-been in any hobbles. I never thought he'd turn out bad, He always wer so good a lad; But now I'm sure he's better still, Drough Mrs Bingham, off o' drill." Jeaene Hart, that's Joey Duntley's chaice, Do praise en up wi' her sweet vaice, Vor he's so strait's a hollyhock (Vew hollyhocks be up so tall), An' he do come so true's the clock To Mrs Bingham's coffee-stall; An' Jeaene do write, an' brag o' Joe To teaeke the young recruits in tow, An' try, vor all their good, to bring em, A-come from drill, to Mrs Bingham. God speed the Colonel, toppen high, An' officers wi' sworded thigh, An' all the sargeants that do bawl All day enough to split their droats, An' all the corporals, and all The band a-playen up their notes, An' all the men vrom vur an' near We'll gi'e em all a hearty cheer. An' then another cheeren still Vor Mrs Bingham, off o' drill. [Footnote D: Poundbury, Dorchester, the drill ground.] [Footnote E: The colonel's wife, who opened a room with a coffee-stall, and entertainments for the men off drill.] A DO'SET SALE. WITH A MISTAKE. (_Thomas and Mr Auctioneer._) _T._ Well here, then, Mister auctioneer, Be theaese the virs, I bought, out here? _A._ The firs, the fir-poles, you bought? Who? 'Twas _furze_, not _firs_, I sold to you. _T._ I bid vor _virs_, and not vor _vuzzen_, Vor vir-poles, as I thought, two dozen. _A._ Two dozen faggots, and I took Your bidding for them. Here's the book. _T._ I wont have what I didden buy. I don't want _vuzzen_, now. Not I. Why _firs_ an' _furze_ do sound the seaeme. Why don't ye gi'e a thing his neaeme? Aye, _firs_ and _furze_! Why, who can tell Which 'tis that you do meaen to zell? No, no, be kind enough to call Em _virs_, and _vuzzen_, then, that's all. DON'T CEAeRE. At the feaest, I do mind very well, all the vo'ks Wer a-took in a happeren storm, But we chaps took the maidens, an' kept em wi' clokes Under shelter, all dry an' all warm; An' to my lot vell Jeaene, that's my bride, That did titter, a-hung at my zide; Zaid her aunt, "Why the vo'k 'ull talk finely o' you," An', cried she, "I don't ceaere if they do." When the time o' the feaest wer ageaen a-come round, An' the vo'k wer a-gather'd woonce mwore, Why she guess'd if she went there, she'd soon be a-vound An' a-took seaefely hwome to her door. Zaid her mother, "'Tis sure to be wet." Zaid her cousin, "'T'ull rain by zunzet." Zaid her aunt, "Why the clouds there do look black an' blue," An' zaid she, "I don't ceaere if they do." An' at last, when she own'd I mid meaeke her my bride, Vor to help me, an' sheaere all my lot, An' wi' faithvulness keep all her life at my zide, Though my way mid be happy or not. Zaid her naighbours, "Why wedlock's a clog, An' a wife's a-tied up lik' a dog." Zaid her aunt, "You'll vind trials enough vor to rue," An', zaid she, "I don't ceaere if I do." * * * * * Now she's married, an' still in the midst ov her tweils She's as happy's the daylight is long, She do goo out abroad wi' her feaece vull o' smiles, An' do work in the house wi' a zong. An', zays woone, "She don't grieve, you can tell." Zays another, "Why, don't she look well!" Zays her aunt, "Why the young vo'k do envy you two," An', zays she, "I don't ceaere if they do." Now vor me I can zing in my business abrode, Though the storm do beaet down on my poll, There's a wife-brighten'd vier at the end o' my road, An' her love vor the jay o' my soul. Out o' door I wi' rogues mid be tried: Out o' door be brow-beaeten wi' pride; Men mid scowl out o' door, if my wife is but true-- Let em scowl, "I don't ceaere if they do." CHANGES. By time's a-brought the mornen light, By time the light do weaene; By time's a-brought the young man's might, By time his might do weaene; The Winter snow do whiten grass, The zummer flow'rs do brighten grass, Vor zome things we do lose wi' pain, We've mwore that mid be jay to gain, An' my dear life do seem the seaeme While at my zide There still do bide Your welcome feaece an' hwomely neaeme. Wi' ev'ry day that woonce come on I had to choose a jay, Wi' many that be since a-gone I had to lose a jay. Drough longsome years a-wanderen, Drough lwonesome rest a-ponderen, Woone peaceful daytime wer a-bro't To heal the heart another smote; But my dear life do seem the seaeme While I can hear, A-sounden near, Your answ'ren vaice an' long-call'd neaeme. An' oh! that hope, when life do dawn, Should rise to light our way, An' then, wi' weaenen het withdrawn, Should soon benight our way. Whatever mid beval me still, Wherever chance mid call me still, Though leaete my evenen tweil mid cease, An' though my night mid lose its peace, My life will seem to me the seaeme While you do sheaere My daily ceaere, An' answer to your long-call'd neaeme. KINDNESS. Good Meaester Collins heaerd woone day A man a-talken, that did zay It woulden answer to be kind, He thought, to vo'k o' grov'len mind, Vor they would only teaeke it wrong, That you be weak an' they be strong. "No," cried the goodman, "never mind, Let vo'k be thankless,--you be kind; Don't do your good for e'thly ends At man's own call vor man's amends. Though souls befriended should remain As thankless as the sea vor rain, On them the good's a-lost 'tis true, But never can be lost to you. Look on the cool-feaeced moon at night Wi' light-vull ring, at utmost height, A-casten down, in gleamen strokes, His beams upon the dim-bough'd woaks, To show the cliff a-risen steep, To show the stream a-vallen deep, To show where winden roads do leaed, An' prickly thorns do ward the meaed. While sheaedes o' boughs do flutter dark Upon the woak-trees' moon-bright bark. There in the lewth, below the hill, The nightengeaele, wi' ringen bill, Do zing among the soft-air'd groves, While up below the house's oves The maid, a-looken vrom her room Drough window, in her youthvul bloom, Do listen, wi' white ears among Her glossy heaeirlocks, to the zong. If, then, the while the moon do light The lwonesome zinger o' the night, His cwold-beam'd light do seem to show The prowlen owls the mouse below. What then? Because an evil will, Ov his sweet good, mid meaeke zome ill, Shall all his feaece be kept behind The dark-brow'd hills to leaeve us blind?" WITHSTANDERS. When weakness now do strive wi' might In struggles ov an e'thly trial, Might mid overcome the right, An' truth be turn'd by might's denial; Withstanders we ha' mwost to feaer, If selfishness do wring us here, Be souls a-holden in their hand, The might an' riches o' the land. But when the wicked, now so strong, Shall stan' vor judgment, peaele as ashes, By the souls that rued their wrong, Wi' tears a-hangen on their lashes-- Then withstanders they shall deaere The leaest ov all to meet wi' there, Mid be the helpless souls that now Below their wrongvul might mid bow. Sweet childern o' the dead, bereft Ov all their goods by guile an' forgen; Souls o' driven sleaeves that left Their weaery limbs a-mark'd by scourgen; They that God ha' call'd to die Vor truth ageaen the worold's lie, An' they that groan'd an' cried in vain, A-bound by foes' unrighteous chain. The maid that selfish craft led on To sin, an' left wi' hope a-blighted; Starven workmen, thin an' wan, Wi' hopeless leaebour ill requited; Souls a-wrong'd, an' call'd to vill Wi' dread, the men that us'd em ill. When might shall yield to right as pliant As a dwarf avore a giant. When there, at last, the good shall glow In starbright bodies lik' their Seaeviour, Vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show, The marks o' man's unkind beheaeviour: Wi' speechless tongue, an' burnen cheak, The strong shall bow avore the weaek, An' vind that helplessness, wi' right, Is strong beyond all e'thly might. DANIEL DWITHEN, THE WISE CHAP. Dan Dwithen wer the chap to show His naighbours mwore than they did know, Vor he could zee, wi' half a thought, What zome could hardly be a-taught; An' he had never any doubt Whatever 'twer, but he did know't, An' had a-reach'd the bottom o't, Or soon could meaeke it out. Wi' narrow feaece, an' nose so thin That light a'most shone drough the skin, As he did talk, wi' his red peaeir O' lips, an' his vull eyes did steaere, What nippy looks friend Daniel wore, An' how he smiled as he did bring Such reasons vor to clear a thing, As dather'd vo'k the mwore! When woonce there come along the road At night, zome show-vo'k, wi' a lwoad Ov half the wild outlandish things That crawl'd, or went wi' veet, or wings; Their elephant, to stratch his knees, Walk'd up the road-zide turf, an' left His tracks a-zunk wi' all his heft As big's a vinny cheese. An' zoo next mornen zome vo'k vound The girt round tracks upon the ground, An' view'd em all wi' stedvast eyes, An' wi' their vingers spann'd their size, An' took their depth below the brink: An' whether they mid be the tracks O' things wi' witches on their backs, Or what, they coulden think. At last friend Dan come up, an' brought His wit to help their dizzy thought, An' looken on an' off the ea'th, He cried, a-drawen a vull breath, Why, I do know; what, can't ye zee 't? I'll bet a shillen 'twer a deer Broke out o' park, an' sprung on here, Wi' quoits upon his veet. TURNEN THINGS OFF. Upzides wi' Polly! no, he'd vind That Poll would soon leaeve him behind. To turn things off! oh! she's too quick To be a-caught by ev'ry trick. Woone day our Jimmy stole down steaeirs On merry Polly unaweaeres, The while her nimble tongue did run A-tellen, all alive wi' fun, To sister Anne, how Simon Heaere Did hanker after her at feaeir. "He left," cried Polly, "cousin Jeaene, An' kept wi' us all down the leaene, An' which way ever we did leaed He vollow'd over hill an' meaed; An' wi' his head o' shaggy heaeir, An' sleek brown cwoat that he do weaere, An' collar that did reach so high 'S his two red ears, or perty nigh, He swung his taeil, wi' steps o' pride, Back right an' left, vrom zide to zide, A-walken on, wi' heavy strides A half behind, an' half upzides." "Who's that?" cried Jimmy, all agog; An' thought he had her now han'-pat, "That's Simon Heaere," but no, "Who's that?" Cried she at woonce, "Why Uncle's dog, Wi' what have you a-been misled I wonder. Tell me what I zaid." Woone evenen as she zot bezide The wall the ranglen vine do hide, A-prattlen on, as she did zend Her needle, at her vinger's end. On drough the work she had in hand, Zome bran-new thing that she'd a-plann'd, Jim overheaerd her talk ageaen O' Robin Hine, ov Ivy Leaene, "Oh! no, what he!" she cried in scorn, "I woulden gie a penny vor'n; The best ov him's outzide in view; His cwoat is gay enough, 'tis true, But then the wold vo'k didden bring En up to know a single thing, An' as vor zingen,--what do seem His zingen's nothen but a scream." "So ho!" cried Jim, "Who's that, then, Meaery, That you be now a-talken o'?" He thought to catch her then, but, no, Cried Polly, "Oh! why Jeaene's caneaery, Wi' what have you a-been misled, I wonder. Tell me what I zaid." THE GIANTS IN TREAeDES. GRAMFER'S FEAeBLE. (_How the steam engine come about._) _Vier, Air, E'th, Water_, wer a-meaede Good workers, each o'm in his treaede, An' _Air_ an' _Water_, wer a-match Vor woone another in a mill; The giant _Water_ at a hatch, An' _Air_ on the windmill hill. Zoo then, when _Water_ had a-meaede Zome money, _Aeir_ begrudg'd his treaede, An' come by, unaweaeres woone night, An' vound en at his own mill-head, An' cast upon en, iron-tight, An icy cwoat so stiff as lead. An' there he wer so good as dead Vor grinden any corn vor bread. Then _Water_ cried to _Vier_, "Alack! Look, here be I, so stiff's a log, Thik fellor _Air_ do keep me back Vrom grinden. I can't wag a cog. If I, dear _Vier_, did ever souse Your nimble body on a house, When you wer on your merry pranks Wi' thatch or refters, beams or planks, Vorgi'e me, do, in pity's neaeme, Vor 'twerden I that wer to bleaeme, I never wagg'd, though I be'nt cringen, Till men did dreve me wi' their engine. Do zet me free vrom theaese cwold jacket, Vor I myzelf shall never crack it." "Well come," cried _Vier_, "My vo'k ha' meaede An engine that 'ull work your treaede. If _E'th_ is only in the mood, While I do work, to gi'e me food, I'll help ye, an' I'll meaeke your skill A match vor Mister _Air's_ wold mill." "What food," cried _E'th_, "'ull suit your bwoard?" "Oh! trust me, I ben't over nice," Cried _Vier_, "an' I can eat a slice Ov any thing you can avword." "I've lots," cried _E'th_, "ov coal an' wood." "Ah! that's the stuff," cried _Vier_, "that's good." Zoo _Vier_ at woonce to _Water_ cried, "Here, _Water_, here, you get inside O' theaese girt bwoiler. Then I'll show How I can help ye down below, An' when my work shall woonce begin You'll be a thousand times so strong, An' be a thousand times so long An' big as when you vu'st got in. An' I wull meaeke, as sure as death, Thik fellor _Air_ to vind me breath, An' you shall grind, an' pull, an' dreve, An' zaw, an' drash, an' pump, an' heave, An' get vrom _Air_, in time, I'll lay A pound, the dreven ships at sea." An' zoo 'tis good to zee that might Wull help a man a-wrong'd, to right. THE LITTLE WOROLD. My hwome wer on the timber'd ground O' Duncombe, wi' the hills a-bound: Where vew from other peaerts did come, An' vew did travel vur from hwome, An' small the worold I did know; But then, what had it to bestow But Fanny Deaene so good an' feaeir? 'Twer wide enough if she wer there. In our deep hollow where the zun Did eaerly leaeve the smoky tun, An' all the meaeds a-growen dim, Below the hill wi' zunny rim; Oh! small the land the hills did bound, But there did walk upon the ground Young Fanny Deaene so good an' feaeir: 'Twer wide enough if she wer there. O' leaete upon the misty plain I stay'd vor shelter vrom the rain, Where sharp-leav'd ashes' heads did twist In hufflen wind, an' driften mist, An' small the worold I could zee; But then it had below the tree My Fanny Deaene so good an' feaeir: 'Twer wide enough if she wer there. An' I've a house wi' thatchen ridge, Below the elems by the bridge: Wi' small-peaen'd windows, that do look Upon a knap, an' ramblen brook; An' small's my house, my ruf is low, But then who mid it have to show But Fanny Deaene so good an' feaeir? 'Tis fine enough if peace is there. BAD NEWS. I do mind when there broke bitter tidens, Woone day, on their ears, An' their souls wer a-smote wi' a stroke As the lightnen do vall on the woak, An' the things that wer bright all around em Seem'd dim drough their tears. Then unheeded wer things in their vingers, Their grief wer their all. All unheeded wer zongs o' the birds, All unheeded the child's perty words, All unheeded the kitten a-rollen The white-threaded ball. Oh! vor their minds the daylight around em Had nothen to show. Though it brighten'd their tears as they vell, An' did sheen on their lips that did tell, In their vaices all thrillen an' mwoansome, O' nothen but woe. But they vound that, by Heavenly mercy, The news werden true; An' they shook, wi' low laughter, as quick As a drum when his blows do vall thick, An' wer eaernest in words o' thanksgiven, Vor mercies anew. THE TURNSTILE. Ah! sad wer we as we did peaece The wold church road, wi' downcast feaece, The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep Above our child a-left asleep, Wer now a-zingen all alive Wi' tother bells to meaeke the vive. But up at woone pleaece we come by, 'Twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry: On Steaen-cliff road, 'ithin the drong, Up where, as vo'k do pass along, The turnen stile, a-painted white, Do sheen by day an' show by night. Vor always there, as we did goo To church, thik stile did let us drough, Wi' spreaden eaerms that wheel'd to guide Us each in turn to tother zide. An' vu'st ov all the train he took My wife, wi' winsome gait an' look; An' then zent on my little maid, A-skippen onward, overjay'd To reach ageaen the pleaece o' pride, Her comely mother's left han' zide. An' then, a-wheelen roun', he took On me, 'ithin his third white nook. An' in the fourth, a-sheaeken wild, He zent us on our giddy child. But eesterday he guided slow My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe, An' then my little maid in black, A-walken softly on her track; An' after he'd a-turn'd ageaen, To let me goo along the leaene, He had noo little bwoy to vill His last white eaerms, an' they stood still. THE BETTER VOR ZEEN O' YOU. 'Twer good what Meaester Collins spoke O' spite to two poor spitevul vo'k, When woone twold tother o' the two "I be never the better vor zeen o' you." If soul to soul, as Christians should, Would always try to do zome good, "How vew," he cried, "would zee our feaece A-brighten'd up wi' smiles o' greaece, An' tell us, or could tell us true, I be never the better vor zeen o' you." A man mus' be in evil ceaese To live 'ithin a land o' greaece, Wi' nothen that a soul can read O' goodness in his word or deed; To still a breast a-heav'd wi' sighs, Or dry the tears o' weepen eyes; To stay a vist that spite ha' wrung, Or cool the het ov anger's tongue: Or bless, or help, or gi'e, or lend; Or to the friendless stand a friend, An' zoo that all could tell en true, "I be never the better vor zeen o' you." Oh! no, mid all o's try to spend Our passen time to zome good end, An' zoo vrom day to day teaeke heed, By mind, an' han', by word or deed; To lessen evil, and increase The growth o' righteousness an' peaece, A-speaken words o' loven-kindness, Openen the eyes o' blindness; Helpen helpless striver's weakness, Cheeren hopeless grievers' meekness, Meaeken friends at every meeten, Veel the happier vor their greeten; Zoo that vew could tell us true, "I be never the better vor zeen o' you." No, let us even try to win Zome little good vrom sons o' sin, An' let their evils warn us back Vrom teaeken on their hopeless track, Where we mid zee so clear's the zun That harm a-done is harm a-won, An' we mid cry an' tell em true, "I be even the better vor zeen o' you." PITY. Good Meaester Collins! aye, how mild he spoke Woone day o' Mercy to zome cruel vo'k. "No, no. Have Mercy on a helpless head, An' don't be cruel to a zoul," he zaid. "When Babylon's king woonce cast 'ithin The viery furnace, in his spite, The vetter'd souls whose only sin Wer prayer to the God o' might, He vound a fourth, 'ithout a neaeme, A-walken wi' em in the fleaeme. An' zoo, whenever we mid hurt, Vrom spite, or vrom disdain, A brother's soul, or meaeke en smert Wi' keen an' needless pain, Another that we midden know Is always wi' en in his woe. Vor you do know our Lord ha' cried, "By faith my bretheren do bide In me the liven vine, As branches in a liven tree; Whatever you've a-done to mine Is all a-done to me. Oh! when the new-born child, the e'th's new guest, Do lie an' heave his little breast, In pillow'd sleep, wi' sweetest breath O' sinless days drough rwosy lips a-drawn; Then, if a han' can smite en in his dawn O' life to darksome death, Oh! where can Pity ever vwold Her wings o' swiftness vrom their holy flight, To leaeve a heart o' flesh an' blood so cwold At such a touchen zight? An' zoo mid meek-soul'd Pity still Be zent to check our evil will, An' keep the helpless soul from woe, An' hold the hardened heart vrom sin. Vor they that can but mercy show Shall all their Father's mercy win." JOHN BLOOM IN LON'ON. (_All true._) John Bloom he wer a jolly soul, A grinder o' the best o' meal, Bezide a river that did roll, Vrom week to week, to push his wheel. His flour wer all a-meaede o' wheat; An' fit for bread that vo'k mid eat; Vor he would starve avore he'd cheat. "'Tis pure," woone woman cried; "Aye, sure," woone mwore replied; "You'll vind it nice. Buy woonce, buy twice," Cried worthy Bloom the miller. Athirt the chest he wer so wide As two or dree ov me or you. An' wider still vrom zide to zide, An' I do think still thicker drough. Vall down, he coulden, he did lie When he wer up on-zide so high As up on-end or perty nigh. "Meaeke room," woone naighbour cried; "'Tis Bloom," woone mwore replied; "Good morn t'ye all, bwoth girt an' small," Cried worthy Bloom the miller. Noo stings o' conscience ever broke His rest, a-twiten o'n wi' wrong, Zoo he did sleep till mornen broke, An' birds did call en wi' their zong. But he did love a harmless joke, An' love his evenen whiff o' smoke, A-zitten in his cheaeir o' woak. "Your cup," his daughter cried; "Vill'd up," his wife replied; "Aye, aye; a drap avore my nap," Cried worthy Bloom the miller. When Lon'on vok did meaeke a show O' their girt glassen house woone year, An' people went, bwoth high an' low, To zee the zight, vrom vur an' near, "O well," cried Bloom, "why I've a right So well's the rest to zee the zight; I'll goo, an' teaeke the rail outright." "Your feaere," the booker cried; "There, there," good Bloom replied; "Why this June het do meaeke woone zweat," Cried worthy Bloom the miller, Then up the guard did whissle sh'ill, An' then the engine pank'd a-blast, An' rottled on so loud's a mill, Avore the train, vrom slow to vast. An' oh! at last how they did spank By cutten deep, an' high-cast bank The while their iron ho'se did pank. "Do whizzy," woone o'm cried; "I'm dizzy," woone replied; "Aye, here's the road to hawl a lwoad," Cried worthy Bloom the miller. In Lon'on John zent out to call A tidy trap, that he mid ride To zee the glassen house, an' all The lot o' things a-stow'd inside. "Here, Boots, come here," cried he, "I'll dab A sixpence in your han' to nab Down street a tidy little cab." "A feaere," the boots then cried; "I'm there," the man replied. "The glassen pleaece, your quickest peaece," Cried worthy Bloom the miller. The steps went down wi' rottlen slap, The zwingen door went open wide: Wide? no; vor when the worthy chap Stepp'd up to teaeke his pleaece inside, Breast-foremost, he wer twice too wide Vor thik there door. An' then he tried To edge in woone an' tother zide. "'Twont do," the drever cried; "Can't goo," good Bloom replied; "That you should bring theaese vooty thing!" Cried worthy Bloom the miller. "Come," cried the drever. "Pay your feaere You'll teaeke up all my time, good man." "Well," answer'd Bloom, "to meaeke that square, You teaeke up me, then, if you can." "I come at call," the man did nod. "What then?" cried Bloom, "I han't a-rod, An' can't in thik there hodmadod." "Girt lump," the drever cried; "Small stump," good Bloom replied; "A little mite, to meaeke so light, O' jolly Bloom the miller." "You'd best be off now perty quick," Cried Bloom. "an' vind a lighter lwoad, Or else I'll vetch my voot, an' kick The vooty thing athirt the road." "Who is the man?" they cried, "meaeke room," "A halfstarv'd Do'set man," cried Bloom; "You be?" another cried; "Hee! Hee!" woone mwore replied. "Aye, shrunk so thin, to bwone an' skin," Cried worthy Bloom the miller. A LOT O' MAIDENS A-RUNNEN THE VIELDS.[F] "Come on. Be sprack, a-laggen back." "Oh! be there any cows to hook?" "Lauk she's afraid, a silly maid," Cows? No, the cows be down by brook. "O here then, oh! here is a lot." "A lot o' what? what is it? what?" "Why blackberries, as thick As ever they can stick." "I've dewberries, oh! twice As good as they; so nice." "Look here. Theaese boughs be all but blue Wi' snags." "Oh! gi'e me down a vew." "Come here, oh! do but look." "What's that? what is it now?" "Why nuts a-slippen shell." "Hee! hee! pull down the bough." "I wish I had a crook." "There zome o'm be a-vell." (_One sings_) "I wish I was on Bimport Hill I would zit down and cry my vill." "Hee! hee! there's Jenny zomewhere nigh, A-zingen that she'd like to cry." (_Jenny sings_) "I would zit down and cry my vill Until my tears would dreve a mill." "Oh! here's an ugly crawlen thing, A sneaeke." "A slooworm; he wont sting." "Hee! hee! how she did squal an' hop, A-spinnen roun' so quick's a top." "Look here, oh! quick, be quick." "What is it? what then? where?" "A rabbit." "No, a heaere." "Ooh! ooh! the thorns do prick," "How he did scote along the ground As if he wer avore a hound." "Now mind the thistles." "Hee, hee, hee, Why they be knapweeds." "No." "They be." "I've zome'hat in my shoe." "Zit down, an' sheaeke it out." "Oh! emmets, oh! ooh, ooh, A-crawlen all about." "What bird is that, O harken, hush. How sweetly he do zing." "A nightingeaele." "La! no, a drush." "Oh! here's a funny thing." "Oh! how the bull do hook, An' bleaere, an' fling the dirt." "Oh! wont he come athirt?" "No, he's beyond the brook." "O lauk! a hornet rose Up clwose avore my nose." "Oh! what wer that so white Rush'd out o' thik tree's top?" "An owl." "How I did hop, How I do sheaeke wi' fright." "A musheroom." "O lau! A twoadstool! Pwoison! Augh." "What's that, a mouse?" "O no, Teaeke ceaere, why 'tis a shrow." "Be sure don't let en come An' run athirt your shoe He'll meaeke your voot so numb That you wont veel a tooe."[G] "Oh! what wer that so loud A-rumblen?" "Why a clap O' thunder. Here's a cloud O' rain. I veel a drap." "A thunderstorm. Do rain. Run hwome wi' might an' main." "Hee! hee! oh! there's a drop A-trickled down my back. Hee! hee!" "My head's as wet's a mop." "Oh! thunder," "there's a crack. Oh! Oh!" "Oh! I've a-got the stitch, Oh!" "Oh! I've a-lost my shoe, Oh!" "There's Fanny into ditch, Oh!" "I'm wet all drough an' drough, Oh!" [Footnote F: The idea, though but little of the substance, of this poem, will be found in a little Italian poem called _Caccia_, written by Franco Sacchetti.] [Footnote G: The folklore is, that if a shrew-mouse run over a person's foot, it will lame him.] * * * * * A LIST OF SOME DORSET WORDS WITH A FEW HINTS ON DORSET WORD-SHAPES. THE MAIN SOUNDS. 1. _ee_ in beet. 2. _e_ in Dorset (a sound between 1 and 3.) 3. _a_ in mate. 4. _i_ in birth. 5. _a_ in father. 6. _aw_ in awe. 7. _o_ in dote. 8. _oo_ in rood. In Dorset words which are forms of book-English ones, the Dorset words differ from the others mainly by Grimm's law, that "likes shift into likes," and I have given a few hints by which the putting of an English heading for the Dorset one will give the English word. If the reader is posed by _dreaten_, he may try for _dr_, _thr_, which will bring out _threaten_. See _Dr_ under _D_. A. _a_ in father, and _au_ in daughter are, in "Blackmore," often _a_ = 3. So king Alfred gives a legacy to his _yldsta dehter_--oldest daehter. _a_ is a fore-eking to participles of a fore time, as _a-vound_; also for the Anglo-Saxon _an_, _in_ or _on_, as _a-hunten_ for _an huntunge_. _ai_, _ay_ (5, 1), Maid, May. (_Note_--The numbers (as 5, 1) refer to the foregiven table.) _ag_, often for _eg_, as bag, agg, beg, egg. _Anewst_, _Anighst_, very near, or nearly. _A'r a_, ever a, as. _A'r a dog_, ever a dog. _Amper_, pus. _A'r'n_, e'er a one. _A-stooded_ (as a waggon), with wheels sunk fast into rotten ground. _A-stogged_, _A-stocked_, with feet stuck fast in clay. _A-strout_, stiff stretched. _A-thirt_, athwart (_th_ soft). _A-vore_, afore, before. _Ax_, ask. _Axan_, ashes (of fire). _A-zew_, dry, milkless. B. _Backbran' (brand)_, _Backbron' (brond)_, A big brand or block of wood put on the back of the fire. _Ballywrag_, scold. _Bandy_, a long stick with a bent end to beat abroad cow-dung. _Barken_, _Barton_, a stack-yard or cow yard. _Baven_, a faggot of long brushwood. _Beae'nhan'_ (1, 3, 5), bear in hand, uphold or maintain, as an opinion or otherwise. _Beaet_ (1, 4), _up_, to beat one's way up. _Bennets_, flower-stalks of grass. _Be'th_, birth. _Bibber_, to shake with cold. [This is a Friesic and not an Anglo-Saxon form of the word, and Halbertsma, in his "Lexicon Frisicum," gives it, among others, as a token that Frisians came into Wessex with the Saxons. _See_ Eltrot.] _Bissen_, thou bist not. _Bittle_, a beetle. _Blatch_, black stuff; smut. _Blather_, a bladder. _Bleaere_ (1, 3), to low as a cow. _Blind-buck o' Davy_, blindman's buff. _Bloodywarrior_, the ruddy Stock gilliflower. _Blooens_, blossoms. _Blooth_, blossom in the main. _Bluevinny_, blue mouldy. _Brack_, a breach. "Neither brack nor crack in it." _Bran'_, a brand. _Branten_, brazen-faced. _Bring-gwain_ (Bring-going), to bring one on his way. _Brocks_, broken pieces (as of food). _Bron'_, a brand. _Bruckly_, _Bruckle_, brittle. _Bundle_, to bound off; go away quickly. _Bu'st_, burst. C. _Caddle_, a muddle; a puzzling plight amid untoward things, such that a man knows not what to do first. _Car_, to carry. _Cassen_, _casn_, canst not. _Chanker_, a wide chink. _Charlick_, _charlock_, field-mustard; _Sinapis arvensis_. _Charm_, a noise as of many voices. _Choor_, _a chare_, a (weekly) job as of house work. _Chuck_, to throw underhanded to a point, or for a catch. _Clack_, _Clacker_, a bird-clacker; a bird-boy's clacking tool, to fray away birds; also the tongue. _Clavy_, _Clavy-bwoard_, the mantel-shelf. _Cleden_, cleavers, goosegrass; _Galium aparine._ _Clips_, to clasp. _Clitty_, clingy. _Clocks_, ornaments on the ankles of stockings. _Clom'_, clomb, climbed. _Clote_, the yellow water-lily; _Nuphar lutea_. _Clout_, a blow with the flat hand. _Clum_, to handle clumsily. _Cluster o' vive_ (cluster of five), the fist or hand with its five fingers; wording taken from a cluster of nuts. _Cockle_, _Cuckle_, the bur of the burdock. _Cockleshell_, snail shell. _Colepexy_, to glean the few apples left on the tree after intaking. _Coll_ (7), to embrace the neck. _Conker_, the hip, or hep; the fruit of the briar. _Cothe_, _coath_ (_th_ soft), a disease of sheep, the plaice or flook, a flat worm _Distoma nepaticum_ in the stomach. _Cou'den_, could not. _Coussen_, _Coossen_, _coosn_, couldest not. _Craze_, to crack a little. _Critch_, a big pitcher. _Crock_, an iron cooking-pot. _Croodle_, to crow softly. _Croop_, _Croopy-down_, to bend down the body; to stoop very low. _Crope_, crept. _Crowshell_, shell of the fresh-water mussel, as taken out of the river for food by crows. _Cubby-hole_, _Cubby-house_, between the father's knees. _Culver_, the wood pigeon. _Cutty_, _Cut_, the kittywren. _Cwein_, _Cwoin_, (4, 1) coin. _Cwoffer_ (8, 4, 4), a coffer. D. _Dadder_, _dather_, _dudder_, to maze or bewilder. _Dag_, _childag_, a chilblain. _Dake_, to ding or push forth. _Daps_, the very likeness, as that of a cast from the same mould. _Dather_, see _Dadder_. _Dent_, a dint. _Dewberry_, a big kind of blackberry. _Dibs_, coins; but truly, the small knee bones of a sheep used in the game of Dibs. _Didden (didn)_, did not. _Do_, the _o_, when not under a strain of voice, is (4) as _e_ in 'the man' or as _e_ in the French _le_. _Dod_, a dump. _Dogs_, andirons. _Don_, to put on. _Doust_, dust. _dr_ for _thr_ in some words, as Drash, thresh. _Drashel_, threshold. _Dreaten_, threaten. _Dree_, three. _Dringe_, _Drunge_, to throng; push as in a throng. _Droat_, throat. _Drong_, throng; also a narrow way. _Drough_, through. _Drow_, throw. _Drub_, throb. _Drush_, thrush. _Drust_, thrust. _Drean_, _Drene_ (2), to drawl. _Dreve_ (2), drive. _Duck_, a darkening, dusk. _Dumbledore_, the humble bee. _Dummet_, dusk. _Dunch_, dull of hearing, or mind. _Dunch-nettle_, the dead nettle, _Lamium_. _Dunch-pudden_, pudding of bare dough. _Dungpot_, a dungcart. _Dunt_, to blunten as an edge or pain. _Durns_, the side posts of a door. E. long itself alone has mostly the Dorset sound (2.) _eae_ (1, 4) for _ea_, with the _a_ unsounded as lead, mead, leaed, meaed. _eae_ (1, 3) for the long _a_, 3, as in lade, made, leaede, meaede. _ea_ of one sound (2) as meat. _e_ is put in before s after st, as nestes, nests, vistes, fists. The two sundry soundings of _ea_ 2 and 3 do not go by our spelling _ea_ for both, but have come from earlier forms of the words. After a roof letter it may stay as it is, a roof letter, as madden, madd'n; rotten, rott'n. So with _en_ for him, tell en, tell'n. The _en_ sometimes at the end of words means not, as bisse'n, bist not; coust'en, cous'n, could'st not; I didd'n, I did not; diss'n, didst not; hadd'n, had not; muss'n, must not; midd'n, mid not; should'n, should not; 'tis'n, 'tis not; would'n, would not. _en_--not _en_--in Dorset, as well as in book English, as an ending of some kinds of words often, in running talk, loses the _e_, and in some cases shifts into a sound of the kind of the one close before it. After a lip-letter it becomes a lip-letter _m_, as Rub en, Rub-him; rub'n, rub'm; oven, ov'm; open, op'n op'm, in Dorset mostly oben, ob'n, ob'm. So after _f'_, deafen, deaf'n, deaf m, heaven, heav'n, heav'm, in Dorset sometimes heab'm. zeven, zeb'n, zeb'm. After a throat-letter it becomes a throat one, _ng_, as token, tok'n, tok'ng. _[=e]_ (2). _Eegrass_, aftermath. _Eltrot_, Eltroot, cowparsley (_Myrrhis_). [Elt is Freisic, robustus, vegetus, as cowparsley is among other kinds.] _See_ Bibber. _Emmet_, an ant. _Emmetbut_, an anthill. _En_, him; A.-Saxon, _hine_. _En_, for ing, zingen, singing. _Eve_, to become wet as a cold stone floor from thickened steam in some weather. _Evet_, eft, newt. _Exe_, an axle. F. _Fakket_, a faggot. _Fall_, autumn; to fall down is _vall_. _Fay_ (5, 1) to speed, succeed. _Feaest_ (1, 4), a village wake or festival; _festa_. _Flag_, a water plant. _Flinders_, flying pieces of a body smashed; "Hit it all to flinders." _Flounce_, a flying fall as into water. _Flout_, a flinging, or blow of one. _Flush_, fledged. _Footy_, unhandily little. G. _Gally_, to frighten, fray. _Gee_, _jee_, to go, fit, speed. _Giddygander_, the meadow orchis. _Gil'cup_, gilt cup, the buttercup. _Girt_, great. _Gl[=e]ne_ (2), to smile sneeringly. _Glutch_, to swallow. _Gnang_, to mock one with jaw waggings, and noisy sounds. _Gnot_, a gnat. _Goo_, go. _Goocoo flower_, _Cardamine pratensis_. _Goodnow_, goodn'er, good neighbour; my good friend; "No, no; not I, goodnow;" "No, no; not I, my good friend." _Goolden chain_, the laburnum. _Gout_, an underground gutter. _Graegle_, _Greygle_, the wild hyacinth, _Hyacinthus nonscriptus_. _Gramfer_, grandfather. _Ground-ash_, an ash stick that springs from the ground, and so is tough; "Ground the pick," to put the stem of it on the ground, to raise a pitch of hay. _Gwoad_ (8, 4), a goad. H. _Hacker_, a hoe. _Hagrod_, hagridden in sleep, if not under the nightmare. _Hain_ (5, 1), to fence in ground or shut up a field for mowing. _Ha'me_, see _Hau'm_. _Hangen_, sloping ground. _Hansel_, _Handsel_, a hand gift. _Hansel_, _Handsel_, to use a new thing for the first time. _Happer_, to hop up as hailstones or rain-drops from ground or pavement in a hard storm, or as down-shaken apples; to fall so hard as to hop up at falling. _Haps_, a hasp. _Ha'skim_, halfskim cheese of milk skimmed only once. _Hassen_, hast not. _Haum_, _Haulm_, _Hulm_, the hollow stalks of plants. _Teaetie haum_ potatoe stalks. _Hatch_, a low wicket or half door. _Haymeaeken_, haymaking. The steps of haymaking by hand, in the rich meadow lands of Blackmore, ere machines were brought into the field, were these:--The grass being mown, and laying in _swath_ it was (1) _tedded_, spread evenly over the ground; (2) it was _turned_ to dry the under side; (3) it was in the evening raked up into _rollers_, each roller of the grass of the stretch of one rake, and the rollers were sometimes put up into hay cocks; (4) in the morning the rollers were cast abroad into _pa'sels_ (parcels) or broad lists, with clear ground between each two; (5) the parcels were turned, and when dry they were pushed up into _weaeles_ (weales) or long ridges, and, with a fear of rain, the weaeles were put up into _pooks_, or big peaked heaps; the waggon (often called the _plow_) came along between two weaeles or rows of pooks, with two loaders, and a pitcher on each side pitched up to them the hay of his side, while two women raked after plow, or raked up the leavings of the pitchers, who stepped back from time to time to take it from them. _Hazen_, to forebode. _Hazzle_, hazel. _Heal_ (2), hide, to cover. _Heal pease_, to hoe up the earth on them. _Heaen_ (1, 4), a haft, handle. _Heft_, weight. _Herence_, hence. _Here right_, here on the spot, etc. _Het_, heat, also a heat in running. _Het_, to hit. _Heth_, a hearth, a heath. _Hick_, to hop on one leg. _Hidelock_, _Hidlock_, a hiding place. "He is in hidelock." He is absconded. _Hidybuck_, hide-and-seek, the game. _Hile of Sheaves_, ten, 4 against 4 in a ridge, and 1 at each end. _Ho_, to feel misgiving care. _Hodmadod_, a little dod or dump; in some parts of England a snail. _Holm_, ho'me, holly. _Hook_, to gore as a cow. _Honeyzuck_, honeysuckle. _Ho'se-tinger_, the dragon-fly, _Libellula_. _Horse_ does not mean a horse, but is an adjective meaning coarse or big of its kind, as in horse-radish, or horse-chesnut; most likely the old form of the word gave name to the horse as the big beast where there was not an elephant or other greater one. The dragon-fly is, in some parts called the "tanging ether" or tanging adder, from _tang_, a long thin body, and a sting. Very few Dorset folk believe that the dragon-fly stings horses any more than that the horse eats horse-brambles or horse-mushrooms. _Hud_, a pod, a hood-like thing. _Ho'se_, hoss, a board on which a ditcher may stand in a wet ditch. _Huddick_ (hoodock), a fingerstall. _Hull_, a pod, a hollow thing. _Humbuz_, a notched strip of lath, swung round on a string, and humming or buzzing. _Humstrum_, a rude, home made musical instrument, now given up. J. _Jack-o'-lent_, a man-like scarecrow. The true Jack-o'-lent was, as we learn from Taylor, the water poet, a ragged, lean-like figure which went as a token of Lent, in olden times, in Lent processions. _Jist_, just. _Jut_, to nudge or jog quickly. K. _Kag_, a keg. _Kapple cow_, a cow with a white muzzle. _Kern_, to grow into fruit. _Ketch_, _Katch_, to thicken or harden from thinness, as melted fat. _Kecks_, _Kex_, a stem of the hemlock or cowparsley. _Keys_, (2), the seed vessels of the sycamore. _Kid_, a pod, as of the pea. _Kittyboots_, low uplaced boots, a little more than ancle high. _Knap_, a hillock, a head, or knob, (2.) a knob-like bud, as of the potatoe. "The teaeties be out in knap." L. _Laeiter_ (5, 1), one run of laying of a hen. _Leaen_ (1, 4), to lean. _Leaene_ (1, 3), a lane. _Leaese_ (1, 4), to glean. _Leaese_ (1, 4), _Leaeze_, an unmown field, stocked through the Spring and Summer. _Leer_, _Leery_, empty. _Lence_, a loan, a lending. _Levers_, _Livers_, the corn flag. _Lew_, sheltered from cold wind. _Lewth_, lewness. _Libbets_, loose-hanging rags. _Limber_, limp. _Linch_, _Linchet_, a ledge on a hill-side. _Litsome_, lightsome, gay. _Litty_, light and brisk of body. _Lo't_ (7), loft, an upper floor. _Lowl_, to loll loosely. _Lumper_, a loose step. M. _Maesh_ (2), _Mesh_, (Blackmore) moss, also a hole or run of a hare, fox, or other wild animal. _Mammet_, an image, scarecrow. _Marrels_, _Merrels_, The game of nine men's morris. _Mawn_, m[=a]n, (5) a kind of basket. _Meaeden_ (1, 4), stinking chamomile. _Ment_ (2), to imitate, be like. _M[=e]sh_, (2) moss. _Mid_, might. _Miff_, a slight feud, a tiff. _Min_ (2), observe. You must know. _Mither ho_, come hither. A call to a horse on the road. _Moot_, the bottom and roots of a felled tree. _More_, a root, taproot. _Muggy_, misty, damp (weather). N. _Na'r a_, never a (man). _Nar'n_, never a one. _N'eet_, not yet. _N[=e]sh_ (2), soft. _Nesthooden_, a hooding over a bird's nest, as a wren's. _Netlens_, a food of a pig's inwards tied in knots. _Never'stide_, never at all. _Nicky_, a very small fagot of sticks. _Nippy_, hungry, catchy. _Nitch_, a big fagot of wood; a load; a fagot of wood which custom allows a hedger to carry home at night. _Not_ (hnot or knot), hornless. _Nother_, neither (adverb). _Nunch_, a nog or knob of food. _Nut_ (of a wheel), the stock or nave. O. _O'_, of. _O'm_ (2), of em, them. _O'n_ (2), of him. _O's_ (2), of us. _Orts_, leavings of hay put out in little heaps in the fields for the cows. _Over-right_, opposite. _Oves_, eaves. P. _Paladore_, a traditional name of Shaftesbury, the British _Caer Paladr_, said by British history to have been founded by _Rhun Paladr-bras_, 'Rhun of the stout spear.' _Pank_, pant. _Par_, to shut up close; confine. _Parrick_, a small enclosed field; a paddock--but paddock was an old word for a toad or frog. _Pa'sels_, parcels. _See_ Haymeaeken. _Peaert_ (1, 4), pert; lively. _Peaze_, _Peeze_ (2), to ooze. _Peewit_, the lapwing. _Pitch._ _See_ Haymeaeken. _Plesh_, (2) _Plush_ (a hedge), to lay it. To cut the stems half off and peg them down on the bank where they sprout upward. To plush, shear, and trim a hedge are sundry handlings of it. _Plim_, to swell up. _Plock_, a hard block of wood. _Plow_, a waggon, often so called. The plough or plow for ploughing is the Zull. _Plounce_, a strong plunge. _Pluffy_, plump. _Pont_, to hit a fish or fruit, so as to bring on a rotting. _Pooks._ _See_ Haymeaeken. _Popple_, a pebble. _Praise_ (5, 1), prize, to put forth or tell to others a pain or ailing. "I had a risen on my eaerm, but I didden praise it," say anything about it. _Pummy_, pomice. _ps_ for _sp_ in clasp, claps; hasp, haps; wasp, waps. Q. _Quaer_, queer. _Quag_, a quaking bog. _Quar_, a quarry. _Quarrel_, a square window pane. _Quid_, a cud. _Quirk_, to grunt with the breath without the voice. R. _R_, at the head of a word, is strongly breathed, as _Hr_ in Anglo-Saxon, as _Hhrong_, the rong of a ladder. _R_ is given in Dorset by a rolling of the tongue back under the roof. For _or_, as an ending sometimes given before a free breathing, or _h_, try _ow_,--_hollor_, hollow. _R_ before _s_, _st_, and _th_ often goes out, as bu'st, burst; ve'ss, verse; be'th, birth; cu'st, curst; fwo'ce, force; me'th, mirth. _Raft_, to rouse, excite. _Rake_, to reek. _Ram_, _Rammish_, rank of smell. _Rammil_, raw milk (cheese), of unskimmed milk. _Ramsclaws_, the creeping crowfoot. _Ranunculus repens._ _Randy_, a merry uproar or meeting. _Rangle_, to range or reach about. _Rathe_, early; whence rather. _Ratch_, to stretch. _Readship_, criterion, counsel. _Reaemes_, (1, 3), skeleton, frame. _Reaen_ (1, 4), to reach in greedily in eating. _Reaeves_, a frame of little rongs on the side of a waggon. _Reed_ (2), wheat hulm drawn for thatching. _Reely_, to dance a reel. _Reem_, to stretch, broaden. _Rick_, a stack. _Rig_, to climb about. _Rivel_, shrivel; to wrinkle up. _Robin Hood_, The Red campion. _Roller_ (6, 4). _See_ Haymeaeken. A Roller was also a little roll of wool from the card of a woolcomber. _Rottlepenny_, the yellow rattle. _Rhinanthus Crista-galli._ _Rouet_, a rough tuft of grass. S. _Sammy_, soft, a soft head; simpleton. _Sar_, to serve or give food to (cattle). _Sarch_, to search. _Scote_, to shoot along fast in running. _Scrag_, a crooked branch of a tree. _Scraggle_, to screw scramly about (of a man), to screw the limbs scramly as from rheumatism. _Scram_, distorted, awry. _Scroff_, bits of small wood or chips, as from windfalls or hedge plushing. _Scroop_, to skreak lowly as new shoes or a gate hinge. _Scud_, a sudden or short down-shooting of rain, a shower. _Scwo'ce_, chop or exchange. _Settle_, a long bench with a high planken back. _Shard_, a small gap in a hedge. _Sharps_, shafts of a waggon. _Shatten_, shalt not. _Shroud_ (trees), to cut off branches. _Sheeted cow_, with a broad white band round her body. _Shoulden (Shoodn)_, should not. _Shrow_, _Sh'ow_, _Sh'ow-crop_, the shrew mouse. _Skim_, _Skimmy_, grass; to cut off rank tuffs, or rouets. _Slait_, (5, 1) _Slite_, a slade, or sheep run. _Slent_, a tear in clothes. _Slidder_, to slide about. _Slim_, sly. _Sloo_, sloe. _Slooworm_, the slow-worm. _Smame_, to smear. _Smeech_, a cloud of dust. _Smert_, to smart; pain. _Snabble_, to snap up quickly. _Snags_, small pea-big sloes, also stumps. _Sneaed_ (1, 4), a scythe stem. _Snoatch_, to breathe loudly through the nose. _Snoff_, a snuff of a candle. _Sock_, a short loud sigh. _Spur (dung)_, to cast it abroad. _Squail_ (5, 1), to fling something at a bird or ought else. _Squot_, to flatten by a blow. _Sowel_, _Zowel_, a hurdle stake. _Sparbill_, _Sparrabill_, a kind of shoe nail. _Spars_, forked sticks used in thatching. _Speaeker_ (1 4), a long spike of wood to bear the hedger's nitch on his shoulder. _Spears_, _Speers_, the stalks of reed grass. _Spik_, spike, lavender. _Sprack_, active. _Sprethe_ (2), to chap as of the skin, from cold. _Spry_, springy in leaping, or limb work. _Staddle_, a bed or frame for ricks. _Staid_ (5, 1), steady, oldish. _Stannens_, stalls in a fair or market. _Steaen_ (1, 4) (a road), to lay it in stone. _Steaert_ (1, 4), a tail or outsticking thing. _Stout_, the cowfly, _Tabanus_. _Stitch_ (of corn), a conical pile of sheaves. _Strawen_, a strewing. All the potatoes of one mother potatoe. _Strawmote_, a straw or stalk. _Strent_, a long slent or tear. _Streech_, an outstretching (as of a rake in raking); a-strout stretched out stiffly like frozen linen. _Stubbard_, a kind of apple. _Stunpoll_ (7), stone head, blockhead; also an old tree almost dead. T. _th_ is soft (as _th_ in thee), as a heading of these words:-- thatch, thief, thik, thimble, thin, think, thumb. _Tack_, a shelf on a wall. _Taffle_, to tangle, as grass or corn beaten down by storms. _Tait_, to play at see-saw. _Tamy_ (3, 1), _tammy_ (5, 1), tough, that may be drawn out in strings, as rich toasted cheese. _Teaeve_, (1, 3), to reach about strongly as in work or a struggle. _Teery_, _Tewly_, weak of growth. _Tewly_, weakly. _Theaese_, this or these. _Theasum_ (1, 4), these. _Tidden (tidn)_, it is not. _Tilty_, touchy, irritable. _Timmersome_, restless. _Tine_, to kindle, also to fence in ground. _Tistytosty_, a toss ball of cowslip blooms. _To-year_, this year (as to-day.) _Tranter_, a common carrier. _Trendel_, a shallow tub. _Tump_, a little mound. _Tun_, the top of the chimney above the roof ridge. _Tut_ (work), piecework. _Tutty_, a nosegay. _Tweil_, (4, 1) toil. _Twite_, to twit reproach. U. _Unheal_, uncover, unroof. V. _v_ is taken for _f_ as the heading of some purely English words, as vall, fall, vind, find. _Veag_, _V[=e]g_ (2), a strong fit of anger. _Vern_, fern. _Ve'se_, vess, a verse. _Vinny cheese_, cheese with fen or blue-mould. _Vitty_, nice in appearance. _Vlanker_, a flake of fire. _Vlee_, fly. _Vo'k_, folk. _Vooty_, unhandily little. _Vuz_, _Vuzzen_, furze, gorse. W. _wo_ (8, 4), for the long o, 7, as bwold, bold; cwold, cold. _Wag_, to stir. _Wagwanton_, quaking grass. _Weaese_, (1, 4) a pad or wreath for the head under a milkpail. _Weaele_ (1, 3), a ridge of dried hay; see _Haymeaeken_. _Welshnut_, a walnut. _Werden_, were not or was not. _Wevet_, a spider's web. _Whindlen_, weakly, small of growth. _Whicker_, to neigh. _Whiver_, to hover, quiver. _Whog_, go off; to a horse. _Whur_, to fling overhanded. _Wi'_, with. _Widdicks_, withes or small brushwood. _Wink_, a winch; crank of a well. _Withwind_, the bindweed, _Wont_, a mole. _Wops_, wasp. _ps_, not _sp_, in Anglo-Saxon, and now in Holstein. _Wotshed_, _Wetshod_, wet-footed. _Wride_, to spread out in growth. _Wride_, the set of stems or stalks from one root or grain of corn. _Writh_, a small wreath of tough wands, to link hurdles to the sowels (stakes). _Wrix_, wreathed or wattle work, as a fence. Y. _Yop_, yelp. Z. _z_ for _s_ as a heading of some, not all, pure Saxon words, nor [or?] for _s_ of inbrought foreign words. _Zand_, sand. _Zennit_, _Zennight_, seven night; "This day zennit." _Zew, azew_, milkless. _Zoo_, so. _Zive_, a scythe. _Zull_ a plough to plough ground. _Zwath_, a swath. * * * * * _Turnbull & Spears, Printers._ * * * * * Transcriber's Note: TOC: 423 corrected to 243 Page 137: Replaced missing end-quote. Page 194: Replaced missing end-quote. Page 197: Changed jaey to jay. Page 235: replaced two periods with commas. Page 243: restored title: BLEAeKE'S HOUSE IN BLACKMWORE. Page 297: Replaced missing end-quote. Page 350: Changed jaey to jay. Page 432: changed daey to day. Page 444: Replaced missing end-quote. Index: Added missing stops to E, F, G, H. Realigned 'Scote' alphabetically. 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