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

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 vor 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.

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Athirt the chest he wer so wide
As two or dree ov I 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 gert 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 da'ter cried;
“Vill'd up,” his wife replied;
“Aye, aye; a drap avore my nap,”
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

When Lon'on vo'k 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
As 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;

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“Why this June het do meäke woone zweat,”
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

Then up the guard did whissle shrill,
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 hoss 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 zixpence 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 did rottle down, slap, 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

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Vor thik there door. An' then he tried
To edge in woone an' t'other 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 fetch my foot, 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.