Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect :: :: University of Virginia Library

When wintry weather's all a-done,
An' brooks do sparkle in the zun,
An' nâisy-buildèn 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 hangèn flow'r
A-wetted in the zunny show'r,
Do grow wi' vi'lets, sweet o' smell,
Bezide the wood-screen'd grægle's bell;
Where thrushes' aggs, wi' sky-blue shell,
Do lie in mossy nests among
The thorns, while they do zing their zong
At evenen in the zunsheen.

An' God do meäke his win' to blow
An' raïn to vall vor high an' low,
An' tell 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 goo awry, and vo'k unkind,
To zee the quiet veedèn herds,
An' hear the zingèn o' the birds,
Do soothe my sorrow mwore than words;
Vor I do zee that 'tis our sin
Do meäke woone's soul so dark 'ithin,
When God would gi'e woone zunsheen.

THE WOODLANDS.

O spread ageän 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'rèn birds a-buildèn round
Your high-bough'd hedges, zunny woodlands!

You gie'd me life, you gie'd me jaÿ,
Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands!
You gie'd me health, as in my plaÿ
I rambled through ye, zunny woodlands!
You gie'd me freedom, vor to rove
In aïry meäd or sheädy grove;
You gie'd me smiln Fannèy'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 ageän unspied,
Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands!
Along your green-bough'd hedges' zide,
As then I rambled, zunny woodlands!
An' where the missèn trees woonce stood,
Or tongues woonce rung among the wood,
My memory shall meäke em good,
Though you've a-lost em, zunny woodlands!

LEADY-DAY, AN' RIDDEN HOUSE.

Aye, back at Leädy-Day, you know,
I come vrom Gullybrook to Stowe;
At Leädy-Day I took my pack
O' rottletraps, an' turn'd my back
Upon the weather-beäten door,
That had inzide o'n long avore,
The mwost that theäse zide o' the greäve,
I'd live to have, or die to seäve!
My childern, an' my vier-pleäce,
Where Molly wi' her cheerful feäce,
When I'd a-trod my wat'ry road
Vrom night-bedarken'd vields abrode,
Wi' nimble hands, at evènen, 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, strugglèn hard an' clingèn tight,
They reach'd at last my feäcè's height.
All tryèn which could soonest hold
My mind wi' little teäles they twold.
An' riddèn house is such a caddle,
I shant be over keen vor mwore ō't,
Not yet a while, you mid be sure ō't,—
I'd rather keep to woone wold staddle.

Well, zoo, avore the east begun
To redden wi' the comèn zun,
We left the beds our mossy thatch
Wer never nwore to overstratch,

An' borrow'd uncle's wold hoss Dragon,
To bring the slowly-lumbrèn waggon,
An' when he come, we vell a-packèn
The bedsteads, wi' their rwopes an' zackèn;
An' then put up the wold eärm-chair,
An' cwoffer vull ov e'then-ware,
An' vier-dogs, an' copper kittle,
Wi' crocks an' saucepans, big an' little;
An' fryèn-pan, vor aggs to slide
In butter round his hissèn zide,
An' gridire's even bars, to bear
The drippèn steak above the gleäre
O' brightly-glowèn coals. An' then,
All up o' top o' them ageän
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 reäves, along the zide,
The woäken stools, his glossy meätes,
Bwoth when he's beäre, or when the pleätes
Do clatter loud wi' knives, below
Our merry feäces 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-ceäse,
All dumb, athirt upon his feäce,
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 towárd 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 teäke,—the butter-barrel
An' cheese wring, wi' his twinèn screw,
An' all the païls an' veäts, an' blue
Wold milk leads, and a vew things mwore,
Wer all a-carr'd the day avore,
And when we thought the things wer out,
I went back in, to look about,
Wi' ling'rèn steps an' 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-streamèn weak
Drough empty rooms, an' meäkèn sad
My heart, where me'th woonce meäde me glad.
Vor when a man do leäve the he'th
An' roof 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 riddèn 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 laggèns 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 leäne,
Wi' sister Kit an' cousin Jeäne,
A-turnèn proudly to their view
His yollow breast an' back o' blue.
The lambs did plaÿ, 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 meäde the maïdens squeäl 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 beät the path an' leäp 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' Jeäne, an' Kit,
Because 'twer Easter Monday.

An' there we plaÿ'd away at quaïts,
An' weigh'd ourzelves wi' sceäles an' waïghts;
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' plaÿ'd at vives ageän the tower.
An' then we went an' had a taït,
An' cousin Sammy wi' his waïght
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 plaÿ wi' dock-leaves years agoo:
How we,—when nettles had a-stung
Our busy hands, when we wer young,—
Did rub em wi' a dock, an' zing
“Out nettl', in dock. In dock, out sting.”
An' when your feäce, in zummer's het,
Did sheen wi' tricklèn draps o' zweat,
How you, a-zot bezide the bank,
Didst toss your little head, an' pank,
An' teäke a dock-leaf in your han',
An' whisk en lik' a leädy's fan;
While I did hunt, 'ithin your zight,
Vor streaky cockle-shells to fight.

In all our play-geämes we did bruise
The dock-leaf wi' our nimble shoes;
In orcha'd where we chaps did fling
You maïdens upward in the swing,
An' by the zaw-pit's dousty bank,
Where we did taït 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 vlèe-èn frocks
An' nimble veet did strike 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-swingèn high,
Mid zing sweet ditties to the sky,
An' sparrows, clust'rèn roun' the bough,
Mid chatter to the men at plough,—
The blackbird, whisslén in among
The boughs, do zing the gaÿest zong.

Vor we do hear the blackbird zing
His sweetest ditties in the spring,
When nippèn win's noo mwore do blow
Vrom northern skies, wi' sleet or snow,
But drēve light doust along between
The leäne-zide hedges, thick an' green;
An' zoo the blackbird in among
The boughs do zing the gaÿest zong.

'Tis blithe, wi' newly-wakèn eyes,
To zee the mornen's ruddy skies;
Or, out a-haulèn frith or lops
Vrom new-plēsh'd hedge or new-vell'd copse,

To have woone's nammet down below
A tree where primrwosen do grow
But there's noo time, the whole däy long,
Lik' evenèn wi' the blackbird's zong.

Vor when my work is all a-done
Avore the zettèn o' the zun,
Then blushèn Jeäne do walk along
The hedge to meet me in the drong,
An' staÿ till all is dim an' dark
Bezides the ashen tree's white bark;
An' all bezides the blackbird's shrill
An' runnèn evenen-whissle's still.

An' there in bwoyhood I did rove
Wi' pryèn eyes along the drove
To vind the nest the blackbird meäde
O' grass-stalks in the high bough's sheäde:
Or clim' aloft, wi' clingèn knees,
Vor crows' eggs up in swaÿèn trees,
While frighten'd blackbirds down below
Did chatter o' their little foe.
An' zoo there's noo pleäce lik' the drong,
Where I do hear the blackbirds zong.

WOODCOM' FEAST.

Come, Fanny, come! put on thy white,
'Tis Woodcom' feäst, good now! to-night.
Come! think noo mwore, you silly maïd,
O' chickèn drown'd, or ducks a-straÿ'd;
Nor mwope to vind thy new frock's taïl
A-tore by hitchèn in a naïl;
Nor grieve an' hang thy head azide,
A-thinkèn o' thy lam' that died.
The flag's a-vleèn wide an' high,
An' ringèn bells do sheäke the sky;
The fifes do plaÿ, the horns do roar,
An' boughs be up at ev'ry door:
They 'll be a-dancèn soon,—the drum
'S a-rumblèn now. Come, Fanny, come!
Why father's gone, an' mother too.
Thy went up leäne 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 mwopèn wench, come out,
An' go wi' me, an' show at leäst
Bright eyes an' smiles at Woodcom' feäst.

Come, let's goo out, an' fling our heels
About in jigs an' vow'r-han' reels;
While all the stiff-lagg'd wolder vo'k,
A-zittèn roun', do talk an' joke
An' smile to zee their own wold rigs.
A-shown by our wild geämes an' jigs,

Vor ever since the vwold church speer
Vu'st prick'd the clouds, vrom year to year,
When grass in meäd 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 leäst,
Had merry hearts at Woodcom' feast.

Zoo keep it up, an' gi'e it on
To other wo'k when we be gone.
Come out; vor when the zettèn zun
Do leäve in sheäde our harmless fun,
The moon a-risèn in the east
Do gi'e us light at Woodcom, feäst.
Come, Fanny, come! put on thy white,
'Tis merry Woodcom' feäst to night:
There's nothèn vor to mwope about,—
Come out, you leäzy jeäde, come out!
An' thou wult be, to woo ne at leäst,
The prettiest maïd at Woodcom' feäst.

THE MILK-MAID O' THE FARM.

I be the milk-maid o' the farm:
I be so happy out in groun',
Wi' my white milk-païl in my eärm,
As if I wore a goolden crown.

An' I don't zit up half the night,
Nor lie vor half the day a-bed:
An' that's how 'tis my eyes be bright,
An' why my cheäks be always red.

In zummer mornèns, when the lark,
Do rouse the eärly lad an' lass
To work, I be the vu'st to mark
My steps upon the dewy grass.

An' in the evenèn, when the zun
Do sheen upon the western brows
O' hills, where bubblèn brooks do run,
There I do zing an' milk my cows.

An' ev'ry cow do stan' wi' I,
An' never move, nor kick my païl,
Nor bleäre at tother cows, nor try
To hook, or switch me wi' her taïl.

Noo leädy wi' her muff an' vaïl
Do walk wi' sich a steätely tread
As I do wi' my milkèn païl,
A-balanc'd up upon my head.

An' I at mornèn an' at night
Do skim the yoller cream, an' mould
An' press my cheeses, red an' white,
An' zee the butter vetch'd an' roll'd.

An' Thomas shan't be call'd the wo'st
Young man alive, vor he do try
To milk roun' all his own cows vu'st,
An' then to come an' milk vor I.

I be the milk-maïd o' the farm:
I be so happy out in groun',
Wi' my white milk-païl in my eärm
As if I wore a goolden crown.

THE GRE'T WOAK TREE THAT'SIN THE DELL.

The gre't woak tree that's in the dell!
There's noo tree I 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 eäcorns all a-spread,
About below his low spread head,
An' down below's the cloty brook
Where I did vish with line an' hook,
An' beät, in plaÿsome dips and zwims,
The foamy stream, wi' white-skinn'd lim's.
An' there my mother nimbly shot
Her knittèn-needles, as she zot
At evenèn down below the wide
Woak's head, wi' father at her zide.
An' I've a-plaÿed wi' many a bwoy,
That's now a man an' gone awoy;
Zoo I do like noo tree so well
'S the gre't woak tree that's in the dell.

An' there, in leäter years, I roved
Wi' thik poor maïd I fondly lov'd,—

The maid too feäir to die so soon,—
When evenèn twilight, or the moon,
Cast light enough 'ithin the pleäce
To show the smiles upon her feäce,
Wi' eyes so clear's the glassy pool,
An' lips an' cheäks 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 leäden star o' life.
She's gone: an' she 've a-left to me
Her token in the gre't woak tree;
Zoo I do love noo tree so well
'S the gre't woak tree that's in the dell.

An' oh! mid never ax nor hook
Be brought to spweil his steätely look;
Nor ever roun' his ribby zides
Mid cattle rub ther heäiry hides;
Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep
His lwonesome sheäde 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 gre't woak tree that's in the dell,
An' build his planks 'ithin the zide
O' zome gre't ship to plough the tide,
Then, life or death! I'd goo to sea,
A-saïlèn wi' the gre't woak tree:
An' I upon his planks would stand,
An' die a-fightèn vor the land,—

The land so dear,—the land so free,—
The land that bore the gre't woak tree;
Vor I do love noo tree so well
'S the gre't woak tree that's in the dell.

VELLEN THE TREE.

Aye, the gre't elem tree out in little hwome groun'
Wer a-stannèn this mornen, an' now's a-cut down.
Aye, the gre't elem tree, so big roun' an' so high,
Where the mowers did goo to their drink, an' did lie
In the sheäde ov his head, when the zun at his heighth
Had a-drove em vrom mowèn, wi' het an' wi' drîth,
Where the haÿ-meäkers put all their picks an' their reäkes
An' did squot down to snabble their cheese an' their ceäkes
An' did vill vrom their flaggons their cups wi' their eäle,
An' did meäke theirzelves merry wi' joke an' wi' teäle,

Ees, we took up a rwope an' we tied en all round
At the top o'n, wi' woone end a-hangèn to ground,
An' we cut, near the ground, his gre't stem a'most drough,
An' we bent the wold head o'n wi' woone tug or two;
An' he swaÿ'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's a-vell down,
The stem o'n do reach a-most over the groun'.
Zoo the gre't elem tree out in little hwome groun'
Wer a-stannèn this mornen, an' now's a-cut down.

BRINGEN WOONE GWAIN O' ZUNDAYS.

Ah! John! how I do love to look
Upon the hollow an' the brook
Among the withies that do hide
The stream, a-growèn at the zide;
An' at the road athirt the wide
An' shallow vword, where we young bwoys
Did peärt, when we did goo half-woys,
To bring ye gwaïn o' Zundays

Vor after church, when we got hwome,
In evenèn 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 gwaïn o' Zundays.

How we did scote all down the groun',
A-pushèn woone another down!
Or challengèn o' zides in jumps
Down over bars, an' vu'z, an' humps;
An' peärt 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 gwaïn o' Zundays.

O' leäter 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 plaÿ, an' how
You brought us gwaïn o' Zundays.

“To bring woone gwain,”—to bring one going; to bring ne 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, we all did meet
Wi' merry tongues an' skippèn veet
At evenen in the twilight.

The evenèn aïr did fan in turn,
The cheäks the midday zun did burn,
An' zet the russlèn leaves at plaÿ,
An' meäke the red-stemm'd brembles swaÿ
In bows below the snow-white maÿ;
An' whirlèn roun' the trees, did sheäke
Jeäne's raven curls about her neck,
They evenèns in the twilight.

An' there the yollow light did rest
Upon the bank towárd the west,
An' twitt'rèn birds did hop in drough
The hedge, an' many a skippèd shoe
Did beät the flowers wet wi' dew,
As underneäth the tree's wide limb
Our merry sheäpes did jumpy, dim,
They evenèns in the twilight.

How sweet's the evenèn dusk to rove
Along wi' woone that we do love!
When light enough is in the sky
To sheäde the smile an' light the eye
'Tis all but heaven to be by;
An' bid in whispers soft an' light
'S the ruslèn ov a leaf, “Good night,”
At evenèn 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 teäke or bring
But meet, when all their work's a-done,
In orcha'd vor their bit o' fun
At evenèn 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-zendèn 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 flickerèn light drough the window-peäne
Vrom the candle's dull fleäme do shoot,
An' young Jemmy the smith is a-gone down leäne,
A-playèn his shrill-vaïced 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 Maÿ
The trees be green, the vields be gaÿ;
The weather's warm, the winter blast,
Wi' all his traïn o' clouds, is past;
The zun do rise while vo'k do sleep,
To teäke a higher daily zweep,
Wi' cloudless feäce a-flingèn down
His sparklèn light upon the groun'.

The aïr's a-streamèn 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 gaÿ mid sheäme your gown:
An' goo an' rig wi' me a mile
Or two up over geäte an' stile,
Drough zunny parrocks that do leäd,
Wi' crooked hedges, to the meäd,
Where elems high, in steätely ranks,
Do rise vrom yollow cowslip-banks,
An' birds do twitter vrom the spraÿ
O' bushes deck'd wi' snow-white maÿ;
An' gil'cups, wi' the deäisy 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' sheädy elems, where the rook
Do build her nest; an' where the brook
Do creep along the meäds, an' lie
To catch the brightness o' the sky;
An' cows, in water to theïr knees,
Do stan' a whiskèn off the vlees.

Mother o' blossoms, and ov all
That's feäir a-vield vrom spring till Fall,

The gookoo over white-weäv'd seas
Do come to zing in thy green trees,
An' buttervlees, in giddy flight,
Do gleäm the mwost by thy gaÿ light.
Oh! when, at last, my fleshly eyes
Shall shut upon the vield's an' skies,
Mid zummer's zunny days be gone,
An' winter's clouds be comèn on:
Nor mid I draw upon the e'th,
O' thy sweet aïr my leätest breath;
Alassen I mid want to stay
Behind for thee, O flow'ry May!

BOB THE FIDDLER

Oh! Bob the fiddler is the pride
O' chaps an' maïdens 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' plaÿ what you do please.

At Maypolèn, or feäst, or feäir,
His eärm wull zet off twenty peäir,
An' meäke em dance the groun' dirt-beäre,
An' hop about lik' vleas

Long life to Bob! the very soul
O' me'th at merry feäst an' pole;
Vor when the crowd do leäve his jowl,
They'll all be in the dumps.
Zoo at the dance another year,
At Shillinston or Hazelbur',
Mid Bob be there to meäke 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 deäisy-beds so white's a sheet,
But still avore I us'd to meet
The blushèn cheäks that bloom'd vor me!

An' afterward in lightsome youth,
When zummer wer a-comèn on,
An' all the trees wer white wi blooth,
An' dippèn zwallows skimm'd the pon';

Sweet hope did vill my heart wi' jaÿ,
An' tell me, though thik spring wer gaÿ,
There still would come a brighter Maÿ,
Wi' blushèn cheäks to bloom vor me!

An' when, at last, the time come roun',
An' brought a lofty zun to sheen
Upon my smilèn Fanny, down
Drough nēsh young leaves o' yollow green;
How charmèn wer the het that glow'd,
How charmèn wer the sheäde a-drow'd,
How charmèn wer the win' that blow'd
Upon her cheäks that bloom'd vor me;

But hardly did they times begin,
Avore I vound em short to staÿ:
An' year by year do now come in,
To peärt me wider vrom my jaÿ;
Vor what's to meet, or what's to peärt,
Wi' maïdens kind, or maïdens smart,
When hope's noo longer in the heart,
An' cheäks 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 smilèn still my harmless dove,
So feäir as when she bloom'd vor me!

THE WHITE ROAD UP ATHIRT THE HILL.

When hot-beam'd zuns do strike right down,
An' burn our zweaty feäzen brown;
An' zunny slopes, a-lyèn nigh,
Be back'd by hills so blue's the sky;
Then, while the bells do sweetly cheem
Upon the champèn high-neck'd team,
How lively, wi' a friend, do seem
The white road up athirt the hill,

The zwellèn downs, wi' chalky tracks
A-climmèn up their zunny backs,
Do hide green meäds an' zedgy brooks,
An' clumps o' trees wi' glossy rocks,
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 feäst, when uncle's vo'k do come
To spend the day wi' us at hwome,
An' we do lay upon the bwoard
The best ov all we can avvword,
The wolder woones do talk an' smoke,
An' younger woones do plaÿ an' joke,
An' in the evenèn all our vo'k
Do bring em gwaïn 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' comèn friends do tread
The white road down athirt the hill.

An' when the windèn road so white,
A-climmèn up the hills in zight,
Do leäd to pleäzen, east or west,
The vu'st a-known, an' lov'd the best,
How touchèn in the zunsheen's glow,
Or in the sheädes 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' deäiry cows in woody nooks,
An' haymeäkers among their pooks,
An' housen that the trees do screen
From zun an' zight by boughs o' green!
Young blushèn 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 cheäks wi' zuns
O' zummer, in my plaÿsome runs
About the woody hollow.

When evenèn's risèn moon did peep
Down drough the hollow dark an' deep,
Where gigglèn sweethearts meäde their vows
In whispers under waggèn boughs;
When whisslèn bwoys, an' rott'lèn ploughs
Wer still, an' mothers, wi' their thin
Shrill vaïces, call'd their daughters in,
From walkèn 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 feäzen now a-spweil'd;
Or wolder vo'k, so wise an' mild,
That I do miss when I do goo
To zee the pleäce, an' walk down drough
The lwonesome woody hollow?

When wrongs an' overbearèn words
Do prick my bleedèn heart lik' swords,

Then I do try, vor Christes seke,
To think o' you, sweet days! an' meäk
My soul as 'twer when you did weäkee
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 feäir?
She had woone white, a-gi'ed her when
She stood at Meäry's chrissenèn;
She had woone brown, she had woone red,
A keepseäke vrom her brother dead,
That she did like to wear, to goo
To zee his greäve 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 heäir
When vu'st I walk'd wi' her at feäir.

The brown, I zaid, would do to deck
Thy heäir; the white would match thy neck;

The red would meäke thy red cheäk wan
A-thinkèn o' the gi'er gone;
The green would show thee to be true;
But still I'd sooner zee the blue,
Because 'twere he that deck'd thy heäir
When vu'st I walk'd wi' thee at feäir.

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 meäd toward the feäir;
The while her mother, at the geäte,
Call'd out an' bid her not staÿ leäte,
An' she, a-smilèn wi' her bow
O' blue, look'd roun', an' nodded, No.

Eclogue.

THE 'LOTMENTS.

John and Richard.

JOHN.
Zoo you be in your groun' then, I do zee,
A-workèn and a-zingèn lik' a bee.
How do it answer? what d'ye think about it?
D'ye think 'tis better wi' it than without it?
A-recknèn 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 won, I'm sure o't.
If I had not a-got it, my poor bownes
Would now ha' eäch'd a-crackèn stwones
Upon the road; I wish I had zome mwore o't.

JOHN.
I wish the gre't woones had a-got the greäce
To let out land lik' this in ouer pleäce;
But I do fear there'll never be nwone vor us,
An' I can't tell whatever we shall do:
We be a-most starvèn, 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 pleäce the plan;
He zaid he'd let a vew odd eäcres
O' land to us poor leäb'rèn men;
An' faith, he had enough o' teäkers
Vor that, an' twice so much ageän.
Zoo I took zome here, near my hovel,
To exercise my speäde an' shovel;
An' what wi' dungèn, diggèn up, an' zeedèn,
A-thinnèn, cleänèn, howèn up an' weedèn,
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' eärn a penny;
An' then, by workèn, they do learn the vaster
The way to do things when they got a meäster;
Vor woone must know a deäl about the land

Bevore woone's fit to lend a useful hand,
In geärden or a-vield upon a farm.

RICHARD.
An' then the work do keep em out o' harm;
Vor vo'ks that don't do nothèn wull be vound
Soon doèn woose than nothèn, I'll be bound.
But as vor me, d'ye zee, with theäse 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 beäns or cabbage, greens or grass,
Or bit o' wheat, or, sich my happy feäte is,
That I can keep a little cow, or ass,
An' a vew pigs to eat the little teäties.

JOHN.
An when your pig's a-fatted pretty well
Wi' teäties, 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' netlèns vor to bwoil; or put the blood in,
An' meäke 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.

Eclogue.

A BIT O' SLY COORTEN.

John and Fanny.

JOHN.
Now, Fanny, 'tis too bad, you teazèn maïd!
How leäte you be a'come! Where have ye staÿ'd?
How long you have a-meäde me waït about!
I thought you werden gwaïn to come ageän;
I had a mind to goo back hwome ageän.
This idden when you promis'd to come out.

FANNY.
Now 'tidden any good to meäke 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 want to goo though, don't ye staÿ
Vor me a minute longer, I do praÿ.

JOHN.
I thought ye mid be out wid Jemmy Bleäke.

FANNY.
An' why be out wi' him, vor goodness' seäke?

JOHN.
You walk'd o' Zunday evenen wi'n, d'ye know,
You went vrom church a-hitch'd up in his eärm.

FANNY.
Well, if I did, that werden any harm.
Lauk! that is zome'at to teäke notice o'.

JOHN.
He took ye roun' the middle at the stile,
An' kiss'd ye twice i'thin 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-lendèn me his eärm.
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'èn me a kiss.

JOHN.
Well, he shan't kiss ye, then; you shan't be kiss'd
By his gre't 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 gre't pug-nose, if I don't miss en;
I'll warn I'll spweil his pretty lips vor kissèn!

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'èn vo'k a drashèn,
An' breakèn bwones, an' beäten 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 gre't Jemmy have a-won your heart,
We'd better break the coortship off, an' peärt.

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-like 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 me.
[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 meäke it up. Come, wipe off thik there tear.
Let's goo an' zit o' top o' theäse 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 smilèn; 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-rumpl'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-comèn down the groun'
Towards the stile. Who is it? Come, get do
I must run hwome, upon my word then, now
If I do staÿ, they'll kick up sich a row.
Good night. I can't staÿ now.

JOHN.
Then good night, Fanny!
Come out a-bit to-morrow evenen, can ye!