 | Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect |  |
GRUFFMOODY GRIM.
Aye, a sad life his wife must ha' led,
Vor so snappish he's leätely a-come,
That there's nothèn but anger or dread
Where he is, abroad or at hwome;
He do wreak all his spite on the bwones
O' whatever do vlee, or do crawl;
He do quarrel wi' stocks, an' wi' stwones,
An' the raïn, if do hold up or vall;
There is nothèn vrom mornèn till night
Do come right to Gruffmoody Grim.
Vor so snappish he's leätely a-come,
That there's nothèn but anger or dread
Where he is, abroad or at hwome;
He do wreak all his spite on the bwones
O' whatever do vlee, or do crawl;
He do quarrel wi' stocks, an' wi' stwones,
An' the raïn, if do hold up or vall;
There is nothèn vrom mornèn till night
Do come right to Gruffmoody Grim.
191
Woone night, in his anger, he zwore
At the vier, that didden burn free:
An' he het zome o't out on the vloor,
Vor a vlanker it cast on his knee.
Then he kicked it vor burnèn the child,
An' het it among the cat's heaïrs;
An' then beät the cat, a-run wild,
Wi' a spark on her back up the steaïrs;
Vor even the vier an' fleäme
Be to bleäme wi' Gruffmoody Grim.
At the vier, that didden burn free:
An' he het zome o't out on the vloor,
Vor a vlanker it cast on his knee.
Then he kicked it vor burnèn the child,
An' het it among the cat's heaïrs;
An' then beät the cat, a-run wild,
Wi' a spark on her back up the steaïrs;
Vor even the vier an' fleäme
Be to bleäme wi' Gruffmoody Grim.
Then he snarl'd at the tea in his cup,
Vor 'twer all a-got cwold in the pot,
But 'twer woo'se when his wife vill'd it up
Vrom the vire, vor 'twer then scaldèn hot;
Then he growl'd that the bread wer sich st?
As noo hammer in parish could crack,
An' flung down the knife in a huff;
Vor the edge o'n wer thicker'n the back.
Vor beäkers an' meäkers o' tools
Be all fools wi' Gruffmoody Grim,
Vor 'twer all a-got cwold in the pot,
But 'twer woo'se when his wife vill'd it up
Vrom the vire, vor 'twer then scaldèn hot;
Then he growl'd that the bread wer sich st?
As noo hammer in parish could crack,
An' flung down the knife in a huff;
Vor the edge o'n wer thicker'n the back.
Vor beäkers an' meäkers o' tools
Be all fools wi' Gruffmoody Grim,
Oh! he's welcome, vor me, to breed dread
Wherever his sheäde mid alight,
An' to live wi' noo me'th round his head,
An' noo feäce wi' a smile in his zight;
But let vo'k be all merry an' zing
At the he'th where my own logs do burn,
An' let anger's wild vist never swing
In where I have a door on his durn;
Vor I'll be a happier man,
While I can, than Gruffmoody Grim.
Wherever his sheäde mid alight,
An' to live wi' noo me'th round his head,
An' noo feäce wi' a smile in his zight;
192
At the he'th where my own logs do burn,
An' let anger's wild vist never swing
In where I have a door on his durn;
Vor I'll be a happier man,
While I can, than Gruffmoody Grim.
To zit down by the vier at night,
Is my jaÿ—vor I woon't call it pride,—
Wi' a brand on the bricks, all alight,
An' a pile o' zome mwore at the zide.
Then tell me o' zome'hat that's droll,
An' I'll laugh till my two zides do eäche;
Or o' naïghbours in sorrow o' soul,
An' I'll tweil all the night vor their seäke;
An' show that to teäke things amiss
Idden bliss, to Gruffmoody Grim.
Is my jaÿ—vor I woon't call it pride,—
Wi' a brand on the bricks, all alight,
An' a pile o' zome mwore at the zide.
Then tell me o' zome'hat that's droll,
An' I'll laugh till my two zides do eäche;
Or o' naïghbours in sorrow o' soul,
An' I'll tweil all the night vor their seäke;
An' show that to teäke things amiss
Idden bliss, to Gruffmoody Grim.
An' then let my child clim' my lag,
An' I'll lift en, wi' love, to my chin;
Or my maïd come an' coax me to bag
Vor a frock, an' a frock she shall win;
Or, then if my wife do meäke light
O' whatever the bwoys mid ha' broke,
It wull seem but so small in my zight,
A a leaf a-het down vrom a woak;
An' not meäke me ceäper an' froth
Vull o' wrath, lik' Gruffmoody Grim.
An' I'll lift en, wi' love, to my chin;
Or my maïd come an' coax me to bag
Vor a frock, an' a frock she shall win;
Or, then if my wife do meäke light
O' whatever the bwoys mid ha' broke,
It wull seem but so small in my zight,
A a leaf a-het down vrom a woak;
193
Vull o' wrath, lik' Gruffmoody Grim.
| Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect | |