Eclogue.
RACKETÈN JOE.
Racketèn Joe; his Sister; his Cousin Fanny; and the Dog.
RACKETÈN JOE.
Heigh! heigh! here. Who's about?
[page 389]
HIS SISTER.
Oh! lauk! Here's Joe, a rantèn lout,
A-meäkèn his wild randy-rout.
RACKETÈN JOE.
Heigh! Fanny! How d'ye do? (slaps her.)
FANNY.
Oh! fie; why all the woo'se vor you
A-slappèn o' me, black an' blue,
My back!
HIS SISTER.
A whack! you loose-eärm'd chap,
To gi'e your cousin sich a slap!
FANNY.
I'll pull the heäir o'n, I do vow;
HIS SISTER.
I'll pull the ears o'n. There.
THE DOG.
Wowh! wow!
FANNY.
A-comèn up the drong,
How he did smack his leather thong,
A-zingèn, as he thought, a zong;
HIS SISTER.
An' there the pigs did scote
Azide, in fright, wi' squeakèn droat,
Wi' geese a pitchèn up a note.
Look there.
FANNY.
His chair!
[page 390]
HIS SISTER.
He thump'd en down,
As if he'd het en into ground.
RACKETÈN JOE.
Heigh! heigh! Look here! the vier is out.
HIS SISTER.
How he do knock the tongs about!
FANNY.
Now theäre's his whip-nob, plum
Upon the teäble vor a drum;
HIS SISTER.
An' there's a dent so big's your thumb.
RACKETÈN JOE.
My hat's awore so quaer.
HIS SISTER.
'Tis quaer enough, but not wi' wear;
But dabs an' dashes he do bear.
RACKETÈN JOE.
The zow!
HIS SISTER.
What now?
RACKETÈN JOE.
She's in the plot.
A-routèn 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.
RACKETÈN JOE.
She's out.
FANNY.
Noo doubt.
HIS SISTER.
Athirt the bank,
Look! how the dog an' he do pank.
FANNY.
Staÿ out, an' heed her now an' then,
To zee she don't come in ageän.
ZUMMER AN' WINTER.
When I led by zummer streams
The pride o' Lea, as naïghbours thought her,
While the zun, wi' evenèn beams,
Did cast our sheädes athirt the water;
Winds a-blowèn,
Streams a-flowèn,
Skies a-glowèn,
Tokens ov my jaÿ zoo fleetèn,
Heighten'd it, that happy meetèn.
Then, when maïd an' man took pleäces,
Gaÿ in winter's Chris'mas dances,
Showèn in their merry feäces
Kindly smiles an' glisnèn glances;
Stars a-winkèn,
Day a-shrinkèn,
Sheädes a-zinkèn,
Brought anew the happy meetèn,
That did meake the night too fleetèn.
[page 392]
TO ME.
At night, as drough the meäd I took my waÿ,
In aïr a-sweeten'd by the new-meäde haÿ,
A stream a-vallèn 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 evenèn darkness, an' the risèn hill,
Kept all the quiv'rèn leaves unshown to me,
Within the copse, below the zunless sky,
I heärd a nightèngeäle, a-warblèn high
Her lwoansome zong, a-hidden vrom my zight,
An' showèn nothèn but her mwoan to me.
An' by a house, where rwoses hung avore
The thatch-brow'd window, an' the oben door,
I heärd the merry words, an' hearty laugh
O' zome feäir maid, as eet unknown to me.
High over head the white-rimm'd clouds went on,
Wi' woone a-comèn up, vor woone a-gone;
An' feäir they floated in their sky-back'd flight,
But still they never meäde a sound to me.
An' there the miller, down the stream did float
Wi' all his childern, in his white-saïl'd bwoat,
Vur off, beyond the stragglèn cows in meäd,
But zent noo vaïce, athirt the ground, to me.
An' then a buttervlee, in zultry light,
A-wheelèn on about me, vier-bright,
Did show the gaÿest colors to my eye,
But still did bring noo vaïce around to me.
I met the merry laugher on the down,
Bezide her mother, on the path to town,
An' oh! her sheäpe wer comely to the zight,
But wordless then wer she a-vound to me.
Zoo, sweet ov unzeen things mid be sound,
An' feäir to zight mid soundless things be vound,
But I've the laugh to hear, an' feäce to zee,
Vor they be now my own, a-bound to me.
TWO AN' TWO.
The zun, O Jessie, while his feäce do rise
In vi'ry skies, a-sheddèn out his light
On yollow corn a-weävèn down below
His yollow glow, is gaÿ avore the zight.
By two an' two,
How goodly things do goo,
A-matchèn woone another to fulvill
The goodness ov their Meäkèr's will.
How bright the spreadèn water in the lew
Do catch the blue, a-sheenèn vrom the sky;
How true the grass do teäke the dewy bead
That it do need, while dousty roads be dry.
By peäir an' peäir
Each thing's a-meäde to sheäre
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 sheäde;
The aïr's to bear the bird, the bird's to rise;
Vor light the eyes, vor eyes the light's a-meäde.
'Tis gi'e an' teäke,
An' woone vor others' seäke;
In peäirs a-workèn 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 raïn 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 unmolestèn me a-restèn,
Where I laÿ 'ithin the lew.
My wife's bright vier indoors did cast
Its fleäme upon the window peänes
That screen'd her teäble, while the blast
Vled on in music down the leänes;
An' as I zot in vaïceless thought
Ov other zummer-tides, that brought
The sheenèn grass below the lark,
Or left their ricks a-wearèn 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 leäve the childern, big or small;
But He that meäde the wind, an' meäde
The lewth, an' zent wi' het the sheäde,
Can keep my childern, all alwone
O' under me, an' though vull grown
Or little lispers, wi' their whispers,
There a-lyèn in the lew.
THE WIND IN WOONE'S FEÄCE.
There lovely Jenny past,
While the blast did blow
On over Ashknowle Hill
To the mill below;
A-blinkèn quick, wi' lashes long,
Above her cheäks o' red,
Ageän the wind, a-beätèn strong,
Upon her droopèn head.
Oh! let dry win' blow bleäk,
On her cheäk so heäle,
But let noo raïn-shot chill
Meäke her ill an' peäle;
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-heäir
Ov my feäirest dear;
An' mid noo unkind deed o' mine
Spweil what my love mid gaïn,
Nor meäke my merry Jenny pine
At last wi' dim-ey'd païn.
[page 396]
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 ageän the mwoldrèn door
'S a tóken 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 Meäry gi'e
Thät she'd a-liv'd, an' liv'd vor me,
But things a-done vor thought an' view?
Good things that nwone ageän 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 haulèn
Now vrom grey's a-feäded dark,
An' off the barken raïl's a-vallèn,
Day by day, the rottèn bark.—
But short's the time our works do stand,
So feäir's we put em out ov hand,
Vor time a-passèn, wet an' dry,
Do spweïl em wi' his changèn sky,
The while wi' strivèn hope, we men,
Though a-ruèn time's undoèn,
Still do tweil an' tweil ageän.
In wall-zide sheädes, by leafy bowers,
Underneath the swayèn tree,
O' leäte, as round the bloomèn flowers,
Lowly humm'd the giddy bee,
My childern's small left voot did smite
Their tiny speäde, the while the right
Did trample on a deäisy head,
Bezïde the flower's dousty bed,
An' though their work wer idle then,
They a-smilèn, an' a-tweilèn,
Still did work an' work ageän.
Now their little limbs be stronger,
Deeper now their vaïce do sound;
An' their little veet be longer,
An' do tread on other ground;
An' rust is on the little bleädes
Ov all the broken-hafted speädes,
An' flow'rs that wer my hope an' pride
Ha' long agoo a-bloom'd an' died,
But still as I did leäbor then
Vor love ov all them childern small,
Zoo now I'll tweil an' tweil ageän.
When the smokeless tun's a-growèn
Cwold as dew below the stars,
An' when the vier noo mwore's a-glowèn
Red between the window bars,
We then do lay our weary heads
In peace upon their nightly beds,
An' gi'e woone sock, wi' heavèn 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 ageän.
Where the vaïce o' the winds is mildest,
In the plaïn, their stroke is keen;
Where their dreatnèn vaïce is wildest,
In the grove, the grove's our screen.
An' where the worold in their strife
Do dreatèn mwost our tweilsome life,
Why there Almighty ceäre mid cast
A better screen ageän the blast.
Zoo I woon't live in fear o' men,
But, man-neglected, God-directed,
Still wull tweil an' tweil ageän.
FANCY.
In stillness we ha' words to hear,
An' sheäpes to zee in darkest night,
An' tongues a-lost can haïl 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' weästèn life's slow-beatèn track.
When feädèn leaves do drip wi' raïn,
Our thoughts can ramble in the dry;
When Winter win' do zweep the plaïn
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 païn our thoughts can pass to eäse,
In work our souls can be at plaÿ,
An' leäve behind the chilly leäse
Vor warm-aïr'd meäds o' new mow'd haÿ.
When we do vlee in Fancy's flight
Vrom daily ills avore our feäce,
An' linger in zome happy pleäce
Ov mè'th an' smiles, an' warmth an' light.
THE BROKEN HEART.
News o' grief had overteäken
Dark-ey'd Fanny, now vorseäken;
There she zot, wi' breast a-heavèn,
While vrom zide to zide, wi' grievèn,
Vell her head, wi' tears a-creepèn
Down her cheäks, in bitter weepèn.
There wer still the ribbon-bow
She tied avore her hour ov woe,
An' there wer still the han's that tied it
Hangèn white,
Or wringèn tight,
In ceäre that drown'd all ceäre bezide it.
When a man, wi' heartless slightèn,
Mid become a maïden's blightèn,
He mid ceärlessly vorseäke her,
But must answer to her Meäker;
He mid slight, wi' selfish blindness,
All her deeds o' lovèn-kindness,
God wull waïgh em wi' the slightèn
That mid be her love's requitèn;
He do look on each deceiver,
He do know
What weight o' woe
Do breäk the heart ov ev'ry griever.
[page 400]
EVENÈN LIGHT.
The while I took my bit o' rest,
Below my house's eastern sheäde,
The things that stood in vield an' gleäde
Wer bright in zunsheen vrom the west.
There bright wer east-ward mound an' wall,
An' bright wer trees, arisèn 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 evenèn dusk did gather slow;
But bright did gleäre the twinklèn spwokes
O' runnèn 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 ageän his feäce mid rise,
A-sheenèn vrom the eastern skies
To brighten up the rwose-borne dew;
But still his lingrèn light did gi'e
My heart a touchèn jaÿ, to zee
His beams a-shed, wi' stratchèn sheäde,
On east-ward wall an' tree.
When jaÿ, a-zent me vrom above,
Vrom my sad heart is now agone,
An' others be a-walkèn on,
Amid the light ov Heavèn's love,
Oh! then vor lovèn-kindness seäke,
Mid I rejäice that zome do teäke
My hopes a-gone, until ageän
My happy dawn do breäk.
[page 401]
VIELDS BY WATERVALLS.
When our downcast looks be smileless,
Under others' wrongs an' slightèns,
When our daily deeds be guileless,
An' do meet unkind requitèns,
You can meäke us zome amends
Vor wrongs o' foes, an' slights o' friends;—
O flow'ry-gleäded, timber-sheäded
Vields by flowèn watervalls!
Here be softest aïrs a-blowèn
Drough the boughs, wi' zingèn drushes,
Up above the streams, a-flowèn
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 flowèn watervalls.
Waters, wi' their giddy rollèns;
Breezes wi' their plaÿsome wooèns;
Here do heal, in soft consolèns,
Hearts a-wrung wi' man's wrong doèns.
Day do come to us as gaÿ
As to a king ov widest swaÿ,
In deäisy-whitèn'd, gil'cup-brightèn'd
Vields by flowèn watervalls.
Zome feäir buds mid outlive blightèns,
Zome sweet hopes mid outlive sorrow.
After days of wrongs an' slightèns
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.
[page 402]
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 Jeäne, vrom Aunt o' Camwy dell.
Zoo all the lot o' stuff a-tied
Upon the plow, a tidy tod,
On gravel-crunchèn 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,
Astraïn'd athirt, an' straïn'd along,
Down Thornhay's evenèn-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-bearèn land,
When beech-leaves slowly whiver'd down.
By evenèn 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 ageän did show vull bright,
In two long streaks o' glitt'rèn white.
But when, upon our weddèn night,
The cart's light wheels, a-rollèn round,
Brought Jenny hwome, they run too light
To mark the yieldèn ground;
Or welcome would be vound a peäir
O' green-vill'd routs a-runnèn there.
Zoo let me never bring 'ithin
My dwellèn 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
Wï' leaves, wi' grass, wi' groun' wi' snow.
NANNY'S NEW ABODE.
Now day by day, at lofty height,
O zummer noons, the burnèn zun
'Ve a-show'd avore our eastward zight,
The sky-blue zide ov Hameldon,
An' shone ageän, on new-mow'd ground,
Wi' haÿ a-piled up grey in pook,
An' down on leäzes, bennet-brown'd,
An' wheat a-vell avore the hook;
Till, under elems tall,
The leaves do lie on leänèn lands,
In leäter 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-weävèn by the brink
O' shallow brooks, do slowly die.
An' on the timber tall,
The boughs, half beäre, do bend above
The bulgèn banks in Fall.
There, we'd a spring o' water near,
Here, water's deep in wink-draïn'd wells,
The church 'tis true, is nigh out here,
Too nigh wi' vive loud-boomèn bells.
There, naïghbours wer vull wide a-spread,
But vo'k be here too clwose a-stow'd.
Vor childern now do stun woone's head,
Wi' naïsy plaÿ bezide the road,
Where big so well as small,
The little lad, an' lump'rèn lout,
Do leäp an' laugh theäse Fall.
LEAVES A-VALLÈN.
There the ash-tree leaves do vall
In the wind a-blowèn 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 vaïces or their me'th.
There dead ash leaves be a-toss'd
In the wind, a-blowèn 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 teäke 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 meäke woone hour asunder;
Woone hour onward, woone hour nigher
To the hopeful eastern skies,
Where his mornèn rim o' vier
Soon ageän shall meet his eyes.
Leaves be now a-scatter'd round
In the wind, a-blowèn bleaker,
An' if we do walk the ground
Wi' our life-strangth woone year weaker.
Woone year weaker, woone year nigher
To the pleäce 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-smilèn, while her lids do rise
To show her eyes as bright as dew.
An' comely do she look at night,
A-dancèn in her skirt o' white,
An' blushèn wi' a rwose o' red
Bezide her glossy head.
Feäir is the rwose o' blushèn hue,
Behung wi' dew, in mornèn's hour,
Feäir is the rwose, so sweet below
The noontide glow, bezide the bow'r.
Vull feäir, an' eet I'd rather zee
The rwose a-gather'd off the tree,
An' bloomèn 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 weanèn life,
Or maïd or wife, be loved and blest.
Though I mid never zing anew
To neäme the maïd so feäir an' true,
A-blushèn, 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 beäten rock,
I still do seem to hear the sound
O' weäves that drove me vrom my track,
An' zee my strugglèn hopes a-drown'd,
An' all my jaÿs a-floated back.
By storms a-toss'd, I'll gi'e God praïse,
Wi' much a-lost I still ha' jaÿs.
My peace is rest, my faïth is hope,
An' freedom's my unbounded scope.
Vor faïth 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 blessèns now a-left.
What e'th do own, to e'th mid vall,
But what's my own my own I'll call,
My faïth, an' peäce, the gifts o' greäce,
An' freedom still to shift my pleäce.
When I've a-had a tree to screen
My meal-rest vrom the high zunn'd-sky,
Or ivy-holdèn wall between
My head an' win's a-rustlèn by,
I had noo call vor han's to bring
Their seäv'ry daïnties at my nod,
But stoop'd a-drinkèn vrom the spring,
An' took my meal, wi' thanks to God,
Wi' faïth to keep me free o' dread,
An' peäce to sleep wi' steadvast head,
An' freedom's hands, an' veet unbound
To woone man's work, or woone seäme ground.
FALL TIME.
The gather'd clouds, a-hangèn low,
Do meäke the woody ridge look dim;
An' raïn-vill'd streams do brisker flow,
Arisèn 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 mornèn winds a-blowèn keen;
When they wer green the moss wer dead,
Now they be dead the moss is green.
Low the evenèn zun do sheen
By the boughs,
Where the cows do swing their taïls
Over the merry milkers' païls.
FALL.
Now the yollow zun, a-runnèn
Daily round a smaller bow,
Still wi' cloudless sky's a-zunnèn
All the sheenèn land below.
Vewer blossoms now do blow,
But the fruit's a-showèn
Reds an' blues, an' purple hues,
By the leaves a-glowèn.
Now the childern be a-pryèn
Roun' the berried bremble-bow,
Zome a-laughèn, woone a-cryèn
Vor the slent her frock do show.
Bwoys be out a-pullèn low
Slooe-boughs, or a-runnèn
Where, on zides of hazzle-wrides,
Nuts do hang a-zunnèn.
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
Bloomèn balls below em,
That shall hide, on ev'ry zide
Ground where we do drow em.
[page 409]
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' maïd.
But rwose-trees down along the wall,
That then wer all the maïden's ceäre,
An' all a-trimm'd an' traïn'd, did bear
Their bloomèn 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 plaÿ to beät em down.
An' where vor years zome busy hand
Did traïn 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-swayèn wi' low-ruslèn 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-meäde vast,
Wer the childern's light swing, a-hung low,
An' a-rock'd by the brisk-blowèn 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-sheäkèn the flow'rs,
Aye, the blast the feäir buds on the ground.
Oh! the moon, wi' his peäle 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 aïr is a-warm'd by the zun,
Aye, the win' by the day's vi'ry wheel.
THE CHILD'S GREÄVE.
Avore the time when zuns went down
On zummer's green a-turn'd to brown,
When sheädes o' swaÿèn wheat-eärs vell
Upon the scarlet pimpernel;
The while you still mid goo, an' vind
'Ithin the geärden's mossy wall,
Sweet blossoms, low or risèn tall,
To meäke a tutty to your mind,
In churchyard heav'd, wi' grassy breast,
The greäve-mound ov a beäby's rest.
An' when a high day broke, to call
A throng 'ithin the churchyard wall,
The mother brought, wi' thoughtvul mind,
The feäirest buds her eyes could vind,
To trim the little greäve, an' show
To other souls her love an' loss,
An' meäde a Seävior's little cross
O' brightest flow'rs that then did blow,
A-droppèn tears a-sheenèn bright,
Among the dew, in mornèn light
An' woone sweet bud her han' did pleäce
Up where did droop the Seävior's feäce;
An' two she zet a-bloomèn bright,
Where reach'd His hands o' left an' right;
Two mwore feäir blossoms, crimson dyed,
Did mark the pleäces ov his veet,
An' woone did lie, a-smellèn sweet,
Up where the spear did wound the zide
Ov Him that is the life ov all
Greäve sleepers, whether big or small.
The mother that in faïth could zee
The Seävior on the high cross tree
Mid be a-vound a-grievèn sore,
But not to grieve vor evermwore,
Vor He shall show her faïthvul mind,
His chaïce is all that she should choose,
An' love that here do grieve to lose,
Shall be, above, a jaÿ to vind,
Wi' Him that evermwore shall keep
The souls that He do lay asleep.
[page 412]
WENT VROM HWOME.
The stream-be-wander'd dell did spread
Vrom height to woody height,
An' meäds did lie, a grassy bed,
Vor elem-sheädèn light.
The milkmaïd by her white-horn'd cow,
Wi' païl so white as snow,
Did zing below the elem bough
A-swaÿèn to an' fro.
An' there the evenèn's low-shot light
Did smite the high tree-tops,
An' rabbits vrom the grass, in fright,
Did leäp 'ithin the copse.
An' there the shepherd wi' his crook.
An' dog bezide his knee,
Went whisslèn by, in aïr that shook
The ivy on the tree.
An' on the hill, ahead, wer bars
A-showèn dark on high,
Avore, as eet, the evenèn stars
Did twinkle in the sky,
An' then the last sweet evenèn-tide
That my long sheäde vell there,
I went down Brindon's thymy zide,
To my last sleep at Ware.
THE FANCY FEÄIR AT MAÏDEN NEWTON.
The Frome, wi' ever-water'd brink,
Do run where shelvèn hills do zink
Wi' housen all a-cluster'd roun'
The parish tow'rs below the down.
An' now, vor woonce, at leäst, ov all
The pleäcen 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 Feäir
Is on at Maïden Newton.
An' vo'k, a-smarten'd up, wull hop
Out here, as ev'ry traïn do stop,
Vrom up the line, a longish ride,
An' down along the river-zide.
An' zome do beät, wi' heels an' tooes,
The leänes an' paths, in nimble shoes,
An' bring, bezides, a biggish knot,
Ov all their childern that can trot,
A-vlockèn where the Fancy Feäir
Is here at Maïden 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 Feäir
Is on at Maïden Newton.
Come, young men, come, an' here you'll vind
A gift to please a maïden's mind;
Come, husbands, here be gifts to please
Your wives, an' meäke em smile vor days;
Come, so's, an' buy at Fancy Feäir
A keepseäke vor your friends elsewhere;
You can't but stop an' spend a cwein
Wi' leädies that ha' goods so fine;
An' all to meake, vor childern's seäke,
The School at Maïden Newton.
THINGS DO COME ROUND.
Above the leafless hazzle-wride
The wind-drove raïn did quickly vall,
An' on the meäple's ribby zide
Did hang the raïn-drops quiv'rèn ball;
Out where the brook o' foamy yollow
Roll'd along the meäd's deep hollow,
An' noo birds wer out to beät,
Wi' flappèn wings, the vleèn wet
O' zunless clouds on flow'rless ground.
How time do bring the seasons round!
The moss, a-beät vrom trees, did lie
Upon the ground in ashen droves,
An' western wind did huffle high,
Above the sheds' quick-drippèn oves.
An' where the ruslèn straw did sound
So dry, a-shelter'd in the lew,
I staïed 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 plaÿ, did seem
In work o' men to teäke a peärt,
A-drevèn on our wild bwoy team,
Or lwoadèn 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 jaÿs a-lost, an' jaÿs 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 plaÿ the merry geäme,
Wi' childern ev'ry holitide,
But coulden tell the vaïce or neäme
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 pleäce,
A husband to a wife's true vow,
I never thought by neäme or feäce
O' childern that be round me now.
An' now they all do grow vrom small,
Drough life's feäir sheäpes to big an' tall,
I still be blind to God's good plan,
To pleäce 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 evenèn, as I shook
My locks ov haÿ by Leecombe brook.
The yollow zun did weakly glance
Upon the winter meäd askance,
A-castèn out my narrow sheäde
Athirt the brook, an' on the meäd.
The while ageän my lwonesome ears
Did russle weatherbeäten 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 bleädes
Rung sh'ill along the green-bough'd gleädes,
An' maïdens gaÿ, wi' plaÿsome 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-runnèn lowly round,
Do mark the sheädes the hedge do cast
At noon, in hoarvrost, on the ground,
I'm out when snow's a-lyèn white
In keen-aïr'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 hangèn steep,
Or hollow deep,
At Lindenore.
O welcome is the lewth a-vound
By rustlèn copse, or ivied bank,
Or by the haÿ-rick, weather-brown'd
By barken-grass, a-springèn 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 hangèn 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 vaïces vull or thin,
A praÿèn vor the souls vur out
At sea, an' cry wi' bibb'rèn 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-swingèn on the tree,
An' beäten weäves below.
Zee how the tweilèn vo'k do bend
Upon their windward track,
Wi' ev'ry string, an' garment's end,
A-flutt'rèn 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' weäves do sheen below;
An' neäked stems o' wood in hedge
Do gleäm in streäks o' light,
An' rocks do gleäre upon the ledge
O' yonder zunny height,
"No, Jeäne, wi' trials now withdrawn,
Lik' darkness at a happy dawn."
I cried, "Noo mwore despair;
Wi' our lost peace ageän a-vound,
'Tis wrong to harbour ceäre."
SLIDÈN.
When wind wer keen,
Where ivy-green
Did clwosely wind
Roun' woak-tree rind,
An' ice shone bright,
An' meäds wer white, wi' thin-spread snow
Then on the pond, a-spreadèn wide,
We bwoys did zweep along the slide,
A-strikèn on in merry row.
There ruddÿ-feäced,
In busy heäste,
We all did wag
A spankèn lag,
To win good speed,
When we, straïght-knee'd, wi' foreright tooes,
Should shoot along the slipp'ry track,
Wi' grindèn sound, a-gettèn slack,
The slower went our clumpèn shoes.
Vor zome slow chap,
Did teäke 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 laughèn crew.
As to an' fro,
In merry row,
We all went round
On ice, on ground
The maïdens nigh
A-stannèn shy, did zee us slide,
An' in their eäprons small, did vwold
Their little hands, a-got red-cwold,
Or slide on ice o' two veet wide.
By leafless copse,
An' beäre tree-tops,
An' zun's low beams,
An' ice-boun' streams,
An' vrost-boun' mill,
A-stannèn still. Come wind, blow on,
An' gi'e the bwoys, this Chris'mas tide,
The glitt'rèn ice to meäke a slide,
As we had our slide, years agone.
[page 420]
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-sheädèn bow
Do hang in leaf, an' win'-blow'd flow'rs,
Avore my lwonesome eyes do show
Theäse bright November hours.
Avore my lwonesome eyes do show
Wi' nwone but I to zee em blow.
The sheädes o' leafy buds, avore
The peänes, do sheäke 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-stirrèn nothèn mwore.
This win' mid dreve upon the maïn,
My brother's ship, a-plowèn foam,
But not bring mother, cwold, nor raïn,
At her now happy hwome.
But not bring mother, cwold, nor raïn,
Where she is out o' pain.
Zoo now that I'm a-mwopèn dumb,
A-keepèn 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.
[page 421]
A SNOWY NIGHT.
'Twer at night, an' a keen win' did blow
Vrom the east under peäle-twinklèn stars,
All a-zweepèn along the white snow;
On the groun', on the trees, on the bars,
Vrom the hedge where the win' russled drough,
There a light-russlèn snow-doust did vall;
An' noo pleäce 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-comèn 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-bloomèn feäce,
An' she blink'd wi' her head all a-zide,
An' a-chucklèn, went back to her pleäce.
An' in there, as we zot roun' the brands,
Though the talkers wer maïnly the men,
Bloomèn Jeäne, wi' her work in her hands,
Did put in a good word now an' then.
An' when I took my leave, though so bleäk
Wer the weather, she went to the door,
Wi' a smile, an' a blush on the cheäk
That the snow had a-smitten avore.
THE YEAR-CLOCK.
We zot bezide the leäfy wall,
Upon the bench at evenfall,
While aunt led off our minds vrom ceäre
Wi' veäiry teäles, I can't tell where:
An' vound us woone among her stock
O' feäbles, o' the girt Year-clock.
His feäce wer blue's the zummer skies,
An' wide's the zight o' lookèn eyes,
For hands, a zun wi' glowèn feäce,
An' peäler moon wi' swifter peäce,
Did wheel by stars o' twinklèn light,
By bright-wall'd day, an' dark-treed night;
An' down upon the high-sky'd land,
A-reachèn wide, on either hand,
Wer hill an' dell wi' win'-swaÿ'd trees,
An' lights a-zweepèn over seas,
An' gleamèn cliffs, an' bright-wall'd tow'rs,
Wi' sheädes a-markèn on the hours;
An' as the feäce, a-rollèn round,
Brought comely sheäpes along the ground.
The Spring did come in winsome steäte
Below a glowèn raïnbow geäte;
An' fan wi' aïr a-blowèn weak,
Her glossy heäir, an' rwosy cheäk,
As she did shed vrom oben hand,
The leäpèn zeed on vurrow'd land;
The while the rook, wi' heästy flight,
A-floatèn in the glowèn 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-sheär'd beam,
Avore the weäry oxen team,
Wi' Spring a-gone there come behind
Sweet Zummer, jaÿ ov ev'ry mind,
Wi' feäce a-beamèn to beguile
Our weäry souls ov ev'ry tweil.
While birds did warble in the dell
In softest aïr o' sweetest smell;
An' she, so winsome-feäir 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' sheäpes o' buttervlees in flight.
When Zummer went, the next ov all
Did come the sheäpe o' brown-feäc'd Fall,
A-smilèn in a comely gown
O' green, a-shot wi' yellow-brown,
A-border'd wi' a goolden stripe
O' fringe, a-meäde o' corn-ears ripe,
An' up ageän her comely zide,
Upon her rounded eärm, 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 Leäbor there did come
A-zingèn 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 ageän to mild-feäc'd Fall
Did come peäle Winter, last ov all,
A-bendèn down, in thoughtvul mood,
Her head 'ithin a snow-white hood
A-deck'd wi' icy-jewels, bright
An' cwold as twinklèn stars o' night;
An' there wer weary Leäbor, slack
O' veet to keep her vrozen track,
A-lookèn off, wi' wistful eyes,
To reefs o' smoke, that there did rise
A-meltèn to the peäle-feäc'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-rollèn round
'Ithout a beät, 'ithout a sound.
NOT GOO HWOME TO-NIGHT.
No, no, why you've noo wife at hwome
Abidèn up till you do come,
Zoo leäve your hat upon the pin,
Vor I'm your waïter. 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-stannèn still,
The sleepèn 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' neäked trees, the purple wood,
The scarlet hunter's ho'ses veet
Tore up the sheäkèn ground, wind-fleet,
Wi' reachèn heads, an' pankèn hides;
The while the flat-wing'd rooks in vlock.
Did zwim a-sheenèn 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 hufflèn win' do blow,
A-whirlèn down the giddy snow:
Zee how the sky's a-weärèn dim,
Behind the elem's neäked lim'.
That there do leän above the leäne:
Zoo teäke your pleäce bezide the dogs,
An' sip a drop o' hwome-brew'd eäle,
An' zing your zong or tell your teäle,
While I do baït the vier wi' logs.
No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night,
Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill.
Your meäre's in steäble wi' her hocks
In straw above her vetterlocks,
A-reachèn up her meäney neck,
An' pullèn down good hay vrom reck,
A-meäkèn slight o' snow an' sleet;
She don't want you upon her back,
To vall upon the slippery stwones
On Hollyhül, 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.
[page 426]
THE HUMSTRUM.
Why woonce, at Chris'mas-tide, avore
The wold year wer a-reckon'd out,
The humstrums here did come about,
A-soundèn up at ev'ry door.
But now a bow do never screäpe
A humstrum, any where all round,
An' zome can't tell a humstrum's sheäpe,
An' never heärd his jinglèn 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'rèn, zide by zide,
Above the humstrum's hollow back.
An' there the bwoy, wi' bended stick,
A-strung wi' heäir, to meäke a bow,
Did dreve his elbow, light'nèn 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 jinglèn sound,
The merry maïd, a-scrubbèn round
Her white-steäv'd païl, did stop her brush.
The mis'ess there, vor wold time's seäke,
Had gifts to gi'e, and smiles to show,
An' meäster, too, did stan' an' sheäke
His two broad zides, a-chucklèn low,
While ing-an-ing did ring the string,
While ang-an-ang the wires did clang.
The plaÿers' pockets wer a-strout,
Wi' wold brown pence, a-rottlèn in,
Their zwangèn 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-runnèn 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 FEÄIR.
When hillborne Paladore did show
So bright to me down miles below.
As woonce the zun, a-rollèn west,
Did brighten up his hill's high breast.
Wi' walls a-lookèn dazzlèn white,
Or yollow, on the grey-topp'd height
Of Paladore, as peäle day wore
Awaÿ so feäir.
Oh! how I wish'd that I wer there.
The pleäce wer too vur off to spy
The livèn vo'k a-passèn by;
The vo'k too vur vor aïr 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 peäle day wore
Awaÿ so feäir;
But how I wish'd that I wer there.
But when I clomb the lofty ground
Where livèn veet an' tongues did sound,
At feäir, bezide your bloomèn feäce,
The pertiest in all the pleäce,
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 feäir.
Since vu'st I trod thik steep hill-zide
My grievèn soul 'v a-been a-tried
Wi' païn, an' loss o' worldly geär,
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 feäir.
The wold brown meäre'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 feäir upon the new green cart,
An' teäke our little Poll between
Our zides, as proud's a little queen,
To Paladore. Aye, Poll a dear,
Vor now 'tis feäir,
An' she's a longèn to goo there.
While Paladore, on watch, do straïn
Her eyes to Blackmwore's blue-hill'd pläin,
While Duncliffe is the traveller's mark,
Or cloty Stour's a-rollèn dark;
Or while our bells do call, vor greäce,
The vo'k avore their Seävior's feäce,
Mid Paladore, an' Poll a dear,
Vor ever know
O' peäce an' plenty down below.
[page 429]
THE BEÄTEN PATH.
The beäten path where vo'k do meet
A-comèn on vrom vur an' near;
How many errands had the veet
That wore en out along so clear!
Where eegrass bleädes be green in meäd,
Where bennets up the leäze be brown,
An' where the timber bridge do leäd
Athirt the cloty brook to town,
Along the path by mile an' mile,
Athirt the yield, an' brook, an' stile,
There runnèn childern's hearty laugh
Do come an' vlee along—win' swift:
The wold man's glossy-knobbèd staff
Do help his veet so hard to lift;
The maïd do bear her basket by,
A-hangèn at her breäthèn zide;
An' ceäreless young men, straïght an' spry,
Do whissle hwome at eventide,
Along the path, a-reachèn by
Below tall trees an' oben sky.
There woone do goo to jaÿ a-head;
Another's jaÿ'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-teäkèn on,
As he that leätely vrom abroad
Come hwome to seek his love a-gone,
Noo mwore to tread, wi' comely eäse,
The beäten path athirt the leäze.
In tweilsome hardships, year by year,
He drough the worold wander'd wide,
Still bent, in mind, both vur an' near
To come an' meäke his love his bride.
An' passèn here drough evenèn dew
He heästen'd, happy, to her door,
But vound the wold vo'k only two,
Wi' noo mwore vootsteps on the vloor,
To walk ageän below the skies,
Where beäten paths do vall an' rise;
Vor she wer gone vrom e'thly eyes
To be a-kept in darksome sleep,
Until the good ageän do rise
A-jaÿ to souls they left to weep.
The rwose wer doust that bound her brow;
The moth did eat her Zunday ceäpe;
Her frock wer out o' fashion now;
Her shoes wer dried up out o' sheäpe—
The shoes that woonce did glitter black
Along the leäzes beäten track.
RUTH A-RIDÈN.
Ov all the roads that ever bridge
Did bear athirt a river's feäce,
Or ho'ses up an' down the ridge
Did wear to doust at ev'ry peäce,
I'll teäke the Stalton leäne to tread,
By banks wi' primrwose-beds bespread,
An' steätely elems over head,
Where Ruth do come a-ridèn.
An' I would rise when vields be grey
Wi' mornèn dew, avore 'tis dry,
An' beät the doust droughout the day
To bluest hills ov all the sky;
If there, avore the dusk o' night,
The evenèn zun, a-sheenèn bright,
Would pay my leäbors wi' the zight
O' Ruth—o' Ruth a-ridèn.
Her healthy feäce is rwosy feäir,
She's comely in her gaït an' lim',
An' sweet's the smile her feäce do wear,
Below her cap's well-rounded brim;
An' while her skirt's a-spreädèn wide,
In vwolds upon the ho'se's zide,
He'll toss his head, an' snort wi' pride,
To trot wi' Ruth a-ridèn.
An' as her ho'se's rottlèn peäce
Do slacken till his veet do beät
A slower trot, an' till her feäce
Do bloom avore the tollman's geäte;
Oh! he'd be glad to oben wide
His high-back'd geäte, an' stand azide,
A-givèn up his toll wi' pride,
Vor zight o' Ruth a-ridèn.
An' oh! that Ruth could be my bride,
An' I had ho'ses at my will,
That I mid teäke her by my zide,
A-ridèn over dell an' hill;
I'd zet wi' pride her litty tooe
'Ithin a stirrup, sheenèn new,
An' leäve all other jaÿs to goo
Along wi' Ruth a-ridèn.
If maïdens that be weäk an' peäle
A-mwopèn in the house's sheäde,
Would wish to be so blithe and heäle
As you did zee young Ruth a-meäde;
Then, though the zummer zun mid glow,
Or though the Winter win' mid blow,
They'd leäp upon the saddle's bow,
An' goo, lik' Ruth, a-ridèn.
While evenèn light do sof'ly gild
The moss upon the elem's bark,
Avore the zingèn bird's a-still'd,
Or woods be dim, or day is dark,
Wi' quiv'rèn grass avore his breast,
In cowslip beds, do lie at rest,
The ho'se that now do goo the best
Wi' rwosy Ruth a-ridèn.
BEAUTY UNDECKED.
The grass mid sheen when wat'ry beäds
O' dew do glitter on the meäds,
An' thorns be bright when quiv'rèn studs
O' raïn do hang upon their buds—
As jewels be a-meäde by art
To zet the plaïnest vo'k off smart.
But sheäkèn ivy on its tree,
An' low-bough'd laurel at our knee,
Be bright all daÿ, without the gleäre,
O' drops that duller leäves mid weär—
As Jeäne is feäir to look upon
In plaïnest gear that she can don.
MY LOVE IS GOOD.
My love is good, my love is feäir,
She's comely to behold, O,
In ev'rything that she do wear,
Altho' 'tis new or wold, O.
My heart do leäp to see her walk,
So straïght do step her veet, O,
My tongue is dum' to hear her talk,
Her vaïce 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 feäirest to my zight, O,
Till she do stan' an' I do deem,
She's feäirest at her height, O.
An' she do seem 'ithin a room
The feäirest on a floor, O,
Till I ageän do zee her bloom
Still feäirer out o' door, O.
Where flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green
Do bear but vew, so good an' true.
An' when the deäisies be a-press'd
Below her vootsteps waïght, O,
Do seem as if she look'd the best
Ov all in walkèn gaït, O.
Till I do zee her zit upright
Behind the ho'ses neck, O,
A-holdèn wi' the raïn so tight
His tossèn 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 leäser 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 gaÿ to my eyes,
Where her feäir feäce did arise,
She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts,
Than the high moon in the skies.
Oh! I vu'st heärd her a-zingèn,
As a sweet bird on a tree,
Though her zingèn wer my pleasure,
'Twer noo zong she zung to me.
Though her sweet vaïce that wer nigh,
Meäde 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-weepèn,
As a raïn-dimm'd mornèn sky,
Though her teär-draps dimm'd her blushes,
They wer noo draps I could dry.
Ev'ry bright tear that did roll,
Wer a keen païn to my soul,
But noo heärt'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-meäde her.
As an angel at my zide;
I've her best smiles that mid plaÿ,
I've her me'th when she is gaÿ,
When her tear-draps be a-rollèn,
I can now wipe em awaÿ.
THE DO'SET MILITIA.
Hurrah! my lads, vor Do'set men!
A-muster'd here in red ageän;
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'rèns thin or thick;
God speed the Colonel on the hill,[*]
An' Mrs Bingham,[†] 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 loppèn limbs a-tired,
An you be dry an' burnèn hot,
Why here's your tea an' coffee pot
At Mister Greenèn'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."
Jeäne Hart, that's Joey Duntley's chaïce,
Do praise en up wi' her sweet vaïce,
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' Jeäne do write, an' brag o' Joe
To teäke 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, toppèn 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-plaÿèn up their notes,
An' all the men vrom vur an' near
We'll gi'e em all a hearty cheer.
An' then another cheerèn still
Vor Mrs Bingham, off o' drill.
[*] Poundbury, Dorchester, the drill ground.
[†] The colonel's wife, who opened a room with a coffee-stall,
and entertainments for the men off drill.
[page 437]
A DO'SET SALE.
WITH A MISTAKE.
(Thomas and Mr Auctioneer.)
T. Well here, then, Mister auctioneer,
Be theäse 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 diddèn buy.
I don't want vuzzen, now. Not I.
Why firs an' furze do sound the seäme.
Why don't ye gi'e a thing his neäme?
Aye, firs and furze! Why, who can tell
Which 'tis that you do meän to zell?
No, no, be kind enough to call
Em virs, and vuzzen, then, that's all.
DON'T CEÄRE.
At the feäst, I do mind very well, all the vo'ks
Wer a-took in a happerèn storm,
But we chaps took the maïdens, an' kept em wi' clokes
Under shelter, all dry an' all warm;
An' to my lot vell Jeäne, 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 ceäre if they do."
When the time o' the feäst wer ageän 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 seäfely hwome to her door.
Zaid her mother, "'Tis sure to be wet."
Zaid her cousin, "'T'ull raïn by zunzet."
Zaid her aunt, "Why the clouds there do look black an' blue,"
An' zaid she, "I don't ceäre if they do."
An' at last, when she own'd I mid meäke her my bride,
Vor to help me, an' sheäre all my lot,
An' wi' faïthvulness keep all her life at my zide,
Though my waÿ mid be happy or not.
Zaid her naïghbours, "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 ceäre 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 feäce 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 ceäre if they do."
Now vor me I can zing in my business abrode,
Though the storm do beät down on my poll,
There's a wife-brighten'd vier at the end o' my road,
An' her love vor the jaÿ o' my soul.
Out o' door I wi' rogues mid be tried:
Out o' door be brow-beäten wi' pride;
Men mid scowl out o' door, if my wife is but true—
Let em scowl, "I don't ceäre if they do."
[page 439]
CHANGES.
By time's a-brought the mornèn light,
By time the light do weäne;
By time's a-brought the young man's might,
By time his might do weäne;
The Winter snow do whitèn grass,
The zummer flow'rs do brightèn grass,
Vor zome things we do lose wi' païn,
We've mwore that mid be jaÿ to gaïn,
An' my dear life do seem the seäme
While at my zide
There still do bide
Your welcome feäce an' hwomely neäme.
Wï' ev'ry day that woonce come on
I had to choose a jaÿ,
Wi' many that be since a-gone
I had to lose a jaÿ.
Drough longsome years a-wanderèn,
Drough lwonesome rest a-ponderèn,
Woone peaceful daytime wer a-bro't
To heal the heart another smote;
But my dear life do seem the seäme
While I can hear,
A-soundèn near,
Your answ'rèn vaïce an' long-call'd neäme.
An' oh! that hope, when life do dawn,
Should rise to light our waÿ,
An' then, wi' weänèn het withdrawn,
Should soon benight our waÿ.
Whatever mid beval me still,
Wherever chance mid call me still,
Though leäte my evenèn tweil mid cease,
An' though my night mid lose its peace,
My life will seem to me the seäme
While you do sheäre
My daily ceäre,
An' answer to your long-call'd neäme.
KINDNESS.
Good Meäster Collins heärd woone day
A man a-talkèn, that did zay
It woulden answer to be kind,
He thought, to vo'k o' grov'lèn mind,
Vor they would only teäke 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 remaïn
As thankless as the sea vor raïn,
On them the good's a-lost 'tis true,
But never can be lost to you.
Look on the cool-feäced moon at night
Wi' light-vull ring, at utmost height,
A-castèn down, in gleamèn strokes,
His beams upon the dim-bough'd woaks,
To show the cliff a-risèn steep,
To show the stream a-vallèn deep,
To show where windèn roads do leäd,
An' prickly thorns do ward the meäd.
While sheädes o' boughs do flutter dark
Upon the woak-trees' moon-bright bark.
There in the lewth, below the hill,
The nightèngeäle, wi' ringèn bill,
Do zing among the soft-aïr'd groves,
While up below the house's oves
The maïd, a-lookèn vrom her room
Drough window, in her youthvul bloom,
Do listen, wi' white ears among
Her glossy heäirlocks, to the zong.
If, then, the while the moon do lïght
The lwonesome zinger o' the night,
His cwold-beam'd light do seem to show
The prowlèn owls the mouse below.
What then? Because an evil will,
Ov his sweet good, mid meäke zome ill,
Shall all his feäce be kept behind
The dark-brow'd hills to leäve 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 feär,
If selfishness do wring us here,
Be souls a-holdèn in their hand,
The might an' riches o' the land.
But when the wicked, now so strong,
Shall stan' vor judgment, peäle as ashes,
By the souls that rued their wrong,
Wi' tears a-hangèn on their lashes—
Then wïthstanders they shall deäre
The leäst 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' forgèn;
Souls o' driven sleäves that left
Their weäry limbs a-mark'd by scourgèn;
They that God ha' call'd to die
Vor truth ageän the worold's lie,
An' they that groan'd an' cried in vaïn,
A-bound by foes' unrighteous chaïn.
The maïd that selfish craft led on
To sin, an' left wi' hope a-blighted;
Starvèn workmen, thin an' wan,
Wi' hopeless leäbour 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 Seäviour,
Vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show,
The marks o' man's unkind beheäviour:
Wi' speechless tongue, an' burnèn cheak,
The strong shall bow avore the weäk,
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 naïghbours 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 meäke it out.
Wi' narrow feäce, an' nose so thin
That light a'most shone drough the skin,
As he did talk, wi' his red peäir
O' lips, an' his vull eyes did steäre,
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 outlandïsh 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 mornèn 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' lookèn on an' off the ea'th,
He cried, a-drawèn a vull breath,
Why, I do know; what, can't ye zee 't?
I'll bet a shillèn 'twer a deer
Broke out o' park, an' sprung on here,
Wi' quoits upon his veet.
[page 444]
TURNÈN THINGS OFF.
Upzides wi' Polly! no, he'd vind
That Poll would soon leäve 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 steäirs
On merry Polly unaweäres,
The while her nimble tongue did run
A-tellèn, all alive wi' fun,
To sister Anne, how Simon Heäre
Did hanker after her at feäir.
"He left," cried Polly, "cousin Jeäne,
An' kept wi' us all down the leäne,
An' which way ever we did leäd
He vollow'd over hill an' meäd;
An' wi' his head o' shaggy heäir,
An' sleek brown cwoat that he do weäre,
An' collar that did reach so high
'S his two red ears, or perty nigh,
He swung his täil, wi' steps o' pride,
Back right an' left, vrom zide to zide,
A-walkèn 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 Heäre," 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 evenèn as she zot bezide
The wall the ranglèn vine do hide,
A-prattlèn 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 overheärd her talk ageän
O' Robin Hine, ov Ivy Leäne,
"Oh! no, what he!" she cried in scorn,
"I wouldèn gie a penny vor'n;
The best ov him's outzide in view;
His cwoat is gaÿ enough, 'tis true,
But then the wold vo'k didden bring
En up to know a single thing,
An' as vor zingèn,—what do seem
His zingèn's nothèn but a scream."
"So ho!" cried Jim, "Who's that, then, Meäry,
That you be now a-talkèn o'?"
He thought to catch her then, but, no,
Cried Polly, "Oh! why Jeäne's caneäry,
Wi' what have you a-been misled,
I wonder. Tell me what I zaid."
THE GIANTS IN TREÄDES.
Gramfer's Feäble.
(How the steam engine come about.)
Vier, Aïr, E'th, Water, wer a-meäde
Good workers, each o'm in his treäde,
An' Aïr an' Water, wer a-match
Vor woone another in a mill;
The giant Water at a hatch,
An' Aïr on the windmill hill.
Zoo then, when Water had a-meäde
Zome money, Äir begrudg'd his treäde,
An' come by, unaweäres 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 grindèn any corn vor bread.
Then Water cried to Vier, "Alack!
Look, here be I, so stiff's a log,
Thik fellor Aïr do keep me back
Vrom grindèn. 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 neäme,
Vor 'twerden I that wer to bleäme,
I never wagg'd, though I be'nt cringèn,
Till men did dreve me wi' their engine.
Do zet me free vrom theäse cwold jacket,
Vor I myzelf shall never crack it."
"Well come," cried Vier, "My vo'k ha' meäde
An engine that 'ull work your treäde.
If E'th is only in the mood,
While I do work, to gi'e me food,
I'll help ye, an' I'll meäke your skill
A match vor Mister Aïr'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' theäse 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 meäke, as sure as death,
Thik fellor Aïr to vind me breath,
An' you shall grind, an' pull, an' dreve,
An' zaw, an' drash, an' pump, an' heave,
An' get vrom Aïr, in time, I'll lay
A pound, the drevèn 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 peärts 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 Deäne so good an' feäir?
'Twer wide enough if she wer there.
In our deep hollow where the zun
Did eärly leäve the smoky tun,
An' all the meäds a-growèn dim,
Below the hill wi' zunny rim;
Oh! small the land the hills did bound,
But there did walk upon the ground
Young Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir:
'Twer wide enough if she wer there.
O' leäte upon the misty plaïn
I staÿ'd vor shelter vrom the raïn,
Where sharp-leav'd ashès' heads did twist
In hufflèn wind, an' driftèn mist,
An' small the worold I could zee;
But then it had below the tree
My Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir:
'Twer wide enough if she wer there.
An' I've a house wi' thatchen ridge,
Below the elems by the bridge:
Wi' small-peän'd windows, that do look
Upon a knap, an' ramblèn brook;
An' small's my house, my ruf is low,
But then who mid it have to show
But Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir?
'Tis fine enough if peace is there.
BAD NEWS.
I do mind when there broke bitter tidèns,
Woone day, on their ears,
An' their souls wer a-smote wi' a stroke
As the lightnèn 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-rollèn
The white-threaded ball.
Oh! vor their minds the daylight around em
Had nothèn to show.
Though it brighten'd their tears as they vell,
An' did sheen on their lips that did tell,
In their vaïces all thrillèn an' mwoansome,
O' nothèn 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 eärnest in words o' thanksgivèn,
Vor mercies anew.
THE TURNSTILE.
Ah! sad wer we as we did peäce
The wold church road, wi' downcast feäce,
The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep
Above our child a-left asleep,
Wer now a-zingèn all alive
Wi' tother bells to meäke the vive.
But up at woone pleäce we come by,
'Twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry:
On Steän-cliff road, 'ithin the drong,
Up where, as vo'k do pass along,
The turnèn stile, a-païnted 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' spreadèn eärms that wheel'd to guide
Us each in turn to tother zide.
An' vu'st ov all the traïn he took
My wife, wi' winsome gaït an' look;
An' then zent on my little maïd,
A-skippèn onward, overjaÿ'd
To reach ageän the pleäce o' pride,
Her comely mother's left han' zide.
An' then, a-wheelèn roun', he took
On me, 'ithin his third white nook.
An' in the fourth, a-sheäkèn wild,
He zent us on our giddy child.
But eesterday he guided slow
My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe,
An' then my little maïd in black,
A-walkèn softly on her track;
An' after he'd a-turn'd ageän,
To let me goo along the leäne,
He had noo little bwoy to vill
His last white eärms, an' they stood still.
THE BETTER VOR ZEÈN O' YOU.
'Twer good what Meäster Collins spoke
O' spite to two poor spitevul vo'k,
When woone twold tother o' the two
"I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."
If soul to soul, as Christians should,
Would always try to do zome good,
"How vew," he cried, "would zee our feäce
A-brighten'd up wi' smiles o' greäce,
An' tell us, or could tell us true,
I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."
A man mus' be in evil ceäse
To live 'ithin a land o' greäce,
Wi' nothèn 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' weepèn eyes;
To staÿ 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 zeèn o' you."
Oh! no, mid all o's try to spend
Our passèn time to zome good end,
An' zoo vrom day to day teäke heed,
By mind, an' han', by word or deed;
To lessen evil, and increase
The growth o' righteousness an' peäce,
A-speakèn words o' lovèn-kindness,
Openèn the eyes o' blindness;
Helpèn helpless striver's weakness,
Cheerèn hopeless grievers' meekness,
Meäkèn friends at every meetèn,
Veel the happier vor their greetèn;
Zoo that vew could tell us true,
"I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."
No, let us even try to win
Zome little good vrom sons o' sin,
An' let their evils warn us back
Vrom teäkèn 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 zeèn o' you."
PITY.
Good Meäster 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 praÿer to the God o' might,
He vound a fourth, 'ithout a neäme,
A-walkèn wi' em in the fleäme.
An' zoo, whenever we mid hurt,
Vrom spite, or vrom disdaïn,
A brother's soul, or meäke en smert
Wi' keen an' needless païn,
Another that we midden know
Is always wi' en in his woe.
Vor you do know our Lord ha' cried,
"By faïth my bretheren do bide
In me the livèn vine,
As branches in a livèn 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 leäve a heart o' flesh an' blood so cwold
At such a touchèn 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."
[page 453]
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-meäde 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.
"Meäke room," woone naïghbour 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-twitèn o'n wi' wrong,
Zoo he did sleep till mornèn broke,
An' birds did call en wi' their zong.
But he did love a harmless joke,
An' love his evenèn whiff o' smoke,
A-zittèn in his cheäir 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 meäke 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' teäke the raïl outright."
"Your feäre," the booker cried;
"There, there," good Bloom replied;
"Why this June het do meäke 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 traïn, vrom slow to vast.
An' oh! at last how they did spank
By cuttèn 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 feäre," the boots then cried;
"I'm there," the man replied.
"The glassen pleäce, your quickest peäce,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.
The steps went down wi' rottlèn slap,
The zwingèn door went open wide:
Wide? no; vor when the worthy chap
Stepp'd up to teäke his pleäce 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 theäse vooty thing!"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.
"Come," cried the drever. "Pay your feäre
You'll teäke up all my time, good man."
"Well," answer'd Bloom, "to meäke that square,
You teäke 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 meäke 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, "meäke 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' MAÏDENS A-RUNNÈN THE VIELDS.[*]
"Come on. Be sprack, a-laggèn back."
"Oh! be there any cows to hook?"
"Lauk she's afraïd, a silly maïd,"
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. Theäse 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-slippèn 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-zingèn 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 crawlèn thing,
A sneäke." "A slooworm; he wont sting."
"Hee! hee! how she did squal an' hop,
A-spinnèn roun' so quick's a top."
"Look here, oh! quick, be quick."
"What is it? what then? where?"
"A rabbit." "No, a heäre."
"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' sheäke it out."
"Oh! emmets, oh! ooh, ooh,
A-crawlèn all about."
"What bird is that, O harken, hush.
How sweetly he do zing."
"A nightingeäle." "La! no, a drush."
"Oh! here's a funny thing."
"Oh! how the bull do hook,
An' bleäre, 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 sheäke wi' fright."
"A musheroom." "O lau!
A twoadstool! Pwoison! Augh."
"What's that, a mouse?"
"O no,
Teäke ceäre, why 'tis a shrow."
"Be sure don't let en come
An' run athirt your shoe
He'll meäke your voot so numb
That you wont veel a tooe."[†]
"Oh! what wer that so loud
A-rumblèn?" "Why a clap
O' thunder. Here's a cloud
O' raïn. I veel a drap."
"A thunderstorm. Do raïn.
Run hwome wi' might an' main."
"Hee! hee! oh! there's a drop
A-trïckled 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!"
[*] 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.
[†] The folklore is, that if a shrew-mouse run over a person's
foot, it will lame him.
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