Thâ zâ I'm maz'd.—I veel—I thenk—-
I tâk—I ate, an oten drenk.—
Tha thenk, a-mâ-be, zumtimes, peel—
An gee me stra vor bed an peel!
Thâ zâ I'm maz'd.—Hush! Babby, dear!
Thâ shan't come to er!—niver fear!
Thâ zâ thy Father's dead!—Naw, naw!
A'll niver die while I'm belaw.
Thâ zâ I'm maz'd.—Why dwont you speak?
Fie James!—or else my hort ool break!—
James is not dead! nor Babby!—naw!
Thâ'll niver die while I'm belaw!
REMEMBRANCE.
An shall I drap tha Reed—an shall I,
Athout one nawte about my SALLY?
Althaw we Pawets âll be zingers,
We like, wi' enk, ta dye our vingers;
Bit mooäst we like in vess ta pruv
That we remimber those we love.
Sim-like-it than, that I should iver
Vorgit my SALLY.—Niver, niver!
Vor, while I've wander'd in tha West—
At mornin tide—at evenin rest—
On Quantock's hills—in Mendip's vales—
On Parret's banks—in zight o' Wales—
In thic awld mansion whaur tha bâll
Once vrighten'd Lady Drake an âll;—
When wi' tha Ladies o' thic dell
Whaur witches spird ther 'ticin spell—
[Footnote: COMBE SYDENHAM, the residence of my Friend, GEORGE
NOTLEY, Esq. The history of the Magic Ball, as it has been
called, is now pretty generally known, and therefore need not
be here repeated.]
Amangst tha rocks on Watchet shaur
When did tha wine an wâters raur—
In Banwell's cave—on Loxton hill—
At Clifton gâ—at Rickford rill—
In Compton ood—in Hartree coom—
At Crispin's cot wi' little room;—
At Upton—Lansdown's lofty brow—
At Bath, whaur pleasure flânts enow;
At Trowbridge, whaur by Friendship's heed,
I blaw'd again my silent Reed,
An there enjay'd, wi' quiet, rest,
Jitch recollections o' tha West;
Whauriver stapp'd my voot along
I thawt o' HER.—Here ends my zong.
DOCTOR COX; A BLANSCUE.
(First printed in the Graphic Illustrator.)
The catastrophe described in the following sketch, occurred near Highbridge, in Somersetshire, about the year 1779.—Mr. or Doctor Cox, as surgeons are usually called in the west, was the only medical resident at Huntspill, and in actual practice for many miles around that village. The conduct of Mr. Robert Evans, the friend and associate of Cox, can only be accounted for by one of those unfortunate infatuations to which the minds of some are sometimes liable. Had an immediate alarm been given when we children first discovered that Cox was missing, he might, probably, have been saved. The real cause of his death was, a too great abstraction of heat from the body; as the water was fresh and still, and of considerable depth, and, under the surface, much beneath the usual temperature of the human body. This fact ought to be a lesson to those who bathe in still and deep fresh water; and to warn them to continue only a short time in such a cold medium. [Footnote: Various efforts to restore the suspended animation of Cox, such as shaking him, rolling him on a cask, attempts to get out the water which it was then presumed had got into the stomach or the lungs, or both, in the drowning; strewing salt over the body, and many other equally ineffectual and improper methods to restore the circulation were, I believe, pursued. Instead of which, had the body been laid in a natural position, and the lost heat gradually administered, by the application of warm frictions, a warm bed, &c., how easily in all probability, would animation have been restored!]
The BRUE war bright, and deep and clear;
[Footnote: The reader must not suppose that the river Brue,
is generally a clear stream, or always rapid. I have elsewhere
called it "lazy Brue." It is sometimes, at and above the
floodgates at Highbridge, when they are not closed by the
tide, a rapid stream; but through the moors, generally, its course
is slow. In the summertime, and at the period to which allusion is
made, the floodgates were closed.]
And Lammas dâ and harras near:
The zun upon the waters drode
Girt sheets of light as on a rode;
From zultry heät the cattle hirn'd
To shade or water as to firnd:
Men, too, in yarly âternoon
Doft'd quick ther cloaths and dash'd in zoon
To thic deep river, whaur the trout,
In all ther prankin, plâd about;
And yels wi' zilver skins war zid,
While gudgeons droo the wâter slid,
Wi' carp sumtimes and wither fish
Avoordon many a dainty dish.
Whaur elvers too in spring time plâd,
[Footnote: Young eels are called elvers in Somersetshire.
Walton, in his Angler, says, "Young eels, in the Severn,
are called yelvers." In what part of the country through
which the Severn passes they are called yelvers we are not told in
Walton's book; as eels are called, in Somersetshere, yels, analogy
seems to require yelvers for their young; but I never heard
them so called. The elvers used to be obtained from the salt-water
side of the bridge.]
And pailvuls mid o' them be had.
The wâter cold—the zunshine bright,
To zwiminers than what high delight!
'Tis long agwon whun youth and I
Wish'd creepin Time would rise and vly—
A, half a hundred years an moor
Zunz I a trod theäze earthly vloor!
I zed, the face o' Brue war bright;
Time smil'd too in thic zummer light.
Wi' Hope bezide en promising
A wordle o' fancies wild ö' whing.
I mine too than one lowering cloud
That zim'd to wrop us like a shroud;
The death het war o' Doctor Cox—
To thenk o't now the storry shocks!
Vor âll the country vur and near
Shod than vor'n many a horty tear.
The Doctor like a duck could zwim;
No fear o' drownin daver'd him!
The pectur now I zim I zee!
I wish I could liet's likeness gee!
His Son, my brother John, myzel,
Or Evans, mid the storry tell;
But thâ be gwon and I, o' âll
O'm left to zâ what did bevâll.
Zo, nif zo be you like, why I
To tell the storry now ool try.
Thic _Evans_had a coward core
And fear'd to venter vrom the shore;
While to an vro, an vur an near,
And now an tan did Cox appear
In dalliance with the wâters bland,
Or zwimmin wi' a maëster hand.
We youngsters dree, the youngest I,
To zee the zwimmers âll stood by
Upon the green bonk o' the Brue
Jist whaur a stook let water droo:
A quiet time of joyousness
Zim'd vor a space thic dâ to bless!
A dog' too, faithful to his maëster
War there, and mang'd wi' the disaster—
Vigo, ah well I mine his name!
A Newvoun-lond and very tame!
But Evans only war to blame:
He âllès paddled near the shore
Wi' timid hon and coward core;
While Doctor Cox div'd, zwim'd at ease
Like fishes in the zummer seas;
Or as the skaiters on the ice
In winin circles wild and nice
Yet in a moment he war gwon,
The wonderment of ivry one:
That is, we dree and Evans, âll
That zeed what Blanscue did bevâll.—
Athout one sign, or naise, or cry,
Or shriek, or splash, or groan, or sigh!
Could zitch a zwimmer ever die
In wâter?—Yet we gaz'd in vain
Upon thic bright and wâter plain:
All smooth and calm—no ripple gave
One token of the zwimmer's grave!
We hir'd en not, we zeed en not!—
The glassy wâter zim'd a blot?
While Evans, he of coward core,
Still paddled as he did bevore!
At length our fears our silence broke,—
Young as we war, and children âll,
We wish'd to goo an zum one câll;
But Evans carelissly thus spoke—
"Oh, Cox is up the river gone,
Vor sartain ool be back anon;—
He tâlk'd o' cyder, zed he'd g'up
To Stole's an drenk a horty cup!"
[Footnote: Mr. Stole resided near Newbridge, about a mile
from the spot where the accident occurred; he was somewhat famous
for his cyder.]
Conjecture anty as the wine!
And zoon did he het's faleshood vine.