The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect, by 
William Barnes

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Title: Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect

Author: William Barnes

Release Date: June 9, 2007 [EBook #21785]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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[Transcriber's Note: The Pronunciation Guide and Word List are at the end
of the book.]





_POEMS OF RURAL LIFE IN THE DORSET DIALECT._

BY WILLIAM BARNES.


[Illustration]


LONDON: KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRBNER & Co., LTD. 1903






_TO THE READER._


KIND READER,

Two of the three Collections of these Dorset Poems have been, for some
time, out of print, and the whole of the three sets are now brought
out in one volume.

I have little more to say for them, than that the writing of them
as glimpses of life and landscape in Dorset, which often open to
my memory and mindsight, has given me very much pleasure; and my
happiness would be enhanced if I could believe that you would feel my
sketches to be so truthful and pleasing as to give you even a small
share of pleasure, such as that of the memories from which I have
written them.

This edition has a list of such Dorset words as are found in the
Poems, with some hints on Dorset word shapes, and I hope that they
will be found a fully good key to the meanings of the verse.


Yours kindly,

W. BARNES

_June 1879._





CONTENTS.

FIRST COLLECTION.


SPRING.

The Spring                                          3
The Woodlands                                       4
Ledy-Day, an' Riddn House                         5
Easter Zunday                                       8
Easter Monday                                       9
Dock-Leaves                                         9
The Blackbird                                      10
Woodcom' Fest                                     12
The Milk-Mad o' the Farm                          13
The Girt Woak Tree that's in the Dell              15
Velln o' the Tree                                 16
Bringn Woone Gwan o' Zundays                     17
Evenn Twilight                                    18
Evenn in the Village                              20
May                                                20
Bob the Fiddler                                    22
Hope in Spring                                     23
The White Road up athirt the Hill                  24
The Woody Hollow                                   25
Jenny's Ribbons                                    26
Eclogue:--The 'Lotments                            28
Eclogue:--A Bit o' Sly Coortn                     30


SUMMER.

Evenn, an' Madens out at Door                    34
The Shepherd o' the Farm                           35
Vields in the Light                                36
Whitsuntide an' Club Walkn                        37
Woodley                                            39
The Brook that Ran by Gramfer's                    41
Sleep did come wi' the Dew                         42
Sweet Music in the Wind                            43
Uncle an' Aunt                                     44
Havn Woones Fortune a-twold                       46
Jene's Weddn Day in Mornn                       47
Rivers don't gi'e out                              49
Meken up a Miff                                   50
Ha-Meken                                         51
Ha-Carrn                                         52
Eclogue:--The Best Man in the Vield                54
Where we did keep our Flagon                       57
Week's End in Zummer, in the Wold Vo'k's Time      58
The Med a-mow'd                                   60
The Sky a-clern                                  61
The Evenn Star o' Zummer                          62
The Clote                                          63
I got two Vields                                   65
Polly be-n upzides wi' Tom                        66
Be'mi'ster                                         67
Thatchn o' the Rick                               68
Bees a-Zwarmn                                     69
Readn ov a Head-stwone                            70
Zummer Evenn Dance                                71
Eclogue:--The Veiries                             72


FALL.

Corn a-turnn Yollow                               76
A-Hauln o' the Corn                               77
Harvest Hwome:--The vu'st Pert                    78
Harvest Hwome:--Second Pert                       79
A Zong ov Harvest Hwome                            80
Poll's Jack-Daw                                    82
The Ivy                                            83
The Welshnut Tree                                  84
Jenny out vrom Hwome                               86
Grenley Water                                      86
The Veiry Veet that I do meet                     87
Mornn                                             88
Out a-Nuttn                                       90
Tekn in Apples                                   91
Meple Leaves be Yollow                            92
Night a-zettn in                                  93
The Weather-beten Tree                            94
Shrodon Feir:--The vu'st Pert                    95
Shrodon Feir:--The rest o't                       96
Martin's Tide                                      97
Guy Faux's Night                                   99
Eclogue:--The Common a-took in                    100
Eclogue:--Two Farms in Woone                      102


WINTER.

The Vrost                                         105
A Bit o' Fun                                      106
Fanny's Be'th-day                                 107
What Dick an' I did                               109
Grammer's Shoes                                   111
Zunsheen in the Winter                            112
The Weepn Ledy                                  113
The Happy Days when I wer Young                   115
In the Stillness o' the Night                     116
The Settle an' the Girt Wood Vire                 117
The Carter                                        118
Chris'mas Invitation                              120
Keepn up o' Chris'mas                            121
Zittn out the Wold Year                          122
Woak wer Good Enough Woonce                       123
Lullaby                                           124
Mery-Ann's Child                                 125
Eclogue:--Father Come Hwome                       126
Eclogue:--A Ghost                                 129


SUNDRY PIECES.

A Zong                                            133
The Mad vor my Bride                             134
The Hwomestead                                    135
The Farmer's Woldest D[=a]'ter                    136
Uncle out o' Debt an' out o' Danger               137
The Church an' Happy Zunday                       140
The Wold Waggon                                   141
The Drven o' the Common                          142
The Common a-took in                              143
A Wold Friend                                     145
The Rwose that Deck'd her Breast                  145
Nanny's Cow                                       147
The Shep'erd Bwoy                                 148
Hope a-left Behind                                149
A Good Father                                     150
The Beam in Grenley Church                        151
The Vaces that be Gone                           152
Poll                                              153
Looks a-know'd Avore                              154
The Music o' the Dead                             155
The Plece a Tele's a-twold o'                   156
Aunt's Tantrums                                   158
The Stwonn Pworch                                159
Farmer's Sons                                     160
Jene                                             161
The Dree Woaks                                    162
The Hwomestead a-vell into Hand                   164
The Guide Post                                    166
Gwain to Feir                                    167
Jene o' Grenley Mill                             168
The Bells ov Alderburnham                         169
The Girt Wold House o' Mossy Stwone               170
A Witch                                           173
Eclogue:--The Times                               175


       *       *       *       *       *


SECOND COLLECTION.

Blackmwore Madens                                185
My Orcha'd in Lindn Lea                          186
Bishop's Caundle                                  187
Hay Mekn--Nunchen Time                          189
A Father out an' Mother Hwome                     191
Riddles                                           192
Day's Work a-done                                 196
Light or Shede                                   197
The Waggon a-stooded                              197
Gwan down the Steps                              201
Ellen Brine ov Allenburn                          202
The Motherless Child                              203
The Ledy's Tower                                 204
Fatherhood                                        208
The Mad o' Newton                                211
Childhood                                         212
Mery's Smile                                     213
Mery Wedded                                      214
The Stwonn Bwoy                                  215
The Young that died in Beauty                     217
Fir Emily of Yarrow Mill                         218
The Scud                                          219
Mindn House                                      221
The Lovely Mad ov Elwell Med                    222
Our Fathers' Works                                224
The Wold vo'k Dead                                225
Culver Dell and the Squire                        227
Our Be'thplace                                    229
The Window fremed wi' Stwone                     230
The Waterspring in the Lene                      231
The Poplars                                       232
The Linden on the Lawn                            233
Our abode in Arby Wood                            235
Slow to come, quick agone                         236
The Vier-zide                                     236
Knowlwood                                         238
Hallowed Pleces                                  240
The Wold Wall                                     242
Bleke's House                                    243
John Bleke at Hwome                              245
Milkn Time                                       247
When Birds be Still                               248
Ridn Hwome at Night                              249
Zun-zet.                                          250
Spring                                            252
The Zummer Hedge                                  253
The Water Crowvoot                                254
The Lilac                                         255
The Blackbird                                     256
The Slantn light o' Fall                         257
Thissledown                                       259
The May-tree                                      259
The Lydlinch Bells                                260
The Stage Coach                                   261
Wayfern                                         263
The Lene                                         265
The Ralroad                                      267
The Ralroad                                      268
Seats                                             268
Sound o' Water                                    270
Trees be Company                                  270
A Plece in Zight                                 272
Gwan to Brookwell                                273
Brookwell                                         275
The Shy Man                                       277
The Winter's Willow                               279
I know Who                                        281
Jessie Lee                                        282
True Love                                         283
The Ben-vield                                    284
Wold Friends a-met                                286
Fifehead                                          288
Ivy Hall                                          289
False Friends-like                                290
The Bachelor                                      290
Married Peir's Love-walk                         292
A Wife a-pras'd                                  293
The Wife a-lost                                   295
The Thorns in the Gete                           296
Angels by the Door                                297
Vo'k a-comn into Church                          298
Woone Rule                                        299
Good Mester Collins                              300
Herrnston                                        302
Out at Plough                                     304
The Bwoat                                         306
The Plece our own agean                          307
Eclogue:--John an' Thomas                         308
Pentridge by the River                            310
Wheat                                             311
The Med in June                                  313
Early risn                                       315
Zelling woone's Honey                             316
Dobbin Dead                                       317
Happiness                                         319
Gruffmoody Grim                                   320
The Turn o' the Days                              322
The Sparrow Club                                  323
Gammony Ga                                       325
The Here                                         327
Nanny Gill                                        329
Moonlight on the Door                             330
My Love's Guardian Angel                          331
Leeburn Mill                                      332
Praise o' Do'set                                  333


THIRD COLLECTION.

Woone Smile Mwore                                 339
The Echo                                          340
Vull a Man                                        341
Naighbour Plametes                              343
The Lark                                          345
The Two Churches                                  345
Woak Hill                                         347
The Hedger                                        348
In the Spring                                     349
The Flood in Spring                               350
Comen Hwome                                       351
Grammer a-crippled                                352
The Castle Ruins                                  354
Eclogue:--John jealous                            355
Early Plamete                                   359
Pickn o' Scroff                                  360
Good Night                                        361
Went Hwome                                        362
The Hollow Woak                                   363
Childern's Childern                               364
The Rwose in the Dark                             365
Come                                              366
Zummer Winds                                      367
The Neme Letters                                 368
The New House a-gettn Wold                       370
Zunday                                            370
The Pillar'd Gete                                371
Zummer Stream                                     373
Zummer Stream                                     373
Linda Dene                                       374
Eclogue:--Come an' zee us                         376
Lindenore                                         377
Me'th below the Tree                              378
Treat well your Wife                              379
The Child an' the Mowers                          381
The Love Child                                    382
Hawthorn Down                                     383
Oben Vields                                       385
What John wer a-telln                            386
Shedes                                           387
Times o' Year                                     387
Eclogue:--Racketn Joe                            388
Zummer an' Winter                                 391
To Me                                             392
Two an' Two                                       393
The Lew o' the Rick                               394
The Wind in Woone's Fece                         395
Tokens                                            396
Tweil                                             396
Fancy                                             398
The Broken Heart                                  399
Evenn Light                                      400
Vields by Watervalls                              401
The Wheel Routs                                   402
Nanny's new Abode                                 403
Leaves a-valln                                   404
Lizzie                                            405
Blessens a-left                                   406
Fall Time                                         407
Fall                                              408
The Zilver-weed                                   409
The Widow's House                                 409
The Child's Greve                                410
Went vrom Hwome                                   412
The Fancy Feir                                   412
Things do Come Round                              414
Zummer Thoughts in Winter Time                    415
I'm out o' Door                                   416
Grief an' Gladness                                417
Slidn                                            418
Lwonesomeness                                     420
A Snowy Night                                     421
The Year-clock                                    421
Not goo Hwome To-night                            424
The Humstrum                                      426
Shaftesbury Feir                                 427
The Beten Path                                   429
Ruth a-ridn                                      430
Beauty Undecked                                   432
My love is good                                   432
Heedless o' my love                               434
The Do'set Militia                                435
A Do'set Sale                                     437
Don't cere                                       437
Changes                                           439
Kindness                                          440
Withstanders                                      441
Daniel Dwithen                                    442
Turnn things off                                 444
The Giants in Tredes                             445
The Little Worold                                 447
Bad News                                          448
The Turnstile                                     449
The Better vor zen o' you                        450
Pity                                              451
John Bloom in Lon'on                              453
A Lot o' Madens                                  456




POEMS OF RURAL LIFE.

FIRST COLLECTION.




SPRING.




THE SPRING.


  When wintry weather's all a-done,
  An' brooks do sparkle in the zun,
  An' nisy-buildn 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 hangn flow'r
  A-wetted in the zunny show'r,
  Do grow wi' vi'lets, sweet o' smell,
  Bezide the wood-screen'd grgle's bell;
  Where drushes' aggs, wi' sky-blue shell,
    Do lie in mossy nest among
    The thorns, while they do zing their zong
      At evenn in the zunsheen.

  An' God do meke his win' to blow
  An' ran to vall vor high an' low,
  An' bid his mornn 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 all goo wrong, an' vo'k unkind,
  To zee the happy veedn herds,
  An' hear the zingn o' the birds,
  Do soothe my sorrow mwore than words;
    Vor I do zee that 'tis our sin
    Do meke woone's soul so dark 'ithin,
      When God would gi'e woone zunsheen.




THE WOODLANDS.


  O spread agen your leaves an' flow'rs,
    Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands!
  Here underneath the dewy show'rs
    O' warm-ar'd spring-time, zunny woodlands!
  As when, in drong or open ground,
  Wi' happy bwoyish heart I vound
  The twitt'rn birds a-buildn round
    Your high-bough'd hedges, zunny woodlands.

  You gie'd me life, you gie'd me ja,
    Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands
  You gie'd me health, as in my pla
    I rambled through ye, zunny woodlands!
  You gie'd me freedom, vor to rove
  In ary med or shedy grove;
  You gie'd me smiln Fanny'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 agen unspied,
    Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands!
  Along your green-bough'd hedges' zide,
    As then I rambled, zunny woodlands!
  An' where the missn trees woonce stood,
  Or tongues woonce rung among the wood,
  My memory shall meke em good,
    Though you've a-lost em, zunny woodlands!




LEADY-DAY, AN' RIDDEN HOUSE.


  Aye, back at Ledy-Day, you know,
  I come vrom Gullybrook to Stowe;
  At Ledy-Day I took my pack
  O' rottletraps, an' turn'd my back
  Upon the weather-beten door,
  That had a-screen'd, so long avore,
  The mwost that these zide o' the greve,
  I'd live to have, or die to seve!
  My childern, an' my vier-plece,
  Where Molly wi' her cheerful fece,
  When I'd a-trod my wat'ry road
  Vrom night-bedarken'd vields abrode,
  Wi' nimble hands, at evenn, 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, struggln hard an' clingn tight,
  They reach'd at last my fece's height.
  All tryn which could soonest hold
  My mind wi' little teles they twold.
  An' riddn house is such a caddle,
  I shan't be over keen vor mwore [=o]'t,
  Not yet a while, you mid be sure [=o]'t,--
  I'd rather keep to woone wold staddle.

  Well, zoo, avore the east begun
  To redden wi' the comn zun,
  We left the beds our mossy thatch
  Wer never mwore to overstratch,
  An' borrow'd uncle's wold hoss _Dragon_,
  To bring the slowly lumbrn waggon,
  An' when he come, we vell a-packn
  The bedsteads, wi' their rwopes an' zackn;
  An' then put up the wold erm-chair,
  An' cwoffer vull ov e'then-ware,
  An' vier-dogs, an' copper kittle,
  Wi' crocks an' saucepans, big an' little;
  An' fryn-pan, vor aggs to slide
  In butter round his hissn zide,
  An' gridire's even bars, to bear
  The drippn steke above the glere
  O' brightly-glown coals. An' then,
  All up o' top o' them agen
  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 reves, along the zide,
  The woken stools, his glossy metes,
  Bwoth when he's bere, or when the pletes
  Do clatter loud wi' knives, below
  Our merry feces 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-cese,
  All dumb, athirt upon his fece,
  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 towrd 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 teke,--the butter-barrel
  An' cheese-wring, wi' his twinn screw,
  An' all the pals an' vets, an' blue
  Wold milk leads, and a vew things mwore,
  Wer all a-carr'd the day avore,
  And when the mwost ov our wold stuff
  Wer brought outside o' thik brown ruf,
  I rambled roun' wi' 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-streamn weak
  Drough empty rooms, an' mekn sad
  My heart, where me'th woonce mede me glad.
  Vor when a man do leve the he'th
  An' ruf 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 riddn 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 laggns on, an' tied
  His shoes wi' strings two vingers wide,
      Because 'twer Easter Zunday.

  An' after mornn church wer out
  He come back hwome, an' stroll'd about
  All down the vields, an' drough the lene,
  Wi' sister Kit an' cousin Jene,
  A-turnn proudly to their view
  His yollow breast an' back o' blue.
  The lambs did pla, 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 mede the madens squel 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 bet the path an' lep 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' Jene, an' Kit,
        Because 'twer Easter Monday.

  An' there we pla'd away at quats,
  An' weigh'd ourzelves wi' sceles an' waghts;
  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' pla'd at vives agen the tower.
  An' then we went an' had a tat,
  An' cousin Sammy, wi' his waght,
  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 pla wi' dock-leaves years agoo:
  How we,--when nettles had a-stung
  Our little hands, when we wer young,--
  Did rub em wi' a dock, an' zing
  "_Out nettl', in dock. In dock, out sting._"
  An' when your fece, in zummer's het,
  Did sheen wi' trickln draps o' zweat,
  How you, a-zot bezide the bank,
  Didst toss your little head, an' pank,
  An' teke a dock-leaf in your han',
  An' whisk en lik' a ledy's fan;
  While I did hunt, 'ithin your zight,
  Vor streaky cockle-shells to fight.

  In all our pla-gemes we did bruise
  The dock-leaves wi' our nimble shoes;
  Bwoth where we merry chaps did fling
  You madens in the orcha'd swing,
  An' by the zaw-pit's dousty bank,
  Where we did tat 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 vle-n frocks
  An' nimble veet did strik' 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-swingn high,
  Mid zing below a cloudless sky.
  An' sparrows, clust'rn roun' the bough,
  Mid chatter to the men at plough,--
  The blackbird, whissln in among
  The boughs, do zing the gaest zong.

  Vor we do hear the blackbird zing
  His sweetest ditties in the spring,
  When nippn win's noo mwore do blow
  Vrom northern skies, wi' sleet or snow,
  But dr[=e]ve light doust along between
  The lene-zide hedges, thick an' green;
  An' zoo the blackbird in among
  The boughs do zing the gaest zong.

  'Tis blithe, wi' newly-open'd eyes,
  To zee the mornn's ruddy skies;
  Or, out a-hauln frith or lops
  Vrom new-pl[=e]sh'd hedge or new-vell'd copse,
  To rest at noon in primrwose beds
  Below the white-bark'd woak-trees' heads;
  But there's noo time, the whole dy long,
  Lik' evenn wi' the blackbird's zong.

  Vor when my work is all a-done
  Avore the zettn o' the zun,
  Then blushn Jene do walk along
  The hedge to meet me in the drong,
  An' sta till all is dim an' dark
  Bezides the ashen tree's white bark;
  An' all bezides the blackbird's shrill
  An' runnn evenn-whissle's still.

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




WOODCOM' FEAST.


  Come, Fanny, come! put on thy white,
  'Tis Woodcom' fest, good now! to-night.
  Come! think noo mwore, you silly mad,
  O' chickn drown'd, or ducks a-stra'd;
  Nor mwope to vind thy new frock's tal
  A-tore by hitchn in a nal;
  Nor grieve an' hang thy head azide,
  A-thinkn o' thy lam' that died.
  The flag's a-vlen wide an' high,
  An' ringn bells do sheke the sky;
  The fifes do play, the horns do roar,
  An' boughs be up at ev'ry door:
  They 'll be a-dancn soon,--the drum
  'S a-rumbln now. Come, Fanny, come!
  Why father's gone, an' mother too.
  They went up lene 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 mwopn wench, come out,
  An' go wi' me, an' show at lest
  Bright eyes an' smiles at Woodcom' fest.

  Come, let's goo out, an' fling our heels
  About in jigs an' vow'r-han' reels;
  While ll the stiff-lagg'd wolder vo'k,
  A-zittn roun', do talk an' joke
  An' smile to zee their own wold rigs.
  A-show'd by our wild gemes an' jigs.
  Vor ever since the vwold church speer
  Vu'st prick'd the clouds, vrom year to year,
  When grass in med 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 lest,
  Had merry hearts at Woodcom' fest.

  Zoo keep it up, an' gi'e it on
  To other vo'k when we be gone.
  Come otit; vor when the zettn zun
  Do leve in shede our harmless fun,
  The moon a-risn in the east
  Do gi'e us light at Woodcom' fest.
  Come, Fanny, come! put on thy white,
  'Tis merry Woodcom' fest to night:
  There's nothn vor to mwope about,--
  Come out, you lezy jede, come out!
  An' thou wult be, to woone at lest,
  The prettiest mad at Woodcom' fest.




THE MILK-MAID O' THE FARM.


  O Poll's the milk-mad o' the farm!
    An' Poll's so happy out in groun',
  Wi' her white pal below her erm
    As if she wore a goolden crown.

  An' Poll don't zit up half the night,
    Nor lie vor half the day a-bed;
  An' zoo her eyes be sparkln bright,
    An' zoo her cheks be bloomn red.

  In zummer mornns, when the lark
    Do rouse the litty lad an' lass
  To work, then she's the vu'st to mark
    Her steps along the dewy grass.

  An' in the evenn, when the zun
    Do sheen agen the western brows
  O' hills, where bubbln brooks do run,
    There she do zing bezide her cows.

  An' ev'ry cow of hers do stand,
    An' never overzet her pal;
  Nor try to kick her nimble hand,
    Nor switch her wi' her heavy tal.

  Noo ledy, wi' her muff an' val,
    Do walk wi' sich a stetely tread
  As she do, wi' her milkn pal
    A-balanc'd on her comely head.

  An' she, at mornn an' at night,
    Do skim the yollow cream, an' mwold
  An' wring her cheeses red an' white,
    An' zee the butter vetch'd an' roll'd.

  An' in the barken or the ground,
    The chaps do always do their best
  To milk the vu'st their own cows round,
    An' then help her to milk the rest.

  Zoo Poll's the milk-mad o' the farm!
    An' Poll's so happy out in groun',
  Wi' her white pal below her erm,
    As if she wore a goolden crown.




THE GIRT WOAK TREE THAT'S IN THE DELL.


  The girt woak tree that's in the dell!
  There's noo tree I do 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 ecorns green, a-shed
  In wrestln storms vrom his broad head.
  An' down below's the cloty brook
  Where I did vish with line an' hook,
  An' bet, in plasome dips and zwims,
  The foamy stream, wi' white-skinn'd lim's.
  An' there my mother nimbly shot
  Her knittn-needles, as she zot
  At evenn down below the wide
  Woak's head, wi' father at her zide.
  An' I've a-plaed wi' many a bwoy,
  That's now a man an' gone awoy;
    Zoo I do like noo tree so well
    'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.

  An' there, in leter years, I roved
  Wi' thik poor mad I fondly lov'd,--
  The mad too feir to die so soon,--
  When evenn twilight, or the moon,
  Cast light enough 'ithin the plece
  To show the smiles upon her fece,
  Wi' eyes so clear's the glassy pool,
  An' lips an' cheks 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 leden star o' life.
  She's gone: an' she've a-left to me
  Her mem'ry in the girt woak tree;
    Zoo I do love noo tree so well
    'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell

  An' oh! mid never ax nor hook
  Be brought to spweil his stetely look;
  Nor ever roun' his ribby zides
  Mid cattle rub ther heiry hides;
  Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep
  His lwonesome shede 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 girt woak tree that's in the dell,
  An' build his planks 'ithin the zide
  O' zome girt ship to plough the tide,
  Then, life or death! I'd goo to sea,
  A saln wi' the girt woak tree:
  An' I upon his planks would stand,
  An' die a-fightn vor the land,--
  The land so dear,--the land so free,--
  The land that bore the girt woak tree;
    Vor I do love noo tree so well
    'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.




VELLEN O' THE TREE.


  Aye, the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun'
  Wer a-stannn this mornn, an' now's a-cut down.
  Aye, the girt elem tree, so big roun' an' so high,
  Where the mowers did goo to their drink, an' did lie
  In the shede ov his head, when the zun at his heighth
  Had a-drove em vrom mown, wi' het an' wi' drth,
  Where the ha-mekers put all their picks an' their rekes,
  An' did squot down to snabble their cheese an' their cekes,
  An' did vill vrom their flaggons their cups wi' their ele,
  An' did meke theirzelves merry wi' joke an' wi' tele.

  Ees, we took up a rwope an' we tied en all round
  At the top o'n, wi' woone end a-hangn to ground,
  An' we cut, near the ground, his girt stem a'most drough,
  An' we bent the wold head o'n wi' woone tug or two;
  An' he sway'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 he is down,
  The stem o'n do reach a-most over the groun'.
  Zoo the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun'
  Wer a-stannn this mornn, an' now's a-cut down.




BRINGEN WOONE GWAN[A] O' ZUNDAYS.


  Ah! John! how I do love to look
  At these green hollor, an' the brook
  Among the withies that do hide
  The stream, a-grown at the zide;
  An' at the road athirt the wide
    An' shallow vword, where we young bwoys
    Did pert, when we did goo half-woys,
      To bring ye gwan o' Zundays.

  Vor after church, when we got hwome,
  In evenn 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 gwan o' Zundays.

  How we did scote all down the groun',
  A-pushn woone another down!
  Or challengn o' zides in jumps
  Down over bars, an' vuzz, an' humps;
  An' pert 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 gwan o' Zundays.

  O' leter 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 play, an' how
      You brought us gwan o' Zundays.

[Footnote A: "To bring woone gwan,"--to bring one going; to bring one
on his way.]




EVENN 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-light, we did meet
    Wi' merry tongues an' skippn veet
      At evenn in the twilight.

  The evenn ar did fan, in turn,
  The cheks the midday zun did burn.
  An' zet the russln leaves at pla,
  An' meke the red-stemm'd brembles sway
  In bows below the snow-white ma;
    An' whirln roun' the trees, did sheke
    Jene's raven curls about her neck,
      They evenns in the twilight.

  An' there the yollow light did rest
  Upon the bank towrd the west,
  An' twitt'rn birds did hop in drough
  The hedge, an' many a skippn shoe
  Did bet the flowers, wet wi' dew,
    As underneth the tree's wide limb
    Our merry shepes did jumpy, dim,
      They evenns in the twilight.

  How sweet's the evenn dusk to rove
  Along wi' woone that we do love!
  When light enough is in the sky
  To shede the smile an' light the eye
  'Tis all but heaven to be by;
    An' bid, in whispers soft an' light
    'S the rusln ov a leaf, "Good night,"
      At evenn 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 teke or bring;
    But meet, when all their work's a-done,
    In orcha'd vor their bit o' fun
      At evenn in the twilight.




EVENN 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-zendn 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 flickern light drough the window-pene
    Vrom the candle's dull fleme do shoot,
  An' young Jemmy the smith is a-gone down lene,
    A-plan his shrill-vaced 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 Ma
  The trees be green, the vields be ga;
  The weather's warm, the winter blast,
  Wi' all his tran o' clouds, is past;
  The zun do rise while vo'k do sleep,
  To teke a higher daily zweep,
  Wi' cloudless fece a-flingn down
  His sparkln light upon the groun'.

  The air's a-streamn 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 ga mid sheme your gown:
  An' goo an' rig wi' me a mile
  Or two up over gete an' stile,
  Drough zunny parrocks that do led,
  Wi' crooked hedges, to the med,
  Where elems high, in stetely ranks,
  Do rise vrom yollow cowslip-banks,
  An' birds do twitter vrom the spra
  O' bushes deck'd wi' snow-white ma;
  An' gil'cups, wi' the deisy 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' shedy elems, where the rook
  Do build her nest; an' where the brook
  Do creep along the meds, an' lie
  To catch the brightness o' the sky;
  An' cows, in water to ther knees,
  Do stan' a-whiskn off the vlees.

  Mother o' blossoms, and ov all
  That's feir a-yield vrom Spring till Fall,
  The gookoo over white-wev'd seas
  Do come to zing in thy green trees,
  An' buttervlees, in giddy flight,
  Do glem the mwost by thy ga light
  Oh! when, at last, my fleshly eyes
  Shall shut upon the vields an' skies,
  Mid zummer's zunny days be gone,
  An' winter's clouds be comn on:
  Nor mid I draw upon the e'th,
  O' thy sweet ar my letest breath;
  Alassen I mid want to sta
  Behine' for thee, O flow'ry May!




BOB THE FIDDLER.


  Oh! Bob the fiddler is the pride
  O' chaps an' madens 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' pla what you do please.
  At Maypoln, or fest, or feir,
  His erm wull zet off twenty peir,
  An' meke em dance the groun' dirt-bere,
    An' hop about lik' vlees.

  Long life to Bob! the very soul
  O' me'th at merry fest an' pole;
  Vor when the crowd do leve his jowl,
    They'll all be in the dumps.
  Zoo at the dance another year,
  At _Shillinston_ or _Hazelbur'_,
  Mid Bob be there to meke 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 deisy-beds so white's a sheet,
  But still avore I us'd to meet
    The blushn cheks that bloom'd vor me!

  An' afterward, in lightsome youth,
    When zummer wer a-comn on,
  An' all the trees wer white wi' blooth,
  An' dippn zwallows skimm'd the pon';
  Sweet hope did vill my heart wi' ja,
  An' tell me, though thik spring wer ga,
  There still would come a brighter Ma,
    Wi' blushn cheks to bloom vor me!

  An' when, at last, the time come roun',
    An' brought a lofty zun to sheen
  Upon my smiln Fanny, down
    Drough n[=e]sh young leaves o' yollow green;
  How charmn wer the het that glow'd,
  How charmn wer the shede a-drow'd,
  How charmn wer the win' that blow'd
    Upon her cheks that bloom'd vor me!

  But hardly did they times begin,
    Avore I vound em short to sta:
  An' year by year do now come in,
    To pert me wider vrom my ja,
  Vor what's to meet, or what's to pert,
  Wi' madens kind, or madens smart,
  When hope's noo longer in the heart,
    An' cheks 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 smiln still my harmless dove,
    So feir as when she bloom'd vor me!




THE WHITE ROAD UP ATHIRT THE HILL.


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

  The zwelln downs, wi' chalky tracks
  A-climmn up their zunny backs,
  Do hide green meds an' zedgy brooks.
  An' clumps o' trees wi' glossy rooks,
  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 fest, when uncle's vo'k do come
  To spend the day wi' us at hwome,
  An' we do lay upon the bwoard
  The very best we can avvword,
  The wolder woones do talk an' smoke,
  An' younger woones do pla an' joke,
  An' in the evenn all our vo'k
    Do bring em gwan 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' comn friends do tread
    The white road down athirt the hill.

  An' when the windn road so white,
  A-climmn up the hills in zight,
  Do led to plezen, east or west,
  The vu'st a-known, an' lov'd the best,
  How touchn in the zunsheen's glow,
  Or in the shedes 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' deiry cows in woody nooks,
  An' haymekers among their pooks,
  An' housen that the trees do screen
  From zun an' zight by boughs o' green!
  Young blushn 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 cheks wi' zuns
    O' zummer, in my plasome runs
      About the woody hollow.

  When evenn's risn moon did peep
  Down drough the hollow dark an' deep,
  Where giggln sweethearts mede their vows
  In whispers under waggn boughs;
  When whissln bwoys, an' rott'ln ploughs
    Wer still, an' mothers, wi' their thin
    Shrill vaces, call'd their daughters in,
      From walkn 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 fezen now a-spweil'd;
  Or wolder vo'k, so wise an' mild,
    That I do miss when I do goo
    To zee the plece, an' walk down drough
      The lwonesome woody hollow?

  When wrongs an' overbearn words
  Do prick my bleedn heart lik' swords,
  Then I do try, vor Christes seke,
  To think o' you, sweet days! an' meke
  My soul as 'twer when you did weke
    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 feir?
  She had woone white, a-gi'ed her when
  She stood at Mery's chrissenn;
  She had woone brown, she had woone red,
  A keepseke vrom her brother dead,
  That she did like to wear, to goo
  To zee his greve 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 heir
  When vu'st I walk'd wi' her at feir.

  The brown, I zaid, would do to deck
  Thy heir; the white would match thy neck;
  The red would meke thy red chek wan
  A-thinkn o' the gi'er gone;
  The green would show thee to be true;
  But still I'd sooner zee the blue,
  Because 'twer he that deck'd thy heir
  When vu'st I walk'd wi' thee at feir.

  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 med toward the feir;
  The while her mother, at the gete,
  Call'd out an' bid her not sta lete,
  An' she, a-smiln wi' her bow
  O' blue, look'd roun' and nodded, _No_.




[Gothic: Eclogue.]

THE 'LOTMENTS.


_John and Richard._


  JOHN.

  Zoo you be in your groun' then, I do zee,
  A-workn and a-zingn lik' a bee.
  How do it answer? what d'ye think about it?
  D'ye think 'tis better wi' it than without it?
  A-recknn 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 woone, I'm sure o't.
  If I had not a-got it, my poor bwones
  Would now ha' ech'd a-crackn stwones
  Upon the road; I wish I had zome mwore o't.

  JOHN.

  I wish the girt woones had a-got the grece
  To let out land lik' this in ouer plece;
  But I do fear there'll never be nwone vor us,
  An' I can't tell whatever we shall do:
  We be a-most starvn, 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 plece the plan,
  He zaid he'd let a vew odd ecres
  O' land to us poor leb'rn men;
  An', fath, he had enough o' tekers
  Vor that, an' twice so much agen.
  Zoo I took zome here, near my hovel,
  To exercise my spede an' shovel;
  An' what wi' dungn, diggn up, an' zeedn,
  A-thinnn, clenn, hown up an' weedn,
  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' ern a penny;
  An' then, by workn, they do learn the vaster
  The way to do things when they have a mester;
  Vor woone must know a del about the land
  Bevore woone's fit to lend a useful hand,
  In gerden or a-vield upon a farm.

  RICHARD.

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

  JOHN.

  An' when your pig's a-fatted pretty well
  Wi' teties, 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' netlns for to bwoil; or put the blood in,
  An' meke 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.




[Gothic: Eclogue.]

A BIT O' SLY COORTEN.


_John and Fanny._


  JOHN.

  Now, Fanny, 'tis too bad, you teazn mad!
  How lete you be a' come! Where have ye sta'd?
  How long you have a-mede me wat about!
  I thought you werden gwan to come agen:
  I had a mind to goo back hwome agen.
  This idden when you promis'd to come out.

  FANNY.

  Now 'tidden any good to meke 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 do want to goo, though, don't ye sta
  Vor me a minute longer, I do pra.

  JOHN.

  I thought you mid be out wi' Jemmy Bleke,

  FANNY.

  An' why be out wi' him, vor goodness' seke?

  JOHN.

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

  FANNY.

  Well, if I did, that werden any harm.
  Lauk! that _is_ zome'at to teke notice o'_.

  JOHN.

  He took ye roun' the middle at the stile,
  An' kiss'd ye twice 'ithin 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-lendn me his erm.
  An' as vor kissn 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'n me a kiss.

  JOHN.

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

  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'n vo'k a drashn,
  An' breakn bwones, an' beten 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 girt Jemmy have a-won your heart,
  We'd better break the coortship off, an' pert.

  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-lik'd 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 scwoldn vor ye.
  [_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 meke it up. Come, wipe off thik there tear.
  Let's goo an' zit o' top o' these 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 smiln; 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-wrumpl'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-comn down the groun'
  Towards the stile. Who is it? Come, get down
  I must run hwome, upon my word then, now;
  If I do sta, they'll kick up sich a row.
  Good night. I can't sta now.

JOHN.

      Then good night, Fanny!
Come out a-bit to-morrow evenn, can ye?




SUMMER.




EVENN, AN' MAIDENS OUT AT DOOR.


  Now the shedes o' the elems do stratch mwore an' mwore,
  Vrom the low-zinkn zun in the west o' the sky;
  An' the madens do stand out in clusters avore
  The doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

  An' their cwombs be a-zet in their bunches o' heir,
  An' their currels do hang roun' their necks lily-white,
  An' their cheks they be rwosy, their shoulders be bere,
  Their looks they be merry, their limbs they be light.

  An' the times have a-been--but they cant be noo mwore--
  When I had my ja under evenn's dim sky,
  When my Fanny did stan' out wi' others avore
  Her door, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

  An' up there, in the green, is her own honey-zuck,
  That her brother tran'd up roun' her window; an' there
  Is the rwose an' the jessamy, where she did pluck
  A flow'r vor her bosom or bud vor her heir.

  An' zoo smile, happy madens! vor every fece,
  As the zummers do come, an' the years do roll by,
  Will soon sadden, or goo vur away vrom the plece,
  Or else, lik' my Fanny, will wither an' die.

  But when you be a-lost vrom the parish, zome mwore
  Will come on in your plezen to bloom an' to die;
  An' the zummer will always have madens avore
  Their doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

  Vor daughters ha' mornn when mothers ha' night,
  An' there's beauty alive when the feirest is dead;
  As when woone sparkln weve do zink down vrom the light,
  Another do come up an' catch it instead.

  Zoo smile on, happy madens! but I shall noo mwore
  Zee the mad I do miss under evenn's dim sky;
  An' my heart is a-touch'd to zee you out avore
  The doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.




THE SHEPHERD O' THE FARM.


  Oh! I be shepherd o' the farm,
    Wi' tinkln bells an' sheep-dog's bark,
  An' wi' my crook a-thirt my erm,
    Here I do rove below the lark.

  An' I do bide all day among
    The bleten sheep, an' pitch their vwold;
  An' when the evenn shedes be long,
    Do zee em all a-penn'd an' twold.

  An' I do zee the friskn lam's,
    Wi' swingn tals an' woolly lags,
  A-playn roun' their veedn dams
    An' pulln o' their milky bags.

  An' I bezide a hawthorn tree,
    Do' zit upon the zunny down,
  While shedes o' zummer clouds do vlee
    Wi' silent flight along the groun'.

  An' there, among the many cries
    O' sheep an' lambs, my dog do pass
  A zultry hour, wi' blinkn eyes,
    An' nose a-stratch'd upon the grass;

  But, in a twinkln, at my word,
    He's all awake, an' up, an' gone
  Out roun' the sheep lik' any bird,
    To do what he's a-zent upon.

  An' I do goo to washn pool,
    A-sousn over head an' ears,
  The shaggy sheep, to clen their wool
    An' meke em ready vor the shers.

  An' when the shearn time do come,
    Then we do work vrom dawn till dark;
  Where zome do shear the sheep, and zome
    Do mark their zides wi' mesters mark.

  An' when the shearn's all a-done,
    Then we do eat, an' drink, an' zing,
  In mester's kitchen till the tun
    Wi' merry sounds do sheke an' ring.

  Oh! I be shepherd o' the farm,
    Wi' tinkln bells an' sheep dog's bark,
  An' wi' my crook a-thirt my erm,
    Here I do rove below the lark.




VIELDS IN THE LIGHT.


  Woone's heart mid lep wi' thoughts o' ja
  In comn manhood light an' ga
  When we do teke the worold on
  Vrom our vore-elders dead an' gone;
  But days so feir in hope's bright eyes
  Do often come wi' zunless skies:
  Woone's fancy can but be out-done,
  Where trees do swa an' brooks do run,
  By risn moon or zettn zun.

  Vor when at evenn I do look
  All down these hangn on the brook,
  Wi' weves a-lepn clear an' bright,
  Where boughs do swa in yollow light;
  Noo hills nor hollows, woods nor streams,
  A-voun' by da or zeed in dreams,
  Can ever seem so fit to be
  Good angel's hwomes, though they do gi'e
  But pan an' tweil to such as we.

  An' when by moonlight darksome shedes
  Do lie in grass wi' dewy bledes,
  An' worold-hushn night do keep
  The proud an' angry vast asleep,
  When I can think, as I do rove,
  Ov only souls that I do love;
  Then who can dream a dream to show,
  Or who can think o' moons to drow,
  A sweeter light to rove below?




WHITSUNTIDE AN' CLUB WALKEN.


  Ees, last Whit-Monday, I an' Mery
  Got up betimes to mind the deiry;
  An' gi'ed the milkn pals a scrub,
  An' dress'd, an' went to zee the club.
  Vor up at public-house, by ten
  O'clock the plece wer vull o' men,
  A-dress'd to goo to church, an' dine,
  An' walk about the plece in line.
  Zoo off they started, two an' two,
  Wi' panted poles an' knots o' blue,
  An' girt silk flags,--I wish my box
  'D a-got em all in cepes an' frocks,--
  A-wevn wide an' flappn loud
  In plasome winds above the crowd;
  While fifes did squeak an' drums did rumble,
  An' deep bezzoons did grunt an' grumble,
  An' all the vo'k in gath'rn crowds
  Kick'd up the doust in smeechy clouds,
  That slowly rose an' spread abrode
  In streamn ar above the road.
  An' then at church there wer sich lots
  O' hats a-hangn up wi' knots,
  An' poles a-stood so thick as iver,
  The rushes stood beside a river.
  An' Mr Goodman gi'ed em warnn
  To spend their evenn lik' their mornn;
  An' not to pra wi' mornn tongues,
  An' then to zwear wi' evenn lungs:
  Nor vu'st sheke hands, to let the wrist
  Lift up at last a bruisn vist:
  Vor clubs were all a-men'd vor friends,
  He twold em, an' vor better ends
  Than twitn vo'k an' pickn quarrels,
  An' tippln cups an' emptn barrels,--
  Vor mekn woone man do another
  In need the kindness ov a brother.

  An' after church they went to dine
  'Ithin the long-wall'd room behine
  The public-house, where you remember,
  We had our dance back last December.
  An' there they mede sich stunnn clatters
  Wi' knives an' forks, an' pletes an' platters;
  An' waters ran, an' beer did pass
  Vrom tap to jug, vrom jug to glass:
  An' when they took away the dishes,
  They drink'd good healths, an' wish'd good wishes,
  To all the girt vo'k o' the land,
  An' all good things vo'k took in hand;
  An' woone cried _hip, hip, hip!_ an' hollow'd,
  An' tothers all struck in, an' vollow'd;
  An' grabb'd their drink wi' eager clutches,
  An' swigg'd it wi' sich hearty glutches,
  As vo'k, stark mad wi' pweison stuff,
  That thought theirzelves not mad enough.

  An' after that they went all out
  In rank agen, an' walk'd about,
  An' gi'ed zome parish vo'k a call;
  An', then went down to Narley Hall
  An' had zome beer, an' danc'd between
  The elem trees upon the green.
  An' down along the road they done
  All sorts o' mad-cap things vor fun;
  An' danc'd, a-pokn out their poles,
  An' pushn bwoys down into holes:
  An' Sammy Stubbs come out o' rank,
  An' kiss'd me up agen the bank,
  A saucy chap; I ha'nt vor'gied en
  Not yet,--in short, I han't a-zeed en.
  Zoo in the dusk ov evenn, zome
  Went back to drink, an' zome went hwome.




WOODLEY.


  Sweet Woodley! oh! how fresh an' ga
  Thy lenes an' vields be now in Ma,
  The while the broad-leav'd clotes do zwim
  In brooks wi' gil'cups at the brim;
  An' yollow cowslip-beds do grow
  By thorns in blooth so white as snow;
  An' win' do come vrom copse wi' smells
  O' grgles wi' their hangn bells!

  Though time do dreve me on, my mind
  Do turn in love to thee behind,
  The seme's a bulrush that's a-shook
  By wind a-blown up the brook:
  The curln stream would dreve en down,
  But plasome ar do turn en roun',
  An' meke en seem to bend wi' love
  To zunny hollows up above.

  Thy tower still do overlook
  The woody knaps an' windn brook,
  An' lene's wi' here an' there a hatch,
  An' house wi' elem-sheded thatch,
  An' vields where chaps do vur outdo
  The Zunday sky, wi' cwoats o' blue;
  An' madens' frocks do vur surpass
  The whitest desies in the grass.

  What peals to-day from thy wold tow'r
  Do strike upon the zummer flow'r,
  As all the club, wi' dousty lags,
  Do walk wi' poles an' flappn flags,
  An' wind, to music, roun' between
  A zwarm o' vo'k upon the green!
  Though time do dreve me on, my mind
  Do turn wi' love to thee behind.




THE BROOK THAT RAN BY GRAMFER'S.


  When snow-white clouds wer thin an' vew
  Avore the zummer sky o' blue,
  An' I'd noo ho but how to vind
  Zome pla to entertan my mind;
  Along the water, as did wind
    Wi' zedgy shoal an' hollow crook,
    How I did ramble by the brook
    That ran all down vrom gramfer's.

  A-holdn out my line beyond
  The clote-leaves, wi' my withy wand,
  How I did watch, wi' eager look,
  My zwimmn cork, a-zunk or shook
  By minnows nibbln at my hook,
    A-thinkn I should catch a brece
    O' perch, or at the lest some dece,
    A-zwimmn down vrom gramfer's.

  Then ten good deries wer a-ved
  Along that water's windn bed,
  An' in the lewth o' hills an' wood
  A half a score farm-housen stood:
  But now,--count all o'm how you would,
    So many less do hold the land,--
    You'd vind but vive that still do stand,
    A-comn down vrom gramfer's.

  There, in the midst ov all his land,
  The squier's ten-tunn'd house did stand,
  Where he did meke the water clim'
  A bank, an' sparkle under dim
  Bridge arches, villn to the brim
    His pon', an' lepn, white as snow,
    Vrom rocks a-glitt'rn in a bow,
    An' runnn down to gramfer's.

  An' now woone wing is all you'd vind
  O' thik girt house a-left behind;
  An' only woone wold stwonen tun
  'S a-stannn to the ran an' zun,--
  An' all's undone that he'd a-done;
    The brook ha' now noo call to sta
    To vill his pon' or clim' his ba,
    A-runnn down to gramfer's.

  When woonce, in heavy ran, the road
  At Grenley bridge wer overflow'd,
  Poor Sophy White, the pleces pride,
  A-gwan vrom market, went to ride
  Her pony droo to tother zide;
    But vound the stram so deep an' strong,
    That took her off the road along
    The hollow down to gramfer's.

  'Twer dark, an' she went on too vast
  To catch hold any thing she pass'd;
  Noo bough hung over to her hand,
  An' she could reach noo stwone nor land,
  Where woonce her little voot could stand;
    Noo ears wer out to hear her cries,
    Nor wer she woonce a-zeen by eyes,
    Till took up dead at gramfer's.




SLEEP DID COME WI' THE DEW.


  O when our zun's a-zinkn low,
  How soft's the light his fece do drow
  Upon the backward road our mind
  Do turn an' zee a-left behind;
  When we, in childhood's days did vind
  Our ja among the gil'cup flow'rs,
  All drough the zummer's zunny hours;
    An' sleep did come wi' the dew.

  An' afterwards, when we did zweat
  A tweiln in the zummer het,
  An' when our daily work wer done
  Did meet to have our evenn fun:
  Till up above the zettn zun
  The sky wer blushn in the west,
  An' we laid down in peace to rest,
    An' sleep did come wi' the dew.

  Ah! zome do turn--but tidden right--
  The night to day, an' day to night;
  But we do zee the vu'st red streak
  O' mornn, when the day do break;
  Zoo we don't grow up pele an' weak,
  But we do work wi' health an' strength,
  Vrom mornn drough the whole day's length,
    An' sleep do come wi' the dew.

  An' when, at last, our e'thly light
  Is jist a-drawn in to night,
  We mid be sure that God above,
  If we be true when he do prove
  Our stedvast fath an' thankvul love,
  Wull do vor us what mid be best,
  An' teke us into endless rest,
    As sleep do come wi' the dew.




SWEET MUSIC IN THE WIND.


  When evenn is a-drawn in,
  I'll steal vrom others' nasy din;
  An' where the whirln brook do roll
  Below the walnut-tree, I'll stroll
  An' think o' thee wi' all my soul,
  Dear Jenny; while the sound o' bells
  Do vlee along wi' mwoansome zwells,
    Sweet music in the wind!

  I'll think how in the rushy leze
  O' zunny evenns jis' lik' these,
  In happy times I us'd to zee
  Thy comely shepe about the tree,
  Wi' pal a-held avore thy knee;
  An' lissen'd to thy merry zong
  That at a distance come along,
    Sweet music in the wind!

  An' when wi' me you walk'd about
  O' Zundays, after church wer out.
  Wi' hangn erm an' modest look;
  Or zittn in some woody nook
  We lissen'd to the leaves that shook
  Upon the poplars straght an' tall,
  Or rottle o' the watervall,
    Sweet music in the wind!

  An' when the plavul ar do vlee,
  O' moonlight nights, vrom tree to tree,
  Or whirl upon the shekn grass,
  Or rottle at my window glass:
  Do seem,--as I do hear it pass,--
  As if thy vace did come to tell
  Me where thy happy soul do dwell,
    Sweet music in the wind!




UNCLE AN' AUNT.


  How happy uncle us'd to be
  O' zummer time, when aunt an' he
  O' Zunday evenns, erm in erm,
  Did walk about their tiny farm,
  While birds did zing an' gnats did zwarm,
  Drough grass a'most above their knees,
  An' roun' by hedges an' by trees
    Wi' leafy boughs a-swan.

  His hat wer broad, his cwoat wer brown,
  Wi' two long flaps a-hangn down;
  An' vrom his knee went down a blue
  Knit stockn to his buckled shoe;
  An' aunt did pull her gown-tal drough
  Her pocket-hole, to keep en neat,
  As she mid walk, or teke a seat
    By leafy boughs a-zwan.

  An' vu'st they'd goo to zee their lots
  O' pot-erbs in the gerden plots;
  An' he, i'-may-be, by the hatch,
  Would zee aunt's vowls upon a patch
  O' zeeds, an' vow if he could catch
  Em wi' his gun, they shoudden vlee
  Noo mwore into their roostn tree,
    Wi' leafy boughs a-swan.

  An' then vrom gerden they did pass
  Drough orcha'd out to zee the grass,
  An' if the apple-blooth, so white,
  Mid be at all a-touch'd wi' blight;
  An' uncle, happy at the zight,
  Did guess what cider there mid be
  In all the orcha'd, tree wi' tree,
    Wi' tutties all a-swan.

  An' then they stump'd along vrom there
  A-vield, to zee the cows an' mere;
  An' she, when uncle come in zight,
  Look'd up, an' prick'd her ears upright,
  An' whicker'd out wi' all her might;
  An' he, a-chuckln, went to zee
  The cows below the shedy tree,
    Wi' leafy boughs a-swaen.

  An' last ov all, they went to know
  How vast the grass in med did grow
  An' then aunt zaid 'twer time to goo
  In hwome,--a-holdn up her shoe,
  To show how wet he wer wi' dew.
  An' zoo they toddled hwome to rest,
  Lik' doves a-vlen to their nest
    In leafy boughs a-swaen.




HAVEN WOONES FORTUNE A-TWOLD.


  In lene the gipsies, as we went
  A-milkn, had a-pitch'd their tent,
  Between the gravel-pit an' clump
  O' trees, upon the little hump:
  An' while upon the grassy groun'
    Their smokn vire did crack an' bleze,
    Their shaggy-cwoated hoss did greze
  Among the bushes vurder down.

  An' zoo, when we brought back our pals,
  The woman met us at the rals,
  An' zaid she'd tell us, if we'd show
  Our han's, what we should like to know.
  Zoo Poll zaid she'd a mind to try
    Her skill a bit, if I would vu'st;
    Though, to be sure, she didden trust
  To gipsies any mwore than I.

  Well; I agreed, an' off all dree
  O's went behind an elem tree,
  An' after she'd a-zeed 'ithin
  My han' the wrinkles o' the skin,
  She twold me--an' she must a-know'd
    That Dicky met me in the lene,--
    That I'd a-walk'd, an' should agen,
  Wi' zomebody along thik road.

  An' then she twold me to bewar
  O' what the letter _M_ stood vor.
  An' as I walk'd, o' _M_onday night,
  Drough _M_ed wi' Dicky overright
  The _M_ill, the _M_iller, at the stile,
    Did stan' an' watch us teke our stroll,
    An' then, a blabbn dousty-poll!
  Twold _M_other o't. Well wo'th his while!

  An' Poll too wer a-bid bewar
  O' what the letter _F_ stood vor;
  An' then, because she took, at _F_eir,
  A bosom-pin o' Jimmy Here,
  Young _F_ranky bet en black an' blue.
    'Tis _F_ vor _F_eir; an' 'twer about
    A _F_earn _F_rank an' Jimmy foght,
  Zoo I do think she twold us true.

  In short, she twold us all about
  What had a-vell, or would vall out;
  An' whether we should spend our lives
  As madens, or as wedded wives;
  But when we went to bundle on,
    The gipsies' dog were at the rals
    A-lappn milk vrom ouer pals,--
  A pretty del o' Poll's wer gone.




JEANE'S WEDDEN DAY IN MORNEN.


  At last Jene come down stairs, a-drest
  Wi' weddn knots upon her breast,
  A-blushn, while a tear did lie
  Upon her burnn chek half dry;
  An' then her Robert, drawn nigh
  Wi' tothers, took her han' wi' pride,
  To meke her at the church his bride,
    Her weddn day in mornn.

  Wi' litty voot an' betn heart
  She stepp'd up in the new light cart,
  An' took her bridemad up to ride
  Along wi' Robert at her zide:
  An' uncle's mere look'd roun' wi' pride
  To zee that, if the cart wer vull,
  'Twer Jenny that he had to pull,
    Her weddn day in mornn.

  An' aunt an' uncle stood stock-still,
  An' watch'd em trottn down the hill;
  An' when they turn'd off out o' groun'
  Down into lene, two tears run down
  Aunt's fece; an' uncle, turnn roun',
  Sigh'd woonce, an' stump'd off wi' his stick,
  Because did touch en to the quick
    To pert wi' Jene thik mornn.

  "Now Jene's agone," Tom mutter'd, "we
  Shall mwope lik' owls 'ithin a tree;
  Vor she did zet us all agog
  Vor fun, avore the burnn log."
  An' as he zot an' talk'd, the dog
  Put up his nose athirt his thighs,
  But coulden meke en turn his eyes,
    Jene's weddn day in mornn.

  An' then the naghbours round us, all
  By woones an' twos begun to call,
  To meet the young vo'k, when the mere
  Mid bring em back a married peir:
  An' all o'm zaid, to Robert's shere,
  There had a-vell the ferest fece,
  An' kindest heart in all the plece,
    Jene's weddn day in mornn.




RIVERS DON'T GI'E OUT.


  The brook I left below the rank
  Ov alders that do shede his bank,
  A-runnn down to dreve the mill
  Below the knap, 's a runnn still;
  The creepn days an' weeks do vill
    Up years, an' meke wold things o' new,
    An' vok' do come, an' live, an' goo,
    But rivers don't gi'e out, John.

  The leaves that in the spring do shoot
  Zo green, in fall be under voot;
  Ma flow'rs do grow vor June to burn,
  An' milk-white blooth o' trees do kern,
  An' ripen on, an' vall in turn;
    The miller's moss-green wheel mid rot,
    An' he mid die an' be vorgot,
    But rivers don't gi'e out, John.

  A vew short years do bring an' rear
  A mad--as Jene wer--young an' feir,
  An' vewer zummer-ribbons, tied
  In Zunday knots, do fede bezide
  Her chek avore her bloom ha' died:
    Her youth won't sta,--her rwosy look
    'S a fedn flow'r, but time's a brook
    To run an' not gi'e out, John.

  An' yet, while things do come an' goo,
  God's love is steadvast, John, an' true;
  If winter vrost do chill the ground,
  'Tis but to bring the zummer round,
  All's well a-lost where He's a-vound,
    Vor if 'tis right, vor Christes seke
    He'll gi'e us mwore than he do teke,--
    His goodness don't gi'e out, John.




MEAKEN UP A MIFF.


  Vorgi'e me, Jenny, do! an' rise
  Thy hangn head an' teary eyes,
  An' speak, vor I've a-took in lies,
    An' I've a-done thee wrong;
  But I wer twold,--an' thought 'twer true,--
  That Sammy down at Coome an' you
  Wer at the feir, a-walkn drough
    The plece the whole day long.

  An' tender thoughts did melt my heart,
  An' zwells o' viry pride did dart
  Lik' lightnn drough my blood; a-pert
    Ov your love I should scorn,
  An' zoo I vow'd, however sweet
  Your looks mid be when we did meet,
  I'd trample ye down under veet,
    Or let ye goo forlorn.

  But still thy neme would always be
  The sweetest, an' my eyes would zee
  Among all madens nwone lik' thee
    Vor ever any mwore;
  Zoo by the walks that we've a-took
  By flow'ry hedge an' zedgy brook,
  Dear Jenny, dry your eyes, an' look
    As you've a-look'd avore.

  Look up, an' let the evenn light
  But sparkle in thy eyes so bright,
  As they be open to the light
    O' zunzet in the west;
  An' let's stroll here vor half an hour,
  Where hangn boughs do meke a bow'r
  Above these bank, wi' eltrot flow'r
    An' robinhoods a-drest.




HAY-MEAKEN.


  'Tis merry ov a zummer's day,
  Where vo'k be out a-mekn ha;
  Where men an' women, in a string,
  Do ted or turn the grass, an' zing,
  Wi' cheemn vaces, merry zongs,
  A-tossn o' their sheenn prongs
  Wi' erms a-zwangn left an' right,
  In colour'd gowns an' shirtsleeves white;
  Or, wider spread, a rekn round
  The rwosy hedges o' the ground,
  Where Sam do zee the speckled sneke,
  An' try to kill en wi' his reke;
  An' Poll do jump about an' squall,
  To zee the twistn slooworm crawl.

  'Tis merry where a ga-tongued lot
  Ov ha-mekers be all a-squot,
  On lightly-russln ha, a-spread
  Below an elem's lofty head,
  To rest their weary limbs an' munch
  Their bit o' dinner, or their nunch;
  Where teethy rekes do lie all round
  By picks a-stuck up into ground.
  An' wi' their vittles in their laps,
  An' in their hornen cups their draps
  O' cider sweet, or frothy ele,
  Their tongues do run wi' joke an' tele.

  An' when the zun, so low an' red,
  Do sheen above the leafy head
  O' zome broad tree, a-rizn high
  Avore the vi'ry western sky,
  'Tis merry where all han's do goo
  Athirt the groun', by two an' two,
  A-rekn, over humps an' hollors,
  The russln grass up into rollers.
  An' woone do row it into line,
  An' woone do clwose it up behine;
  An' after them the little bwoys
  Do stride an' fling their erms all woys,
  Wi' busy picks, an' proud young looks
  A-mekn up their tiny pooks.
  An' zoo 'tis merry out among
  The vo'k in ha-vield all day long.




HAY-CARREN.


  'Tis merry ov a zummer's day,
  When vo'k be out a-hauln ha,
  Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground,
  Do meke the staddle big an' round;
  An' grass do stand in pook, or lie
  In long-back'd weles or parsels, dry.
  There I do vind it stir my heart
  To hear the frothn hosses snort,
  A-hauln on, wi' sleek heir'd hides,
  The red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides.
  Aye; let me have woone cup o' drink,
  An' hear the linky harness clink,
  An' then my blood do run so warm,
  An' put sich strangth 'ithin my erm,
  That I do long to toss a pick,
  A-pitchn or a-mekn rick.

  The bwoy is at the hosse's head,
  An' up upon the waggon bed
  The lwoaders, strong o' erm do stan',
  At head, an' back at tal, a man,
  Wi' skill to build the lwoad upright
  An' bind the vwolded corners tight;
  An' at each zide [=o]'m, sprack an' strong,
  A pitcher wi' his long-stem'd prong,
  Avore the best two women now
  A-call'd to reky after plough.

  When I do pitchy, 'tis my pride
  Vor Jenny Hine to reke my zide,
  An' zee her fling her reke, an' reach
  So vur, an' teke in sich a streech;
  An' I don't shatter ha, an' meke
  Mwore work than needs vor Jenny's reke.
  I'd sooner zee the weles' high rows
  Lik' hedges up above my nose,
  Than have light work myzelf, an' vind
  Poor Jene a-bet an' left behind;
  Vor she would sooner drop down dead.
  Than let the pitchers get a-head.

  'Tis merry at the rick to zee
  How picks do wag, an' ha do vlee.
  While woone's unlwoadn, woone do teke
  The pitches in; an' zome do meke
  The lofty rick upright an' roun',
  An' tread en hard, an' reke en down,
  An' tip en, when the zun do zet,
  To shoot a sudden vall o' wet.
  An' zoo 'tis merry any day
  Where vo'k be out a-carrn hay.




[Gothic: Eclogue.]

THE BEST MAN IN THE VIELD.


_Sam and Bob._


  SAM.

  That's slowish work, Bob. What'st a-been about?
  Thy pookn don't goo on not over sprack.
  Why I've a-pook'd my wele, lo'k zee, clear out,
  An' here I be agen a-turnn back.

  BOB.

  I'll work wi' thee then, Sammy, any day,
  At any work dost like to teke me at,
  Vor any money thou dost like to lay.
  Now, Mister Sammy, what dost think o' that?
  My wele is nearly twice so big as thine,
  Or else, I warnt, I shouldden be behin'.

  SAM.

  Ah! hang thee, Bob! don't tell sich whoppn lies.
  _My_ wele's the biggest, if do come to size.
  'Tis jist the seme whatever bist about;
  Why, when dost goo a-teddn grass, you sloth,
  Another hand's a-fwo'c'd to teke thy zwath,
  An' ted a half way back to help thee out;
  An' then a-rekn rollers, bist so slack,
  Dost keep the very bwoys an' women back.
  An' if dost think that thou canst challenge I
  At any thing,--then, Bob, we'll teke a pick a-piece,
  An' woonce these zummer, goo an' try
  To meke a rick a-piece.
  A rick o' thine wull look a little funny,
  When thou'st a-done en, I'll bet any money.

  BOB.

  You noggerhead! last year thou med'st a rick,
  An' then we had to trig en wi' a stick.
  An' what did John that tipp'd en zay? Why zaid
  He stood a-top o'en all the while in dread,
  A-thinkn that avore he should a-done en
  He'd tumble over slap wi' him upon en.

  SAM.

  You yoppn dog! I warnt I mede my rick
  So well's thou med'st thy lwoad o' ha last week.
  They hadden got a hundred yards to haul en,
  An' then they vound 'twer best to have en boun',
  Vor if they hadden, 'twould a-tumbl'd down;
  An' after that I zeed en all but valln,
  An' trigg'd en up wi' woone o'm's pitchn pick,
  To zee if I could meke en ride to rick;
  An' when they had the dumpy heap unboun',
  He vell to pieces flat upon the groun'.

  BOB.

  Do shut thy lyn chops! What dosten mind
  Thy pitchn to me out in Gully-plot,
  A-mekn o' me wat (wast zoo behind)
  A half an hour vor ev'ry pitch I got?
  An' how didst groun' thy pick? an' how didst quirk
  To get en up on end? Why hadst hard work
  To rise a pitch that wer about so big
  'S a goodish crow's nest, or a wold man's wig!
  Why bist so weak, dost know, as any roller:
  Zome o' the women vo'k will bet thee hollor.

  SAM.

  You snub-nos'd flopperchops! I pitch'd so quick,
  That thou dost know thou hadst a hardish job
  To teke in all the pitches off my pick;
  An' dissn zee me groun' en, nother, Bob.
  An' thou bist stronger, thou dost think, than I?
  Girt bandy-lags! I jist should like to try.
  We'll goo, if thou dost like, an' jist zee which
  Can heave the mwost, or car the biggest nitch.

  BOB.

  There, Sam, do meke me zick to hear thy braggn!
  Why bissen strong enough to car a flagon.

  SAM.

  You grinnn fool! why I'd zet thee a-blown,
  If thou wast wi' me vor a day a-mown.
  I'd wear my cwoat, an' thou midst pull thy rags off,
  An' then in half a zwath I'd mow thy lags off.

  BOB.

  Thee mow wi' me! Why coossen keep up wi' me:
  Why bissn fit to goo a-vield to skimmy,
  Or mow down docks an' thistles! Why I'll bet
  A shilln, Samel, that thou cassen whet.

  SAM.

  Now don't thee zay much mwore than what'st a-zaid,
  Or else I'll knock thee down, heels over head.

  BOB.

  Thou knock me down, indeed! Why cassen gi'e
  A blow half hard enough to kill a bee.

  SAM.

  Well, thou shalt veel upon thy chops and snout.

  BOB.

  Come on, then, Samel; jist let's have woone bout.




WHERE WE DID KEEP OUR FLAGON.


  When we in mornn had a-drow'd
  The grass or russln ha abrode,
  The lit'some madens an' the chaps,
  Wi' bits o' nunchns in their laps,
  Did all zit down upon the knaps
    Up there, in under hedge, below
    The highest elem o' the row,
      Where we did keep our flagon.

  There we could zee green vields at hand,
  Avore a hunderd on beyand,
  An' rows o' trees in hedges roun'
  Green meds, an' zummerlezes brown,
  An' thorns upon the zunny down,
    While aer, vrom the rockn zedge
    In brook, did come along the hedge,
      Where we did keep our flagon.

  There laughn chaps did try in pla
  To bury madens up in ha,
  As giggln madens tried to roll
  The chaps down into zome deep hole,
  Or sting wi' nettles woone o'm's poll;
    While John did hele out each his drap
    O' ele or cider, in his lap
      Where he did keep the flagon.

  Woone day there spun a whirlwind by
  Where Jenny's clothes wer out to dry;
  An' off vled frocks, a'most a-catch'd
  By smock-frocks wi' their sleeves outstratch'd,
  An' caps a-frill'd an' eperns patch'd;
    An' she a-stern in a fright,
    Wer glad enough to zee em light
      Where we did keep our flagon.

  An' when white clover wer a-sprung
  Among the eegrass, green an' young,
  An' elder-flowers wer a-spread
  Among the rwosen white an' red,
  An' honeyzucks wi' hangn head,--
    O' Zunday evenns we did zit
    To look all roun' the grounds a bit,
      Where we'd a-kept our flagon.




WEEK'S END IN ZUMMER, IN THE WOLD VO'K'S TIME.


  His aunt an' uncle,--ah! the kind
  Wold souls be often in my mind:
  A better couple never stood
  In shoes, an' vew be voun' so good.
  _She_ cheer'd the work-vo'k in ther tweils
  Wi' timely bits an' draps, an' smiles;
  An' _he_ pad all o'm at week's end,
  Their money down to goo an' spend.

  In zummer, when week's end come roun'
  The ha-mekers did come vrom groun',
  An' all zit down, wi' weary bwones,
  Within the yard a-peved wi' stwones,
  Along avore the peles, between
  The yard a-sten'd an' open green.
  There women zot wi' bare-neck'd chaps,
  An' madens wi' their sleeves an' flaps
  To screen vrom het their erms an' polls.
  An' men wi' beards so black as coals:
  Girt stocky Jim, an' lanky John,
  An' poor wold Betty dead an' gone;
  An' clen-grown Tom so spry an' strong,
  An' Liz the best to pitch a zong,
  That now ha' nearly half a score
  O' childern zwarmn at her door;
  An' whindlen Ann, that cried wi' fear
  To hear the thunder when 'twer near,--
  A zickly mad, so pele's the moon,
  That voun' her zun goo down at noon;
  An' blushn Jene so shy an' meek,
  That seldom let us hear her speak,
  That wer a-coorted an' undone
  By Farmer Woodley's woldest son;
  An' after she'd a-been vorzook,
  Wer voun' a-drown'd in Longmed brook.

  An' zoo, when _he_'d a-been all roun',
  An' pad em all their wages down,
  _She_ us'd to bring vor all, by tele
  A cup o' cider or ov ele,
  An' then a tutty mede o' lots
  O' blossoms vrom her flower-nots,
  To wear in bands an' button-holes
  At church, an' in their evenn strolls.
  The pea that rangled to the oves,
  An' columbines an' pinks an' cloves,
  Sweet rwosen vrom the prickly tree,
  An' jilliflow'rs, an' jessamy;
  An' short-liv'd pinies, that do shed
  Their leaves upon a erly bed.
  She didden put in honeyzuck:
  She'd nwone, she zad, that she could pluck
  Avore wild honeyzucks, a-vound
  In ev'ry hedge ov ev'ry ground.

  Zoo mad an' woman, bwoy an' man,
  Went off, while zunzet ar did fan
  Their merry zunburnt fezen; zome
  Down lene, an' zome drough parrocks hwome.

  Ah! who can tell, that ha'nt a-vound,
  The sweets o' week's-end comn round!
  When Zadurday do bring woone's mind
  Sweet thoughts o' Zunday clwose behind;
  The day that's all our own to spend
  Wi' God an' wi' an e'thly friend.
  The worold's girt vo'k, wi' the best
  O' worldly goods mid be a-blest;
  But Zunday is the poor man's pert,
  To seve his soul an' cheer his heart.




THE MEAD A-MOW'D.


  When shedes do vall into ev'ry hollow,
    An' reach vrom trees half athirt the groun';
  An' banks an' walls be a-lookn yollow,
    That be a-turn'd to the zun gwan down;
          Drough ha in cock, O,
          We all do vlock, O,
    Along our road vrom the med a-mow'd.

  An' when the last swan lwoad's a-started
    Up hill so slow to the lofty rick,
  Then we so weary but merry-hearted,
    Do shoulder each [=o]'s a reke an' pick,
          Wi' empty flagon,
          Behind the waggon,
    To teke our road vrom the med a-mow'd.

  When church is out, an' we all so slowly
    About the knap be a-spreadn wide,
  How ga the paths be where we do strolly
    Along the lene an' the hedge's zide;
          But nwone's a voun', O,
          Up hill or down, O,
    So ga's the road drough the med a-mow'd.

  An' when the visher do come, a-drown
    His flutt'ren line over bledy zedge,
  Drough groun's wi' red thissle-heads a-blown,
    An' watchn o't by the water's edge;
          Then he do love, O,
          The best to rove, O,
    Along his road drough the med a-mow'd.




THE SKY A-CLEAREN.


  The drevn scud that overcast
  The zummer sky is all a-past,
  An' softer ar, a-blown drough
  The quiv'rn boughs, do sheke the vew
  Last ran drops off the leaves lik' dew;
    An' peviers, now a-gettn dry,
    Do steam below the zunny sky
      That's now so vast a-clern.

  The shedes that wer a-lost below
  The stormy cloud, agen do show
  Their mockn shepes below the light;
  An' house-walls be a-lookn white,
  An' vo'k do stir woonce mwore in zight,
    An' busy birds upon the wing
    Do whiver roun' the boughs an' zing,
      To zee the sky a-clearn.

  Below the hill's an ash; below
  The ash, white elder-flow'rs do blow:
  Below the elder is a bed
  O' robinhoods o' blushn red;
  An' there, wi' nunches all a-spread,
    The ha-mekers, wi' each a cup
    O' drink, do smile to zee hold up
      The ran, an' sky a-clern.

  'Mid blushn madens, wi' their zong,
  Still draw their white-stemm'd rekes among
  The long-back'd weles an' new-mede pooks,
  By brown-stemm'd trees an' cloty brooks;
  But have noo call to spweil their looks
    By work, that God could never meke
    Their weaker han's to underteke,
      Though skies mid be a-clern.

  'Tis wrong vor women's han's to clips
  The zull an' reap-hook, spedes an' whips;
  An' men abroad, should leve, by right,
  Woone fathful heart at hwome to light
  Their bit o' vier up at night,
    An' hang upon the hedge to dry
    Their snow-white linen, when the sky
      In winter is a-clern.




THE EVENN STAR O' ZUMMER.


  When vu'st along these road vrom mill,
  I zeed ye hwome all up the hill,
  The poplar tree, so straght an' tall,
  Did rustle by the watervall;
  An' in the leze the cows wer all
    A-lyn down to teke their rest
    An' slowly zunk towrd the west
      The evenn star o' zummer.

  In parrock there the ha did lie
  In wele below the elems, dry;
  An' up in hwome-groun' Jim, that know'd
  We all should come along thik road,
  D a-tied the grass in knots that drow'd
    Poor Poll, a-watchn in the West
    Woone brighter star than all the rest,--
      The evenn star o' zummer.

  The stars that still do zet an' rise,
  Did sheen in our forefather's eyes;
  They glitter'd to the vu'st men's zight,
  The last will have em in their night;
  But who can vind em half so bright
    As I thought thik pele star above
    My smiln Jene, my zweet vu'st love,
      The evenn star o' zummer.

  How sweet's the mornn fresh an' new,
  Wi' sparkln brooks an' glitt'rn dew;
  How sweet's the noon wi' shedes a-drow'd
  Upon the groun' but letely mow'd,
  An' bloomn flowers all abrode;
    But sweeter still, as I do clim',
    These woody hill in evenn dim
      'S the evenn star o' zummer.




THE CLOTE.

_(Water-lily.)_


  O zummer clote! when the brook's a-glidn
    So slow an' smooth down his zedgy bed,
  Upon thy broad leaves so sefe a-ridn
    The water's top wi' thy yollow head,
      By alder's heads, O,
      An' bulrush beds, O.
  Thou then dost float, goolden zummer clote!

  The grey-bough'd withy's a-lenn lowly
    Above the water thy leaves do hide;
  The bendn bulrush, a-swan slowly,
    Do skirt in zummer thy river's zide;
        An' perch in shoals, O,
        Do vill the holes, O,
  Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

  Oh! when thy brook-drinkn flow'r's a-blown,
    The burnn zummer's a-zettn in;
  The time o' greenness, the time o' mown,
    When in the ha-vield, wi' zunburnt skin,
        The vo'k do drink, O,
        Upon the brink, O,
  Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

  Wi' erms a-spreadn, an' cheks a-blown,
    How proud wer I when I vu'st could zwim
  Athirt the plece where thou bist a-grown,
    Wi' thy long more vrom the bottom dim;
        While cows, knee-high, O,
        In brook, wer nigh, O,
  Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

  Ov all the brooks drough the meds a-windn,
    Ov all the meds by a river's brim,
  There's nwone so feir o' my own heart's vindn,
    As where the madens do zee thee swim,
        An' stan' to teke, O,
        Wi' long-stemm'd reke, O,
  Thy flow'r afloat, goolden zummer clote!




I GOT TWO VIELDS.


  I got two vields, an' I don't cere
  What squire mid have a bigger shere.
  My little zummer-leze do stratch
  All down the hangn, to a patch
  O' med between a hedge an' rank
  Ov elems, an' a river bank.
  Where yollow clotes, in spreadn beds
  O' floatn leaves, do lift their heads
  By bendn bulrushes an' zedge
  A-swan at the water's edge,
  Below the withy that do spread
  Athirt the brook his grey-leav'd head.
  An' eltrot flowers, milky white,
  Do catch the slantn evenn light;
  An' in the meple boughs, along
  The hedge, do ring the blackbird's zong;
  Or in the day, a-vlen drough
  The leafy trees, the whoa'se gookoo
  Do zing to mowers that do zet
  Their zives on end, an' stan' to whet.
  From my wold house among the trees
  A lene do goo along the leze
  O' yollow gravel, down between
  Two mossy banks vor ever green.
  An' trees, a-hangn overhead,
  Do hide a trinkln gully-bed,
  A-cover'd by a bridge vor hoss
  Or man a-voot to come across.
  Zoo wi' my hwomestead, I don't cere
  What squire mid have a bigger shere!




POLLY BE-EN UPZIDES WI' TOM.


  Ah! yesterday, d'ye know, I voun'
  Tom Dumpy's cwoat an' smock-frock, down
  Below the pollard out in groun';
      An' zoo I slyly stole
  An' took the smock-frock up, an' tack'd
  The sleeves an' collar up, an' pack'd
  Zome nice sharp stwones, all fresh a-crack'd
      'Ithin each pocket-hole.

  An' in the evenn, when he shut
  Off work, an' come an' donn'd his cwoat,
  Their edges gi'ed en sich a cut,
      How we did stan' an' laugh!
  An' when the smock-frock I'd a-zow'd
  Kept back his head an' hands, he drow'd
  Hizzelf about, an' tev'd, an' blow'd,
      Lik' any up-tied calf.

  Then in a veag away he flung
  His frock, an' after me he sprung,
  An' mutter'd out sich dreats, an' wrung
      His vist up sich a size!
  But I, a-runnn, turn'd an' drow'd
  Some doust, a-pick'd up vrom the road,
  Back at en wi' the wind, that blow'd
      It right into his eyes.

  An' he did blink, an' vow he'd catch
  Me zomehow yet, an' be my match.
  But I wer nearly down to hatch
      Avore he got vur on;
  An' up in chammer, nearly dead
  Wi' runnn, lik' a cat I vled,
  An' out o' window put my head
      To zee if he wer gone.

  An' there he wer, a-prowln roun'
  Upon the green; an' I look'd down
  An' told en that I hoped he voun'
      He mussen think to peck
  Upon a body zoo, nor whip
  The mere to drow me off, nor tip
  Me out o' cart agen, nor slip
      Cut hoss-heir down my neck.




BE'MI'STER.


  Sweet Be'mi'ster, that bist a-bound
  By green an' woody hills all round,
  Wi' hedges, reachn up between
  A thousan' vields o' zummer green,
  Where elems' lofty heads do drow
  Their shedes vor ha-meakers below,
  An' wild hedge-flow'rs do charm the souls
  O' madens in their evenn strolls.

  When I o' Zunday nights wi' Jene
  Do saunter drough a vield or lene,
  Where elder-blossoms be a-spread
  Above the eltrot's milk-white head,
  An' flow'rs o' blackberries do blow
  Upon the brembles, white as snow,
  To be outdone avore my zight
  By Jen's ga frock o' dazzln white;

  Oh! then there's nothn that's 'ithout
  Thy hills that I do ho about,--
  Noo bigger plece, noo gaer town,
  Beyond thy sweet bells' dyn soun',
  As they do ring, or strike the hour,
  At evenn vrom thy wold red tow'r.
  No: shelter still my head, an' keep
  My bwones when I do vall asleep.




THATCHEN O' THE RICK.


  As I wer out in med last week,
  A-thatchn o' my little rick,
  There green young ee-grass, ankle-high,
  Did sheen below the cloudless sky;
  An' over hedge in tother groun',
  Among the bennets dry an' brown,
  My dun wold mere, wi' neck a-freed
  Vrom Zummer work, did snort an' veed;
  An' in the shede o' leafy boughs,
  My vew wold ragged-cwoated cows
  Did rub their zides upon the rals,
  Or switch em wi' their heiry tals.

  An' as the mornn zun rose high
  Above my mossy roof clwose by,
  The blue smoke curreled up between
  The lofty trees o' fedn green:
  A zight that's touchn when do show
  A busy wife is down below,
  A-workn hard to cheer woone's tweil
  Wi' her best fere, an' better smile.
  Mid women still in wedlock's yoke
  Zend up, wi' love, their own blue smoke,
  An' husbands vind their bwoards a-spread
  By fathvul hands when I be dead,
  An' noo good men in ouer land
  Think lightly o' the weddn band.
  True happiness do bide alwone
  Wi' them that ha' their own he'th-stwone
  To gather wi' their childern roun',
  A-smiln at the worold's frown.

  My bwoys, that brought me thatch an' spars,
  Wer down a-tatn on the bars,
  Or zot a-cuttn wi' a knife,
  Dry eltrot-roots to meke a fife;
  Or drevn woone another round
  The rick upon the grassy ground.
  An', as the aer vrom the west
  Did fan my burnn fece an' breast,
  An' hoppn birds, wi' twitt'rn beaks,
  Did show their sheenn spots an' streaks,
  Then, wi' my heart a-vill'd wi' love
  An' thankvulness to God above,
  I didden think ov anything
  That I begrudg'd o' lord or king;
  Vor I ha' round me, vur or near,
  The mwost to love an' nwone to fear,
  An' zoo can walk in any plece,
  An' look the best man in the fece.
  What good do come to echn heads,
  O' lin down in silken beds?
  Or what's a coach, if woone do pine
  To zee woone's naghbour's twice so fine?
  Contentment is a constant fest,
  He's richest that do want the lest.




BEES A-ZWARMEN.


  Avore we went a-milkn, vive
  Or six o's here wer all alive
  A-tekn bees that zwarm'd vrom hive;
    An' we'd sich work to catch
  The hummn rogues, they led us sich
  A dance all over hedge an' ditch;
  An' then at last where should they pitch,
    But up in uncle's thatch?

  Dick rung a sheep-bell in his han';
  Liz bet a cannister, an' Nan
  Did bang the little fryn-pan
    Wi' thick an' thumpn blows;
  An' Tom went on, a-carrn roun'
  A bee-pot up upon his crown,
  Wi' all his edge a-reachn down
    Avore his eyes an' nose.

  An' woone girt bee, wi' spitevul hum,
  Stung Dicky's lip, an' mede it come
  All up amost so big's a plum;
    An' zome, a-vlen on,
  Got all roun' Liz, an' mede her hop
  An' scream, a-twirln lik' a top,
  An' spring away right backward, flop
    Down into barken pon':

  An' Nan' gi'ed Tom a roguish twitch
  Upon a bank, an' mede en pitch
  Right down, head-voremost, into ditch,--
    Tom coulden zee a wink.
  An' when the zwarm wer sefe an' sound
  In mother's bit o' bee-pot ground,
  She mede us up a treat all round
    O' sillibub to drink.




READEN OV A HEAD-STWONE.


  As I wer readn ov a stwone
  In Grenley church-yard all alwone,
  A little mad ran up, wi' pride
  To zee me there, an' push'd a-zide
  A bunch o' bennets that did hide
    A verse her father, as she zad,
    Put up above her mother's head,
      To tell how much he loved her:

  The verse wer short, but very good,
  I stood an' larn'd en where I stood:--
  "Mid God, dear Mery, gi'e me grece
  To vind, lik' thee, a better plece,
  Where I woonce mwore mid zee thy fece;
    An' bring thy childern up to know
    His word, that they mid come an' show
      Thy soul how much I lov'd thee."

  "Where's father, then," I zaid, "my chile?"
  "Dead too," she answer'd wi' a smile;
  "An' I an' brother Jim do bide
  At Betty White's, o' tother zide
  O' road." "Mid He, my chile," I cried,
    "That's father to the fatherless,
    Become thy father now, an' bless,
      An' keep, an' led, an' love thee."

  Though she've a-lost, I thought, so much,
  Still He don't let the thoughts o't touch
  Her litsome heart by day or night;
  An' zoo, if we could teke it right,
  Do show He'll meke his burdens light
    To weaker souls, an' that his smile
    Is sweet upon a harmless chile,
      When they be dead that lov'd it.




ZUMMER EVENN DANCE.


  Come out to the parrock, come out to the tree,
  The madens an' chaps be a-watn vor thee;
  There's Jim wi' his fiddle to pla us some reels,
  Come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels.

  Come, all the long grass is a-mow'd an' a-carr'd,
  An' the turf is so smooth as a bwoard an' so hard;
  There's a bank to zit down, when y'ave danced a reel drough,
  An' a tree over head vor to keep off the dew.

  There be rwoses an' honeyzucks hangn among
  The bushes, to put in thy west; an' the zong
  O' the nightingele's herd in the hedges all roun';
  An' I'll get thee a glow-worm to stick in thy gown.

  There's Mery so modest, an' Jenny so smart,
  An' Mag that do love a good rompse to her heart;
  There's Joe at the mill that do zing funny zongs,
  An' short-lagged Dick, too, a-waggn his prongs.

  Zoo come to the parrock, come out to the tree,
  The madens an' chaps be a-watn vor thee;
  There's Jim wi' his fiddle to pla us some reels,--
  Come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels.




[Gothic: Eclogue.]

THE VEAIRIES.


_Simon an' Samel._


  SIMON.

  There's what the vo'k do call a veiry ring
  Out there, lo'k zee. Why, 'tis an oddish thing.

  SAMEL.

  Ah! zoo do seem. I wunder how do come!
  What is it that do meke it, I do wonder?

  SIMON.

  Be hang'd if I can tell, I'm sure! But zome
  Do zay do come by lightnn when do thunder;
  An' zome do say sich rings as thk ring there is,
  Do grow in dancn-tracks o' little veiries,
  That in the nights o' zummer or o' spring
  Do come by moonlight, when noo other veet
  Do tread the dewy grass, but their's, an' meet
  An' dance away together in a ring.

  SAMEL.

  An' who d'ye think do work the fiddlestick?
  A little veiry too, or else wold Nick!

  SIMON.

  Why, they do zay, that at the veiries' ball,
  There's nar a fiddle that's a-her'd at all;
  But they do pla upon a little pipe
  A-mede o' kexes or o' straws, dead ripe,
  A-stuck in row (zome short an' longer zome)
  Wi' slime o' snals, or bits o' plum-tree gum,
  An' meke sich music that to hear it sound,
  You'd stick so still's a pollard to the ground.

  SAMEL.

  What do em dance? 'Tis plan by these green wheels,
  They don't frisk in an' out in dree-hand reels;
  Vor else, instead o' these here girt round O,
  The'd cut us out a figure aght (8), d'ye know.

  SIMON.

  Oh! they ha' jigs to fit their little veet.
  They woulden dance, you know, at their fine ball,
  The dree an' vow'r han' reels that we do sprawl
  An' kick about in, when we men do meet.

  SAMEL.

  An' zoo have zome vo'k, in their midnight rambles,
  A-catch'd the veiries, then, in thesem gambols.

  SIMON.

  Why, yes; but they be off lik' any shot,
  So soon's a man's a-comn near the spot

  SAMEL.

  But in the day-time where do veiries hide?
  Where be their hwomes, then? where do veiries bide?

  SIMON.

  Oh! they do get awa down under ground,
  In hollow plezen where they can't be vound.
  But still my gramfer, many years agoo,
  (He liv'd at Grenley-farm, an milk'd a deiry),
  If what the wolder vo'k do tell is true,
  Woone mornn erly vound a veiry.

  SAMEL.

  An' did he stop, then, wi' the good wold bwoy?
  Or did he soon contrive to slip awoy?

  SIMON.

  Why, when the vo'k were all asleep, a-bed,
  The veiries us'd to come, as 'tis a-zaid,
  Avore the vire wer cwold, an' dance an hour
  Or two at dead o' night upon the vloor;
  Var they, by only uttern a word
  Or charm, can come down chimney lik' a bird;
  Or draw their bodies out so long an' narrow,
  That they can vlee drough keyholes lik' an arrow.
  An' zoo woone midnight, when the moon did drow
  His light drough window, roun' the vloor below,
  An' crickets roun' the bricken he'th did zing,
  They come an' danced about the hall in ring;
  An' tapp'd, drough little holes noo eyes could spy,
  A kag o' poor aunt's med a-stannn by.
  An' woone o'm drink'd so much, he coulden mind
  The word he wer to zay to meke en small;
  He got a-dather'd zoo, that after all
  Out tothers went an' left en back behind.
  An' after he'd a-bet about his head,
  Agen the keyhole till he wer half dead,
  He laid down all along upon the vloor
  Till gramfer, comen down, unlocked the door:
  An' then he zeed en ('twer enough to frighten n)
  Bolt out o' door, an' down the road lik' lightenn.




FALL.




CORN A-TURNEN YOLLOW.


  The windless copse ha' shedy boughs,
    Wi' blackbirds' evenn whistles;
  The hills ha' sheep upon their brows,
    The zummerleze ha' thistles:
  The meds be ga in grassy Ma,
    But, oh! vrom hill to hollow,
  Let me look down upon a groun'
    O' corn a-turnn yollow.

  An' pease do grow in tangled beds,
    An' bens be sweet to snuff, O;
  The teper woats do bend their heads,
    The barley's beard is rough, O.
  The turnip green is fresh between
    The corn in hill or hollow,
  But I'd look down upon a groun'
    O' wheat a-turnn yollow.

  'Tis merry when the brawny men
    Do come to reap it down, O,
  Where glossy red the poppy head
    'S among the stalks so brown, O.
  'Tis merry while the wheat's in hile,
    Or when, by hill or hollow,
  The lezers thick do stoop to pick
    The ears so ripe an' yollow.




A-HAULEN O' THE CORN.


  Ah! yesterday, you know, we carr'd
    The piece o' corn in Zideln Plot,
  An' work'd about it pretty hard,
    An' vound the weather pretty hot.
  'Twer all a-tied an' zet upright
  In tidy hile o' Monday night;
  Zoo yesterday in afternoon
  We zet, in ernest, ev'ry woone
      A-hauln o' the corn.

  The hosses, wi' the het an' lwoad,
    Did froth, an' zwang vrom zide to zide,
  A-gwan along the dousty road,
    An' seem'd as if they would a-died.
  An' wi' my collar all undone,
  An' neck a-burnn wi' the zun,
  I got, wi' work, an' doust, an' het,
  So dry at last, I coulden spet,
        A-hauln o' the corn.

  At uncle's orcha'd, gwan along,
    I begged some apples, vor to quench
  My drith, o' Poll that wer among
    The trees: but she, a saucy wench,
  Toss'd over hedge some crabs vor fun.
  I squal'd her, though, an' mede her run;
  An' zoo she gie'd me, vor a treat,
  A lot o' stubberds vor to eat.
        A-hauln o' the corn.

  An' up at rick, Jene took the flagon,
    An' gi'ed us out zome ele; an' then
  I carr'd her out upon the waggon,
    Wi' bread an' cheese to gi'e the men.
  An' there, vor fun, we dress'd her head
  Wi' noddn poppies bright an' red,
  As we wer catchn vrom our laps,
  Below a woak, our bits an' draps,
        A-hauln o' the corn.




HARVEST HWOME.

_The vu'st pert. The Supper._


  Since we wer striplns naghbour John,
  The good wold merry times be gone:
  But we do like to think upon
      What we've a-zeed an' done.
  When I wer up a hardish lad,
  At harvest hwome the work-vo'k had
  Sich suppers, they wer jumpn mad
      Wi' festn an' wi' fun.

  At uncle's, I do mind, woone year,
  I zeed a vill o' hearty cheer;
  Fat beef an' puddn, ele an' beer,
      Vor ev'ry workman's crop
  An' after they'd a-gie'd God thanks,
  They all zot down, in two long ranks,
  Along a teble-bwoard o' planks,
      Wi' uncle at the top.

  An' there, in platters, big and brown,
  Wer red fat becon, an' a roun'
  O' beef wi' gravy that would drown
      A little rwoastn pig;
  Wi' bens an' teties vull a zack,
  An' cabbage that would meke a stack,
  An' puddns brown, a-speckled black
      Wi' figs, so big's my wig.

  An' uncle, wi' his elbows out,
  Did carve, an' meke the gravy spout;
  An' aunt did gi'e the mugs about
      A-frothn to the brim.
  Pletes werden then ov e'then ware,
  They ate off pewter, that would bear
  A knock; or wooden trenchers, square,
      Wi' zalt-holes at the rim.

  An' zoo they munch'd their hearty cheer,
  An' dipp'd their beards in frothy-beer,
  An' laugh'd, an' jok'd--they couldden hear
      What woone another zaid.
  An' all o'm drink'd, wi' woone accword,
  The wold vo'k's health: an' bet the bwoard,
  An' swung their erms about, an' roar'd,
      Enough to crack woone's head.




HARVEST HWOME.

_Second Pert. What they did after Supper._


  Zoo after supper wer a-done,
  They clear'd the tebles, an' begun
  To have a little bit o' fun,
      As long as they mid stop.
  The wold woones took their pipes to smoke,
  An' tell their teles, an' laugh an' joke,
  A-lookn at the younger vo'k,
    That got up vor a hop.

  Woone screp'd away, wi' merry grin,
  A fiddle stuck below his chin;
  An' woone o'm took the rolln pin,
      An' bet the fryn pan.
  An' tothers, dancn to the soun',
  Went in an' out, an' droo an' roun',
  An' kick'd, an' bet the tun down,
      A-laughn, mad an' man.

  An' then a mad, all up tip-tooe,
  Vell down; an' woone o'm wi' his shoe
  Slit down her pocket-hole in two,
      Vrom top a-most to bottom.
  An' when they had a-danc'd enough,
  They got a-plan blindman's buff,
  An' sard the madens pretty rough,
      When woonce they had a-got em.

  An' zome did drink, an' laugh, an' roar,
  An' lots o' teles they had in store,
  O' things that happen'd years avore
      To them, or vo'k they know'd.
  An' zome did joke, an' zome did zing,
  An' meke the girt wold kitchen ring;
  Till uncle's cock, wi' flappn wing,
      Stratch'd out his neck an' crow'd.




A ZONG OV HARVEST HWOME.


  The ground is clear. There's nar a ear
    O' stannn corn a-left out now,
  Vor win' to blow or ran to drow;
    'Tis all up sefe in barn or mow.
    Here's health to them that plough'd an' zow'd;
    Here's health to them that reap'd an' mow'd,
    An' them that had to pitch an' lwoad,
    Or tip the rick at Harvest Hwome.
  _The happy zight,--the merry night,_
  _The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._

  An' mid noo harm o' vire or storm
    Beval the farmer or his corn;
  An' ev'ry zack o' zeed gi'e back
    A hunderd-vwold so much in barn.
    An' mid his Meker bless his store,
    His wife an' all that she've a-bore,
    An' keep all evil out o' door,
    Vrom Harvest Hwome to Harvest Hwome.
  _The happy zight,--the merry night,_
  _The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._

  Mid nothn ill betide the mill,
    As day by day the miller's wheel
  Do dreve his clacks, an' heist his zacks,
    An' vill his bins wi' show'rn meal:
    Mid's water never overflow
    His dousty mill, nor zink too low,
    Vrom now till wheat agen do grow,
    An' we've another Harvest Hwome.
  _The happy zight,--the merry night,_
  _The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._

  Drough cisterns wet an' malt-kil's het,
    Mid barley pa the malter's pans;
  An' mid noo hurt bevall the wort,
    A-bweiln vrom the brewer's grans.
    Mid all his beer keep out o' harm
    Vrom bu'sted hoop or thunder storm,
    That we mid have a mug to warm
    Our merry hearts nex' Harvest Hwome.
  _The happy zight,--the merry night,_
  _The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._

  Mid luck an' ja the beker pa,
    As he do hear his vier roar,
  Or nimbly catch his hot white batch,
    A-reekn vrom the oven door.
    An' mid it never be too high
    Vor our vew zixpences to buy,
    When we do hear our childern cry
    Vor bread, avore nex' Harvest Hwome.
  _The happy zight,--the merry night,_
  _The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._

  Wi' ja o' heart mid shooters start
    The whirrn pa'tridges in vlocks;
  While shots do vlee drough bush an' tree,
    An' dogs do stan' so still as stocks.
    An' let em ramble round the farms
    Wi' guns 'ithin their bended erms,
    In goolden zunsheen free o' storms,
    Rejacn vor the Harvest Hwome.
  _The happy zight,--the merry night,_
  _The men's delight,--the Harvest Hwome._




POLL'S JACK-DAW.


  Ah! Jimmy vow'd he'd have the law
  Ov ouer cousin Poll's Jack-daw,
  That had by day his withy jal
  A-hangn up upon a nal,
  Agen the elem tree, avore
  The house, jist over-right the door,
  An' twitted vo'k a-passn by
  A-most so plan as you or I;
  Vor hardly any day did pass
  'Ithout Tom's teachn o'm zome sa'ce;
  Till by-an'-by he call'd em all
  'Soft-polls' an' 'gawkeys,' girt an' small.

  An' zoo, as Jim went down along
  The lene a-whissln ov a zong,
  The saucy Daw cried out by rote
  "Girt Soft-poll!" lik' to split his droat.
  Jim stopp'd an' grabbled up a clot,
  An' zent en at en lik' a shot;
  An' down went Daw an' cage avore
  The clot, up thump agen the door.
  Zoo out run Poll an' Tom, to zee
  What all the menn o't mid be;
  "Now who did that?" zaid Poll. "Who whurr'd
  These clot?" "Girt Soft-poll!" cried the bird.

  An' when Tom catch'd a glimpse o' Jim,
  A-lookn all so red an' slim,
  An' slinkn on, he vled, red hot,
  Down lene to catch en, lik' a shot;
  But Jim, that thought he'd better trust
  To lags than vistes, tried em vu'st.
  An' Poll, that zeed Tom woulden catch
  En, stood a-smiln at the hatch.
  An' zoo he vollow'd en for two
  Or dree stwones' drows, an' let en goo.




THE IVY.


  Upon these knap I'd sooner be
  The ivy that do climb the tree,
  Than bloom the gaest rwose a-tied
  An' trimm'd upon the house's zide.
  The rwose mid be the madens' pride,
    But still the ivy's wild an' free;
    An' what is all that life can gi'e,
      'Ithout a free light heart, John?

  The creepn shede mid steal too soon
  Upon the rwose in afternoon;
  But here the zun do drow his het
  Vrom when do rise till when do zet,
  To dry the leaves the ran do wet.
    An' evenn ar do bring along
    The merry deiry-maden's zong,
      The zong of free light hearts, John.

  Oh! why do vo'k so often chan
  Their pinn minds vor love o' gan,
  An' gi'e their innocence to rise
  A little in the worold's eyes?
  If pride could lift us to the skies,
    What man do value God do slight,
    An' all is nothn in his zight
      'Ithout an honest heart, John.

  An ugly fece can't bribe the brooks
  To show it back young han'some looks,
  Nor crooked vo'k intice the light
  To cast their zummer shedes upright:
  Noo goold can blind our Meker's zight.
    An' what's the odds what cloth do hide
    The bosom that do hold inside
      A free an' honest heart, John?




THE WELSHNUT TREE.


  When in the evenn the zun's a-zinkn,
    A drown shedes vrom the yollow west,
  An' mother, weary, 's a-zot a thinkn,
    Wi' vwolded erms by the vire at rest,
          Then we do zwarm, O,
          Wi' such a charm, O,
    So vull o' glee by the welshnut tree.

  A-levn father in-doors, a-leinn'
    In his girt chair in his easy shoes,
  Or in the settle so high behine en,
    While down bezide en the dog do snooze,
          Our tongues do run, O,
          Enough to stun, O,
    Your head wi' glee by the welshnut tree.

  There we do pla 'thread the woman's needle.'
    An' slap the madens a-dartn drough:
  Or try who'll ax em the hardest riddle,
    Or soonest tell woone a-put us, true;
          Or zit an' ring, O,
          The bells, ding, ding, O,
    Upon our knee by the welshnut tree.

  An' zome do goo out, an' hide in orcha't,
    An' tothers, slily a-stealn by,
  Where there's a dark cunnn plece, do sarch it,
    Till they do zee em an' cry, "I spy,"
          An' thik a-vound, O,
          Do gi'e a bound, O,
    To get off free to the welshnut tree.

  Poll went woone night, that we midden vind her,
    Inzide a woak wi' a hollow moot,
  An' drough a hole near the groun' behind her,
    I pok'd a stick in, an' catch'd her voot;
          An' out she scream'd, O,
          An' jump'd, an' seem'd, O,
    A-mst to vlee to the welshnut tree.

  An' when, at last, at the drashel, mother
    Do call us, smiln, in-door to rest,
  Then we do cluster by woone another,
    To zee hwome them we do love the best:
          An' then do sound, O,
          "Good night," all round, O,
    To end our glee by the welshnut tree.




JENNY OUT VROM HWOME.


  O wild-revn west winds; as you do roar on,
    The elems do rock an' the poplars do ply,
  An' weve do dreve weve in the dark-water'd pon',--
    Oh! where do ye rise vrom, an' where do ye die?

  O wild-revn winds I do wish I could vlee
    Wi' you, lik' a bird o' the clouds, up above
  The ridge o' the hill an' the top o' the tree,
    To where I do long vor, an' vo'k I do love.

  Or else that in under these rock I could hear,
    In the soft-zwelln sounds you do leve in your road,
  Zome words you mid bring me, vrom tongues that be dear,
    Vrom friends that do love me, all scatter'd abrode.

  O wild-revn winds! if you ever do roar
    By the house an' the elems vrom where I'm a-come,
  Breathe up at the window, or call at the door,
    An' tell you've a-voun' me a-thinkn o' hwome.




GRENLEY WATER.


  The shedeless darkness o' the night
  Can never blind my mem'ry's zight;
  An' in the storm, my fancy's eyes
  Can look upon their own blue skies.
  The laggn moon mid fal to rise,
    But when the daylight's blue an' green
    Be gone, my fancy's zun do sheen
      At hwome at Grenley Water.

  As when the work-vo'k us'd to ride
  In waggon, by the hedge's zide,
  Drough evenn shedes that trees cast down
  Vrom lofty stems athirt the groun';
  An' in at house the mug went roun',
    While ev'ry merry man pras'd up
    The pretty mad that vill'd his cup,
      The mad o' Grenley Water.

  There I do seem agen to ride
  The hosses to the water-zide,
  An' zee the visher fling his hook
  Below the withies by the brook;
  Or Fanny, wi' her blushn look,
    Car on her pal, or come to dip
    Wi' cereful step, her pitcher's lip
      Down into Grenley Water.

  If I'd a farm wi' vower ploughs,
  An' vor my deiry fifty cows;
  If Grenley Water winded down
  Drough two good miles o' my own groun';
  If half ov Ashknowle Hill wer brown
    Wi' my own corn,--noo grown pride
    Should ever meke me cast azide
      The mad o' Grenley Water.




THE VEAIRY VEET THAT I DO MEET.


  When dewy fall's red leaves do vlee
  Along the grass below the tree,
  Or lie in yollow beds a-shook
  Upon the shallow-water'd brook,
  Or drove 'ithin a shedy nook;
    Then softly, in the evenn, down
    The knap do steal along the groun'
      The veiry veet that I do meet
      Below the row o' beech trees.

  'Tis jist avore the candle-light
  Do redden windows up at night,
  An' peler stars do light the vogs
  A-risn vrom the brooks an' bogs,
  An' when in barkens yoppn dogs
    Do bark at vo'k a-comn near,
    Or growl a-lis'enn to hear
      The veiry veet that I do meet
      Below the row o' beech trees.

  Dree times a-year do bless the road
  O' womanhood a-gwan abrode:
  When vu'st her litty veet do tread
  The erly Ma's white deisy bed:
  When leaves be all a-scattered dead;
    An' when the winter's vrozen grass
    Do glissen in the zun lik' glass
      Vor veiry veet that I do meet
      Below the row o' beech trees.




MORNN.


  When vu'st the breakn day is red,
    An' grass is dewy wet,
  An' roun' the blackberry's a-spread
    The spider's gliss'nn net,
  Then I do dreve the cows across
    The brook that's in a vog,
  While they do trot, an' blere, an' toss
    Their heads to hook the dog;
  Vor the cock do gi'e me warnn,
        An' light or dark,
        So brisk's a lark,
    I'm up at break o' mornn.

  Avore the maden's sleep's a-broke
    By window-strikn zun,
  Avore the busy wife's vu'st smoke
    Do curl above the tun,
  My day's begun. An' when the zun
    'S a-zinkn in the west,
  The work the mornn brought's a-done,
    An' I do goo to rest,
  Till the cock do gi'e me warnn;
        An' light or dark,
        So brisk's a lark,
    I'm up agen nex' mornn.

  We can't keep back the daily zun,
    The wind is never still,
  An' never ha' the streams a-done
    A-runnn down at hill.
  Zoo they that ha' their work to do,
    Should do't so soon's they can;
  Vor time an' tide will come an' goo,
    An' never wat vor man,
  As the cock do gi'e me warnn;
        When, light or dark,
        So brisk's a lark,
    I'm up so rathe in mornn.

  We've lezes where the ar do blow,
    An' meds wi' deiry cows,
  An' copse wi' lewth an' shede below
    The overhangn boughs.
 An' when the zun, noo time can tire,
    'S a-quench'd below the west,
  Then we've, avore the blezn vire,
    A settle vor to rest,--
  To be up agen nex' mornn
        So brisk's a lark,
        When, light or dark,
    The cock do gi'e us warnn.




OUT A-NUTTN.


  Last week, when we'd a haul'd the crops,
  We went a-nuttn out in copse,
  Wi' nuttn-bags to bring hwome vull,
  An' beaky nuttn-crooks to pull
  The bushes down; an' all o's wore
  Wold clothes that wer in rags avore,
  An' look'd, as we did skip an' zing,
  Lik' merry gipsies in a string,
      A-gwan a-nuttn.

  Zoo drough the stubble, over rudge
  An' vurrow, we begun to trudge;
  An' Sal an' Nan agreed to pick
  Along wi' me, an' Poll wi' Dick;
  An' they went where the wold wood, high
  An' thick, did meet an' hide the sky;
  But we thought we mid vind zome good
  Ripe nuts among the shorter wood,
      The best vor nuttn.

  We voun' zome bushes that did fece
  The downcast zunlight's highest plece,
  Where clusters hung so ripe an' brown,
  That some slipp'd shell an' vell to groun'.
  But Sal wi' me zoo hitch'd her lag
  In brembles, that she coulden wag;
  While Poll kept clwose to Dick, an' stole
  The nuts vrom's hinder pocket-hole,
      While he did nutty.

  An' Nanny thought she zaw a sneke,
  An' jump'd off into zome girt breke,
  An' tore the bag where she'd a-put
  Her shere, an' shatter'd ev'ry nut.
  An' out in vield we all zot roun'
  A white-stemm'd woak upon the groun',
  Where yollor evenn light did strik'
  Drough yollow leaves, that still wer thick
      In time o' nuttn,

  An' twold ov all the luck we had
  Among the bushes, good an' bad!
  Till all the madens left the bwoys,
  An' skipp'd about the leze all woys
  Vor musherooms, to car back zome,
  A treat vor father in at hwome.
  Zoo off we trudg'd wi' clothes in slents
  An' libbets, jis' lik' Jack-o'-lents,
      Vrom copse a-nuttn.




TEAKEN IN APPLES.


  We took the apples in last week,
  An' got, by night, zome echn backs
  A-stoopn down all day to pick
  So many up in mawns an' zacks.
  An' there wer Liz so proud an' prim,
  An' dumpy Nan, an' Poll so sly;
  An' dapper Tom, an' loppn Jim,
  An' little Dick, an' Fan, an' I.

  An' there the lwoaded tree bent low,
  Behung wi' apples green an' red;
  An' springn grass could hardly grow,
  Drough windvalls down below his head.
  An' when the madens come in roun'
  The heavy boughs to vill their laps,
  We slily shook the apples down
  Lik' hal, an' gi'ed their backs some raps.

  An' zome big apple, Jimmy flung
  To squal me, gi'ed me sich a crack;
  But very shortly his ear rung,
  Wi' woone I zent to pa en back.
  An' after we'd a-had our squals,
  Poor Tom, a-jumpn in a bag,
  Wer pinch'd by all the maden's nals,
  An' rolled down into hwome-groun' quag.

  An' then they carr'd our Fan all roun',
  'Ithin a mawn, till zome girt stump
  Upset en over on the groun',
  An' drow'd her out along-straght, plump.
  An' in the cider-house we zot
  Upon the windlass Poll an' Nan,
  An' spun 'em roun' till they wer got
  So giddy that they coulden stan'.




MEAPLE LEAVES BE YOLLOW.


  Come, let's stroll down so vur's the poun',
  Avore the sparkln zun is down:
  The zummer's gone, an' days so feir
  As these be now a-gettn rere.
  The night, wi' mwore than daylight's shere
    O' wat'ry sky, do wet wi' dew
    The ee-grass up above woone's shoe,
      An' meple leaves be yollow.

  The last hot doust, above the road,
  An' vu'st dead leaves ha' been a-blow'd
  By plasome win's where spring did spread
  The blossoms that the zummer shed;
  An' near blue sloos an' conkers red
    The evenn zun, a zettn soon,
    Do leve a-quiv'rn to the moon,
      The meple leaves so yollow.

  Zoo come along, an' let's inja
  The last fine weather while do sta;
  While thou canst hang, wi' ribbons slack,
  Thy bonnet down upon thy back,
  Avore the winter, cwold an' black,
    Do kill thy flowers, an' avore
    Thy bird-cage is a-took in door,
      Though meple leaves be yollow.




NIGHT A-ZETTEN IN.


  When lezers wi' their laps o' corn
    Noo longer be a-stoopn,
  An' in the stubble, all vorlorn,
    Noo poppies be a-droopn;
  When these young harvest-moon do wene,
    That now've his horns so thin, O,
  We'll leve off walkn in the lene,
    While night's a zettn in, O.

  When zummer doust is all a-laid
    Below our litty shoes, O;
  When all the ran-chill'd flow'rs be dead,
    That now do drink the dews, O;
  When beauty's neck, that's now a-show'd,
    'S a-muffled to the chin, O;
  We'll leve off walkn in the road,
    When night's a-zettn in, O.

  But now, while barley by the road
    Do hang upon the bough, O,
  A-pull'd by branches off the lwoad
    A-ridn hwome to mow, O;
  While spiders roun' the flower-stalks
    Ha' cobwebs yet to spin, O,
  We'll cool ourzelves in out-door walks,
    When night's a-zettn in, O.

  While down at vword the brook so small,
    That letely wer so high, O,
  Wi' little tinkln sounds do vall
    In roun' the stwones half dry, O;
  While twilight ha' sich ar in store,
    To cool our zunburnt skin, O,
  We'll have a ramble out o' door,
    When night's a-zettn in, O.




THE WEATHER-BEATEN TREE.


  The woaken tree, a-bet at night
  By stormy winds wi' all their spite,
  Mid toss his lim's, an' ply, an' mwoan,
  Wi' unknown struggles all alwone;
  An' when the day do show his head,
  A-stripp'd by winds at last a-laid,
  How vew mid think that didden zee,
  How night-time had a-tried thik tree.

  An' happy vo'k do seldom know
  How hard our unknown storms do blow,
  The while our heads do slowly bend
  Below the trials God do zend,
  Like shiv'rn bennets, bere to all
  The drevn winds o' dark'nn fall.
  An' zoo in tryn hardships we
  Be lik' the weather beten tree.

  But He will never meke our shere
  O' sorrow mwore than we can bear,
  But meke us zee, if 'tis His will,
  That He can bring us good vrom ill;
  As after winter He do bring,
  In His good time, the zunny spring,
  An' leaves, an' young vo'k vull o' glee
  A-dancn roun' the woaken tree.

  True love's the ivy that do twine
  Unwith'rn roun' his mossy rine,
  When winter's zickly zun do sheen
  Upon its leaves o' glossy green,
  So patiently a-holdn vast
  Till storms an' cwold be all a-past,
  An' only livn vor to be
  A-meted to the woaken tree.




SHRODON FEIR.

_The vu'st Pert._


  An' zoo's the day wer warm an' bright,
  An' nar a cloud wer up in zight,
  We wheedled father vor the mere
  An' cart, to goo to Shrodon feir.
  An' Poll an' Nan run off up stairs,
  To shift their things, as wild as heres;
  An' pull'd out, each o'm vrom her box,
  Their snow-white lece an' newest frocks,
  An' put their bonnets on, a-lined
  Wi' blue, an' sashes tied behind;
  An' turn'd avore the glass their fece
  An' back, to zee their things in plece;
  While Dick an' I did brush our hats
  An' cwoats, an' clen ourzelves lik' cats.
  At woone or two o'clock, we vound
  Ourzelves at Shrodon sefe an' sound,
  A-struttn in among the rows
  O' tilted stannns an' o' shows,
  An' girt long booths wi' little bars
  Chock-vull o' barrels, mugs, an' jars,
  An' meat a-cookn out avore
  The vier at the upper door;
  Where zellers bwold to buyers shy
  Did hollow round us, "What d'ye buy?"
  An' scores o' merry tongues did speak
  At woonce, an' childern's pipes did squeak,
  An' horns did blow, an' drums did rumble,
  An' bawln merrymen did tumble;
  An' woone did all but want an edge
  To pert the crowd wi', lik' a wedge.

  We zaw the dancers in a show
  Dance up an' down, an' to an' fro,
  Upon a rwope, wi' chalky zoles,
  So light as magpies up on poles;
  An' tumblers, wi' their streaks an' spots,
  That all but tied theirzelves in knots.
  An' then a conjurer burn'd off
  Poll's han'kerchief so black's a snoff,
  An' het en, wi' a single blow,
  Right back agen so white as snow.
  An' after that, he fried a fat
  Girt ceke inzide o' my new hat;
  An' yet, vor all he did en brown,
  He didden even zweal the crown.




SHRODON FER.

_The rest o't._


  An' after that we met wi' zome
  O' Mans'on vo'k, but jist a-come,
  An' had a raffle vor a treat
  All roun', o' gingerbread to eat;
  An' Tom mede lest, wi' all his shekes,
  An' pad the money vor the cekes,
  But wer so lwoth to put it down
  As if a penny wer a poun'.
  Then up come zideln Sammy Here,
  That's fond o' Poll, an' she can't bear,
  A-holdn out his girt scram vist,
  An' ax'd her, wi' a grin an' twist,
  To have zome nuts; an' she, to hide
  Her laughn, turn'd her head azide,
  An' answer'd that she'd rather not,
  But Nancy mid. An' Nan, so hot
  As vier, zaid 'twer quite enough
  Vor Poll to answer vor herzuf:
  She had a tongue, she zaid, an' wit
  Enough to use en, when 'twer fit.
  An' in the dusk, a-ridn round
  Drough Okford, who d'ye think we vound
  But Sam agen, a-gwin vrom feir
  Astride his broken-winded mere.
  An' zoo, a-hettn her, he tried
  To keep up clwose by ouer zide:
  But when we come to Haward-brudge,
  Our Poll gi'ed Dick a menn nudge,
  An' wi' a little twitch our mere
  Flung out her lags so lights a here,
  An' left poor Sammy's skin an' bwones
  Behind, a-kickn o' the stwones.




MARTIN'S TIDE.


  Come, bring a log o' cleft wood, Jack,
  An' fling en on agen the back,
  An' zee the outside door is vast,--
  The win' do blow a cwoldish blast.
  Come, so's! come, pull your chairs in roun'
  Avore the vire; an' let's zit down,
  An' keep up Martin's-tide, vor I
  Shall keep it up till I do die.
  'Twer Martinmas, and ouer feir,
  When Jene an' I, a happy peir,
  Vu'st walk'd, a-keepn up the tide,
  Among the stan'ens, zide by zide;
  An' thik day twel'month, never faln,
  She gi'ed me at the chancel raln
  A heart--though I do sound her praise--
  As true as ever bet in stas.
  How vast the time do goo! Do seem
  But yesterday,--'tis lik' a dream!

  Ah, s[=o]'s! 'tis now zome years agoo
  You vu'st knew me, an' I knew you;
  An' we've a-had zome bits o' fun,
  By winter vire an' zummer zun.
  Aye; we've a-prowl'd an' rigg'd about
  Lik' cats, in harm's way mwore than out,
  An' busy wi' the tricks we pla'd
  In fun, to outwit chap or mad.
  An' out avore the blezn he'th,
  Our nasy tongues, in winter me'th,
  'V a-shook the warmn-pan, a-hung
  Bezide us, till his cover rung.
  There, 'twer but tother day thik chap,
  Our Robert, wer a child in lap;
  An' Poll's two little lags hung down
  Vrom thik wold chair a span vrom groun',
  An' now the saucy wench do stride
  About wi' steps o' dree veet wide.
  How time do goo! A life do seem
  As 'twer a year; 'tis lik' a dream!




GUY FAUX'S NIGHT.


  Guy Faux's night, dost know, we chaps,
  A-putten on our woldest traps,
  Went up the highest o' the knaps,
    An' mede up such a vier!
  An' thou an' Tom wer all we miss'd,
  Vor if a sarpent had a-hiss'd
  Among the rest in thy sprack vist,
    Our fun 'd a-been the higher.

  We chaps at hwome, an' Will our cousin,
  Took up a half a lwoad o' vuzzen;
  An' burn'd a barrel wi' a dozen
    O' faggots, till above en
  The flemes, arisn up so high
  'S the tun, did snap, an' roar, an' ply,
    Lik' vier in an' oven.

  An' zome wi' hissn squibs did run,
  To pa off zome what they'd a-done,
  An' let em off so loud's a gun
    Agen their smokn polls;
  An' zome did stir their nimble pags
  Wi' crackers in between their lags,
  While zome did burn their cwoats to rags,
    Or wes'cots out in holes.

  An' zome o'm's heads lost half their locks,
  An' zome o'm got their white smock-frocks
  Jist fit to vill the tinder-box,
    Wi' half the backs o'm off;
  An' Dick, that all o'm vell upon,
  Vound woone flap ov his cwoat-tal gone,
  An' tother jist a-hangn on,
    A-zweal'd so black's a snoff.




[Gothic: Eclogue.]

THE COMMON A-TOOK IN.


_Thomas an' John._


  THOMAS.

  Good morn t'ye, John. How b'ye? how b'ye?
  Zoo you be gwan to market, I do zee.
  Why, you be quite a-lwoaded wi' your geese.

  JOHN.

  Ees, Thomas, ees.
  Why, I'm a-gettn rid ov ev'ry goose
  An' gosln I've a-got: an' what is woose,
  I fear that I must zell my little cow.

  THOMAS.

  How zoo, then, John? Why, what's the matter now?
  What, can't ye get along? B'ye run a-ground?
  An' can't pa twenty shillns vor a pound?
  What can't ye put a lwoaf on shelf?

  JOHN.
                           Ees, now;
  But I do fear I shan't 'ithout my cow.
  No; they do man to teke the moor in, I do hear,
  An' 'twill be soon begun upon;
  Zoo I must zell my bit o' stock to-year,
  Because they woon't have any groun' to run upon.

  THOMAS.

  Why, what d'ye tell o'? I be very zorry
  To hear what they be gwan about;
  But yet I s'pose there'll be a 'lotment vor ye,
  When they do come to mark it out.

  JOHN.

  No; not vor me, I fear. An' if there should,
  Why 'twoulden be so handy as 'tis now;
  Vor 'tis the common that do do me good,
  The run for my vew geese, or vor my cow.

  THOMAS.

  Ees, that's the job; why 'tis a handy thing
  To have a bit o' common, I do know,
  To put a little cow upon in Spring,
  The while woone's bit ov orcha'd grass do grow.

  JOHN.

  Aye, that's the thing, you zee. Now I do mow
  My bit o' grass, an' meke a little rick;
  An' in the zummer, while do grow,
  My cow do run in common vor to pick
  A blede or two o' grass, if she can vind em,
  Vor tother cattle don't leve much behind em.
  Zoo in the evenn, we do put a lock
  O' nice fresh grass avore the wicket;
  An' she do come at vive or zix o'clock,
  As constant as the zun, to pick it.
  An' then, bezides the cow, why we do let
  Our geese run out among the emmet hills;
  An' then when we do pluck em, we do get
  Vor zele zome veathers an' zome quills;
  An' in the winter we do fat em well,
  An' car em to the market vor to zell
  To gentlevo'ks, vor we don't oft avvword
  To put a goose a-top ov ouer bwoard;
  But we do get our fest,--vor we be eble
  To clap the giblets up a-top o' teble.

  THOMAS.

  An' I don't know o' many better things,
  Than geese's heads and gizzards, lags an' wings.

  JOHN.

  An' then, when I ha' nothn else to do,
  Why I can teke my hook an' gloves, an' goo
  To cut a lot o' vuzz and briars
  Vor hetn ovens, or vor lightn viers.
  An' when the childern be too young to ern
  A penny, they can g'out in zunny weather,
  An' run about, an' get together
  A bag o' cow-dung vor to burn.

  THOMAS.

  'Tis handy to live near a common;
  But I've a-zeed, an' I've a-zaid,
  That if a poor man got a bit o' bread,
  They'll try to teke it vrom en.
  But I wer twold back tother day,
  That they be got into a way
  O' lettn bits o' groun' out to the poor.

  JOHN.

  Well, I do hope 'tis true, I'm sure;
  An' I do hope that they will do it here,
  Or I must goo to workhouse, I do fear.




[Gothic: Eclogue.]

TWO FARMS IN WOONE.


_Robert an' Thomas._


  ROBERT.

  You'll lose your mester soon, then, I do vind;
  He's gwan to leve his farm, as I do larn,
  At Milmas; an' I be zorry vor'n.
  What, is he then a little bit behind?

  THOMAS.

  O no! at Milmas his time is up,
  An' thik there sly wold fellow, Farmer Tup,
  A-fearn that he'd get a bit o' bread,
  'V a-been an' took his farm here over's head.

  ROBERT.

  How come the Squire to treat your mester zoo?

  THOMAS.

  Why, he an' mester had a word or two.

  ROBERT.

  Is Farmer Tup a-gwan to leve his farm?
  He han't a-got noo young woones vor to zwarm.
  Poor over-reachn man! why to be sure
  He don't want all the farms in parish, do er?

  THOMAS.

  Why ees, all ever he can come across,
  Last year, you know, he got away the ecre
  Or two o' ground a-rented by the beker,
  An' what the butcher had to keep his hoss;
  An' vo'k do benhan' now, that mester's lot
  Will be a-drowd along wi' what he got.

  ROBERT.

  That's it. In these here plece there used to be
  Eight farms avore they wer a-drowd together,
  An' eight farm-housen. Now how many be there?
  Why after this, you know there'll be but dree.

  THOMAS.

  An' now they don't imploy so many men
  Upon the land as work'd upon it then,
  Vor all they midden crop it worse, nor stock it.
  The lan'lord, to be sure, is into pocket;
  Vor half the housen ben down, 'tis clear,
  Don't cost so much to keep em up, a-near.
  But then the jobs o' work in wood an' morter
  Do come I 'spose, you know, a little shorter;
  An' many that wer little farmers then,
  Be now a-come all down to leb'rn men;
  An' many leb'rn men, wi' empty hands,
  Do live lik' drones upon the worker's lands.

  ROBERT.

  Aye, if a young chap, woonce, had any wit
  To try an' scrape together zome vew pound,
  To buy some cows an' teke a bit o' ground,
  He mid become a farmer, bit by bit.
  But, hang it! now the farms be all so big,
  An' bits o' groun' so ske'ce, woone got no scope;
  If woone could seve a poun', woone couldden hope
  To keep noo live stock but a little pig.

  THOMAS.

  Why here wer vourteen men, zome years agoo,
  A-kept a-drashn half the winter drough;
  An' now, woone's drashels be'n't a bit o' good.
  They got machines to drashy wi', plague teke em!
  An' he that vu'st vound out the way to meke em,
  I'd drash his busy zides vor'n if I could!
  Avore they took away our work, they ought
  To meke us up the bread our lebour bought.

  ROBERT.

  They hadden need meke poor men's lebour less,
  Vor work a'ready is uncommon ske'ce.

  THOMAS.

  Ah! Robert! times be badish vor the poor;
  An' worse will come, I be a-fear'd, if Moore
  In these year's almanick do tell us right.

  ROBERT.

  Why then we sartainly must starve. Good night!




WINTER




THE VROST.


  Come, run up hwome wi' us to night,
  Athirt the vield a-vroze so white,
  Where vrosty shedes do lie below
  The winter ricks a-tipp'd wi' snow,
  An' lively birds, wi' waggn tals,
  Do hop upon the icy rals,
  An' rime do whiten all the tops
  O' bush an' tree in hedge an' copse,
    In wind's a-cuttn keen.

  Come, madens, come: the groun's a-vroze
  Too hard to-night to spweil your clothes.
  You got noo pools to waddle drough,
  Nor clay a-pulln off your shoe:
  An' we can trig ye at the zide,
  To keep ye up if you do slide:
  Zoo while there's neither wet nor mud,
  'S the time to run an' warm your blood,
    In winds a-cuttn keen.

  Vor young men's hearts an' maden's eyes
  Don't vreeze below the cwoldest skies,
  While they in twice so keen a blast
  Can wag their brisk lim's twice so vast!
  Though vier-light, a-flick'rn red
  Drough vrosty window-penes, do spread
  Vrom wall to wall, vrom he'th to door,
  Vor us to goo an' zit avore,
    Vrom winds a-cuttn keen.




A BIT O' FUN.


  We thought you woulden leve us quite
  So soon as what you did last night;
  Our fun jist got up to a height
    As you about got hwome.
  The friskn chaps did skip about,
  An' cou'se the madens in an' out,
  A-mekn such a randy-rout,
    You coulden hear a drum.

  An' Tom, a-springn after Bet
  Blind-vwolded, whizz'd along, an' het
  Poor Grammer's zide, an' overzet
    Her chair, at blind-man's buff;
  An' she, poor soul, as she did vall,
  Did show her snags o' teeth an' squall,
  An' what, she zaid, wer wo'se than all,
    She shatter'd all her snuff.

  An' Bet, a-hoppn back vor fear
  O' Tom, struck uncle zomewhere near,
  An' mede his han' spill all his beer
    Right down her poll an' back;
  An' Joe, in middle o' the din,
  Slipt out a bit, an' soon come in
  Wi' all below his dapper chin
    A-jumpn in a zack.

  An' in a twinkln tother chaps
  Jist hung en to a crook wi' straps,
  An' mede en bear the madens' slaps,
    An' prickens wi' a pin.
  An' Jim, a-catchn Poll, poor chap,
  In back-house in the dark, vell slap
  Athirt a tub o' barm,--a trap
    She set to catch en in.

  An' then we zot down out o' breath,
  An' mede a circle roun' the he'th,
  A-keepn up our harmless me'th,
    Till supper wer a-come.
  An' after we'd a-had zome prog,
  All tother chaps begun to jog,
  Wi' sticks to lick a thief or dog,
    To zee the madens hwome.




FANNYS BE'TH-DAY.


  How merry, wi' the cider cup,
  We kept poor Fanny's be'th-day up!
  An' how our busy tongues did run
  An' hands did wag, a-mekn fun!
  What plasome anticks zome [=o]'s done!
    An' how, a-reeln roun' an' roun',
    We bet the merry tun down,
      While music wer a-soundn!

  The madens' eyes o' black an' blue
  Did glisten lik' the mornn dew;
  An' while the cider-mug did stand
  A-hissn by the blezn brand,
  An' uncle's pipe wer in his hand,
    How little he or we did think
    How pele the zettn stars did blink
      While music wer a-soundn.

  An' Fanny's last young _teen_ begun,
  Poor mad, wi' thik day's risn zun,
  An' we all wish'd her many mwore
  Long years wi' happiness in store;
  An' as she went an' stood avore
    The vier, by her father's zide,
    Her mother dropp'd a tear o' pride
      While music wer a-soundn.

  An' then we did all kinds o' tricks
  Wi' han'kerchiefs, an' strings, an' sticks:
  An' woone did try to overmatch
  Another wi' zome cunnn catch,
  While tothers slyly tried to hatch
    Zome geme; but yet, by chap an' mad.
    The dancn wer the mwost inja'd,
      While music wer a-soundn.

  The briskest chap ov all the lot
  Wer Tom, that danc'd hizzelf so hot,
  He doff'd his cwoat an' jump'd about,
  Wi' girt new shirt-sleeves all a-strout,
  Among the madens screamn out,
    A-thinkn, wi' his strides an' stamps,
    He'd squot their veet wi' his girt clamps,
      While music wer a-soundn.

  Then up jump'd uncle vrom his chair,
  An' pull'd out aunt to meke a peir;
  An' off he zet upon his tooe,
  So light's the best that bet a shoe,
  Wi' aunt a-crin "Let me goo:"
    While all ov us did laugh so loud,
    We drown'd the tun o' the croud,
      While music wer a-soundn.

  A-comn out o' passage, Nan,
  Wi' pipes an' cider in her han',
  An' watchn uncle up so sprack,
  Vorgot her veet, an' vell down smack
  Athirt the house-dog's shaggy back,
    That wer in passage vor a snooze,
    Beyond the reach o' dancers' shoes,
      While music wer a-soundn.




WHAT DICK AN' I DID.


  Last week the Browns ax'd nearly all
    The naghbours to a randy,
  An' left us out o't, girt an' small,
    Vor all we liv'd so handy;
  An' zoo I zaid to Dick, "We'll trudge,
    When they be in their fun, min;
  An' car up zome'hat to the rudge,
    An' jis' stop up the tun, min."

  Zoo, wi' the ladder vrom the rick,
    We stole towards the house,
  An' crope in roun' behind en, lik'
    A cat upon a mouse.
  Then, lookn roun', Dick whisper'd "How
    Is these job to be done, min:
  Why we do want a faggot now,
    Vor stoppn up the tun, min."

  "Stan' still," I answer'd; "I'll teke cere
    O' that: why dussen zee
  The little grindn stwone out there,
    Below the apple-tree?
  Put up the ladder; in a crack
    Shalt zee that I wull run, min,
  An' teke en up upon my back,
    An' soon stop up the tun, min."

  Zoo up I clomb upon the thatch,
    An' clapp'd en on; an' slided
  Right down agen, an' run drough hatch,
    Behind the hedge, an' hided.
  The vier that wer clear avore,
    Begun to spweil their fun, min;
  The smoke all roll'd toward the door,
    Vor I'd a-stopp'd the tun, min.

  The madens cough'd or stopp'd their breath,
    The men did hauk an' spet;
  The wold vo'k bundled out from he'th
    Wi' eyes a-runnn wet.
  "'T'ool choke us all," the wold man cried,
    "Whatever's to be done, min?
  Why zome'hat is a-vell inside
    O' chimney drough the tun, min."

  Then out they scamper'd all, vull run,
    An' out cried Tom, "I think
  The grindn-stwone is up on tun,
    Vor I can zee the wink.
  This is some kindness that the vo'k
    At Woodley have a-done, min;
  I wish I had em here, I'd poke
    Their numskulls down the tun, min."

  Then off he zet, an' come so quick
    'S a lamplighter, an' brote
  The little ladder in vrom rick,
    To clear the chimney's droat.
  While I, a-chuckln at the joke,
    A-slided down, to run, min,
  To hidelock, had a-left the vo'k
    As bad as na'r a tun, min.




GRAMMER'S SHOES.


  I do seem to zee Grammer as she did use
  Vor to show us, at Chris'mas, her weddn shoes,
  An' her flat spreadn bonnet so big an' roun'
  As a girt pewter dish a-turn'd upside down;
        When we all did draw near
        In a cluster to hear
  O' the merry wold soul how she did use
  To walk an' to dance wi' her high-heel shoes.

  She'd a gown wi' girt flowers lik' hollyhocks,
  An' zome stockns o' gramfer's a-knit w' clocks,
  An' a token she kept under lock an' key,--
  A small lock ov his heir off avore 't wer grey.
        An' her eyes wer red,
        An' she shook her head,
  When we'd all a-look'd at it, an' she did use
  To lock it away wi' her weddn shoes.

  She could tell us such teles about heavy snows,
  An' o' rans an' o' floods when the waters rose
  All up into the housen, an' carr'd awoy
  All the bridge wi' a man an' his little bwoy;
        An' o' vog an' vrost,
        An' o' vo'k a-lost,
  An' o' perties at Chris'mas, when she did use
  Vor to walk hwome wi' gramfer in high-heel shoes.

  Ev'ry Chris'mas she lik'd vor the bells to ring,
  An' to have in the zingers to her em zing
  The wold carols she herd many years a-gone,
  While she warm'd em zome cider avore the bron';
        An' she'd look an' smile
        At our dancn, while
  She did tell how her friends now a-gone did use
  To reely wi' her in their high-heel shoes.

  Ah! an' how she did like vor to deck wi' red
  Holly-berries the window an' wold clock's head,
  An' the clavy wi' boughs o' some bright green leaves,
  An' to meke twoast an' ele upon Chris'mas eves;
        But she's now, drough grece,
        In a better plece,
  Though we'll never vorget her, poor soul, nor lose
  Gramfer's token ov heir, nor her weddn shoes.




ZUNSHEEN IN THE WINTER.


  The winter clouds, that long did hide
  The zun, be all a-blown azide,
  An' in the light, noo longer dim,
  Do sheen the ivy that do clim'
  The tower's zide an' elem's stim;
    An' holmen bushes, in between
    The leafless thorns, be bright an' green
      To zunsheen o' the winter.

  The trees, that yesterday did twist
  In wind's a-drevn ran an' mist,
  Do now drow shedes out, long an' still;
  But roarn watervals do vill
  Their whirln pools below the hill,
    Where, wi' her pal upon the stile,
    A-gwan a-milkn Jene do smile
      To zunsheen o' the winter.

  The birds do sheke, wi' plasome skips,
  The ran-drops off the bushes' tips,
  A-chirripn wi' merry sound;
  While over all the grassy ground
  The wind's a-whirln round an' round
    So softly, that the day do seem
    Mwore lik' a zummer in a dream,
      Than zunsheen in the winter.

  The wold vo'k now do meet abrode,
  An' tell o' winter's they've a-know'd;
  When snow wer long above the groun',
  Or floods broke all the bridges down,
  Or wind unheal'd a half the town,--
    The teles o' wold times long a-gone,
    But ever dear to think upon,
      The zunsheen o' their winter.

  Vor now to them noo brook can run,
  Noo hill can fece the winter zun,
  Noo leaves can vall, noo flow'rs can fede,
  Noo snow can hide the grasses blede,
  Noo vrost can whiten in the shede,
    Noo day can come, but what do bring
    To mind agen their early spring,
      That's now a-turn'd to winter.




THE WEEPEN LEADY.


  When, lete o' nights, above the green
  By thik wold house, the moon do sheen,
  A ledy there, a-hangn low
  Her head, 's a-walkn to an' fro
  In robes so white's the driven snow,
    Wi' woone erm down, while woone do rest
    All lily-white athirt the breast
      O' thik poor weepn ledy.

  The whirln wind an' whis'ln squall
  Do sheke the ivy by the wall,
  An' meke the plyn tree-tops rock,
  But never ruffle her white frock;
  An' slammn door an' rattln lock,
    That in thik empty house do sound,
    Do never seem to meke look round
      Thik ever downcast ledy.

  A ledy, as the tele do goo,
  That woonce liv'd there, an' lov'd too true,
  Wer by a young man cast azide.
  A mother sad, but not a bride;
  An' then her father, in his pride
    An' anger, offer'd woone o' two
    Vull bitter things to undergoo
      To thik poor weepn ledy:

  That she herzelf should leve his door,
  To darken it agen noo mwore;
  Or that her little plasome chile,
  A-zent away a thousand mile,
  Should never meet her eyes to smile
    An' pla agen; till she, in sheme,
    Should die an' leve a tarnish'd neme,
      A sad vorseken ledy.

  "Let me be lost," she cried, "the while
  I do but know vor my poor chile;"
  An' left the hwome ov all her pride,
  To wander drough the worold wide,
  Wi' grief that vew but she ha' tried:
    An' lik' a flow'r a blow ha' broke,
    She wither'd wi' the deadly stroke,
      An' died a weepn ledy.

  An' she do keep a-comn on
  To zee her father dead an' gone,
  As if her soul could have noo rest
  Avore her tery chek's a-prest
  By his vorgivn kiss. Zoo blest
    Be they that can but live in love,
    An' vind a plece o' rest above
      Unlik' the weepn ledy.




THE HAPPY DAYS WHEN I WER YOUNG.


  In happy days when I wer young,
  An' had noo ho, an' laugh'd an' zung,
  The mad wer merry by her cow,
  An' men wer merry wi' the plough;
  But never talk'd, at hwome or out
  O' doors, o' what's a-talk'd about
  By many now,--that to despise
  The laws o' God an' man is wise.
  Wi' daly health, an' daly bread,
  An' thatch above their shelter'd head,
  They velt noo fear, an' had noo spite,
  To keep their eyes awake at night;
  But slept in peace wi' God on high
  An' man below, an' fit to die.

  O' grassy med an' woody nook,
  An' waters o' the windn brook,
  That sprung below the vu'st dark sky
  That ran'd, to run till seas be dry;
  An' hills a-stannn on while all
  The works o' man do rise an' vall;
  An' trees the toddln child do vind
  At vu'st, an' leve at last behind;
  I wish that you could now unvwold
  The peace an' jy o' times o' wold;
  An' tell, when death do still my tongue,
  O' happy days when I wer young.
  Vrom where wer all this venom brought,
  To kill our hope an' tant our thought?
  Clear brook! thy water coulden bring
  Such venom vrom thy rocky spring;
  Nor could it come in zummer blights,
  Or revn storms o' winter nights,
  Or in the cloud an' viry stroke
  O' thunder that do split the woak.

  O valley dear! I wish that I
  'D a-liv'd in former times, to die
  Wi' all the happy souls that trod
  Thy turf in pece, an' died to God;
  Or gone wi' them that laugh'd an' zung
  In happy days when I wer young!




IN THE STILLNESS O' THE NIGHT.


  Ov all the housen o' the plece,
    There's woone where I do like to call
    By day or night the best ov all,
  To zee my Fanny's smiln fece;
  An' there the stetely trees do grow,
  A-rockn as the win' do blow,
  While she do sweetly sleep below,
    In the stillness o' the night.

  An' there, at evenn, I do goo
    A-hoppn over getes an' bars,
    By twinkln light o' winter stars,
  When snow do clumper to my shoe;
  An' zometimes we do slyly catch
  A chat an hour upon the stratch,
  An' pert wi' whispers at the hatch
    In the stillness o' the night.

  An' zometimes she do goo to zome
    Young naghbours' housen down the plece,
    An' I do get a clue to trece
  Her out, an' goo to zee her hwome;
  An' I do wish a vield a mile,
  As she do sweetly chat an' smile
  Along the drove, or at the stile,
    In the stillness o' the night.




THE SETTLE AN' THE GIRT WOOD VIRE.


  Ah! naghbour John, since I an' you
  Wer youngsters, ev'ry thing is new.
  My father's vires wer all o' logs
  O' cleft-wood, down upon the dogs
  Below our clavy, high, an' brode
  Enough to teke a cart an' lwoad,
  Where big an' little all zot down
  At bwoth zides, an' bevore, all roun'.
  An' when I zot among em, I
  Could zee all up agen the sky
  Drough chimney, where our vo'k did hitch
  The zalt-box an' the becon-vlitch,
  An' watch the smoke on out o' vier,
  All up an' out o' tun, an' higher.
  An' there wer becon up on rack,
  An' pletes an' dishes on the tack;
  An' roun' the walls wer herbs a-stowed
  In pepern bags, an' blathers blowed.
  An' just above the clavy-bwoard
  Wer father's spurs, an' gun, an' sword;
  An' there wer then, our girtest pride,
  The settle by the vier zide.
    Ah! gi'e me, if I wer a squier,
    The settle an' the girt wood vier.

  But they've a-wall'd up now wi' bricks
  The vier plece vor dogs an' sticks,
  An' only left a little hole
  To teke a little grete o' coal,
  So small that only twos or drees
  Can jist push in an' warm their knees.
  An' then the carpets they do use,
  B[=e]n't fit to tread wi' ouer shoes;
  An' chairs an' couches be so neat,
  You mussen teke em vor a seat:
  They be so fine, that vo'k mus' plece
  All over em an' outer cese,
  An' then the cover, when 'tis on,
  Is still too fine to loll upon.
    Ah! gi'e me, if I wer a squier,
    The settle an' the girt wood vier.

  Carpets, indeed! You coulden hurt
  The stwone-vloor wi' a little dirt;
  Vor what wer brought in doors by men,
  The women soon mopp'd out agen.
  Zoo we did come vrom muck an' mire,
  An' walk in straght avore the vier;
  But now, a man's a-kept at door
  At work a pirty while, avore
  He's screp'd an' rubb'd, an' clen and fit
  To goo in where his wife do zit.
  An' then if he should have a whiff
  In there, 'twould only breed a miff:
  He c[=a]nt smoke there, vor smoke woon't goo
  'Ithin the footy little flue.
    Ah! gi'e me, if I wer a squier,
    The settle an' the girt wood vier.




THE CARTER.


  O, I be a carter, wi' my whip
    A-smackn loud, as by my zide,
  Up over hill, an' down the dip,
    The heavy lwoad do slowly ride.

  An' I do haul in all the crops,
    An' I do bring in vuzz vrom down;
  An' I do goo vor wood to copse,
    An' car the corn an' straw to town.

  An' I do goo vor lime, an' bring
    Hwome cider wi' my sleek-heir'd team,
  An' smack my limber whip an' zing,
    While all their bells do galy cheeme.

  An' I do always know the plece
    To gi'e the hosses breath, or drug;
  An' ev'ry hoss do know my fece,
    An' mind my '_mether ho_! an' _whug_!

  An' merry ha-mekers do ride
    Vrom vield in zummer wi' their prongs,
  In my blue waggon, zide by zide
    Upon the reves, a-zingn zongs.

  An' when the vrost do catch the stream,
    An' oves wi' icicles be hung,
  My pantn hosses' breath do steam
    In white-grass'd vields, a-hauln dung.

  An' mine's the waggon fit vor lwoads,
    An' mine be lwoads to cut a rout;
  An' mine's a team, in routy rwoads,
    To pull a lwoaded waggon out.

  A zull is nothn when do come
    Behind their lags; an' they do teke
  A roller as they would a drum,
    An' harrow as they would a reke.

  O! I be a carter, wi' my whip
    A-smackn loud, as by my zide,
  Up over hill, an' down the dip,
    The heavy lwoad do slowly ride.




CHRIS'MAS INVITATION.


  Come down to-morrow night; an' mind,
  Don't leve thy fiddle-bag behind;
  We'll sheke a lag, an' drink a cup
  O' ele, to keep wold Chris'mas up.

  An' let thy sister teke thy erm,
  The walk won't do her any harm;
  There's noo dirt now to spweil her frock,
  The ground's a-vroze so hard's a rock.

  You won't meet any stranger's fece,
  But only naghbours o' the plece,
  An' Stowe, an' Combe; an' two or dree
  Vrom uncle's up at Rookery.

  An' thou wu'lt vind a rwosy fece,
  An' peir ov eyes so black as sloos,
  The prettiest woones in all the plece,--
  I'm sure I needen tell thee whose.

  We got a back-bran', dree girt logs
  So much as dree ov us can car;
  We'll put em up athirt the dogs,
  An' meke a vier to the bar.

  An' ev'ry woone shall tell his tele,
  An' ev'ry woone shall zing his zong,
  An' ev'ry woone wull drink his ele
  To love an' frien'ship all night long.

  We'll snap the tongs, we'll have a ball,
  We'll sheke the house, we'll lift the ruf,
  We'll romp an' meke the madens squall,
  A catchn o'm at blind-man's buff.

  Zoo come to-morrow night; an' mind,
  Don't leve thy fiddle-bag behind;
  We'll sheke a lag, an' drink a cup
  O' ele, to keep wold Chris'mas up.




KEEPEN UP O' CHRIS'MAS.


  An' zoo you didden come athirt,
  To have zome fun last night: how wer't?
  Vor we'd a-work'd wi' all our might
  To scour the iron things up bright,
  An' brush'd an' scrubb'd the house all drough;
  An' brought in vor a brand, a plock
  O' wood so big's an uppn-stock,
  An' hung a bough o' misseltoo,
  An' ax'd a merry friend or two,
    To keepn up o' Chris'mas.

  An' there wer wold an' young; an' Bill,
  Soon after dark, stalk'd up vrom mill.
  An' when he wer a-comn near,
  He whissled loud vor me to hear;
  Then roun' my head my frock I roll'd,
  An' stood in orcha'd like a post,
  To meke en think I wer a ghost.
  But he wer up to't, an' did scwold
  To vind me stannn in the cwold,
    A keepn up o' Chris'mas.

  We pla'd at forfeits, an' we spun
  The trencher roun', an' mede such fun!
  An' had a geme o' dree-cerd loo,
  An' then begun to hunt the shoe.
  An' all the wold vo'k zittn near,
  A-chattn roun' the vier plece,
  Did smile in woone another's fece.
  An' sheke right hands wi' hearty cheer,
  An' let their left hands spill their beer,
    A keepn up o' Chris'mas.




ZITTEN OUT THE WOLD YEAR.


  Why, ran or sheen, or blow or snow,
    I zaid, if I could stand so's,
  I'd come, vor all a friend or foe,
    To sheke ye by the hand, so's;
  An' spend, wi' kinsvo'k near an' dear,
  A happy evenn, woonce a year,
        A-zot wi' me'th
        Avore the he'th
    To zee the new year in, so's.

  There's Jim an' Tom, a-grown the size
    O' men, girt lusty chaps, so's,
  An' Fanny wi' her sloo-black eyes,
    Her mother's very dap's, so's;
  An' little Bill, so brown's a nut,
  An' Poll a giggln little slut,
        I hope will shoot
        Another voot
    The year that's comn in, so's.

  An' there, upon his mother's knee,
     So pert do look about, so's,
  The little woone ov all, to zee
    His vu'st wold year goo out, so's
  An' zoo mid God bless all o's still,
  Gwan up or down along the hill,
        To meet in glee
        Agen to zee
    A happy new year in, so's.

  The wold clock's han' do softly steal
    Up roun' the year's last hour, so's;
  Zoo let the han'-bells ring a peal,
    Lik' them a-hung in tow'r, so's.
  Here, here be two vor Tom, an' two
  Vor Fanny, an' a peir vor you;
        We'll meke em swing,
        An' meke em ring,
    The merry new year in, so's.

  Tom, mind your time there; you be wrong.
    Come, let your bells all sound, so's:
  A little clwoser, Poll; ding, dong!
    There, now 'tis right all round, so's.
  The clock's a-strikn twelve, d'ye hear?
  Ting, ting, ding, dong! Farewell, wold year!
        'Tis gone, 'tis gone!--
        Goo on, goo on,
    An' ring the new woone in, so's!




WOAK WER GOOD ENOUGH WOONCE.


  Ees: now mahogany's the goo,
  An' good wold English woak won't do.
  I wish vo'k always mid avvword
  Hot meals upon a woakn bwoard,
  As good as thik that took my cup
  An' trencher all my grown up.
  Ah! I do mind en in the hall,
  A-reachn all along the wall,
  Wi' us at father's end, while tother
  Did teke the madens wi' their mother;
  An' while the risn steam did spread
  In curln clouds up over head,
  Our mouths did wag, an' tongues did run,
  To meke the madens laugh o' fun.

  A woaken bedstead, black an' bright,
  Did teke my weary bwones at night,
  Where I could stratch an' roll about
  Wi' little fear o' valln out;
  An' up above my head a peir
  Ov ugly heads a-carv'd did stere,
  An' grin avore a bright vull moon
  A'most enough to frighten woone.
  An' then we had, vor cwoats an' frocks,
  Woak cwoffers wi' their rusty locks
  An' nemes in nals, a-left behind
  By kinsvo'k dead an' out o' mind;
  Zoo we did get on well enough
  Wi' things a-mede ov English stuff.
  But then, you know, a woaken stick
  Wer cheap, vor woaken trees wer thick.
  When poor wold Gramfer Green wer young,
  He zaid a squirrel mid a-sprung
  Along the dell, vrom tree to tree,
  Vrom Woodcomb all the way to Lea;
  An' woak wer all vo'k did avvword,
  Avore his time, vor bed or bwoard.




LULLABY.


  The rook's nest do rock on the tree-top
  Where vew foes can stand;
  The martin's is high, an' is deep
  In the steep cliff o' zand.
  But thou, love, a-sleepn where vootsteps
  Mid come to thy bed,
  Hast father an' mother to watch thee
  An' shelter thy head.
         Lullaby, Lilybrow.   Lie asleep;
         Blest be thy rest.

  An' zome birds do keep under ruffn
  Their young vrom the storm,
  An' zome wi' nest-hoodns o' moss
  And o' wool, do lie warm.
  An' we wull look well to the houseruf
  That o'er thee mid lek,
  An' the blast that mid bet on thy winder
  Shall not smite thy chek.
         Lullaby, Lilibrow.   Lie asleep;
         Blest be thy rest.




MEARY-ANN'S CHILD.


  Meary-Ann wer alwone wi' her beby in erms,
    In her house wi' the trees over head,
  Vor her husban' wer out in the night an' the storms,
    In his business a-tweiln vor bread;
  An' she, as the wind in the elems did roar,
  Did grievy vor Robert all night out o' door.

  An' her kinsvo'k an' na'bours did zay ov her chile,
      (Under the high elem tree),
  That a prettier never did babble or smile
    Up o' top ov a proud mother's knee;
  An' his mother did toss en, an' kiss en, an' call
  En her darln, an' life, an' her hope, an' her all.

  But she vound in the evenn the chile werden well,
      (Under the dark elem tree),
  An' she thought she could gi'e all the worold to tell,
    Vor a truth what his aln mid be;
  An' she thought o'en last in her praers at night,
  An' she look'd at en last as she put out the light.

  An' she vound en grow wo'se in the dead o' the night,
      (Under the dark elem tree),
  An' she press'd en agen her warm bosom so tight,
    An' she rock'd en so sorrowfully;
  An' there laid a-nestln the poor little bwoy,
  Till his struggles grew weak, an' his cries died awoy.

  An' the moon wer a-sheenn down into the plece,
      (Under the dark elem tree),
  An' his mother could zee that his lips an' his fece
    Wer so white as clen axen could be;
  An' her tongue wer a-tied an' her still heart did zwell,
  Till her senses come back wi' the vu'st tear that vell.

  Never mwore can she veel his warm fece in her breast,
     (Under the green elem tree),
  Vor his eyes be a-shut, an' his hands be at rest,
    An' he's now vrom his pan a-zet free;
  Vor his soul, we do know, is to heaven a-vled,
  Where noo pan is a-known, an' noo tears be a-shed.




[Gothic: Eclogue.]

FATHER COME HWOME.


_John, Wife, an' Child._


  CHILD.

  O mother, mother! be the teties done?
  Here's father now a-comn down the track,
  Hes got his nitch o' wood upon his back,
  An' such a speker in en! I'll be bound,
  He's long enough to reach vrom ground
  Up to the top ov ouer tun;
  'Tis jist the very thing vor Jack an' I
  To goo a-colepecksn wi' by an' by.

  WIFE.

  The teties must be ready pretty nigh;
  Do teke woone up upon the fork' an' try.
  The ceke upon the vier, too, 's a-burnn,
  I be aferd: do run an' zee, an' turn en.

  JOHN.

  Well, mother! here I be woonce mwore, at hwome.

  WIFE.

  Ah! I be very glad you be a-come.
  You be a-tired an' cwold enough, I s'pose;
  Zit down an' rest your bwones, an' warm your nose.

  JOHN.

  Why I be nippy: what is there to eat?

  WIFE.

  Your supper's nearly ready. I've a got
  Some teties here a-don in the pot;
  I wish wi' all my heart I had some meat.
  I got a little ceke too, here, a-beken o'n
  Upon the vier. 'Tis done by this time though.
  He's nice an' moist; vor when I wer a-meken o'n
  I stuck some bits ov apple in the dough.

  CHILD.

  Well, father; what d'ye think? The pig got out
  This mornn; an' avore we zeed or herd en,
  He run about, an' got out into gerden,
  An' routed up the groun' zoo wi' his snout!

  JOHN.

  Now only think o' that! You must contrive
  To keep en in, or else he'll never thrive.

  CHILD.

  An' father, what d'ye think? I voun' to-day
  The nest where thik wold hen ov our's do lay:
  'Twer out in orcha'd hedge, an' had vive aggs.

  WIFE.

  Lo'k there: how wet you got your veet an' lags!
  How did ye get in such a pickle, Jahn?

  JOHN.

  I broke my hoss, an' been a-fwo'ced to stan'
  All's day in mud an' water vor to dig,
  An' mede myzelf so wetshod as a pig.

  CHILD.

  Father, teke off your shoes, then come, and I
  Will bring your wold woones vor ye, nice an' dry.

  WIFE.

  An' have ye got much hedgn mwore to do?

  JOHN.

  Enough to last vor dree weeks mwore or zoo.

  WIFE.

  An' when y'ave done the job you be about,
  D'ye think you'll have another vound ye out?

  JOHN.

  O ees, there'll be some mwore: vor after that,
  I got a job o' trenchn to goo at;
  An' then zome trees to shroud, an' wood to vell,--
  Zoo I do hope to rub on pretty well
  Till zummer time; an' then I be to cut
  The wood an' do the trenchn by the tut.

  CHILD.

  An' nex' week, father, I'm a-gwan to goo
  A-pickn stwones, d'ye know, vor Farmer True.

  WIFE.

  An' little Jack, you know, 's a-gwan to ern
  A penny too, a-keepn birds off corn.

  JOHN.

  O brave! What wages do 'e men to gi'e?

  WIFE.

  She dreppence vor a day, an' twopence he.

  JOHN.

  Well, Polly; thou must work a little spracker
  When thou bist out, or else thou wu'ten pick
  A dungpot lwoad o' stwones up very quick.

  CHILD.

  Oh! yes I shall. But Jack do want a clacker:
  An' father, wull ye teke an' cut
  A stick or two to meke his hut.

  JOHN.

  You wench! why you be always up a-baggn.
  I be too tired now to-night, I'm sure,
  To zet a-don any mwore:
  Zoo I shall goo up out o' the way o' the waggon.




[Gothic: Eclogue.]

A GHOST.


_Jem an' Dick._


  JEM.

  This is a darkish evenn; b'ye a-ferd
  O' zights? These lene's a-haunted, I've a herd.

  DICK.

  No, I be'nt much a-fer'd. If vo'k don't strive
  To over-reach me while they be alive,
  I don't much think the dead wull ha' the will
  To come back here to do me any ill.
  An' I've a-been about all night, d'ye know,
  Vrom candle-lightn till the cock did crow;
  But never met wi' nothn bad enough
  To be much wo'se than what I be myzuf;
  Though I, lik' others, have a-herd vo'k zay
  The girt house is a-haunted, night an' day.

  JEM.

  Aye; I do mind woone winter 'twer a-zaid
  The farmer's vo'k could hardly sleep a-bed,
  They herd at night such scuffns an' such jumpns,
  Such ugly nases an' such rottln thumpns.

  DICK.

  Aye, I do mind I herd his son, young Sammy,
  Tell how the chairs did dance an' doors did slammy;
  He stood to it--though zome vo'k woulden heed en--
  He didden only hear the ghost, but zeed en;
  An', hang me! if I han't a'most a-shook,
  To hear en tell what ugly shepes it took.
  Did zometimes come vull six veet high, or higher,
  In white, he zaid, wi' eyes lik' coals o' vier;
  An' zometimes, wi' a fece so pele as milk,
  A smileless ledy, all a-deck'd in silk.
  His heir, he zaid, did use to stand upright,
  So stiff's a bunch o' rushes, wi' his fright.

  JEM.

  An' then you know that zome'hat is a-zeed
  Down there in lene, an' over in the med,
  A-comn zometimes lik' a slinkn hound,
  Or rolln lik' a vleece along the ground.
  An' woonce, when gramfer wi' his wold grey mere
  Wer ridn down the lene vrom Shroton feir,
  It roll'd so big's a pack ov wool across
  The road just under en, an' lem'd his hoss.

  DICK.

  Aye; did ye ever hear--vo'k zaid 'twer true--
  O' what bevell Jack Hine zome years agoo?
  Woone vrosty night, d'ye know, at Chris'mas tide,
  Jack, an' another chap or two bezide,
  'D a-been out, zomewhere up at tother end
  O' parish, to a naghbour's house to spend
  A merry hour, an' mid a-took a cup
  Or two o' ele a-keepn Chris'mas up;
  Zoo I do lot 'twer lete avore the perty
  'D a-burnt their bron out; I do lot, avore
  They thought o' turnn out o' door
  'Twer mornn, vor their friendship then wer hearty.
  Well; clwose agen the vootpath that do led
  Vrom higher parish over withy-med,
  There's still a hollow, you do know: they tried there,
  In former times, to meke a cattle-pit,
  But gie'd it up, because they coulden get
  The water any time to bide there.
  Zoo when the merry fellows got
  Just overright these lwonesome spot,
  Jack zeed a girt big house-dog wi' a collar,
  A-stannn down in thik there hollor.
  Lo'k there, he zad, there's zome girt dog a-prowln:
  I'll just goo down an' gi'e'n a goodish lick
  Or two wi' these here groun'-ash stick,
  An' zend the shaggy rascal hwome a-howln.
  Zoo there he run, an' gi'ed en a good whack
  Wi' his girt ashen stick a-thirt his back;
  An', all at woonce, his stick split right all down
  In vower pieces; an' the pieces vled
  Out ov his hand all up above his head,
  An' pitch'd in vower corners o' the groun'.
  An' then he velt his han' get all so num',
  He coulden veel a vinger or a thum';
  An' after that his erm begun to zwell,
  An' in the night a-bed he vound
  The skin o't peeln off all round.
  'Twer near a month avore he got it well.

  JEM.

  That wer vor hettn [=o]'n. He should a let en
  Alwone d'ye zee: 'twer wicked vor to het en.




SUNDRY PIECES.




A ZONG.


  O Jenny, don't sobby! vor I shall be true;
  Noo might under heaven shall pert me vrom you.
  My heart will be cwold, Jenny, when I do slight
  The zwell o' thy bosom, thy eyes' sparkln light.

  My kinsvo'k would fan zee me teke vor my mete
  A mad that ha' wealth, but a mad I should hete;
  But I'd sooner lebour wi' thee vor my bride,
  Than live lik' a squier wi' any bezide.

  Vor all busy kinsvo'k, my love will be still
  A-zet upon thee lik' the vir in the hill;
  An' though they mid worry, an' dreaten, an' mock,
  My head's in the storm, but my root's in the rock.

  Zoo, Jenny, don't sobby! vor I shall be true;
  Noo might under heaven shall pert me vrom you.
  My heart will be cwold, Jenny, when I do slight
  The zwell o' thy bosom, thy eyes' sparkln light.




THE MAID VOR MY BRIDE.


  Ah! don't tell o' madens! the woone vor my bride
  Is little lik' too many madens bezide,--
  Not brantn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind
  To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind.

  She's straght an' she's slender, but not over tall,
  Wi' lim's that be lightsome, but not over small;
  The goodness o' heaven do breathe in her fece,
  An' a queen, to be stetely, must walk wi' her pece.

  Her frocks be a-mede all becomn an' plan,
  An' clen as a blossom undimm'd by a stan;
  Her bonnet ha' got but two ribbons, a-tied
  Up under her chin, or let down at the zide.

  When she do speak to woone, she don't stere an' grin;
  There's sense in her looks, vrom her eyes to her chin,
  An' her words be so kind, an' her speech is so meek,
  As her eyes do look down a-beginnn to speak.

  Her skin is so white as a lily, an' each
  Ov her cheks is so downy an' red as a peach;
  She's pretty a-zittn; but oh! how my love
  Do watch her to madness when woonce she do move.

  An' when she do walk hwome vrom church drough the groun',
  Wi' woone erm in mine, an' wi' woone a-hung down,
  I do think, an' do veel mwore o' sheme than o' pride,
  That do meke me look ugly to walk by her zide.

  Zoo don't talk o' maden's! the woone vor my bride
  Is but little lik' too many madens bezide,--
  Not brantn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind
  To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind.




THE HWOMESTEAD.


  If I had all the land my zight
    Can overlook vrom Chalwell hill,
  Vrom Sherborn left to Blanvord right,
    Why I could be but happy still.
  An' I be happy wi' my spot
  O' freehold ground an' mossy cot,
  An' shoulden get a better lot
    If I had all my will.

  My orcha'd's wide, my trees be young;
    An' they do bear such heavy crops,
  Their boughs, lik' onion-rwopes a-hung,
    Be all a-trigg'd to year, wi' props.
  I got some gerden groun' to dig,
  A parrock, an' a cow an' pig;
  I got zome cider vor to swig,
    An' ele o' malt an' hops.

  I'm landlord o' my little farm,
    I'm king 'ithin my little plece;
  I don't break laws, an' don't do harm,
    An' bent a-fer'd o' noo man's fece.
  When I'm a-cover'd wi' my thatch,
  Noo man do dere to lift my latch;
  Where honest han's do shut the hatch,
    There fear do leve the plece.

  My lofty elem trees do screen
    My brown-ruf'd house, an' here below,
  My geese do strut athirt the green,
    An' hiss an' flap their wings o' snow;
  As I do walk along a rank
  Ov apple trees, or by a bank,
  Or zit upon a bar or plank,
    To see how things do grow.




THE FARMER'S WOLDEST D[=A]'TER.


  No, no! I ben't a-runnn down
  The pretty maden's o' the town,
    Nor wishn o'm noo harm;
  But she that I would marry vu'st,
  To shere my good luck or my crust,
    'S a-bred up at a farm.
  In town, a mad do zee mwore life,
    An' I don't under-rete her;
  But ten to woone the sprackest wife
    'S a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter.

  Vor she do veed, wi' tender cere,
  The little woones, an' pert their heir,
    An' keep em neat an' pirty;
  An' keep the saucy little chaps
  O' bwoys in trim wi' dreats an' slaps,
    When they be wild an' dirty.
  Zoo if you'd have a bus'ln wife,
    An' childern well look'd after,
  The mad to help ye all drough life
    'S a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter.

  An' she can iorn up an' vwold
  A book o' clothes w' young or wold,
    An' zalt an' roll the butter;
  An' meke brown bread, an' elder wine,
  An' zalt down meat in pans o' brine,
    An' do what you can put her.
  Zoo if you've wherewi', an' would vind
    A wife wo'th lookn [=a]'ter,
  Goo an' get a farmer in the mind
    To gi'e ye his woldest d[=a]'ter.

  Her heart's so innocent an' kind,
  She idden thoughtless, but do mind
    Her mother an' her duty;
  An' livn blushes, that do spread
  Upon her healthy fece o' red,
    Do heighten all her beauty;
  So quick's a bird, so neat's a cat,
    So cheerful in her netur,
  The best o' madens to come at
    'S a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter.




UNCLE OUT O' DEBT AN' OUT O' DANGER.


      Ees; uncle had thik small hwomestead,
      The lezes an' the bits o' mead,
      Besides the orcha'd in his prime,
      An' copse-wood vor the winter time.
      His wold black mere, that draw'd his cart,
      An' he, wer seldom long apert;
      Vor he work'd hard an' pad his woy,
      An' zung so litsom as a bwoy,
          As he toss'd an' work'd,
          An' blow'd an' quirk'd,
      "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
      An' I can fece a friend or stranger;
  I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peir
  Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my mere."

      His mere's long vlexy vetlocks grow'd
      Down roun' her hoofs so black an' brode;
      Her head hung low, her tal reach'd down
      A-bobbn nearly to the groun'.
      The cwoat that uncle mwostly wore
      Wer long behind an' straght avore,

      An' in his shoes he had girt buckles,
      An' breeches button'd round his huckles;
          An' he zung wi' pride,
          By's wold mere's zide,
      "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
      An' I can fece a friend or stranger;
  I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peir
  Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."

      An' he would work,--an' lwoad, an' shoot,
      An' spur his heaps o' dung or zoot;
      Or car out ha, to sar his vew
      Milch cows in corners dry an' lew;
      Or dreve a zyve, or work a pick,
      To pitch or meke his little rick;
      Or thatch en up wi' straw or zedge,
      Or stop a shard, or gap, in hedge;
          An' he work'd an' flung
          His erms, an' zung
      "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
      An' I can fece a friend or stranger;
  I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peir
  Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."

      An' when his mere an' he'd a-done
      Their work, an' tired ev'ry bwone,
      He zot avore the vire, to spend
      His evenn wi' his wife or friend;
      An' wi' his lags out-stratch'd vor rest,
      An' woone hand in his wes'coat breast,
      While burnn sticks did hiss an' crack,
      An' flemes did blezy up the back,
          There he zung so proud
          In a bakky cloud,
      "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
      An' I can fece a friend or stranger;
  I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peir
  Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."

      From market how he used to ride,
      Wi' pot's a-bumpn by his zide
      Wi' things a-bought--but not vor trust,
      Vor what he had he pad vor vu'st;
      An' when he trotted up the yard,
      The calves did blery to be sar'd,
      An' pigs did scoat all drough the muck,
      An' geese did hiss, an' hens did cluck;
          An' he zung aloud,
          So pleased an' proud,
      "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
      An' I can fece a friend or stranger;
  I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peir
  Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."

      When he wer joggn hwome woone night
      Vrom market, after candle-light,
      (He mid a-took a drop o' beer,
      Or midden, vor he had noo fear,)
      Zome ugly, long-lagg'd, herrn ribs,
      Jump'd out an' ax'd en vor his dibs;
      But he soon gi'ed en such a mawln,
      That there he left en down a-sprawln,
          While he jogg'd along
          Wi' his own wold zong,
      "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
      An' I can fece a friend or stranger;
  I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peir
  Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."




THE CHURCH AN' HAPPY ZUNDAY.


  Ah! ev'ry day mid bring a while
  O' ese vrom all woone's cere an' tweil,
  The welcome evenn, when 'tis sweet
  Vor tired friends wi' weary veet,
  But litsome hearts o' love, to meet;
  An' yet while weekly times do roll,
  The best vor body an' vor soul
    'S the church an' happy Zunday.

  Vor then our loosen'd souls do rise
  Wi' holy thoughts beyond the skies,
  As we do think o' _Him_ that shed
  His blood vor us, an' still do spread
  His love upon the live an' dead;
  An' how He gi'ed a time an' plece
  To gather us, an' gi'e us grece,--
    The church an' happy Zunday.

  There, under lenen mossy stwones,
  Do lie, vorgot, our fathers' bwones,
  That trod this groun' vor years agoo,
  When things that now be wold wer new;
  An' comely madens, mild an' true,
  That mede their sweet-hearts happy brides,
  An' come to kneel down at their zides
    At church o' happy Zundays.

  'Tis good to zee woone's naghbours come
  Out drough the churchyard, vlockn hwome,
  As woone do nod, an' woone do smile,
  An' woone do toss another's chile;
  An' zome be sheken han's, the while
  Poll's uncle, chuckn her below
  Her chin, do tell her she do grow,
    At church o' happy Zundays.

  Zoo while our blood do run in vans
  O' livn souls in thesum plans,
  Mid happy housen smoky round
  The church an' holy bit o' ground;
  An' while their weddn bells do sound,
  Oh! mid em have the mens o' grece,
  The holy day an' holy plece,
    The church an' happy Zunday.




THE WOLD WAGGON.


  The girt wold waggon uncle had,
  When I wer up a hardish lad,
  Did stand, a-screen'd vrom het an' wet,
  In zummer at the barken gete,
  Below the elems' spredn boughs,
  A-rubb'd by all the pigs an' cows.
  An' I've a-clom his head an' zides,
  A-riggn up or jumpn down
  A-plan, or in happy rides
  Along the lene or drough the groun',
  An' many souls be in their greves,
  That rod' together on his reves;
  An' he, an' all the hosses too,
  'V a-ben a-done vor years agoo.

  Upon his head an' tal wer pinks,
  A-panted all in tangled links;
  His two long zides wer blue,--his bed
  Bent slightly upward at the head;
  His reves rose upward in a bow
  Above the slow hind-wheels below.
  Vour hosses wer a-kept to pull
  The girt wold waggon when 'twer vull;
  The black mere _Smiler_, strong enough
  To pull a house down by herzuf,

  So big, as took my widest strides
  To straddle halfway down her zides;
  An' champn _Vi'let_, sprack an' light,
  That foam'd an' pull'd wi' all her might:
  An' _Whitevoot_, lezy in the trece,
  Wi' cunnn looks an' show-white fece;
  Bezides a ba woone, short-tal _Jack_,
  That wer a trece-hoss or a hack.

  How many lwoads o' vuzz, to scald
  The milk, thik waggon have a-haul'd!
  An' wood vrom copse, an' poles vor rals.
  An' bayns wi' their bushy tals;
  An' loose-ear'd barley, hangn down
  Outzide the wheels a'mst to groun',
  An' lwoads o' ha so sweet an' dry,
  A-builded straght, an' long, an' high;
  An' ha-mekers, a-zittn roun'
  The reves, a-ridn hwome vrom groun',
  When Jim gi'ed Jenny's lips a-smack,
  An' jealous Dicky whipp'd his back,
  An' madens scream'd to veel the thumps
  A-gi'ed by trenches an' by humps.
  But he, an' all his hosses too,
  'V a-ben a-done vor years agoo.




THE DRVEN O' THE COMMON.[B]


  In the common by our hwome
  There wer freely-open room,
  Vor our litty veet to roam
  By the vuzzen out in bloom.
  That wi' prickles kept our lags
  Vrom the skylark's nest ov aggs;
  While the peewit wheel'd around
  Wi' his cry up over head,
  Or he sped, though a-limpn, o'er the ground.

  There we herd the whickr'n mere
  Wi' her vace a-quiv'rn high;
  Where the cow did loudly blere
  By the donkey's valln cry.
  While a-stoopn man did zwing
  His bright hook at vuzz or ling
  Free o' fear, wi' wellglov'd hands,
  O' the prickly vuzz he vell'd,
  Then sweet-smell'd as it died in faggot bands.

  When the haward drove the stock
  In a herd to zome oone plece,
  Thither vo'k begun to vlock,
  Each to own his bestes fece.
  While the geese, bezide the stream,
  Zent vrom gapn bills a scream,
  An' the cattle then avound,
  Without right o' grezen there,
  Went to blere bra or whicker in the pound.

[Footnote B: The Driving of the Common was by the _Hayward_ who,
whenever he thought fit, would drive all the cattle into a corner and
impound all heads belonging to owners without a right of commonage for
them, so that they had to ransom them by a fine.]




THE COMMON A-TOOK IN.


  Oh! no, Poll, no! Since they've a-took
  The common in, our lew wold nook
  Don't seem a-bit as used to look
    When we had runnn room;
  Girt banks do shut up ev'ry drong,
  An' stratch wi' thorny backs along
  Where we did use to run among
  The vuzzen an' the broom.

  Ees; while the ragged colts did crop
  The nibbled grass, I used to hop
  The emmet-buts, vrom top to top,
    So proud o' my spry jumps:
  Wi' thee behind or at my zide,
  A-skippn on so light an' wide
  'S thy little frock would let thee stride,
    Among the vuzzy humps.

  Ah while the lark up over head
  Did twitter, I did search the red
  Thick bunch o' broom, or yollow bed
    O' vuzzen vor a nest;
  An' thou di'st hunt about, to meet
  Wi' strawberries so red an' sweet,
  Or clogs or shoes off hosses veet,
    Or wild thyme vor thy breast;

  Or when the cows did run about
  A-stung, in zummer, by the stout,
  Or when they pla'd, or when they foght,
    Di'st stand a-lookn on:
  An' where white geese, wi' long red bills,
  Did veed among the emmet-hills,
  There we did goo to vind their quills
    Alongzide o' the pon'.

  What fun there wer among us, when
  The haward come, wi' all his men,
  To drve the common, an' to pen
    Strange cattle in the pound;
  The cows did blere, the men did shout
  An' toss their erms an' sticks about,
  An' vo'ks, to own their stock, come out
    Vrom all the housen round.




A WOLD FRIEND.


  Oh! when the friends we us'd to know,
    'V a-been a-lost vor years; an' when
  Zome happy day do come, to show
    Their fezen to our eyes agen,
  Do meke us look behind, John,
  Do bring wold times to mind, John,
    Do meke hearts veel, if they be steel,
  All warm, an' soft, an' kind, John.

  When we do lose, still ga an' young,
    A vace that us'd to call woone's neme,
  An' after years agen his tongue
    Do sound upon our ears the seme,
  Do kindle love anew, John,
  Do wet woone's eyes wi' dew, John,
    As we do sheke, vor friendship's seke,
  His vist an' vind en true, John.

  What tender thoughts do touch woone's soul,
    When we do zee a med or hill
  Where we did work, or pla, or stroll,
    An' talk wi' vaces that be still;
  'Tis touchn vor to trece, John,
  Wold times drough ev'ry plece, John;
    But that can't touch woone's heart so much,
  As zome wold long-lost fece, John.




THE RWOSE THAT DECK'D HER BREAST.


  Poor Jenny wer her Robert's bride
  Two happy years, an' then he died;
  An' zoo the wold vo'k mede her come,
  Vorseken, to her maden hwome.
  But Jenny's merry tongue wer dum';
    An' round her comely neck she wore
    A murnn kerchif, where avore
      The rwose did deck her breast.

  She walk'd alwone, wi' eye-balls wet,
  To zee the flow'rs that she'd a-zet;
  The lilies, white's her maden frocks,
  The spike, to put 'ithin her box,
  Wi' columbines an' hollyhocks;
    The jilliflow'r an' noddn pink,
    An' rwose that touch'd her soul to think
      Ov woone that deck'd her breast.

  Vor at her weddn, just avore
  Her maden hand had yet a-wore
  A wife's goold ring, wi' hangn head
  She walk'd along thik flower-bed,
  Where stocks did grow, a-staned wi' red,
    An' merygoolds did skirt the walk,
    An' gather'd vrom the rwose's stalk
      A bud to deck her breast.

  An' then her chek, wi' youthvul blood
  Wer bloomn as the rwoses bud;
  But now, as she wi' grief do pine,
  'Tis pele's the milk-white jessamine.
  But Robert have a-left behine
    A little beby wi' his fece,
    To smile, an' nessle in the plece
      Where the rwose did deck her breast.




NANNY'S COW.


  Ov all the cows, among the rest
  Wer woone that Nanny lik'd the best;
  An' after milkn us'd to stan'
  A-veedn o' her, vrom her han',
    Wi' grass or ha; an' she know'd Ann,
    An' in the evenn she did come
    The vu'st, a-betn p roun' hwome
      Vor Ann to come an' milk her.

  Her back wer hollor as a bow,
  Her lags wer short, her body low;
  Her head wer small, her horns turn'd in
  Avore Her fece so sharp's a pin:
  Her eyes wer vull, her ears wer thin,
    An' she wer red vrom head to tal,
    An' didden start nor kick the pal,
      When Nanny zot to milk her.

  But losses zoon begun to vall
  On Nanny's fther, that wi' all
  His tweil he voun', wi' breakn heart,
  That he mus' leve his ground, an' pert
  Wi' all his best an' hoss an' cart;
    An', what did touch en mwost, to zell
    The red cow Nanny lik'd so well,
      An' lik'd vor her to milk her.

  Zalt tears did run vrom Nanny's eyes,
  To hear her restless father's sighs.
  But as vor me, she mid be sure
  I wont vorzeke her now she's poor,
  Vor I do love her mwore an' mwore;
    An' if I can but get a cow
    An' parrock, I'll vulvil my vow,
      An' she shall come an' milk her.




THE SHEP'ERD BWOY.


  When the warm zummer breeze do blow over the hill,
    An' the vlock's a-spread over the ground;
  When the vace o' the busy wold sheep dog is still,
    An' the sheep-bells do tinkle all round;
    Where noo tree vor a shede but the thorn is a-vound,
          There, a zingn a zong,
          Or a-whisln among
  The sheep, the young shep'erd do bide all day long.

  When the storm do come up wi' a thundery cloud
    That do shut out the zunlight, an' high
  Over head the wild thunder do rumble so loud,
    An' the lightnn do flash vrom the sky,
    Where noo shelter's a-vound but his hut, that is nigh,
          There out ov all harm,
          In the dry an' the warm,
    The poor little shep'erd do smile at the storm.

  When the cwold winter win' do blow over the hill,
    An' the hore-vrost do whiten the grass,
  An' the breath o' the no'th is so cwold, as to chill
    The warm blood ov woone's heart as do pass;
    When the ice o' the pond is so slipp'ry as glass,
          There, a-zingn a zong,
          Or a-whisln among
  The sheep, the poor shep'erd do bide all day long.

  When the shearn's a-come, an' the shearers do pull
    In the sheep, hangn back a-gwan in,
  Wi' their roun' zides a-heavn in under their wool,
    To come out all a-clipp'd to the skin;
    When the festn, an' zingn, an fun do begin,
          Vor to help em, an' shere
        All their me'th an' good fere,
  The poor little shep'erd is sure to be there.




HOPE A-LEFT BEHIND.


  Don't try to win a maden's heart,
    To leve her in her love,--'tis wrong:
  'Tis bitter to her soul to pert
    Wi' woone that is her sweetheart long.
    A mad's vu'st love is always strong;
  An' if do fal, she'll linger on,
  Wi' all her best o' pleasure gone,
      An' hope a-left behind her.

  Thy poor lost Jenny wer a-grow'd
    So kind an' thoughtvul vor her years,
  When she did meet wi' vo'k a-know'd
    The best, her love did speak in tears.
    She walk'd wi' thee, an' had noo fears
  O' thy unkindness, till she zeed
  Herzelf a-cast off lik' a weed,
      An' hope a-left behind her.

  Thy slight turn'd pele her cherry lip;
    Her sorrow, not a-zeed by eyes,
  Wer lik' the mildew, that do nip
    A bud by darksome midnight skies.
    The day mid come, the zun mid rise,
  But there's noo hope o' day nor zun;
  The storm ha' blow'd, the harm's a-done,
      An' hope's a-left behind her.

  The time will come when thou wouldst gi'e
    The worold vor to have her smile,
  Or meet her by the parrock tree,
    Or catch her jumpn off the stile;
    Thy life's avore thee vor a while,
  But thou wilt turn thy mind in time,
  An' zee the ded as 'tis,--a crime,
      An' hope a-left behind thee.

  Zoo never win a maden's heart,
    But her's that is to be thy bride,
  An' pla drough life a manly pert,
    An' if she's true when time ha' tried
    Her mind, then teke her by thy zide.
  True love will meke thy hardships light,
  True love will meke the worold bright,
      When hope's a-left behind thee.




A GOOD FATHER.


  No; mind thy father. When his tongue
    Is keen, he's still thy friend, John,
  Vor wolder vo'k should warn the young
    How wickedness will end, John;
  An' he do know a wicked youth
    Would be thy manhood's bene,
  An' zoo would bring thee back agen
    'Ithin the ways o' truth.

  An' mind en still when in the end
    His lebour's all a-done, John,
  An' let en vind a steadvast friend
    In thee his thoughtvul son, John;
  Vor he did win what thou didst lack
    Avore couldst work or stand,
    An' zoo, when time do num' his hand,
      Then pay his lebour back.

  An' when his bwones be in the dust,
    Then honour still his neme, John;
  An' as his godly soul wer just,
    Let thine be voun' the seme, John.
  Be true, as he wer true, to men,
    An' love the laws o' God;
    Still tread the road that he've a-trod,
      An' live wi' him agen.




THE BEAM IN GRENLEY CHURCH.


  In church at Grenley woone mid zee
  A beam vrom wall to wall; a tree
  That's longer than the church is wide,
  An' zoo woone end o'n's drough outside,--
  Not cut off short, but bound all round
  Wi' lead, to keep en sefe an' sound.

  Back when the builders vu'st begun
  The church,--as still the tele do run,--
  A man work'd wi' em; no man knew
  Who 'twer, nor whither he did goo.
  He wer as harmless as a chile,
  An' work'd 'ithout a frown or smile,
  Till any woaths or strife did rise
  To overcast his sparkln eyes:

  An' then he'd call their minds vrom strife,
  To think upon another life.
  He wer so strong, that all alwone
  He lifted beams an' blocks o' stwone,
  That others, with the girtest pans,
  Could hardly wag wi' bars an' chans;
  An' yet he never used to sta
  O' Zaturdays, to teke his pa.

  Woone day the men wer out o' heart,
  To have a beam a-cut too short;
  An' in the evenn, when they shut
  Off work, they left en where 'twer put;
  An' while dumb night went softly by
  Towrds the vi'ry western sky,
  A-lulln birds, an' shuttn up
  The deisy an' the butter cup,
  They went to lay their heavy heads
  An' weary bwones upon their beds.

  An' when the dewy mornn broke,
  An' show'd the worold, fresh awoke,
  Their godly work agen, they vound
  The beam they left upon the ground
  A-put in plece, where still do bide,
  An' long enough to reach outzide.
  But he unknown to tother men
  Wer never there at work agen:
  Zoo whether he mid be a man
  Or angel, wi' a helpn han',
  Or whether all o't wer a dream,
  They didden dere to cut the beam.




THE VACES THAT BE GONE.


  When evenn shedes o' trees do hide
  A body by the hedge's zide,
  An' twitt'rn birds, wi' plasome flight,
  Do vlee to roost at comn night,
  Then I do saunter out o' zight
    In orcha'd, where the plece woonce rung
    Wi' laughs a-laugh'd an' zongs a-zung
      By vaces that be gone.

  There's still the tree that bore our swing,
  An' others where the birds did zing;
  But long-leav'd docks do overgrow
  The groun' we trampled here below,
  Wi' merry skippns to an' fro
    Bezide the banks, where Jim did zit
    A-plan o' the clarinit
      To vaces that be gone.

  How mother, when we us'd to stun
  Her head wi' all our nasy fun,
  Did wish us all a-gone vrom hwome:
  An' now that zome be dead, an' zome
  A-gone, an' all the plece is dum',
    How she do wish, wi' useless tears,
    To have agen about her ears
      The vaces that be gone.

  Vor all the madens an' the bwoys
  But I, be marri'd off all woys,
  Or dead an' gone; but I do bide
  At hwome, alwone, at mother's zide,
  An' often, at the evenn-tide,
    I still do saunter out, wi' tears,
    Down drough the orcha'd, where my ears
      Do miss the vaces gone.




POLL.


  When out below the trees, that drow'd
  Their scraggy lim's athirt the road,
  While evenn zuns, a'mst a-zet,
  Gi'ed goolden light, but little het,
  The merry chaps an' madens met,
    An' look'd to zomebody to neme
    Their bit o' fun, a dance or geme,
      'Twer Poll they cluster'd round.

  An' after they'd a-had enough
  O' snappn tongs, or blind-man's buff,
  O' winter nights, an' went an' stood
  Avore the vire o' blezen wood,
  Though there wer madens kind an' good,
    Though there wer madens feir an' tall,
    'Twer Poll that wer the queen o'm all,
      An' Poll they cluster'd round.

  An' when the childern used to catch
  A glimpse o' Poll avore the hatch,
  The little things did run to meet
  Their friend wi' skippn tott'rn veet
  An' thought noo other kiss so sweet
    As hers; an' nwone could vind em out
    Such gemes to meke em jump an' shout,
      As Poll they cluster'd round.

  An' now, since she've a-left em, all
  The plece do miss her, girt an' small.
  In van vor them the zun do sheen
  Upon the lwonesome rwoad an' green;
  Their zwing do hang vorgot between
    The lenen trees, vor they've a-lost
    The best o' madens, to their cost,
      The mad they cluster'd round.




LOOKS A-KNOW'D AVORE.


  While zome, a-gwan from plece to plece,
  Do daily meet wi' zome new fece,
  When my day's work is at an end,
  Let me zit down at hwome, an' spend
  A happy hour wi' zome wold friend,
    An' by my own vire-zide rejace
    In zome wold naghbour's welcome vace,
      An' looks I know'd avore, John.

  Why is it, friends that we've a-met
  By zuns that now ha' long a-zet,
  Or winter vires that blezed for wold
  An' young vo'k, now vor ever cwold,
  Be met wi' ja that can't be twold?
  Why, 'tis because they friends have all
    Our youthvul spring ha' left our fall,--
      The looks we know'd avore, John.

  'Tis lively at a feir, among
  The chattn, laughn, shiften drong,
  When wold an' young, an' high an' low,
  Do streamy round, an' to an' fro;
  But what new fece that we don't know,
    Can ever meke woone's warm heart dance
    Among ten thousan', lik' a glance
      O' looks we know'd avore, John.

  How of'en have the wind a-shook
  The leaves off into yonder brook,
  Since vu'st we two, in youthvul strolls,
  Did ramble roun' them bubbln shoals!
  An' oh! that zome o' them young souls,
    That we, in ja, did pla wi' then
    Could come back now, an' bring agen
      The looks we know'd avore, John.

  So soon's the barley's dead an' down,
  The clover-leaf do rise vrom groun',
  An' wolder fezen do but goo
  To be a-vollow'd still by new;
  But souls that be a-tried an' true
    Shall meet agen beyond the skies,
    An' bring to woone another's eyes
      The looks they know'd avore, John.




THE MUSIC O' THE DEAD.


  When music, in a heart that's true,
  Do kindle up wold loves anew,
  An' dim wet eyes, in feirest lights,
  Do zee but inward fancy's zights;
  When creepn years, wi' with'rn blights,
    'V a-took off them that wer so dear,
    How touchn 'tis if we do hear
      The tuns o' the dead, John.

  When I, a-stannn in the lew
  O' trees a storm's a-betn drough,
  Do zee the slantn mist a-drove
  By spitevul winds along the grove,
  An' hear their hollow sounds above
    My shelter'd head, do seem, as I
    Do think o' zunny days gone by.
      Lik' music vor the dead, John.

  Last night, as I wer gwan along
  The brook, I herd the milk-mad's zong
  A-ringn out so clear an' shrill
  Along the meds an' roun' the hill.
  I catch'd the tun, an' stood still
    To hear 't; 'twer woone that Jene did zing
    A-vield a-milkn in the spring,--
      Sweet music o' the dead, John.

  Don't tell o' zongs that be a-zung
  By young chaps now, wi' shemeless tongue:
  Zing me wold ditties, that would start
  The maden's tears, or stir my heart
  To teke in life a manly pert,--
    The wold vo'k's zongs that twold a tele,
    An' vollow'd round their mugs o' ele,
      The music o' the dead, John.




THE PLECE A TELE'S A-TWOLD O'.

  Why tidden vields an' runnn brooks,
    Nor trees in Spring or fall;
  An' tidden woody slopes an' nooks,
    Do touch us mwost ov all;
  An' tidden ivy that do cling
    By housen big an' wold, O,
  But this is, after all, the thing,--
    The plece a tele's a-twold o'.

  At Burn, where mother's young friends know'd
    The vu'st her maden neme,
  The zunny knaps, the narrow road
    An' green, be still the seme;
  The squier's house, an' ev'ry ground
    That now his son ha' zwold, O,
  An' ev'ry wood he hunted round
    'S a plece a tele's a-twold o'.

  The mad a-lov'd to our heart's core,
    The dearest of our kin,
  Do meke us like the very door
    Where they went out an' in.
  'Tis zome'hat touchn that bevel
    Poor flesh an' blood o' wold, O,
  Do meke us like to zee so well
    The plece a tele's a-twold o'.

  When blushn Jenny vu'st did come
    To zee our Poll o' nights,
  An' had to goo back letish hwome,
    Where vo'k did zee the zights,
  A-chattn loud below the sky
    So dark, an' winds so cwold, O,
  How proud wer I to zee her by
    The plece the tele's a-twold o'.

  Zoo whether 'tis the humpy ground
    That wer a battle viel',
  Or mossy house, all ivy-bound,
    An' valln down piece-meal;
  Or if 'tis but a scraggy tree,
    Where beauty smil'd o' wold, O,
  How dearly I do like to zee
    The plece a tele's a-twold o'.




AUNT'S TANTRUMS.


  Why ees, aunt Anne's a little stad,
  But kind an' merry, poor wold mad!
  If we don't cut her heart wi' slights,
  She'll zit an' put our things to rights,
  Upon a hard day's work, o' nights;
    But zet her up, she's jis' lik' vier,
    An' woe betide the woone that's nigh 'er.
      When she is in her tantrums.

  She'll toss her head, a-steppn out
  Such strides, an' fling the pals about;
  An' slam the doors as she do goo,
  An' kick the cat out wi' her shoe,
  Enough to het her off in two.
    The bwoys do bundle out o' house,
    A-lassen they should get a towse,
      When aunt is in her tantrums.

  She whurr'd, woone day, the wooden bowl
  In such a veag at my poor poll;
  It brush'd the heir above my crown,
  An' whizz'd on down upon the groun',
  An' knock'd the bantam cock right down,
    But up he sprung, a-tekn flight
    Wi' tothers, cluckn in a fright,
      Vrom aunt in such a tantrum!

  But Dick stole in, an' reach'd en down
  The biggest blather to be voun',
  An' crope an' put en out o' zight
  Avore the vire, an' plimm'd en tight
  An crack'd en wi' the slice thereright
    She scream'd, an' bundled out o' house,
    An' got so quiet as a mouse,--
      It frighten'd off her tantrum.




THE STWONN PWORCH.


  A new house! Ees, indeed! a small
  Straght, upstart thing, that, after all,
  Do teke in only half the groun'
  The wold woone did avore 'twer down;
  Wi' little windows straght an' flat,
  Not big enough to zun a-cat,
  An' dealn door a-mede so thin,
  A puff o' wind would blow en in,
  Where woone do vind a thing to knock
  So small's the hammer ov a clock,
  That wull but meke a little click
  About so loud's a clock do tick!
  Gi'e me the wold house, wi' the wide
  An' lofty-lo'ted rooms inside;
  An' wi' the stwonn pworch avore
  The nal-bestudded woaken door,
  That had a knocker very little
  Less to handle than a bittle,
  That het a blow that vled so loud
  Drough house as thunder drough a cloud.
  An' mede the dog behind the door
  Growl out so deep's a bull do roar.

  In all the house, o' young an' wold,
  There werden woone but could a-twold
  When he'd noo wish to seek abrode
  Mwore ja than thik wold pworch bestow'd!
  For there, when yollow evenn shed
  His light agen the elem's head,
  An' gnots did whiver in the zun,
  An' uncle's work wer all a-done,
  His whiffs o' meltn smoke did roll
  Above his bendn pipe's white bowl,
  While he did chat, or, zittn dumb,
  Inja his thoughts as they did come.

  An' Jimmy, wi' his crowd below
  His chin, did dreve his nimble bow
  In tuns vor to meke us spring
  A-reeln, or in zongs to zing,
  An' there, between the dark an' light,
  Zot Poll by Willy's zide at night
  A-whisp'rn, while her eyes did zwim
  In ja avore the twilight dim;
  An' when (to know if she wer near)
  Aunt call'd, did cry, "Ees, mother; here."

  No, no; I woulden gi'e thee thanks
  Vor fine white walls an' vloors o' planks,
  Nor doors a-pinted up so fine.
  If I'd a wold grey house o' mine,
  Gi'e me vor all it should be small,
  A stwonn pworch instead [=o]'t all.




FARMER'S SONS.


  Ov all the chaps a-burnt so brown
    By zunny hills an' hollors,
  Ov all the whindln chaps in town
    Wi' backs so weak as rollers,
  There's narn that's half so light o' heart,
    (I'll bet, if thou't zay "done," min,)
  An' narn that's half so strong an' smart,
    'S a merry farmer's son, min.

  He'll fling a stwone so true's a shot,
    He'll jump so light's a cat;
  He'll heave a waght up that would squot
    A weakly fellow flat.
  He wont gi'e up when things don't fa,
    But turn em into fun, min;
  An' what's hard work to zome, is pla
    Avore a farmer's son, min.

  His bwony erm an' knuckly vist
    ('Tis best to meke a friend o't)
  Would het a fellow, that's a-miss'd,
    Half backward wi' the wind o't.
  Wi' such a chap at hand, a mad
    Would never goo a nun, min;
  She'd have noo call to be afrad
    Bezide a farmer's son, min.

  He'll turn a vurrow, drough his langth,
    So straght as eyes can look,
  Or pitch all day, wi' half his strangth,
    At ev'ry pitch a pook;
  An' then goo vower mile, or vive,
    To vind his friends in fun, min,
  Vor maden's be but dead alive
    'Ithout a farmer's son, min.

  Zoo ja be in his heart so light,
    An' manly fece so brown;
  An' health goo wi' en hwome at night,
    Vrom med, or wood, or down.
  O' rich an' poor, o' high an' low,
    When all's a-said an' done, min,
  The smartest chap that I do know,
    'S a workn farmer's son, min.




JENE.


  We now mid hope vor better cheer,
  My smiln wife o' twice vive year.
  Let others frown, if thou bist near
    Wi' hope upon thy brow, Jene;
  Vor I vu'st lov'd thee when thy light
  Young shepe vu'st grew to woman's height;
  I loved thee near, an' out o' zight,
    An' I do love thee now, Jene.

  An' we've a-trod the sheenn blede
  Ov eegrass in the zummer shede,
  An' when the leves begun to fede
    Wi' zummer in the wene, Jene;
  An' we've a-wander'd drough the groun'
  O' swayn wheat a-turnn brown,
  An' we've a-stroll'd together roun'
    The brook an' drough the lene, Jeane.

  An' nwone but I can ever tell
  Ov all thy tears that have a-vell
  When trials mede thy bosom zwell,
    An' nwone but thou o' mine, Jene;
  An' now my heart, that heav'd wi' pride
  Back then to have thee at my zide,
  Do love thee mwore as years do slide,
    An' leve them times behine, Jene.




THE DREE WOAKS.


  By the brow o' thik hangn I spent all my youth,
    In the house that did peep out between
  The dree woaks, that in winter avworded their lewth,
    An' in zummer their shede to the green;
  An' there, as in zummer we play'd at our gemes,
        We [=e]ach own'd a tree,
        Vor we wer but dree,
  An' zoo the dree woaks wer a-call'd by our nemes.

  An' two did grow scraggy out over the road,
    An' they wer call'd Jimmy's an' mine;
  An' tother wer Jennet's, much kindlier grow'd,
    Wi' a knotless an' white ribbd rine.
  An' there, o' fine nights avore gwin in to rest,
        We did dance, vull o' life,
        To the sound o' the fife,
  Or pla at some geme that poor Jennet lik'd best.

  Zoo happy wer we by the woaks o' the green,
    Till we lost sister Jennet, our pride;
  Vor when she wer come to her last blushn _teen_,
    She suddenly zicken'd an' died.
  An' avore the green leaves in the fall wer gone by,
        The lightnn struck dead
        Her woaken tree's head,
  An' left en a-stripp'd to the wintery sky.

  But woone ov his ecorns, a-zet in the Fall,
    Come up the Spring after, below
  The trees at her head-stwone 'ithin the church-wall,
    An' mother, to see how did grow,
  Shed a tear; an' when father an' she wer bwoth dead,
        There they wer laid deep,
        Wi' their Jennet, to sleep,
  Wi' her at his zide, an' her tree at her head.

  An' vo'k do still call the wold house the dree woaks,
    Vor thik is a-reckon'd that's down,
  As mother, a-nemn her childern to vo'ks,
    Mede dree when but two wer a-voun';
  An' zaid that hereafter she knew she should zee
        Why God, that's above,
        Vound fit in his love
  To strike wi' his han' the poor mad an' her tree.




THE HWOMESTEAD A-VELL INTO HAND.


  The house where I wer born an' bred,
    Did own his woaken door, John,
  When vu'st he shelter'd father's head,
    An' gramfer's long avore, John.
  An' many a rambln happy chile,
    An' chap so strong an' bwold,
  An' bloomn mad wi' plasome smile,
    Did call their hwome o' wold
        Thik ruf so warm,
        A kept vrom harm
  By elem trees that broke the storm.

  An' in the orcha'd out behind,
    The apple-trees in row, John,
  Did swa wi' moss about their rind
    Their heads a-noddn low, John.
  An' there, bezide zome groun' vor corn,
    Two strips did skirt the road;
  In woone the cow did toss her horn,
    While tother wer a-mow'd,
        In June, below
        The lofty row
  Ov trees that in the hedge did grow.

  A-workn in our little patch
    O' parrock, rathe or lete, John,
  We little ho'd how vur mid stratch
    The squier's wide estete, John.
  Our hearts, so honest an' so true,
    Had little vor to fear;
  Vor we could pay up all their due
    An' gi'e a friend good cheer
        At hwome, below
        The lofty row
  O' trees a-swan to an' fro.

  An' there in het, an' there in wet,
    We tweil'd wi' busy hands, John;
  Vor ev'ry stroke o' work we het,
    Did better our own lands, John.
  But after me, ov all my kin,
    Not woone can hold em on;
  Vor we can't get a life put in
    Vor mine, when I'm a-gone
        Vrom thik wold brown
        Thatch ruf, a-boun'
  By elem trees a-grown roun'.

  Ov eight good hwomes, where, I can mind
    Vo'k liv'd upon their land, John,
  But dree be now a-left behind;
    The rest ha' vell in hand, John,
  An' all the happy souls they ved
    Be scatter'd vur an' wide.
  An' zome o'm be a-wantn bread,
    Zome, better off, ha' died,
        Noo mwore to ho,
        Vor homes below
  The trees a-swaen to an' fro.

  An' I could led ye now all round
    The parish, if I would, John,
  An' show ye still the very ground
    Where vive good housen stood, John
  In broken orcha'ds near the spot,
    A vew wold trees do stand;
  But dew do vall where vo'k woonce zot
    About the burnn brand
        In housen warm,
        A-kept vrom harm
  By elems that did break the storm.




THE GUIDE POST.


  Why thik wold post so long kept out,
  Upon the knap, his erms astrout,
  A-zendn on the weary veet
  By where the dree cross roads do meet;
  An' I've a-come so much thik woy,
  Wi' happy heart, a man or bwoy,
  That I'd a-mede, at last, a'mst
  A friend o' thik wold guidn post.

  An' there, wi' woone white erm he show'd,
  Down over bridge, the Leyton road;
  Wi' woone, the lene a-ledn roun'
  By Bradlinch Hill, an' on to town;
  An' wi' the last, the way to turn
  Drough common down to Rushiburn,--
  The road I lik'd to goo the mwost
  Ov all upon the guidn post.

  The Leyton road ha' lofty ranks
  Ov elem trees upon his banks;
  The woone athirt the hill do show
  Us miles o' hedgy meds below;
  An' he to Rushiburn is wide
  Wi' strips o' green along his zide,
  An' ouer brown-ruf'd house a-mst
  In zight o' thik wold guidn post.

  An' when the ha-mekers did zwarm
  O' zummer evenns out vrom farm.
  The merry madens an' the chaps,
  A-pertn there wi' jokes an' slaps,
  Did goo, zome woone way off, an' zome
  Another, all a-zingn hwome;
  Vor vew o'm had to goo, at mwost,
  A mile beyond the guidn post.

  Poor Nanny Brown, woone darkish night,
  When he'd a-been a-panted white,
  Wer frighten'd, near the gravel pits,
  So dead's a hammer into fits,
  A-thinkn 'twer the ghost she know'd
  Did come an' haunt the Leyton road;
  Though, after all, poor Nanny's ghost
  Turn'd out to be the guidn post.




GWAIN TO FEIR.


  To morrow stir so brisk's you can,
  An' get your work up under han';
  Vor I an' Jim, an' Poll's young man,
    Shall goo to feir; an' zoo,
  If you wull let us gi'e ye a erm
  Along the road, or in the zwarm
  O' vo'k, we'll keep ye out o' harm,
    An' gi'e ye a feirn too.

  We won't stay lete there, I'll be boun';
  We'll bring our shedes off out o' town
  A mile, avore the zun is down,
    If he's a sheenn clear.
  Zoo when your work is all a-done,
  Your mother can't but let ye run
  An' zee a little o' the fun,
    There's nothn there to fear.




JENE O' GRENLEY MILL.


  When in happy times we met,
    Then by look an' deed I show'd,
  How my love wer all a-zet
    In the smiles that she bestow'd.
  She mid have, o' left an' right,
  Madens feirest to the zight;
  I'd a-chose among em still,
  Pretty Jene o' Grenley Mill.

  She wer feirer, by her cows
    In her work-day frock a-drest,
  Than the rest wi' scornvul brows
    All a-flantn in their best.
  Ga did seem, at fest or feir,
  Zights that I had her to shere;
  Ga would be my own heart still,
  But vor Jene o' Grenley Mill.

  Jene--a-checkn ov her love--
    Len'd to woone that, as she guess'd,
  Stood in worldly wealth above
    Me she know'd she lik'd the best.
  He wer wild, an' soon run drough
  All that he'd a-come into,
  Heartlessly a-treatn ill
  Pretty Jene o' Grenley Mill.

  Oh! poor Jenny! thou'st a tore
    Hopn love vrom my poor heart,
  Losn vrom thy own small store,
    All the better, sweeter pert.
  Hearts a-slighted must vorseke
  Slighters, though a-doom'd to break;
  I must scorn, but love thee still,
  Pretty Jene o' Grenley Mill.

  Oh! if ever thy soft eyes
    Could ha' turn'd vrom outward show,
  To a lover born to rise
    When a higher woone wer low;
  If thy love, when zoo a-tried,
  Could ha' stood agen thy pride,
  How should I ha' lov'd thee still,
  Pretty Jene o' Grenley Mill.




THE BELLS OV ALDERBURNHAM.


  While now upon the win' do zwell
    The church-bells' evenn peal, O,
  Along the bottom, who can tell
    How touch'd my heart do veel, O.
  To hear agen, as woonce they rung
  In holidays when I wer young,
        Wi' merry sound
        A-ringn round,
    The bells ov Alderburnham.

  Vor when they rung their gaest peals
    O' zome sweet day o' rest, O,
  We all did ramble drough the viels,
    A-dress'd in all our best, O;
  An' at the bridge or roarn weir,
  Or in the wood, or in the glere
        Ov open ground,
        Did hear ring round
    The bells ov Alderburnham.

  They bells, that now do ring above
    The young brides at church-door, O,
  Woonce rung to bless their mother's love,
    When they were brides avore, O.
  An' sons in tow'r do still ring on
  The merry peals o' fathers gone,
        Noo mwore to sound,
        Or hear ring round,
    The bells ov Alderburnham.

  Ov happy peirs, how soon be zome
    A-wedded an' a-perted!
  Vor woone ov ja, what peals mid come
    To zome o's broken-hearted!
  The stronger mid the sooner die,
  The gaer mid the sooner sigh;
        An' who do know
        What grief's below
    The bells ov Alderburnham!

  But still 'tis happiness to know
    That there's a God above us;
  An' he, by day an' night, do ho
    Vor all ov us, an' love us,
  An' call us to His house, to heal
  Our hearts, by his own Zunday peal
        Ov bells a-rung
        Vor wold an' young,
    The bells ov Alderburnham.




THE GIRT WOLD HOUSE O' MOSSY STWONE.


  The girt wold house o' mossy stwone,
  Up there upon the knap alwone,
  Had woonce a blezn kitchn-vier,
  That cook'd vor poor-vo'k an' a squier.
  The very last ov all the rece
  That liv'd the squier o' the plece,
  Died off when father wer a-born,
  An' now his kin be all vorlorn
  Vor ever,--vor he left noo son
  To teke the house o' mossy stwone.
  An' zoo he vell to other hands,
  An' gramfer took en wi' the lands:
  An' there when he, poor man, wer dead,
  My father shelter'd my young head.
  An' if I wer a squier, I
  Should like to spend my life, an' die
  In thik wold house o' mossy stwone,
  Up there upon the knap alwone.

  Don't talk ov housen all o' brick,
  Wi' rockn walls nine inches thick,
  A-trigg'd together zide by zide
  In streets, wi' fronts a straddle wide,
  Wi' yards a-sprinkled wi' a mop,
  Too little vor a vrog to hop;
  But let me live an' die where I
  Can zee the ground, an' trees, an' sky.
  The girt wold house o' mossy stwone
  Had wings vor either shede or zun:
  Woone where the zun did glitter drough,
  When vu'st he struck the mornn dew;
  Woone feced the evenn sky, an' woone
  Push'd out a pworch to zweaty noon:
  Zoo woone stood out to break the storm,
  An' mede another lew an' warm.
  An' there the timber'd copse rose high,
  Where birds did build an' heres did lie,
  An' beds o' grgles in the lew,
  Did deck in Ma the ground wi' blue.
  An' there wer hills an' slopn grounds,
  That they did ride about wi' hounds;
  An' drough the med did creep the brook
  Wi' bushy bank an' rushy nook,
  Where perch did lie in shedy holes
  Below the alder trees, an' shoals
  O' gudgeon darted by, to hide
  Theirzelves in hollows by the zide.
  An' there by lenes a-windn deep,
  Wer mossy banks a-risn steep;
  An' stwonn steps, so smooth an' wide,
  To stiles an' vootpaths at the zide.
  An' there, so big's a little ground,
  The gerden wer a-wall'd all round:
  An' up upon the wall wer bars
  A-sheped all out in wheels an' stars,
  Vor vo'k to walk, an' look out drough
  Vrom trees o' green to hills o' blue.
  An' there wer walks o' pevement, broad
  Enough to meke a carriage-road,
  Where stetely ledies woonce did use
  To walk wi' hoops an' high-heel shoes,
  When yonder hollow woak wer sound,
  Avore the walls wer ivy-bound,
  Avore the elems met above
  The road between em, where they drove
  Their coach all up or down the road
  A-comn hwome or gwan abroad.
  The zummer ar o' these green hill
  'V a-heav'd in bosoms now all still,
  An' all their hopes an' all their tears
  Be unknown things ov other years.
  But if, in heaven, souls be free
  To come back here; or there can be
  An e'thly plece to meke em come
  To zee it vrom a better hwome,--
  Then what's a-twold us mid be right,
  That still, at dead o' tongueless night,
  Their gauzy shepes do come an' glide
  By vootways o' their youthvul pride.

  An' while the trees do stan' that grow'd
  Vor them, or walls or steps they know'd
  Do bide in plece, they'll always come
  To look upon their e'thly hwome.
  Zoo I would always let alwone
  The girt wold house o' mossy stwone:
  I woulden pull a wing o'n down,
  To meke ther speechless shedes to frown;
  Vor when our souls, mid woonce become
  Lik' their's, all bodiless an' dumb,
  How good to think that we mid vind
  Zome thought vrom them we left behind,
  An' that zome love mid still unite
  The hearts o' blood wi' souls o' light.
  Zoo, if 'twer mine, I'd let alwone
  The girt wold house o' mossy stwone.




A WITCH.


  There's thik wold hag, Moll Brown, look zee, jus' past!
  I wish the ugly sly wold witch
  Would tumble over into ditch;
  I woulden pull her out not very vast.
  No, no. I don't think she's a bit belied,
  No, she's a witch, aye, Molly's evil-eyed.
  Vor I do know o' many a-withrn blight
  A-cast on vo'k by Molly's mutter'd spite;
  She did, woone time, a dreadvul del o' harm
  To Farmer Gruff's vo'k, down at Lower Farm.
  Vor there, woone day, they happened to offend her,
  An' not a little to their sorrow,
  Because they woulden gi'e or lend her
  Zome'hat she come to bag or borrow;
  An' zoo, they soon began to vind
  That she'd agone an' left behind
  Her evil wish that had such pow'r,
  That she did meke their milk an' ele turn zour,
  An' addle all the aggs their vowls did lay;
  They coulden vetch the butter in the churn,
  An' all the cheese begun to turn
  All back agen to curds an' whey;
  The little pigs, a-runnn wi' the zow,
  Did zicken, zomehow, noobody know'd how,
  An' vall, an' turn their snouts towrd the sky.
  An' only gi'e woone little grunt, and die;
  An' all the little ducks an' chickn
  Wer death-struck out in yard a-pickn
  Their bits o' food, an' vell upon their head,
  An' flapp'd their little wings an' drapp'd down dead.
  They coulden fat the calves, they woulden thrive;
  They coulden seve their lambs alive;
  Their sheep wer all a-coath'd, or gi'ed noo wool;
  The hosses vell away to skin an' bwones,
  An' got so weak they coulden pull
  A half a peck o' stwones:
  The dog got dead-alive an' drowsy,
  The cat vell zick an' woulden mousy;
  An' every time the vo'k went up to bed,
  They wer a-hag-rod till they wer half dead.
  They us'd to keep her out o' house, 'tis true,
  A-naln up at door a hosses shoe;
  An' I've a-herd the farmer's wife did try
  To dawk a needle or a pin
  In drough her wold hard wither'd skin,
  An' draw her blood, a-comn by:
  But she could never vetch a drap,
  For pins would ply an' needless snap
  Agen her skin; an' that, in coo'se,
  Did meke the hag bewitch em woo'se.




[Gothic: Eclogue.]

THE TIMES.


_John an' Tom._


  JOHN.

  Well, Tom, how be'st? Zoo thou'st a-got thy neme
  Among the leaguers, then, as I've a herd.

  TOM.

  Aye, John, I have, John; an' I ben't aferd
  To own it. Why, who woulden do the seme?
  We shant goo on lik' this long, I can tell ye.
  Bread is so high an' wages be so low,
  That, after workn lik' a hoss, you know,
  A man can't ern enough to vill his belly.

  JOHN.

  Ah! well! Now there, d'ye know, if I wer sure
  That thesem men would gi'e me work to do
  All drough the year, an' always pay me mwore
  Than I'm a-ernn now, I'd jein em too.
  If I wer sure they'd bring down things so cheap,
  That what mid buy a pound o' mutton now
  Would buy the hinder quarters, or the sheep,
  Or what wull buy a pig would buy a cow:
  In short, if they could meke a shilln goo
  In market just so vur as two,
  Why then, d'ye know, I'd be their man;
  But, hang it! I don't think they can.

  TOM.

  Why ees they can, though you don't know't,
  An' thesem men can meke it clear.
  Why vu'st they'd zend up members ev'ry year
  To Parli'ment, an' ev'ry man would vote;
  Vor if a fellow midden be a squier,
  He mid be just so fit to vote, an' goo
  To meke the laws at Lon'on, too,
  As many that do hold their noses higher.
  Why shoulden fellows meke good laws an' speeches
  A-dressed in fusti'n cwoats an' cord'roy breeches?
  Or why should hooks an' shovels, zives an' axes,
  Keep any man vrom votn o' the taxes?
  An' when the poor've a-got a shere
  In mekn laws, they'll teke good cere
  To meke some good woones vor the poor.
  Do stan' by reason, John; because
  The men that be to meke the laws,
  Will meke em vor theirzelves, you mid be sure.

  JOHN.

  Ees, that they wull. The men that you mid trust
  To help you, Tom, would help their own zelves vu'st.

  TOM.

  Aye, aye. But we would have a better plan
  O' votn, than the woone we got. A man,
  As things be now, d'ye know, can't goo an' vote
  Agen another man, but he must know't.
  We'll have a box an' balls, vor votn men
  To pop their hands 'ithin, d'ye know; an' then,
  If woone don't happen vor to lik' a man,
  He'll drop a little black ball vrom his han',
  An' zend en hwome agen. He woon't be led
  To choose a man to teke away his bread.

  JOHN.

  But if a man you midden like to 'front,
  Should chance to call upon ye, Tom, zome day,
  An' ax ye vor your vote, what could ye zay?
  Why if you woulden answer, or should grunt
  Or bark, he'd know you'd men "I won't."
  To promise woone a vote an' not to gi'e't,
  Is but to be a liar an' a cheat.
  An' then, bezides, when he did count the balls,
  An' vind white promises a-turn'd half black;
  Why then he'd think the voters all a pack
  O' rogues together,--ev'ry woone o'm false.
  An' if he had the power, very soon
  Perhaps he'd vall upon em, ev'ry woone.
  The times be pinchn me, so well as you,
  But I can't tell what ever they can do.

  TOM.

  Why meke the farmers gi'e their lebourn men
  Mwore wages,--half or twice so much agen
  As what they got.

  JOHN.

               But, Thomas, you can't meke
  A man pay mwore away than he can teke.
  If you do meke en gi'e, to till a vield,
  So much agen as what the groun' do yield,
  He'll shut out farmn--or he'll be a goose--
  An' goo an' put his money out to use.
  Wages be low because the hands be plenty;
  They mid be higher if the hands wer skenty.
  Lebour, the seme's the produce o' the yield,
  Do zell at market price--jist what 'till yield.
  Thou wouldsten gi'e a zixpence, I do guess,
  Vor zix fresh aggs, if zix did zell for less.
  If thesem vo'k could come an' meke mwore lands,
  If they could teke wold England in their hands
  An' stratch it out jist twice so big agen,
  They'd be a-don some'hat vor us then.

  TOM.

  But if they wer a-zent to Parli'ment
  To meke the laws, dost know, as I've a-zaid,
  They'd knock the corn-laws on the head;
  An' then the landlards must let down their rent,
  An' we should very soon have cheaper bread:
  Farmers would gi'e less money vor their lands.

  JOHN.

  Aye, zoo they mid, an' prices mid be low'r
  Vor what their land would yield; an' zoo their hands
  Would be jist where they wer avore.
  An' if these men wer all to hold together,
  They coulden meke new laws to change the weather!
  They ben't so mighty as to think o' frightenn
  The vrost an' ran, the thunder an' the lightenn!
  An' as vor me, I don't know what to think
  O' them there fine, big-talkn, cunnn,
  Strange men, a-comn down vrom Lon'on.
  Why they don't stint theirzelves, but eat an' drink
  The best at public-house where they do sta;
  They don't work gratis, they do get their pa.
  They woulden pinch theirzelves to do us good,
  Nor gi'e their money vor to buy us food.
  D'ye think, if we should meet em in the street
  Zome day in Lon'on, they would stand a treat?

  TOM.

  They be a-pad, because they be a-zent
  By corn-law vo'k that be the poor man's friends,
  To tell us all how we mid gan our ends,
  A-zendn pepers up to Parli'ment.

  JOHN.

  Ah! teke cere how dost trust em.  Dost thou know
  The funny feble o' the pig an' crow?
  Woone time a crow begun to strut an' hop
  About some groun' that men'd a-been a-drilln
  Wi' barley or some wheat, in hopes o' villn
  Wi' good fresh corn his empty crop.
  But lik' a thief, he didden like the pans
  O' workn hard to get en a vew grans;
  Zoo while the sleeky rogue wer there a-huntn,
  Wi' little luck, vor corns that mid be vound
  A-peckn vor, he herd a pig a-gruntn
  Just tother zide o' hedge, in tother ground.
  "Ah!" thought the cunnn rogue, an' gi'ed a hop,
  "Ah! that's the way vor me to vill my crop;
  Aye, that's the plan, if nothn don't defet it.
  If I can get thik pig to bring his snout
  In here a bit an' turn the barley out,
  Why, hang it! I shall only have to eat it."
  Wi' that he vled up straght upon a woak,
  An' bown, lik' a man at hustns, spoke:
  "My friend," zaid he, "that's poorish livn vor ye
  In thik there leze. Why I be very zorry
  To zee how they hard-hearted vo'k do sarve ye.
  You can't live there. Why! do they men to starve ye?"
  "Ees," zaid the pig, a-gruntn, "ees;
  What wi' the hosses an' the geese,
  There's only docks an' thissles here to chaw.
  Instead o' livn well on good warm straw,
  I got to grub out here, where I can't pick
  Enough to meke me half an ounce o' flick."
  "Well," zaid the crow, "d'ye know, if you'll stan' that,
  You mussen think, my friend, o' gettn fat.
  D'ye want some better keep? Vor if you do,
  Why, as a friend, I be a-come to tell ye,
  That if you'll come an' jus' get drough
  These gap up here, why you mid vill your belly.
  Why, they've a-been a-drilln corn, d'ye know,
  In these here piece o' groun' below;
  An' if you'll just put in your snout,
  An' run en up along a drill,
  Why, hang it! you mid grub it out,
  An' eat, an' eat your vill.
  Their idden any fear that vo'k mid come,
  Vor all the men be jist a-gone in hwome."
  The pig, believn ev'ry single word
  That wer a-twold en by the cunnn bird
  Wer only vor his good, an' that 'twer true,
  Just gi'ed a grunt, an' bundled drough,
  An' het his nose, wi' all his might an' man,
  Right up a drill, a-routn up the gran;
  An' as the cunnn crow did gi'e a caw
  A-praisn [=o]'n, oh! he did veel so proud!
  An' work'd, an' blow'd, an' toss'd, an' ploughed
  The while the cunnn crow did vill his maw.
  An' after workn till his bwones
  Did eche, he soon begun to veel
  That he should never get a meal,
  Unless he dined on dirt an' stwones.
  "Well," zaid the crow, "why don't ye eat?"
  "Eat what, I wonder!" zaid the heiry plougher.
  A-brisln up an' lookn rather zour;
  "I don't think dirt an' flints be any treat."
  "Well," zaid the crow, "why you be blind.
  What! don't ye zee how thick the corn do lie
  Among the dirt? An' don't ye zee how I
  Do pick up all that you do leve behind?
  I'm zorry that your bill should be so snubby."
  "No," zaid the pig, "methinks that I do zee
  My bill will do uncommon well vor thee,
  Vor thine wull peck, an' mine wull grubby."
  An' just wi' this a-zaid by mister Flick
  To mister Crow, wold John the farmer's man
  Come up, a-zwingn in his han'
  A good long knotty stick,
  An' laid it on, wi' all his might,
  The poor pig's vlitches, left an' right;
  While mister Crow, that talk'd so fine
  O' friendship, left the pig behine,
  An' vled away upon a distant tree,
  Vor pigs can only grub, but crows can vlee.

  TOM.

  Aye, thik there tele mid do vor childern's books:
  But you wull vind it hardish for ye
  To frighten me, John, wi' a storry
  O' silly pigs an' cunnn rooks.
  If we be grubbn pigs, why then, I s'pose,
  The farmers an' the girt woones be the crows.

  JOHN.

  'Tis very odd there idden any friend
  To poor-vo'k hereabout, but men mus' come
  To do us good away from tother end
  Ov England! Han't we any frien's near hwome?
  I mus' zay, Thomas, that 'tis rather odd
  That strangers should become so very civil,--
  That ouer vo'k be childern o' the Devil,
  An' other vo'k be all the vo'k o' God!
  If we've a-got a friend at all,
  Why who can tell--I'm sure thou cassen--
  But that the squier, or the pa'son,
  Mid be our friend, Tom, after all?
  The times be hard, 'tis true! an' they that got
  His blessns, shoulden let theirzelves vorget
  How 'tis where the vo'k do never zet
  A bit o' meat within their rusty pot.
  The man a-zittn in his easy chair
  To flesh, an' vowl, an' vish, should try to spere
  The poor these times, a little vrom his store;
  An' if he don't, why sin is at his door.

  TOM.

  Ah! we won't look to that; we'll have our right,--
  If not by feir mens, then we wull by might.
  We'll meke times better vor us; we'll be free
  Ov other vo'k an' others' charity.

  JOHN.

  Ah! I do think you mid as well be quiet;
  You'll meke things wo'se, i'-ma'-be, by a riot.
  You'll get into a mess, Tom, I'm aferd;
  You'll goo vor wool, an' then come hwome a-sher'd.




POEMS OF RURAL LIFE.


SECOND COLLECTION.




BLACKMWORE MAIDENS.


  The primrwose in the shede do blow,
  The cowslip in the zun,
  The thyme upon the down do grow,
  The clote where streams do run;
  An' where do pretty madens grow
  An' blow, but where the tow'r
  Do rise among the bricken tuns,
  In Blackmwore by the Stour.

  If you could zee their comely gat,
  An' prett feces' smiles,
  A-trippn on so light o' waght,
  An' steppn off the stiles;
  A-gwan to church, as bells do swing
  An' ring 'ithin the tow'r,
  You'd own the pretty madens' plece
  Is Blackmwore by the Stour.

  If you vrom Wimborne took your road,
  To Stower or Paladore,
  An' all the farmers' housen show'd
  Their daughters at the door;
  You'd cry to bachelors at hwome--
  "Here, come: 'ithin an hour
  You'll vind ten madens to your mind,
  In Blackmwore by the Stour."

  An' if you look'd 'ithin their door,
  To zee em in their plece,
  A-don housework up avore
  Their smiln mother's fece;
  You'd cry--"Why, if a man would wive
  An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r,
  Then let en look en out a wife
  In Blackmwore by the Stour."

  As I upon my road did pass
  A school-house back in Ma,
  There out upon the beten grass
  Wer madens at their pla;
  An' as the pretty souls did tweil
  An' smile, I cried, "The flow'r
  O' beauty, then, is still in bud
  In Blackmwore by the Stour."




MY ORCHA'D IN LINDEN LEA.


  'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleded,
    By the woak tree's mossy moot,
  The sheenn grass-bledes, timber-sheded,
    Now do quiver under voot;
  An' birds do whissle over head,
  An' water's bubbln in its bed,
  An' there vor me the apple tree
  Do len down low in Linden Lea.

  When leaves that letely wer a-springn
    Now do fede 'ithin the copse,
  An' panted birds do hush their zingn
    Up upon the timber's tops;
  An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnn red,
  In cloudless zunsheen, over head,
  Wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree
  Do len down low in Linden Lea.

  Let other vo'k meke money vaster
    In the ar o' dark-room'd towns,
  I don't dread a peevish mester;
    Though noo man do heed my frowns,
  I be free to goo abrode,
  Or teke agen my hwomeward road
  To where, vor me, the apple tree
  Do len down low in Linden Lea.




BISHOP'S CAUNDLE.


  At peace day, who but we should goo
  To Caundle vor an' hour or two:
  As ga a day as ever broke
  Above the heads o' Caundle vo'k,
  Vor peace, a-come vor all, did come
  To them wi' two new friends at hwome.
  Zoo while we kept, wi' nimble pece,
  The wold dun tow'r avore our fece,
  The ar, at last, begun to come
  Wi' drubbns ov a beten drum;
  An' then we herd the horns' loud droats
  Pla off a tuen's upper notes;
  An' then agen a-risn cherm
  Vrom tongues o' people in a zwarm:
  An' zoo, at last, we stood among
  The merry feces o' the drong.
  An' there, wi' garlands all a-tied
  In wreaths an' bows on every zide,
  An' color'd flags, a fluttrn high
  An' bright avore the sheenn sky,
  The very guide-post wer a-drest
  Wi' posies on his erms an' breast.
  At last, the vo'k zwarm'd in by scores
  An' hundreds droo the high barn-doors,
  To dine on English fere, in ranks,
  A-zot on chairs, or stools, or planks,
  By bwoards a-reachn, row an' row,
  Wi' cloths so white as driven snow.
  An' while they took, wi' merry cheer,
  Their pleces at the meat an' beer,
  The band did blow an' bet aloud
  Their merry tuns to the crowd;
  An' slowly-zwingn flags did spread
  Their hangn colors over head.
  An' then the vo'k, wi' ja an' pride,
  Stood up in stillness, zide by zide,
  Wi' downcast heads, the while their friend
  Rose up avore the teble's end,
  An' zaid a timely grece, an' blest
  The welcome meat to every guest.
  An' then arose a mingled nase
  O' knives an' pletes, an' cups an' tras,
  An' tongues wi' merry tongues a-drown'd
  Below a deaf'nn storm o' sound.
  An' zoo, at last, their worthy host
  Stood up to gi'e em all a twoast,
  That they did drink, wi' shouts o' glee,
  An' whirln erms to dree times dree.
  An' when the bwoards at last wer bere
  Ov all the cloths an' goodly fere,
  An' froth noo longer rose to zwim
  Within the beer-mugs sheenn rim,
  The vo'k, a-streamn drough the door,
  Went out to gemes they had in store
  An' on the blue-rev'd waggon's bed,
  Above his vower wheels o' red,
  Musicians zot in rows, an' pla'd
  Their tuns up to chap an' mad,
  That bet, wi' plasome tooes an' heels,
  The level ground in nimble reels.
  An' zome agen, a-zet in line,
  An' startn at a given sign,
  Wi' outreach'd breast, a-breathn quick
  Droo op'nn lips, did nearly kick
  Their polls, a-runnn sich a pece,
  Wi' streamn heir, to win the rece.
  An' in the house, an' on the green,
  An' in the shrubb'ry's leafy screen,
  On ev'ry zide we met sich lots
  O' smiln friends in happy knots,
  That I do think, that drough the fest
  In Caundle, vor a day at lest,
  You woudden vind a scowln fece
  Or dumpy heart in all the plece.




HAY MEAKEN--NUNCHEN TIME.

_Anne an' John a-ta'kn o't._


  A. Back here, but now, the jobber John
     Come by, an' cried, "Well done, zing on,
     I thought as I come down the hill,
     An' herd your zongs a-ringn sh'ill,
     Who woudden like to come, an' fling
     A peir o' prongs where you did zing?"

  J. Aye, aye, he woudden vind it pla,
     To work all day a-mekn ha,
     Or pitchn o't, to erms a-spread
     By lwoaders, yards above his head,
     'T'ud meke en wipe his drippn brow.

  A. Or else a-reken after plow.

  J. Or workn, wi' his nimble pick,
     A-stiffled wi' the ha, at rick.

  A. Our Company would suit en best,
     When we do teke our bit o' rest,
     At nunch, a-gather'd here below
     The shede these wide-bough'd woak do drow,
     Where hissn froth mid rise, an' float
     In horns o' ele, to wet his droat.

  J. Aye, if his zwelln han' could drag
     A meat-slice vrom his dinner bag.
     'T'ud meke the busy little chap
     Look rather glum, to zee his lap
     Wi' all his meal ov woone dry croust,
     An' vinny cheese so dry as doust.

  A. Well, I don't grumble at my food,
     'Tis wholesome, John, an' zoo 'tis good.

  J. Whose reke is that a-lyn there?
     Do look a bit the woo'se vor wear.

  A. Oh! I mus' get the man to meke
     A tooth or two vor thik wold reke,
     'Tis lebour lost to strik a stroke
     Wi' him, wi' half his teeth a-broke.

  J. I should ha' thought your han' too fine
     To break your reke, if I broke mine.

  A. The ramsclaws thin'd his wooden gum
     O' two teeth here, an' here were zome
     That broke when I did reke a patch
     O' groun' wi' Jimmy, vor a match:
     An' here's a gap ov woone or two
     A-broke by Simon's clumsy shoe,
     An' when I gi'ed his poll a poke,
     Vor better luck, another broke.
     In what a veag have you a-swung
     Your pick, though, John? His stem's a-sprung.

  J. When I an' Simon had a het
     O' pookn, yonder, vor a bet,
     The prongs o'n gi'ed a tump a poke,
     An' then I vound the stem a-broke,
     Bt they do meke the stems o' picks
     O' stuff so brittle as a kicks.

  A. There's poor wold Jene, wi' wrinkled skin,
     A-telln, wi' her peakd chin,
     Zome tele ov her young days, poor soul.
     Do meke the young-woones smile. 'Tis droll.
     What is it? Stop, an' let's goo near.
     I do like these wold teles. Let's hear.




A FATHER OUT, AN' MOTHER HWOME.


  The snow-white clouds did float on high
  In shoals avore the sheenn sky,
  An' runnn weves in pon' did chese
  Each other on the water's fece,
  As huffln win' did blow between
  The new-leav'd boughs o' sheenn green.
  An' there, the while I walked along
  The path, drough leze, above the drong,
  A little mad, wi' bloomn fece,
  Went on up hill wi' nimble pece,
  A-lenn to the right-han' zide,
  To car a basket that did ride,
  A-hangn down, wi' all his heft,
  Upon her elbow at her left.
  An' yet she hardly seem'd to bruise
  The grass-bledes wi' her tiny shoes,
  That pass'd each other, left an' right.
  In steps a'most too quick vor zight.
  But she'd a-left her mother's door
  A-bearn vrom her little store
  Her father's welcome bit o' food,
  Where he wer out at work in wood;
  An' she wer bless'd wi' mwore than zwome--
  A father out, an' mother hwome.

  An' there, a-vell'd 'ithin the copse,
  Below the timber's new-leav'd tops,
  Wer ashn poles, a-castn straght,
  On primrwose beds, their langthy waght;
  Below the yollow light, a-shed
  Drough boughs upon the vi'let's head,
  By climn ivy, that did reach,
  A sheenn roun' the dead-leav'd beech.
  An' there her father zot, an' mede
  His hwomely meal bezide a glede;
  While she, a-croopn down to ground,
  Did pull the flowers, where she vound
  The droopn vi'let out in blooth,
  Or yollow primrwose in the lewth,
  That she mid car em proudly back,
  An' zet em on her mother's tack;
  Vor she wer bless'd wi' mwore than zwome--
  A father out, an' mother hwome.
  A father out, an' mother hwome,
  Be blessns soon a-lost by zome;
  A-lost by me, an' zoo I pray'd
  They mid be sper'd the little mad.




RIDDLES.

_Anne an' Joey a-ta'ken._


  A. A plague! these cow wont stand a bit,
     Noo sooner do she zee me zit
     Agen her, than she's in a trot,
     A-runnn to zome other spot.

  J. Why 'tis the dog do scere the cow,
     He worried her a-vield benow.

  A. Goo in, Ah!  _Liplap_, where's your tal!

  J. He's off, then up athirt the ral.
     Your cow there, Anne's a-come to hand
     A goodish milcher.  A. If she'd stand,
     But then she'll stere an' start wi' fright
     To zee a dumbledore in flight.
     Last week she het the pal a flought,
     An' flung my meal o' milk half out.

  J. Ha! Ha!  But Anny, here, what lout
     Broke half your small pal's bottom out?

  A. What lout indeed!  What, do ye own
     The neme?  What dropp'd en on a stwone?

  J. Hee! Hee!  Well now he's out o' trim
     Wi' only half a bottom to en;
     Could you still vill en' to the brim
     An' yit not let the milk run drough en?

  A. Aye, as for nonsense, Joe, your head
     Do hold it all so tight's a blather,
     But if 'tis any good, do shed
     It all so leky as a lather.
     Could you vill pals 'ithout a bottom,
     Yourself that be so deeply skill'd?

  J. Well, ees, I could, if I'd a-got em
     Inside o' bigger woones a-vill'd.

  A. La! that _is_ zome'hat vor to hatch!
     Here answer me these little catch.
     Down under water an' o' top o't
     I went, an' didden touch a drop o't,

  J. Not when at mown time I took
     An' pull'd ye out o' Longmed brook,
     Where you'd a-slidder'd down the edge
     An' zunk knee-deep bezide the zedge,
     A-tryn to reke out a clote.

  A. Aye I do hear your chuckln droat
     When I athirt the brudge did bring
     Zome water on my head vrom spring.
     Then under water an' o' top o't,
     Wer I an' didden touch a drop o't.

  J. O Lauk!  What thik wold riddle still,
     Why that's as wold as Duncliffe Hill;
     "A two-lagg'd thing do run avore
     An' run behind a man,
     An' never run upon his lags
     Though on his lags do stan'."
       What's that?
       I don't think you do know.
     There idden sich a thing to show.
     Not know?  Why yonder by the stall
     'S a wheel-barrow bezide the wall,
     Don't he stand on his lags so trim,
     An' run on nothn but his wheels wold rim.

  A. There's _horn_ vor Goodman's eye-zight seke;
     There's _horn_ vor Goodman's mouth to teke;
     There's _horn_ vor Goodman's ears, as well
     As _horn_ vor Goodman's nose to smell--
     What _horns_ be they, then?  Do your hat
     Hold wit enough to tell us that?

  J. Oh! _horns_! but no, I'll tell ye what,
     My cow is hornless, an' she's _knot_.

  A. _Horn_ vor the _mouth's_ a hornn cup.

  J. An' ele's good stuff to vill en up.

  A. An' _horn_ vor _eyes_ is horn vor light,
     Vrom Goodman's lantern after night;
     _Horn_ vor the _ears_ is woone to sound
     Vor hunters out wi' ho'se an' hound;
     But _horn_ that vo'k do buy to smell o'
     Is _hart's-horn_.  J. Is it?  What d'ye tell o'
     How proud we be, vor ben't we smart?
     Aye, _horn_ is _horn_, an' hart is hart.
     Well here then, Anne, while we be at it,
     'S a ball vor you if you can bat it.
     On dree-lags, two-lags, by the zide
     O' vower-lags, woonce did zit wi' pride,
     When vower-lags, that velt a prick,
     Vrom zix-lags, het two lags a kick.
     An' two an' dree-lags vell, all vive,
     Slap down, zome dead an' zome alive.

  A. Teeh! heeh! what have ye now then, Joe,
     At last, to meke a riddle o'?

  J. Your dree-lagg'd stool woone night did bear
     Up you a milkn wi' a peir;
     An' there a zix-lagg'd stout did prick
     Your vow'r-lagg'd cow, an meke her kick,
     A-hettn, wi' a pretty pat,
     Your stool an' you so flat's a mat.
     You scrambled up a little dirty,
     But I do hope it didden hurt ye.

  A. You hope, indeed! a likely cese,
     Wi' thik broad grin athirt your fece
     You saucy good-vor-nothn chap,
     I'll gi'e your grinnn fece a slap,
     Your drawln tongue can only run
     To turn a body into fun.

  J. Oh! I woont do 't agen.  Oh dear!
     Till next time, Anny.  Oh my ear!
     Oh! Anne, why you've a-het my hat
     'Ithin the milk, now look at that.

  A. Do sar ye right, then, I don't cere.
     I'll thump your noddle,--there--there--there.




DAY'S WORK A-DONE.


  And oh! the ja our rest did yield,
    At evenn by the mossy wall,
  When we'd a-work'd all day a-vield,
    While zummer zuns did rise an' vall;
      As there a-lettn
      Goo all frettn,
  An' vorgettn all our tweils,
  We zot among our childern's smiles.

  An' under skies that glitter'd white,
    The while our smoke, arisn blue,
  Did melt in air, out o' zight,
    Above the trees that kept us lew;
      Wer birds a-zingn,
      Tongues a-ringn,
  Childern springn, vull o' ja,
  A-finishn the day in pla.

  An' back behind, a-stannn tall,
    The cliff did sheen to western light;
  An' while avore the water-vall,
    A-rottln loud, an' foamn white.
      The leaves did quiver,
      Gnots did whiver,
  By the river, where the pool,
  In evenn ar did glissen cool.

  An' childern there, a-runnn wide,
    Did pla their gemes along the grove,
  Vor though to us 'twer ja to bide
    At rest, to them 'twer ja to move.
      The while my smiln
      Jene, beguiln,
  All my tweiln, wi' her cere,
  Did call me to my evenn fere.




LIGHT OR SHEDE.


  A Matide's evenn wer a-dyn,
  Under moonsheen, into night,
  Wi' a streamn wind a-sighn
  By the thorns a-bloomn white.
  Where in shede, a-zinkn deeply,
  Wer a nook, all dark but lew,
  By a bank, arisn steeply,
  Not to let the win' come drough.

  Should my love goo out, a-shown
  All her smiles, in open light;
  Or, in lewth, wi' wind a-blown,
  Sta in darkness, dim to zight?
  Sta in shede o' bank or walln,
  In the warmth, if not in light;
  Words alwone vrom her a-valln,
  Would be ja vor all the night.




THE WAGGON A-STOODED.

_Dree o'm a-ta'kn o't._

  (1) Well, here we be, then, wi' the vu'st poor lwoad
      O' vuzz we brought, a-stoodd in the road.

  (2) The road, George, no.  There's na'r a road.  That's wrong.
      If we'd a road, we mid ha' got along.

  (1) Noo road!  Ees 'tis, the road that we do goo.

  (2) Do goo, George, no.  The plece we can't get drough.

  (1) Well, there, the vu'st lwoad we've a-haul'd to day
      Is here a-stoodd in these bed o' clay.
      Here's rotten groun'! an' how the wheels do cut!
      The little woone's a-zunk up to the nut.

  (3) An' yeet this rotten groun' don't reach a lug.

  (1) Well, come, then, gi'e the plow another tug.

  (2) They meres wull never pull the waggon out,
    A-lwoaded, an' a-stoodd in thik rout.

  (3) We'll try.  Come, _Smiler_, come!  C'up, _Whitevoot_, gee!

  (2) White-voot wi' lags all over mud!  Hee! Hee!

  (3) 'Twoon't wag. We shall but snap our gear,
      An' overstran the meres.  'Twoon't wag, 'tis clear.

  (1) That's your work, William.  No, in coo'se, 'twoon't wag.
      Why did ye dr[=e]ve en into these here quag?
      The vore-wheels be a-zunk above the nuts.

  (3) What then?  I coulden leve the beten track,
      To turn the waggon over on the back
      Ov woone o' thesem wheel-high emmet-butts.
      If you be sich a dr[=e]ver, an' do know't,
      You dr[=e]ve the plow, then; but you'll overdrow 't.

  (1) I dr[=e]ve the plow, indeed!  Oh! ees, what, now
      The wheels woont wag, then, _I_ mid dr[=e]ve the plow!
      We'd better dig away the groun' below
      The wheels.  (2) There's na'r a spede to dig wi'.

  (1) An' teke an' cut a lock o' frith, an' drow
      Upon the clay.  (2) Nor hook to cut a twig wi'.

  (1) Oh! here's a bwoy a-comn.  Here, my lad,
      Dost know vor a'r a spede, that can be had?

  (B) At father's.  (1) Well, where's that?  (Bwoy) At Sam'el Riddick's.

  (1) Well run, an' ax vor woone.  Fling up your heels,
      An' mind: a spede to dig out thesem wheels,
      An' hook to cut a little lock o' widdicks.

  (3) Why, we shall want zix ho'ses, or a dozen,
      To pull the waggon out, wi' all these vuzzen.

  (1) Well, we mus' lighten en; come, Jemes, then, hop
      Upon the lwoad, an' jus' fling off the top.

  (2) If I can clim' en; but 'tis my consat,
      That I shall overzet en wi' my waght.

  (1) You overzet en!  No, Jemes, he won't vall,
      The lwoad's a-built so firm as any wall.

  (2) Here! lend a hand or shoulder vor my knee
      Or voot.  I'll scramble to the top an' zee
      What I can do.  Well, here I be, among
      The fakkets, vor a bit, but not vor long.
      Heigh, George!  Ha! ha!  Why this wull never stand.
      Your firm 's a wall, is all so loose as zand;
      'Tis all a-come to pieces.  Oh! Teke cere!
      Ho! I'm a-valln, vuzz an' all! Ha! There!

  (1) Lo'k there, thik fellor is a-vell lik' lead,
      An' half the fuzzen wi 'n, heels over head!
      There's all the vuzz a-lyn lik' a staddle,
      An' he a-deb'd wi' mud.  Oh! Here's a caddle!

  (3) An' zoo you soon got down zome vuzzen, Jimmy.

  (2) Ees, I do know 'tis down. I brought it wi' me.

  (3) Your lwoad, George, wer a rather slick-built thing,
      But there, 'twer prickly vor the hands!  Did sting?

  (1) Oh! ees, d'ye teke me vor a nincompoop,
      No, no.  The lwoad wer up so firm's a rock,
      But two o' thesem emmet-butts would knock
      The tightest barrel nearly out o' hoop.

  (3) Oh! now then, here 's the bwoy a-bringn back
      The spede.  Well done, my man.  That idder slack.

  (2) Well done, my lad, sha't have a ho'se to ride
      When thou'st a mere.  (Bwoy) Next never's-tide.

  (3) Now let's dig out a spit or two
      O' clay, a-vore the little wheels;
      Oh! so's, I can't pull up my heels,
      I be a-stogg'd up over shoe.

  (1) Come, William, dig away!  Why you do spuddle
      A'most so weak's a child.  How you do muddle!
      Gi'e me the spede a-bit.  A pig would rout
      It out a'most so nimbly wi' his snout.

  (3) Oh! so's, d'ye hear it, then.  How we can thunder!
      How big we be, then George! what next I wonder?

  (1) Now, William, gi'e the waggon woone mwore twitch,
      The wheels be free, an' 'tis a lighter nitch.

  (3) Come, _Smiler_, gee! C'up, _White-voot_.  (1) That wull do.

  (2) Do wag. (1) Do goo at last.  (3) Well done.  'Tis drough.

  (1) Now, William, till you have mwore ho'ses' lags,
      Don't dr[=e]ve the waggon into thesem quags.

  (3) You build your lwoads up tight enough to ride.

  (1) I can't do less, d'ye know, wi' you vor guide.




GWAN DOWN THE STEPS VOR WATER.


  While zuns do roll vrom east to west
  To bring us work, or leve us rest,
  There down below the steep hill-zide,
  Drough time an' tide, the spring do flow;
  An' mothers there, vor years a-gone,
  Lik' daughters now a-comn on,
  To bloom when they be weak an' wan,
  Went down the steps vor water.

  An' what do yonder ringers tell
  A-ringn changes, bell by bell;
  Or what's a-show'd by yonder zight
  O' vo'k in white, upon the road,
  But that by John o' Woodleys zide,
  There's now a-blushn vor his bride,
  A pretty mad that vu'st he spied,
  Gwan down the steps vor water.

  Though she, 'tis true, is feir an' kind,
  There still be mwore a-left behind;
  So clen 's the light the zun do gi'e,
  So sprack 's a bee when zummer's bright;
  An' if I've luck, I woont be slow
  To teke off woone that I do know,
  A-trippn galy to an' fro,
  Upon the steps vor water.

  Her father idden poor--but vew
  In parish be so well to do;
  Vor his own cows do swing their tals
  Behind his pals, below his boughs:
  An' then agen to win my love,
  Why, she's as hwomely as a dove,
  An' don't hold up herzelf above
  Gwan down the steps vor water.

  Gwan down the steps vor water! No!
  How handsome it do meke her grow.
  If she'd be straght, or walk abrode,
  To tread her road wi' comely gat,
  She coulden do a better thing
  To zet herzelf upright, than bring
  Her pitcher on her head, vrom spring
  Upon the steps, wi' water.

  No! don't ye neme in woone seme breath
  Wi' bachelors, the husband's he'th;
  The happy plece, where vingers thin
  Do pull woone's chin, or pat woone's fece.
  But still the bleme is their's, to slight
  Their happiness, wi' such a zight
  O' madens, mornn, noon, an' night,
  A-gwan down steps vor water.




ELLEN BRINE OV ALLENBURN.


  Noo soul did hear her lips complan,
  An' she's a-gone vrom all her pan,
  An' others' loss to her is gan
  For she do live in heaven's love;
  Vull many a longsome day an' week
  She bore her aln, still, an' meek;
  A-workn while her strangth held on,
  An' guidn housework, when 'twer gone.
  Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn,
  Oh! there be souls to murn.

  The last time I'd a-cast my zight
  Upon her fece, a-feded white,
  Wer in a zummer's mornn light
  In hall avore the smwold'rn vier,
  The while the childern bet the vloor,
  In pla, wi' tiny shoes they wore,
  An' call'd their mother's eyes to view
  The fet's their little limbs could do.
  Oh! Ellen Brine ov Allenburn,
  They childern now mus' murn.

  Then woone, a-stoppn vrom his rece,
  Went up, an' on her knee did plece
  His hand, a-lookn in her fece,
  An' wi' a smiln mouth so small,
  He zaid, "You promised us to goo
  To Shroton feir, an' teke us two!"
  She herd it wi' her two white ears,
  An' in her eyes there sprung two tears,
  Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn
  Did veel that they mus' murn.

  September come, wi' Shroton feir,
  But Ellen Brine wer never there!
  A heavy heart wer on the mere
  Their father rod his hwomeward road.
  'Tis true he brought zome ferns back,
  Vor them two childern all in black;
  But they had now, wi' plathings new,
  Noo mother vor to shew em to,
  Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn
  Would never mwore return.




THE MOTHERLESS CHILD.


  The zun'd a-zet back tother night,
    But in the zettn plece
  The clouds, a-redden'd by his light,
    Still glow'd avore my fece.
  An' I've a-lost my Mery's smile,
  I thought; but still I have her chile,
  Zoo like her, that my eyes can trece
  The mother's in her daughter's fece.
    O little fece so near to me,
  An' like thy mother's gone; why need I zay
  Sweet night cloud, wi' the glow o' my lost day,
    Thy looks be always dear to me.
  The zun'd a-zet another night;
    But, by the moon on high,
  He still did zend us back his light
    Below a cwolder sky.
  My Mery's in a better land
  I thought, but still her chile's at hand,
  An' in her chile she'll zend me on
  Her love, though she herzelf's a-gone.
    O little chile so near to me,
  An' like thy mother gone; why need I zay,
  Sweet moon, the messenger vrom my lost day,
    Thy looks be always dear to me.




THE LEDY'S TOWER.


  An' then we went along the gledes
  O' zunny turf, in quiv'rn shedes,
  A-windn off, vrom hand to hand,
  Along a path o' yollow zand,
  An' clomb a stickle slope, an' vound
  An open patch o' lofty ground,
  Up where a stetely tow'r did spring,
  So high as highest larks do zing.

  "Oh! Mester Collins," then I zaid,
  A-lookn up wi' back-flung head;
  Vor who but he, so mild o' fece,
  Should teke me there to zee the plece.
  "What is it then these tower do men,
  A-built so feir, an' kept so clen?"
  "Ah! me," he zaid, wi' thoughtvul fece,
  "'Twer grief that zet these tower in plece.
  The squier's e'thly life's a-blest
  Wi' gifts that mwost do teke vor best;
  The lofty-pinion'd rufs do rise
  To screen his head vrom stormy skies;
  His land's a-spreadn roun' his hall,
  An' hands do lebor at his call;
  The while the ho'se do fling, wi' pride,
  His lofty head where he do guide;
  But still his e'thly ja's a-vled,
  His woone true friend, his wife, is dead.
  Zoo now her happy soul's a-gone,
  An' he in grief's a-ling'rn on,
  Do do his heart zome good to show
  His love to flesh an' blood below.
  An' zoo he rear'd, wi' smitten soul,
  These Ledy's Tower upon the knowl.
  An' there you'll zee the tow'r do spring
  Twice ten veet up, as roun's a ring,
  Wi' pillars under mwolded eves,
  Above their heads a-carv'd wi' leaves;
  An' have to pece, a-walkn round
  His voot, a hunderd veet o' ground.
  An' there, above his upper wall,
  A roundd tow'r do spring so tall
  'S a springn arrow shot upright,
  A hunderd giddy veet in height.
  An' if you'd like to stran your knees
  A-climn up above the trees,
  To zee, wi' slowly wheeln fece,
  The vur-sky'd land about the plece,
  You'll have a flight o' steps to wear
  Vor forty veet, up steir by steir,
  That roun' the risn tow'r do wind,
  Like withwind roun' the sapln's rind,
  An' reach a landn, wi' a seat,
  To rest at last your weary veet,
  'Ithin a breast be-screenn wall,
  To keep ye vrom a longsome vall.
  An' roun' the windn steirs do spring
  Aght stwonn pillars in a ring,
  A-reachn up their heavy strangth
  Drough forty veet o' slender langth,
  To end wi' carvd heads below
  The broad-vloor'd landn's ary bow.
  Aght zides, as you do zee, do bound
  The lower buildn on the ground,
  An' there in woone, a two-leav'd door
  Do zwing above the marble vloor:
  An' ae, as luck do zoo betide
  Our comn, wi' can goo inside.
  The door is oben now. An' zoo
  The keeper kindly let us drough.
  There as we softly trod the vloor
  O' marble stwone, 'ithin the door,
  The echoes ov our vootsteps vled
  Out roun' the wall, and over head;
  An' there a-panted, zide by zide,
  In memory o' the squier's bride,
  In zeven pantns, true to life,
  Wer zeven zights o' wedded life."

  Then Mester Collins twold me all
  The teles a-pantd roun' the wall;
  An' vu'st the bride did stan' to plight
  Her weddn vow, below the light
  A-shootn down, so bright's a fleme,
  In drough a churches window freme.
  An' near the bride, on either hand,
  You'd zee her comely bridemads stand,
  Wi' eyelashes a-bent in streks
  O' brown above their bloomn cheks:
  An' sheenn feir, in mellow light,
  Wi' flown heir, an' frocks o' white.

  "An' here," good Mester Collins cried,
  "You'll zee a credle at her zide,
  An' there's her child, a-lyn deep
  'Ithin it, an' a-gone to sleep,
  Wi' little eyelashes a-met
  In fellow streks, as black as jet;
  The while her needle, over head,
  Do nimbly led the snow-white thread,
  To zew a robe her love do meke
  Wi' happy lebor vor his seke.

  "An' here a-gen's another plece,
  Where she do zit wi' smiln fece,
  An' while her bwoy do len, wi' pride,
  Agen her lap, below her zide,
  Her vinger tip do led his look
  To zome good words o' God's own book.

  "An' next you'll zee her in her plece,
  Avore her happy husband's fece,
  As he do zit, at evenn-tide,
  A-restn by the vier-zide.
  An' there the childern's heads do rise
  Wi' laughn lips, an' beamn eyes,
  Above the bwoard, where she do lay
  Her sheenn tackln, wi' the tea.

  "An' here another zide do show
  Her vinger in her scizzars' bow
  Avore two daughters, that do stand,
  Wi' lernsome minds, to watch her hand
  A-shepn out, wi' skill an' cere,
  A frock vor them to zew an' wear.

  "Then next you'll zee her bend her head
  Above her aln husband's bed,
  A-fannn, wi' an inward pra'r,
  His burnn brow wi' beten ar;
  The while the clock, by candle light,
  Do show that 'tis the dead o' night.

  "An' here agen upon the wall,
  Where we do zee her last ov all,
  Her husband's head's a-hangn low,
  'Ithin his hands in deepest woe.
  An' she, an angel ov his God,
  Do cheer his soul below the rod,
  A-liftn up her han' to call
  His eyes to writn on the wall,
  As white as is her spotless robe,
  'Hast thou rememberd my servant Job?'

  "An' zoo the squier, in grief o' soul,
  Built up the Tower upon the knowl."




FATHERHOOD.


  Let en zit, wi' his dog an' his cat,
    Wi' their noses a-turn'd to the vier,
    An' have all that a man should desire;
  But there idden much redship in that.
  Whether vo'k mid have childern or no,
    Wou'dden meke mighty odds in the man;
  They do bring us mwore ja wi' mwore ho,
    An' wi' nwone we've less ja wi' less pan
  We be all lik' a zull's idle shere out,
  An' shall rust out, unless we do wear out,
    Lik' do-nothn, rue-nothn,
          Dead alive dumps.

  As vor me, why my life idden bound
    To my own heart alwone, among men;
    I do live in myzelf, an' agen
  In the lives o' my childern all round:
  I do live wi' my bwoy in his pla,
    An' agen wi' my mad in her zongs;
  An' my heart is a-stirr'd wi' their ja,
    An' would burn at the zight o' their wrongs.
  I ha' nine lives, an' zoo if a half
  O'm do cry, why the rest o'm mid laugh
    All so plavully, javully,
          Happy wi' hope.

  Tother night I come hwome a long road,
    When the weather did sting an' did vreeze;
  An' the snow--vor the day had a-snow'd--
    Wer avroze on the boughs o' the trees;
  An' my tooes an' my vingers wer num',
    An' my veet wer so lumpy as logs,
  An' my ears wer so red's a cock's cwom';
    An' my nose wer so cwold as a dog's;
  But so soon's I got hwome I vorgot
  Where my limbs wer a-cwold or wer hot,
    When wi' loud cries an' proud cries
          They coll'd me so cwold.

  Vor the vu'st that I happen'd to meet
    Come to pull my girtcwoat vrom my erm,
    An' another did rub my fece warm,
  An' another hot-slipper'd my veet;
  While their mother did cast on a stick,
    Vor to keep the red vier alive;
  An' they all come so busy an' thick
    As the bees vlee-n into their hive,
  An' they mede me so happy an' proud,
  That my heart could ha' crow'd out a-loud;
    They did tweil zoo, an' smile zoo,
          An' coll me so cwold.

  As I zot wi' my teacup, at rest,
    There I pull'd out the tas I did bring;
    Men a-kickn, a-wagg'd wi' a string,
  An' goggle-ey'd dolls to be drest;
  An' oh! vrom the childern there sprung
    Such a charm when they handled their tas,
  That vor pleasure the bigger woones wrung
    Their two hands at the zight o' their jas;
  As the bwoys' bigger vaces vell in
  Wi' the madens a-tittern thin,
    An' their dancn an' prancn,
          An' little mouth's laughs.

  Though 'tis hard stripes to breed em all up,
    If I'm only a-blest vrom above,
    They'll meke me amends wi' their love,
  Vor their pillow, their plete, an' their cup;
  Though I shall be never a-spweil'd
    Wi' the sarvice that money can buy;
  Still the hands ov a wife an' a child
    Be the blessns ov low or ov high;
  An' if there be mouths to be ved,
  He that zent em can zend me their bread,
    An' will smile on the chile
          That's a-new on the knee.




THE MAID O' NEWTON.


  In zummer, when the knaps wer bright
  In cool-ar'd evenn's western light,
  An' ha that had a-dried all day,
  Did now lie grey, to dewy night;
  I went, by happy chance, or doom,
  Vrom Broadwoak Hill, athirt to Coomb,
  An' met a mad in all her bloom:
      The fearest mad o' Newton.

  She bore a basket that did ride
  So light, she didden len azide;
  Her fece wer oval, an' she smil'd
  So sweet's a child, but walk'd wi' pride.
  I spoke to her, but what I zaid
  I didden know; wi' thoughts a-vled,
  I spoke by heart, an' not by head,
      Avore the mad o' Newton.

  I call'd her, oh! I don't know who,
  'Twer by a neme she never knew;
  An' to the heel she stood upon,
  She then brought on her hinder shoe,
  An' stopp'd avore me, where we met,
  An' wi' a smile woone can't vorget,
  She zaid, wi' eyes a-zwimmn wet,
      "No, I be woone o' Newton."

  Then on I rambled to the west,
  Below the zunny hangn's breast,
  Where, down athirt the little stream,
  The brudge's beam did lie at rest:
  But all the birds, wi' lively glee,
  Did chirp an' hop vrom tree to tree,
  As if it wer vrom pride, to zee
      Goo by the mad o' Newton.

  By fancy led, at evenn's glow,
  I woonce did goo, a-rovn slow,
  Down where the elms, stem by stem,
  Do stan' to hem the grove below;
  But after that, my veet vorzook
  The grove, to seek the little brook
  At Coomb, where I mid zometimes look,
     To meet the mad o' Newton.




CHILDHOOD.


  Aye, at that time our days wer but vew,
  An' our lim's wer but small, an' a-grown;
  An' then the feir worold wer new,
  An' life wer all hopevul an' ga;
  An' the times o' the sproutn o' leaves,
  An' the chek-burnn seasons o' mown,
  An' bindn o' red-headed sheaves,
  Wer all welcome seasons o' ja.

  Then the housen seem'd high, that be low,
  An' the brook did seem wide that is narrow,
  An' time, that do vlee, did goo slow,
  An' veelns now feeble wer strong,
  An' our worold did end wi' the nemes
  Ov the Sha'sbury Hill or Bulbarrow;
  An' life did seem only the gemes
  That we pla'd as the days rolled along.

  Then the rivers, an' high-timber'd lands,
  An' the zilvery hills, 'ithout buyn,
  Did seem to come into our hands
  Vrom others that own'd em avore;
  An' all zickness, an' sorrow, an' need,
  Seem'd to die wi' the wold vo'k a-dyn,
  An' leve us vor ever a-freed
  Vrom evils our vorefathers bore.

  But happy be childern the while
  They have elders a-livn to love em,
  An' teke all the wearisome tweil
  That zome hands or others mus' do;
  Like the low-headed shrubs that be warm,
  In the lewth o' the trees up above em,
  A-screen'd vrom the cwold blown storm
  That the timber avore em must rue.




MERY'S SMILE.


  When mornn winds, a-blown high,
  Do zweep the clouds vrom all the sky,
  An' laurel-leaves do glitter bright,
  The while the newly broken light
  Do brighten up, avore our view,
  The vields wi' green, an' hills wi' blue;
  What then can highten to my eyes
  The cheerful fece ov e'th an' skies,
      But Mery's smile, o' Morey's Mill,
      My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

  An' when, at last, the evenn dews
  Do now begin to wet our shoes;
  An' night's a-ridn to the west,
  To stop our work, an' gi'e us rest,
  Oh! let the candle's ruddy glere
  But brighten up her sheenn heir;
  Or else, as she do walk abroad,
  Let moonlight show, upon the road,
      My Mery's smile, o' Morey's Mill,
      My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

  An' O! mid never tears come on,
  To wash her fece's blushes wan,
  Nor kill her smiles that now do pla
  Like sparkln weves in zunny Ma;
  But mid she still, vor all she's gone
  Vrom souls she now do smile upon,
  Show others they can vind woone ja
  To turn the hardest work to pla.
      My Mery's smile, o' Morey's Mill,
      My rwose o' Mowy Lea.




MERY WEDDED.


  The zun can zink, the stars mid rise,
  An' woods be green to sheenn skies;
  The cock mid crow to mornn light,
  An' workvo'k zing to valln night;
  The birds mid whissle on the spra,
  An' childern lep in merry pla,
  But our's is now a lifeless plece,
  Vor we've a-lost a smiln fece--
      Young Mery Med o' merry mood,
      Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded.

  The dog that woonce wer glad to bear
  Her fondln vingers down his heir,
  Do len his head agen the vloor,
  To watch, wi' heavy eyes, the door;
  An' men she zent so happy hwome
  O' Zadurdays, do seem to come
  To door, wi' downcast hearts, to miss
  Wi' smiles below the clematis,
      Young Mery Med o' merry mood,
      Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded.

  When they do draw the evenn blind,
  An' when the evenn light's a-tin'd,
  The cheerless vier do drow a glere
  O' light agen her empty chair;
  An' wordless gaps do now meke thin
  Their talk where woonce her vace come in.
  Zoo lwonesome is her empty plece,
  An' blest the house that ha' the fece
      O' Mery Med, o' merry mood,
      Now she's a-woo'd and wedded.

  The day she left her father's he'th,
  Though sad, wer kept a day o' me'th,
  An' dry-wheel'd waggons' empty beds
  Wer left 'ithin the tree-screen'd sheds;
  An' all the hosses, at their ese,
  Went snortn up the flow'ry lese,
  But woone, the smartest for the rod,
  That pull'd away the dearest lwoad--
      Young Mery Med o' merry mood,
      That wer a-woo'd an' wedded.




THE STWONEN BWOY UPON THE PILLAR.


  Wi' smokeless tuns an' empty halls,
  An' moss a-clingn to the walls,
  In ev'ry wind the lofty tow'rs
  Do teke the zun, an' bear the show'rs;
  An' there, 'ithin a get a-hung,
  But vasten'd up, an' never swung,
  Upon the pillar, all alwone,
  Do stan' the little bwoy o' stwone;
  'S a poppy bud mid linger on,
  Vorseken, when the wheat's a-gone.
  An' there, then, wi' his bow let slack,
  An' little quiver at his back,
  Drough het an' wet, the little chile
  Vrom day to day do stan' an' smile.
  When vu'st the light, a-risn weak,
  At break o' day, do smite his chek,
  Or while, at noon, the leafy bough
  Do cast a shede a-thirt his brow,
  Or when at night the warm-breath'd cows
  Do sleep by moon-belighted boughs;
  An' there the while the rooks do bring
  Their scroff to build their nest in Spring,
  Or zwallows in the zummer day
  Do cling their little huts o' clay,
  'Ithin the ranless shedes, below
  The steadvast arches' mossy bow.
  Or when, in Fall, the woak do shed
  The leaves, a-wither'd, vrom his head,
  An' western win's, a-blown cool,
  Do dreve em out athirt the pool,
  Or Winter's clouds do gather dark
  An' wet, wi' ran, the elem's bark,
  You'll zee his pretty smile betwixt
  His little shede-mark'd lips a-fix'd;
  As there his little shepe do bide
  Drough day an' night, an' time an' tide,
  An' never change his size or dress,
  Nor overgrow his prettiness.
  But, oh! thik child, that we do vind
  In childhood still, do call to mind
  A little bwoy a-call'd by death,
  Long years agoo, vrom our sad he'th;
  An' I, in thought, can zee en dim
  The seme in fece, the seme in lim',
  My heir mid whiten as the snow,
  My limbs grow weak, my step wear slow,
  My droopn head mid slowly vall
  Above the han'-staff's glossy ball,
  An' yeet, vor all a wid'nn span
  Ov years, mid change a livn man,
  My little child do still appear
  To me wi' all his childhood's gear,
  'Ithout a beard upon his chin,
  'Ithout a wrinkle in his skin,
  A-livn on, a child the seme
  In look, an' shepe, an' size, an' neme.




THE YOUNG THAT DIED IN BEAUTY.


  If souls should only sheen so bright
  In heaven as in e'thly light,
  An' nothn better wer the cese,
  How comely still, in shepe an' fece,
  Would many reach thik happy plece,--
  The hopeful souls that in their prime
  Ha' seem'd a-took avore their time--
  The young that died in beauty.

  But when woone's lim's ha' lost their strangth
  A-tweiln drough a lifetime's langth,
  An' over cheks a-grown wold
  The slowly-westen years ha' rolled,
  The deep'nn wrinkle's hollow vwold;
  When life is ripe, then death do call
  Vor less ov thought, than when do vall
  On young vo'ks in their beauty.

  But pinn souls, wi' heads a-hung
  In heavy sorrow vor the young,
  The sister ov the brother dead,
  The father wi' a child a-vled,
  The husband when his bride ha' laid
  Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn,
  Have all a-vound the time to murn
  Vor youth that died in beauty.

  An' yeet the church, where praer do rise
  Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi' downcast eyes.
  An' village greens, a-bet half bere
  By dancers that do meet, an' wer
  Such merry looks at fest an' feir,
  Do gather under letest skies,
  Their bloomn cheks an' sparkln eyes,
  Though young ha' died in beauty.

  But still the dead shall mwore than keep
  The beauty ov their erly sleep;
  Where comely looks shall never wer
  Uncomely, under tweil an' cere.
  The feir at death be always feir,
  Still feir to livers' thought an' love,
  An' feirer still to God above,
  Than when they died in beauty.




FAIR EMILY OV YARROW MILL.


  Dear Yarrowham, 'twer many miles
    Vrom thy green meds that, in my walk,
  I met a mad wi' winnn smiles,
    That talk'd as vo'k at hwome do talk;
  An' who at last should she be vound,
  Ov all the souls the sky do bound,
  But woone that trod at vu'st thy groun'
                Fair Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

  But thy wold house an' elmy nook,
    An' wall-screen'd gerden's mossy zides,
  Thy grassy meds an' zedgy brook,
    An' high-bank'd lenes, wi' shedy rides,
  Wer all a-known to me by light
  Ov erly days, a-quench'd by night,
  Avore they met the younger zight
                Ov Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

  An' now my heart do lep to think
    O' times that I've a-spent in pla,
  Bezide thy river's rushy brink,
    Upon a deizybed o' Ma;
  I lov'd the friends thy land ha' bore,
  An' I do love the paths they wore,
  An' I do love thee all the mwore,
                Vor Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

  When bright above the e'th below
    The moon do spread abroad his light,
  An' ar o' zummer nights do blow
    Athirt the vields in plasome flight,
  'Tis then delightsome under all
  The shedes o' boughs by path or wall,
  But mwostly thine when they do vall
                On Emily ov Yarrow Mill.




THE SCUD.


  Aye, aye, the lene wi' flow'ry zides
  A-kept so lew, by hazzle-wrides,
  Wi' beds o' graegles out in bloom,
  Below the timber's windless gloon
  An' gete that I've a-swung,
  An' rod as he's a-hung,
  When I wer young, in Woakley Coomb.

  'Twer there at fest we all did pass
  The evenn on the lenezide grass,
  Out where the gete do let us drough,
  Below the woak-trees in the lew,
  In merry gemes an' fun
  That mede us skip an' run,
  Wi' burnn zun, an' sky o' blue.

  But still there come a scud that drove
  The titt'rn madens vrom the grove;
  An' there a-left wer flow'ry mound,
  'Ithout a vace, 'ithout a sound,
  Unless the ar did blow,
  Drough rusln leaves, an' drow,
  The ran drops low, upon the ground.

  I linger'd there an' miss'd the nase;
  I linger'd there an' miss'd our jas;
  I miss'd woone soul beyond the rest;
  The mad that I do like the best.
  Vor where her vace is ga
  An' where her smiles do pla,
  There's always ja vor ev'ry breast.

  Vor zome vo'k out abroad ha' me'th,
  But nwone at hwome bezide the he'th;
  An' zome ha' smiles vor strangers' view;
  An' frowns vor kith an' kin to rue;
  But her sweet vace do vall,
  Wi' kindly words to all,
  Both big an' small, the whole day drough.

  An' when the evenn sky wer pele,
  We herd the warbln nightngele,
  A-drawn out his lwonesome zong,
  In windn music down the drong;
  An' Jenny vrom her he'th,
  Come out, though not in me'th,
  But held her breath, to hear his zong.

  Then, while the bird wi' oben bill
  Did warble on, her vace wer still;
  An' as she stood avore me, bound
  In stillness to the flow'ry mound,
  "The bird's a ja to zome,"
  I thought, "but when he's dum,
  Her vace will come, wi' sweeter sound."




MINDEN HOUSE.


  'Twer when the vo'k wer out to hawl
  A vield o' ha a day in June,
  An' when the zun begun to vall
  Toward the west in afternoon,
  Woone only wer a-left behind
  To bide indoors, at hwome, an' mind
  The house, an' answer vo'k avore
  The gete or door,--young Fanny Dene.

  The ar 'ithin the gerden wall
  Wer deadly still, unless the bee
  Did hummy by, or in the hall
  The clock did ring a-hettn dree,
  An' there, wi' busy hands, inside
  The iron cesement, oben'd wide,
  Did zit an' pull wi' nimble twitch
  Her tiny stitch, young Fanny Dene.

  As there she zot she herd two blows
  A-knock'd upon the rumbln door,
  An' laid azide her work, an' rose,
  An' walk'd out feir, athirt the vloor;
  An' there, a-holdn in his hand
  His bridled mere, a youth did stand,
  An' mildly twold his neme and plece
  Avore the fece o' Fanny Dene.

  He twold her that he had on hand
  Zome business on his father's zide,
  But what she didden understand;
  An' zoo she ax'd en if he'd ride
  Out where her father mid be vound,
  Bezide the plow, in Cowslip Ground;
  An' there he went, but left his mind
  Back there behind, wi' Fanny Dene.

  An' oh! his hwomeward road wer ga
  In ar a-blown, whiff by whiff,
  While sheenn water-weves did pla
  An' boughs did swa above the cliff;
  Vor Time had now a-show'd en dim
  The ja it had in store vor him;
  An' when he went thik road agen
  His errand then wer Fanny Dene.

  How strangely things be brought about
  By Providence, noo tongue can tell,
  She minded house, when vo'k wer out,
  An' zoo mus' bid the house farewell;
  The bees mid hum, the clock mid call
  The lwonesome hours 'ithin the hall,
  But in behind the woaken door,
  There's now noo mwore a Fanny Dene.




THE LOVELY MAD OV ELWELL MED.


  A mad wi' many gifts o' grece,
  A mad wi' ever-smiln fece,
  A child o' yours my chilhood's plece,
    O lenn lawns ov Allen;
  'S a-walkn where your stream do flow,
  A-blushn where your flowers do blow,
  A-smiln where your zun do glow,
    O lenn lawns ov Allen.
      An' good, however good's a-wagh'd,
      'S the lovely mad ov Elwell Med.

  An' oh! if I could teme an' guide
  The winds above the e'th, an' ride
  As light as shootn stars do glide,
    O lenn lawns ov Allen,
  To you I'd teke my daily flight,
  Drough dark'nn ar in evenn's light,
  An' bid her every night "Good night,"
    O lenn lawns ov Allen.
      Vor good, however good's a-wagh'd,
      'S the lovely mad ov Elwell Med.

  An' when your hedges' slooes be blue,
  By blackberries o' dark'nn hue,
  An' spiders' webs behung wi' dew,
    O lenn lawns ov Allen
  Avore the winter ar's a-chill'd,
  Avore your winter brook's a-vill'd
  Avore your zummer flow'rs be kill'd,
    O lenn lawns ov Allen;
      I there would meet, in white arra'd,
      The lovely mad ov Elwell Med.

  For when the zun, as birds do rise,
  Do cast their shedes vrom autum' skies,
  A-sparkln in her dewy eyes,
    O lenn lawns ov Allen
  Then all your mossy paths below
  The trees, wi' leaves a-valln slow,
  Like zinkn flekes o' yollow snow,
    O lenn lawns ov Allen.
      Would be mwore tekn where they stra'd
      The lovely mad ov Elwell Med.




OUR FATHERS' WORKS.


  Ah! I do think, as I do tread
  These path, wi' elems overhead,
  A-climn slowly up vrom Bridge,
  By easy steps, to Broadwoak Ridge,
  That all these roads that we do bruise
  Wi' hosses' shoes, or heavy lwoads;
  An' hedges' bands, where trees in row
  Do rise an' grow aroun' the lands,
  Be works that we've a-vound a-wrought
  By our vorefathers' cere an' thought.

  They clear'd the groun' vor grass to teke
  The plece that bore the bremble breke,
  An' dran'd the fen, where water spread,
  A-lyn dead, a bene to men;
  An' built the mill, where still the wheel
  Do grind our meal, below the hill;
  An' turn'd the bridge, wi' arch a-spread,
  Below a road, vor us to tread.

  They vound a plece, where we mid seek
  The gifts o' grece vrom week to week;
  An' built wi' stwone, upon the hill,
  A tow'r we still do call our own;
  With bells to use, an' meke rejace,
  Wi' giant vace, at our good news:
  An' lifted stwones an' beams to keep
  The ran an' cwold vrom us asleep.

  Zoo now mid nwone ov us vorget
  The pattern our vorefathers zet;
  But each be fin to underteke
  Some work to meke vor others' gan,
  That we mid leve mwore good to shere,
  Less ills to bear, less souls to grieve,
  An' when our hands do vall to rest,
  It mid be vrom a work a-blest.




THE WOLD VO'K DEAD.


  My days, wi' wold vo'k all but gone,
  An' childern now a-comn on,
  Do bring me still my mother's smiles
  In light that now do show my chile's;
  An' I've a-sher'd the wold vo'ks' me'th,
  Avore the burnn Chris'mas he'th,
  At friendly bwoards, where fece by fece,
  Did, year by year, gi'e up its plece,
  An' leve me here, behind, to tread
  The ground a-trod by wold vo'k dead.

  But wold things be a-lost vor new,
  An' zome do come, while zome do goo:
  As wither'd beech-tree leaves do cling
  Among the nesh young buds o' Spring;
  An' frettn worms ha' slowly wound,
  Droo beams the wold vo'k lifted sound,
  An' trees they planted little slips
  Ha' stems that noo two erms can clips;
  An' grey an' yollow moss do spread
  On buildns new to wold vo'k dead.

  The backs of all our zilv'ry hills,
  The brook that still do dreve our mills,
  The roads a-climn up the brows
  O' knaps, a-screen'd by meple boughs,
  Wer all a-mark'd in shede an' light
  Avore our wolder fathers' zight,
  In zunny days, a-gied their hands
  For happy work, a-tilln lands,
  That now do yield their childern bread
  Till they do rest wi' wold vo'k dead.

  But livn vo'k, a-grievn on,
  Wi' lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone,
  Do zee their goodness, but do vind
  All else a-stealn out o' mind;
  As air do meke the vurthest land
  Look feirer than the vield at hand,
  An' zoo, as time do slowly pass,
  So still's a shede upon the grass,
  Its wid'nn spece do slowly shed
  A glory roun' the wold vo'k dead.

  An' what if good vo'ks' life o' breath
  Is zoo a-hallow'd after death,
  That they mid only know above,
  Their times o' fath, an' ja, an' love,
  While all the evil time ha' brought
  'S a-lost vor ever out o' thought;
  As all the moon that idden bright,
  'S a-lost in darkness out o' zight;
  And all the godly life they led
  Is glory to the wold vo'k dead.

  If things be zoo, an' souls above
  Can only mind our e'thly love,
  Why then they'll veel our kindness drown
  The thoughts ov all that mede em frown.
  An' ja o' jas will dry the tear
  O' sadness that do trickle here,
  An' nothn mwore o' life than love,
  An' peace, will then be know'd above.
  Do good, vor that, when life's a-vled,
  Is still a pleasure to the dead.




CULVER DELL AND THE SQUIRE.


  There's noo plece I do like so well,
  As Elem Knap in Culver Dell,
  Where timber trees, wi' lofty shouds,
  Did rise avore the western clouds;
  An' stan' agen, wi' veathery tops,
  A-swayn up in North-Hill Copse.
  An' on the east the mornn broke
  Above a dewy grove o' woak:
  An' noontide shed its burnn light
  On ashes on the southern height;
  An' I could vind zome teles to tell,
  O' former days in Culver Dell.

  An' all the vo'k did love so well
  The good wold squire o' Culver Dell,
  That used to ramble drough the shedes
  O' timber, or the burnn gledes,
  An' come at evenn up the leze
  Wi' red-er'd dogs bezide his knees.
  An' hold his gun, a-hangn drough
  His ermpit, out above his tooe.
  Wi' kindly words upon his tongue,
  Vor vo'k that met en, wold an' young,
  Vor he did know the poor so well
  'S the richest vo'k in Culver Dell.

  An' while the wok, wi' spreadn head,
  Did shede the foxes' verny bed;
  An' runnn heres, in zunny gledes,
  Did bet the grasses' quiv'rn' bledes;
  An' speckled pa'tridges took flight
  In stubble vields a-fedn white;
  Or he could zee the pheasant strut
  In shedy woods, wi' panted cwoat;
  Or long-tongued dogs did love to run
  Among the leaves, bezide his gun;
  We didden want vor call to dwell
  At hwome in peace in Culver Dell.

  But now I hope his kindly fece
  Is gone to vind a better plece;
  But still, wi' vo'k a-left behind
  He'll always be a-kept in mind,
  Vor all his springy-vooted hounds
  Ha' done o' trottn round his grounds,
  An' we have all a-left the spot,
  To teke, a-scatter'd, each his lot;
  An' even Father, lik' the rest,
  Ha' left our long vorseken nest;
  An' we should vind it sad to dwell,
  Agen at hwome in Culver Dell.

  The ary mornns still mid smite
  Our windows wi' their rwosy light,
  An' high-zunn'd noons mid dry the dew
  On grown groun' below our shoe;
  The blushn evenn still mid dye,
  Wi' viry red, the western sky;
  The zunny spring-time's quicknn power
  Mid come to oben leaf an' flower;
  An' days an' tides mid bring us on
  Woone pleasure when another's gone.
  But we must bid a long farewell
  To days an' tides in Culver Dell.




OUR BE'THPLACE.


  How dear's the door a latch do shut,
  An' gerden that a hatch do shut,
  Where vu'st our bloomn cheks ha' prest
  The pillor ov our childhood's rest;
  Or where, wi' little tooes, we wore
  The paths our fathers trod avore;
  Or clim'd the timber's bark aloft,
  Below the zingn lark aloft,
  The while we herd the echo sound
  Drough all the ringn valley round.

  A lwonesome grove o' woak did rise,
  To screen our house, where smoke did rise,
  A-twistn blue, while yeet the zun
  Did langthen on our childhood's fun;
  An' there, wi' all the shepes an' sounds
  O' life, among the timber'd grounds,
  The birds upon their boughs did zing,
  An' milkmads by their cows did zing,
  Wi' merry sounds, that softly died,
  A-ringn down the valley zide.

  By river banks, wi' reeds a-bound,
  An' sheenn pools, wi' weeds a-bound,
  The long-neck'd gander's ruddy bill
  To snow-white geese did cackle sh'ill;
  An' stridn peewits hesten'd by,
  O' tiptooe wi' their screamn cry;
  An' stalkn cows a-lown loud,
  An' struttn cocks a-crown loud,
  Did rouse the echoes up to mock
  Their mingled sounds by hill an' rock.

  The stars that clim'd our skies all dark,
  Above our sleepn eyes all dark,
  An' zuns a-rolln round to bring
  The seasons on, vrom Spring to Spring,
  Ha' vled, wi' never-restn flight,
  Drough green-bough'd day, an' dark-tree'd night;
  Till now our childhood's pleces there,
  Be ga wi' other feces there,
  An' we ourselves do vollow on
  Our own vorelivers dead an' gone.




THE WINDOW FREM'D WI' STWONE.


  When Pentridge House wer still the nest
  O' souls that now ha' better rest,
  Avore the vir burnt to ground
  His beams an' walls, that then wer sound,
  'Ithin a nal-bestudded door,
  An' passage wi' a stwonn vloor,
  There spread the hall, where zun-light shone
  In drough a window frem'd wi' stwone.

  A clavy-beam o' sheenn woak
  Did span the he'th wi' twistn smoke,
  Where flemes did shoot in yollow streaks,
  Above the brands, their flashn peaks;
  An' aunt did pull, as she did stand
  O'-tip-tooe, wi' her lifted hand,
  A curtain feded wi' the zun,
  Avore the window frem'd wi' stwone.

  When Hwome-ground grass, below the moon,
  Wer damp wi' evenn dew in June,
  An' aunt did call the madens in
  Vrom walkn, wi' their shoes too thin,
  They zot to rest their litty veet
  Upon the window's woaken seat,
  An' chatted there, in light that shone
  In drough the window frem'd wi' stwone.

  An' as the seasons, in a ring,
  Roll'd slowly roun' vrom Spring to Spring,
  An' brought em on zome holy-tide,
  When they did cast their tools azide;
  How glad it mede em all to spy
  In Stwonylands their friends draw nigh,
  As they did know em all by neme
  Out drough the window's stwonn freme.

  O evenn zun, a-ridn drough
  The sky, vrom Sh'oton Hill o' blue,
  To leve the night a-broodn dark
  At Stalbridge, wi' its grey-wall'd park;
  Small ja to me the vields do bring,
  Vor all their zummer birds do zing,
  Since now thy beams noo mwore do fleme
  In drough the window's stwonn freme.




THE WATER-SPRING IN THE LEANE.


  Oh! aye! the spring 'ithin the lene,
  A-leden down to Lyddan Brook;
  An' still a-nessln in his nook,
  As weeks do pass, an' moons do wene.
        Nwone the drier,
        Nwone the higher,
  Nwone the nigher to the door
  Where we did live so long avore.

  An' oh! what vo'k his mossy brim
  Ha' gathered in the run o' time!
  The wife a-blushn in her prime;
  The widow wi' her eyezight dim;
        Madens dippn,
        Childern sippn,
  Water drippn, at the cool
  Dark walln ov the little pool.

  Behind the spring do lie the lands
  My father till'd, vrom Spring to Spring,
  Awitn on vor time to bring
  The crops to pa his weary hands.
        Wheat a-grown,
        Bens a-blown,
  Grass vor mown, where the bridge
  Do led to Ryall's on the ridge.

  But who do know when liv'd an' died
  The squier o' the mwoldrn hall;
  That lined en wi' a stwonn wall,
  An' sten'd so clen his wat'ry zide?
        We behind en,
        Now can't vind en,
  But do mind en, an' do thank
  His meker vor his little tank.




THE POPLARS.


  If these day's work an' burnn sky
  'V'a-zent hwome you so tired as I,
  Let's zit an' rest 'ithin the screen
  O' my wold bow'r upon the green;
  Where I do goo myself an' let
  The evenn air cool my het,
  When dew do wet the grasses bledes,
  A-quiv'rn in the dusky shedes.

  There yonder poplar trees do pla
  Soft music, as their heads do swa,
  While wind, a-rustln soft or loud,
  Do stream agen their lofty sh'oud;
  An' seem to heal the rankln zore
  My mind do meet wi' out o' door,
  When I've a-bore, in downcast mood,
  Zome evil where I look'd vor good.

  O' they two poplars that do rise
  So high avore our naghbours' eyes,
  A-zet by gramfer, hand by hand,
  Wi' grammer, in their bit o' land;
  The woone upon the western zide
  Wer his, an' woone wer grammer's pride,
  An' since they died, we all do teke
  Mwore cere o'm vor the wold vo'k's seke.

  An' there, wi' stems a-grown tall
  Avore the houses mossy wall,
  The while the moon ha' slowly past
  The leafy window, they've a-cast
  Their shedes 'ithin the window pene;
  While childern have a-grown to men,
  An' then agen ha' left their beds,
  To bear their childern's heavy heads.




THE LINDEN ON THE LAWN.


  No! Jenny, there's noo plece to charm
  My mind lik' yours at Woakland farm,
  A-perted vrom the busy town,
  By longsome miles ov ary down,
  Where woonce the meshy wall did gird
  Your flow'ry gerden, an' the bird
  Did zing in zummer wind that stirr'd
  The spredn linden on the lawn.

  An' now ov all the trees wi' shedes
  A-wheeln round in Blackmwore gledes,
  There's noo tall poplar by the brook,
  Nor elem that do rock the rook,
  Nor ash upon the shelvn ledge,
  Nor low-bough'd woak bezide the hedge,
  Nor withy up above the zedge,
  So dear's thik linden on the lawn.

  Vor there, o' zummer nights, below
  The wall, we zot when ar did blow,
  An' sheke the dewy rwose a-tied
  Up roun' the window's stwonn zide.
  An' while the carter rod' along
  A-zingn, down the dusky drong,
  There you did zing a sweeter zong
  Below the linden on the lawn.

  An' while your warbled ditty wound
  Drough plasome flights o' mellow sound,
  The nightngele's sh'ill zong, that broke
  The stillness ov the dewy woak,
  Rung clear along the grove, an' smote
  To sudden stillness ev'ry droat;
  As we did zit, an' hear it float
  Below the linden on the lawn.

  Where dusky light did softly vall
  'Ithin the stwonn-window'd hall,
  Avore your father's blinkn eyes,
  His evenn whiff o' smoke did rise,
  An' vrom the bedroom window's height
  Your little John, a-cloth'd in white,
  An' gwan to bed, did cry "good night"
  Towards the linden on the lawn.

  But now, as Dobbin, wi' a nod
  Vor ev'ry heavy step he trod,
  Did bring me on, to-night, avore
  The gebled house's pworchd door,
  Noo laughn child a-cloth'd in white,
  Look'd drough the stwonn window's light,
  An' noo vace zung, in dusky night,
  Below the linden on the lawn.

  An' zoo, if you should ever vind
  My kindness seem to grow less kind,
  An' if upon my clouded fece
  My smile should yield a frown its plece,
  Then, Jenny, only laugh an' call
  My mind 'ithin the gerden wall,
  Where we did pla at even-fall,
  Below the linden on the lawn.




OUR ABODE IN ARBY WOOD.


    Though ice do hang upon the willows
      Out bezide the vrozen brook,
    An' storms do roar above our pillows,
      Drough the night, 'ithin our nook;
    Our evenn he'th's a-glown warm,
    Drough wringn vrost, an' roarn storm,
  Though winds mid meke the wold beams sheke,
      In our abode in Arby Wood.

    An' there, though we mid hear the timber
      Creake avore the windy ran;
    An' climn ivy quiver, limber,
      Up agen the window pene;
    Our merry vaces then do sound,
    In rolln glee, or dree-vace round;
  Though wind mid roar, 'ithout the door,
      Ov our abode in Arby Wood.




SLOW TO COME, QUICK AGONE.


  Ah! there's a house that I do know
  Besouth o' yonder trees,
  Where northern winds can hardly blow
  But in a softest breeze.
  An' there woonce sounded zongs an' teles
  Vrom vace o' mad or youth,
  An' sweeter than the nightngele's
  Above the copses lewth.

  How swiftly there did run the brooks,
  How swift wer winds in flight,
  How swiftly to their roost the rooks
  Did vlee o'er head at night.
  Though slow did seem to us the pece
  O' comn days a-head,
  That now do seem as in a rece
  Wi' ar-birds to ha' vled.




THE VIER-ZIDE.


  'Tis zome vo'ks ja to teke the road,
  An' goo abro'd, a-wand'rn wide,
  Vrom shere to shere, vrom plece to plece,
  The swiftest pece that vo'k can ride.
  But I've a ja 'ithin the door,
  Wi' friends avore the vier-zide.

  An' zoo, when winter skies do lour,
  An' when the Stour's a-rolln wide,
  Drough bridge-voot rals, a-panted white,
  To be at night the traveller's guide,
  Gi'e me a plece that's warm an' dry,
  A-zittn nigh my vier-zide.

  Vor where do love o' kith an' kin,
  At vu'st begin, or grow an' wride,
  Till souls a-lov'd so young, be wold,
  Though never cwold, drough time nor tide
  But where in me'th their gather'd veet
  Do often meet--the vier-zide.

  If, when a friend ha' left the land,
  I shook his hand a-most wet-eyed,
  I velt too well the ob'nn door
  Would led noo mwore where he did bide
  An' where I herd his vaces sound,
  In me'th around the vier-zide.

  As I've a-zeed how vast do vall
  The mwold'rn hall, the wold vo'ks pride,
  Where merry hearts wer woonce a-ved
  Wi' daily bread, why I've a-sigh'd,
  To zee the wall so green wi' mwold,
  An' vind so cwold the vier-zide.

  An' Chris'mas still mid bring his me'th
  To ouer he'th, but if we tried
  To gather all that woonce did wear
  Gay feces there! Ah! zome ha' died,
  An' zome be gone to leve wi' gaps
  O' missn laps, the vier-zide.

  But come now, bring us in your hand,
  A heavy brand o' woak a-dried,
  To cheer us wi' his het an' light,
  While vrosty night, so starry-skied,
  Go gather souls that time do spere
  To zit an' shere our vier-zide.




KNOWLWOOD.


  I don't want to sleep abrode, John,
  I do like my hwomeward road, John;
  An' like the sound o' Knowlwood bells the best.
  Zome would rove vrom plece to plece, John,
  Zome would goo from fece to fece, John,
  But I be happy in my hwomely nest;
  An' slight's the hope vor any plece bezide,
  To leve the plan abode where love do bide.

  Where the shelvn knap do vall, John,
  Under trees a-springn tall, John;
  'Tis there my house do show his sheenn zide,
  Wi' his walls vor ever green, John,
  Under ivy that's a screen, John,
  Vrom wet an' het, an' ev'ry changn tide,
  An' I do little ho vor goold or pride,
  To leve the plan abode where love do bide.

  There the bendn stream do flow, John,
  By the mossy bridge's bow, John;
  An' there the road do wind below the hill;
  There the miller, white wi' meal, John,
  Deafen'd wi' his foamy wheel, John,
  Do stan' o' times a-lookn out o' mill:
  The while 'ithin his lightly-sheken door.
  His wheatn flour do whitn all his floor.

  When my daily work's a-done, John,
  At the zettn o' the zun, John,
  An' I all day 've a-pla'd a good man's pert,
  I do vind my ease a-blest, John,
  While my conscience is at rest, John;
  An' while noo worm's a-left to fret my heart;
  An' who vor finer hwomes o' restless pride,
  Would pass the plan abode where peace do bide?

  By a windor in the west, John,
  There upon my fiddle's breast, John,
  The strings do sound below my bow's white heir;
  While a zingn drush do swa, John,
  Up an' down upon a spra, John,
  An' cast his shede upon the window square;
  Vor birds do know their friends, an' build their nest,
  An' love to roost, where they can live at rest.

  Out o' town the win' do bring, John,
  Peals o' bells when they do ring, John,
  An' roun' me here, at hand, my ear can catch
  The mad a-zingn by the stream, John,
  Or carter whisln wi' his team, John,
  Or zingn birds, or water at the hatch;
  An' zoo wi' sounds o' vace, an' bird an' bell,
  Noo hour is dull 'ithin our rwosy dell.

  An' when the darksome night do hide, John,
  Land an' wood on ev'ry zide, John;
  An' when the light's a-burnn on my bwoard,
  Then vor pleasures out o' door, John,
  I've enough upon my vloor, John:
  My Jenny's lovn deed, an' look, an' word,
  An' we be lwoth, lik' culvers zide by zide,
  To leve the plan abode where love do bide.




HALLOWED PLECES.


  At Woodcombe farm, wi' ground an' tree
  Hallow'd by times o' youthvul glee,
  At Chris'mas time I spent a night
  Wi' feces dearest to my zight;
  An' took my wife to tread, woonce mwore,
  Her maden hwome's vorseken vloor,
  An' under stars that slowly wheel'd
  Aloft, above the keen-ar'd vield,
  While night bedimm'd the rus'ln copse,
  An' darken'd all the ridges' tops,
  The hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung
  Wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young.

  There, on the he'th's well-hetted ground,
  Hallow'd by times o' zittn round,
  The brimvul mug o' cider stood
  An' hiss'd avore the blezn wood;
  An' zome, a-zittn knee by knee,
  Did tell their teles wi' hearty glee,
  An' others gamboll'd in a roar
  O' laughter on the stwonn vloor;
  An' while the moss o' winter-tide
  Clung chilly roun' the house's zide,
  The hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung
  Wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young.

  There, on the pworches bench o' stwone,
  Hallow'd by times o' youthvul fun,
  We laugh'd an' sigh'd to think o' nemes
  That rung there woonce, in evenn gemes;
  An' while the swan cypress bow'd,
  In chilly wind, his darksome sh'oud
  An' honeyzuckles, bere o' leves,
  Still reach'd the window-shedn eaves
  Up where the clematis did trim
  The stwonn arches mossy rim,
  The hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung
  Wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young.

  There, in the gerden's wall-bound square,
  Hallow'd by times o' strolln there,
  The winter wind, a-huffln loud,
  Did swa the pear-tree's leafless sh'oud,
  An' bet the bush that woonce did bear
  The damask rwose vor Jenny's heir;
  An' there the walk o' pevn stwone
  That burn'd below the zummer zun,
  Struck icy-cwold drough shoes a-wore
  By madens vrom the hetted vloor
  In hall, a-hung wi' holm, where rung
  Vull many a tongue o' wold an' young.

  There at the gete that woonce wer blue
  Hallow'd by times o' passn drough,
  Light strawmotes rose in flaggn flight,
  A-floated by the winds o' night,
  Where leafy ivy-stems did crawl
  In moonlight on the windblown wall,
  An' merry madens' vaces vled
  In echoes sh'ill, vrom wall to shed,
  As shiv'rn in their frocks o' white
  They come to bid us there "Good night,"
  Vrom hall, a-hung wi' holm, that rung
  Wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young.

  There in the narrow lene an' drong
  Hallow'd by times o' gwan along,
  The lofty ashes' leafless sh'ouds
  Rose dark avore the clear-edged clouds,
  The while the moon, at girtest height,
  Bespread the pooly brook wi' light,
  An' as our child, in loose-limb'd rest,
  Lay pele upon her mother's breast,
  Her waxen eyelids seal'd her eyes
  Vrom darksome trees, an' sheenn skies,
  An' halls a-hung wi' holm, that rung
  Wi' many a tongue, o' wold an' young.




THE WOLD WALL.


  Here, Jene, we vu'st did meet below
  The leafy boughs, a-swingn slow,
  Avore the zun, wi' evenn glow,
  Above our road, a-beamn red;
  The grass in zwath wer in the meds,
  The water gleam'd among the reeds
  In ar a-steln roun' the hall,
  Where ivy clung upon the wall.
  Ah! well-a-day! O wall adieu!
  The wall is wold, my grief is new.

  An' there you walk'd wi' blushn pride,
  Where softly-wheeln streams did glide,
  Drough shedes o' poplars at my zide,
  An' there wi' love that still do live,
  Your fece did wear the smile o' youth,
  The while you spoke wi' age's truth,
  An' wi' a rwosebud's mossy ball,
  I deck'd your bosom vrom the wall.
  Ah! well-a-day! O wall adieu!
  The wall is wold, my grief is new.

  But now when winter's ran do vall,
  An' wind do bet agen the hall,
  The while upon the wat'ry wall
  In spots o' grey the moss do grow;
  The ruf noo mwore shall overspread
  The pillor ov our weary head,
  Nor shall the rwose's mossy ball
  Behang vor you the house's wall.
  Ah! well-a-day! O wall adieu!
  The wall is wold, my grief is new.




BLEKE'S HOUSE IN BLACKMWORE.


  John Bleke he had a bit o' ground
  Come to en by his mother's zide;
  An' after that, two hunderd pound
  His uncle left en when he died;
  "Well now," cried John, "my mind's a-bent
  To build a house, an' pa noo rent."
  An' Mery gi'ed en her consent.
  "Do, do,"--the madens cried
  "True, true,"--his wife replied.
  "Done, done,--a house o' brick or stwone,"
  Cried merry Bleke o' Blackmwore.

  Then John he call'd vor men o' skill,
  An' builders answer'd to his call;
  An' met to reckon, each his bill;
  Vor vloor an' window, ruf an' wall.
  An' woone did mark it on the groun',
  An' woone did think, an' scratch his crown,
  An' reckon work, an' write it down:
  "Zoo, zoo,"--woone tredesman cried,
  "True, true,"--woone mwore replied.
  "Aye, aye,--good work, an' have good pa,"
  Cried merry Bleke o' Blackmwore.

  The work begun, an' trowels rung,
  An' up the brickn wall did rise,
  An' up the slantn refters sprung,
  Wi' busy blows, an' lusty cries!
  An' woone brought planks to meke a vloor,
  An' woone did come wi' durns or door,
  An' woone did zaw, an' woone did bore,
  "Brick, brick,--there down below,
  Quick, quick,--why b'ye so slow?"
  "Lime, lime,--why we do weste the time,
  Vor merry Bleke o' Blackmwore."

  The house wer up vrom groun' to tun,
  An' thatch'd agen the rany sky,
  Wi' windows to the noonday zun,
  Where rushy Stour do wander by.
  In coo'se he had a pworch to screen
  The inside door, when win's wer keen,
  An' out avore the pworch, a green.
  "Here! here!"--the childern cried:
  "Dear! dear!"--the wife replied;
  "There, there,--the house is perty feir,"
  Cried merry Bleke o' Blackmwore.

  Then John he ax'd his friends to warm
  His house, an' they, a goodish batch,
  Did come alwone, or erm in erm,
  All roads, a-mekn vor his hatch:
  An' there below the clavy beam
  The kettle-spout did zing an' steam;
  An' there wer cekes, an' tea wi' cream.
  "Lo! lo!"--the women cried;
  "Ho! ho!"--the men replied;
  "Health, health,--attend ye wi' your wealth,
  Good merry Bleke o' Blackmwore."

  Then John, a-pras'd, flung up his crown,
  All back a-laughn in a roar.
  They pras'd his wife, an' she look'd down
  A-simpern towards the vloor.
  Then up they sprung a-dancn reels,
  An' up went tooes, an' up went heels,
  A-windn roun' in knots an' wheels.
  "Brisk, brisk,"--the madens cried;
  "Frisk, frisk,"--the men replied;
  "Quick, quick,--there wi' your fiddle-stick,"
  Cried merry Bleke o' Blackmwore.

  An' when the morrow's zun did sheen,
  John Bleke beheld, wi' ja an' pride,
  His brickn house, an' pworch, an' green,
  Above the Stour's rushy zide.
  The zwallows left the lwonesome groves,
  To build below the thatchn oves,
  An' robins come vor crumbs o' lwoaves:
  "Tweet, tweet,"--the birds all cried;
  "Sweet, sweet,"--John's wife replied;
  "Dad, dad,"--the childern cried so glad,
  To merry Bleke o' Blackmwore.




JOHN BLEKE AT HWOME AT NIGHT.


  No: where the woak do overspread,
  The grass begloom'd below his head,
  An' water, under bown zedge,
  A-springn vrom the river's edge,
  Do ripple, as the win' do blow,
  An' sparkle, as the sky do glow;
  An' grey-leav'd withy-boughs do cool,
  Wi' darksome shedes, the clear-feced pool,
  My chimny smoke, 'ithin the lew
  O' trees is there arisn blue;
  Avore the night do dim our zight,
  Or candle-light, a-sheenn bright,
  Do sparkle drough the window.

  When crumpled leaves o' Fall do bound
  Avore the wind, along the ground,
  An' wither'd bennet-stems do stand
  A-quiv'rn on the chilly land;
  The while the zun, wi' zettn rim,
  Do leve the workman's pathway dim;
  An' sweet-breath'd childern's hangn heads
  Be laid wi' kisses, on their beds;
  Then I do seek my woodland nest,
  An' zit bezide my vier at rest,
  While night's a-spread, where day's a-vled,
  An' lights do shed their beams o' red,
  A-sparkln drough the window.

  If winter's whistln winds do vreeze
  The snow a-gather'd on the trees,
  An' shedes o' poplar stems do vall
  In moonlight up athirt the wall;
  An' icicles do hang below
  The oves, a-glitt'rn in a row,
  An' risn stars do slowly ride
  Above the ruf's upslantn zide;
  Then I do lay my weary head
  Asleep upon my peaceful bed,
  When middle-night ha' quench'd the light
  Ov embers bright, an' candles white
  A-beamn drough the window.




MILKEN TIME.


  'Twer when the busy birds did vlee,
  Wi' sheenn wings, vrom tree to tree,
  To build upon the mossy lim',
  Their hollow nestes' rounded rim;
  The while the zun, a-zinkn low,
  Did roll along his evenn bow,
  I come along where wide-horn'd cows,
  'Ithin a nook, a-screen'd by boughs,
  Did stan' an' flip the white-hoop'd pals
  Wi' heiry tufts o' swingn tals;
  An' there wer Jenny Coom a-gone
  Along the path a vew steps on.
  A-bern on her head, upstraght,
  Her pal, wi' slowly-ridn waght,
  An' hoops a-sheenn, lily-white,
  Agen the evenn's slantn light;
  An' zo I took her pal, an' left
  Her neck a-freed vrom all his heft;
  An' she a-lookn up an' down,
  Wi' shepely head an' glossy crown,
  Then took my zide, an' kept my pece
  A-talkn on wi' smiln fece,
  An' zettn things in sich a light,
  I'd fan ha' her'd her talk all night;
  An' when I brought her milk avore
  The gete, she took it in to door,
  An' if her pal had but allow'd
  Her head to vall, she would ha' bow'd,
  An' still, as 'twer, I had the zight
  Ov her sweet smile droughout the night.




WHEN BIRDS BE STILL.


  Vor all the zun do leve the sky,
  An' all the sounds o' day do die,
  An' noo mwore veet do walk the dim
  Vield-path to clim' the stiel's bars,
  Yeet out below the rizn stars,
  The dark'nn day mid leve behind
  Woone tongue that I shall always vind,
  A-whispern kind, when birds be still.

  Zoo let the day come on to spread
  His kindly light above my head,
  Wi' zights to zee, an' sounds to hear,
  That still do cheer my thoughtvul mind;
  Or let en goo, an' leve behind
  An' hour to stroll along the gledes,
  Where night do drown the beeches' shedes,
  On grasses' bledes, when birds be still.

  Vor when the night do lull the sound
  O' cows a-blern out in ground,
  The sh'ill-vac'd dog do stan' an' bark
  'Ithin the dark, bezide the road;
  An' when noo crackln waggon's lwoad
  Is in the lene, the wind do bring
  The merry peals that bells do ring
  O ding-dong-ding, when birds be still.

  Zoo teke, vor me, the town a-drown'd,
  'Ithin a storm o' rumbln sound,
  An' gi'e me vaces that do speak
  So soft an' meek, to souls alwone;
  The brook a-gurgln round a stwone,
  An' birds o' day a-zingn clear,
  An' leaves, that I mid zit an' hear
  A-rustln near, when birds be still.




RIDEN HWOME AT NIGHT.


  Oh! no, I quite inja'd the ride
    Behind wold Dobbin's heavy heels,
  Wi' Jene a-prattln at my zide,
    Above our peir o' spinnn wheels,
  As grey-rin'd ashes' swan tops
  Did creak in moonlight in the copse,
  Above the quiv'rn grass, a-bet
  By wind a-blown drough the get.

  If weary souls did want their sleep,
    They had a-zent vor sleep the night;
  Vor vo'k that had a call to keep
    Awake, lik' us, there still wer light.
  An' He that shut the sleepers' eyes,
  A-watn vor the zun to rise,
  Ha' too much love to let em know
  The ling'rn night did goo so slow.

  But if my wife did catch a zight
    O' zome queer pollard, or a post,
  Poor soul! she took en in her fright
    To be a robber or a ghost.
  A two-stump'd withy, wi' a head,
  Mus' be a man wi' erms a-spread;
  An' foam o' water, round a rock,
  Wer then a drownn ledy's frock.

  Zome staddle stwones to bear a mow,
    Wer dancn veries on the lag;
  An' then a snow-white sheeted cow
    Could only be, she thought, their flag,
  An owl a-vlen drough the wood
  Wer men on watch vor little good;
  An' getes a slam'd by wind, did goo,
  She thought, to let a robber drough.

  But after all, she lik'd the zight
    O' cows asleep in glitt'rn dew;
  An' brooks that gleam'd below the light,
    An' dim vield paths 'ithout a shoe.
  An' galy talk'd bezide my ears,
  A-laughn off her needless fears:
  Or had the childern uppermost
  In mind, instead o' thief or ghost.

  An' when our house, wi' open door,
    Did rumble hollow round our heads,
  She hesten'd up to tother vloor,
    To zee the childern in their beds;
  An' vound woone little head awry,
  Wi' woone a-turn'd toward the sky;
  An' wrung her hands agen her breast,
  A-smiln at their happy rest.




ZUN-ZET.


  Where the western zun, unclouded,
  Up above the grey hill-tops,
  Did sheen drough ashes, lofty sh'ouded
    On the turf bezide the copse,
      In zummer weather,
      We together,
      Sorrow-slightn, work-vorgettn.
      Gambol'd wi' the zun a-zetten.

  There, by flow'ry bows o' bramble,
    Under hedge, in ash-tree shedes,
  The dun-hear'd ho'se did slowly ramble
    On the grasses' dewy bledes,
      Zet free o' lwoads,
      An' stwony rwoads,
      Vorgetvul o' the lashes frettn,
      Grazn wi' the zun a-zettn.

  There wer rooks a-betn by us
    Drough the ar, in a vlock,
  An' there the lively blackbird, nigh us,
    On the meple bough did rock,
      Wi' ringn droat,
      Where zunlight smote
      The yollow boughs o' zunny hedges
      Over western hills' blue edges.

  Waters, drough the meds a-purln,
    Glissen'd in the evenn's light,
  An' smoke, above the town a-curln,
    Melted slowly out o' zight;
      An' there, in glooms
      Ov unzunn'd rooms,
      To zome, wi' idle sorrows frettn,
      Zuns did set avore their zettn.

  We were out in gemes and reces,
    Loud a-laughn, wild in me'th,
  Wi' windblown heir, an' zunbrown'd feces,
    Lepen on the high-sky'd e'th,
      Avore the lights
      Wer tin'd o' nights,
      An' while the gossamer's light nettn
      Sparkled to the zun a-zettn.




SPRING.


  Now the zunny ar's a-blown
  Softly over flowers a-grown;
  An' the sparkln light do quiver
  On the ivy-bough an' river;
  Bletn lambs, wi' woolly feces,
  Now do pla, a-runnn reces;
        An' the springn
        Lark's a-zingn,
  Lik' a dot avore the cloud,
  High above the ashes sh'oud.

  Housn, in the open brightness,
  Now do sheen in spots o' whiteness;
  Here an' there, on upland ledges,
  In among the trees an' hedges,
  Where, along by vlocks o' sparrows,
  Chatt'rn at the ploughman's harrows.
        Dousty rwoaded,
        Errand-lwoaded;
  Jenny, though her cloak is thin,
  Do wish en hwome upon the pin.

  Zoo come along, noo longer heedvul
  Ov the vir, letely needvul,
  Over grass o' slopn lezes,
  Zingn zongs in zunny breezes;
  Out to work in copse, a-mootn,
  Where the primrwose is a-shootn,
        An in gladness,
        Free o' sadness,
  In the warmth o' Spring vorget
  Leafless winter's cwold an' wet.




THE ZUMMER HEDGE.


  As light do glere in ev'ry ground,
  Wi' boughy hedges out a-round
  A-climmn up the slopn brows
  O' hills, in rows o' shedy boughs:
  The while the hawthorn buds do blow
  As thick as stars, an' white as snow;
  Or cream-white blossoms be a-spread
  About the guelder-rwoses' head;
  How cool's the shede, or warm's the lewth,
  Bezide a zummer hedge in blooth.

  When we've a-work'd drough longsome hours,
  Till dew's a-dried vrom dazzln flow'rs,
  The while the climmn zun ha' glow'd
  Drough mwore than half his daily road:
  Then where the shedes do slily pass
  Athirt our veet upon the grass,
  As we do rest by lofty ranks
  Ov elems on the flow'ry banks;
  How cool's the shede, or warm's the lewth,
  Bezide a zummer hedge in blooth.

  But oh! below woone hedge's zide
  Our ja do come a-most to pride;
  Out where the high-stemm'd trees do stand,
  In row bezide our own free land,
  An' where the wide-leav'd clote mid zwim
  'Ithin our water's rushy rim:
  An' ran do vall, an' zuns do burn,
  An' each in season, and in turn,
  To cool the shede or warm the lewth
  Ov our own zummer hedge in blooth.

  How soft do sheke the zummer hedge--
  How soft do sway the zummer zedge--
  How bright be zummer skies an' zun--
  How bright the zummer brook do run;
  An' feir the flow'rs do bloom, to fede
  Behind the swaen mower's blede;
  An' sweet be merry looks o' ja,
  By weles an' pooks o' June's new ha,
  Wi' smiln age, an laughn youth,
  Bezide the zummer hedge in blooth.




THE WATER CROWVOOT.


  O' small-fec'd flow'r that now dost bloom
  To stud wi' white the shallow Frome,
  An' leve the clote to spread his flow'r
  On darksome pools o' stwoneless Stour,
  When sof'ly-rizn ars do cool
  The water in the sheenn pool,
  Thy beds o' snow-white buds do gleam
  So feir upon the sky-blue stream,
  As whitest clouds, a-hangn high
  Avore the blueness o' the sky;
  An' there, at hand, the thin-heir'd cows,
  In ary shedes o' withy boughs,
  Or up bezide the mossy rals,
  Do stan' an' zwing their heavy tals,
  The while the rippln stream do flow
  Below the dousty bridge's bow;
  An' quiv'rn water-gleams do mock
  The weves, upon the sheded rock;
  An' up athirt the copn stwone
  The latren bwoy do len alwone,
  A-watchn, wi' a stedvast look,
  The valln waters in the brook,
  The while the zand o' time do run
  An' leve his errand still undone.
  An' oh! as long's thy buds would gleam
  Above the softly-slidn stream,
  While sparkln zummer-brooks do run
  Below the lofty-climn zun,
  I only wish that thou could'st sta
  Vor noo man's harm, an' all men's ja.
  But no, the waterman 'ull wede
  Thy water wi' his deadly blede,
  To slay thee even in thy bloom,
  Fair small-feced flower o' the Frome.




THE LILAC.


  Dear lilac-tree, a-spreadn wide
  Thy purple blooth on ev'ry zide,
  As if the hollow sky did shed
  Its blue upon thy flow'ry head;
  Oh! whether I mid shere wi' thee
  Thy open ar, my bloomn tree,
  Or zee thy blossoms vrom the gloom,
  'Ithin my zunless workn-room,
  My heart do lep, but lep wi' sighs,
  At zight o' thee avore my eyes,
  For when thy grey-blue head do swa
  In cloudless light, 'tis Spring, 'tis Ma.

  'Tis Spring, 'tis Ma, as Ma woonce shed
  His glown light above thy head--
  When thy green boughs, wi' bloomy tips,
  Did shede my childern's laughn lips;
  A-screenn vrom the noonday glere
  Their rwosy cheks an' glossy heir;
  The while their mother's needle sped,
  Too quick vor zight, the snow-white thread,
  Unless her han', wi' lovn cere,
  Did smooth their little heads o' heir;

  Or wi' a sheke, tie up anew
  Vor zome wild voot, a slippn shoe;
  An' I did len bezide thy mound
  Agen the desy-dappled ground,
  The while the woaken clock did tick
  My hour o' rest away too quick,
  An' call me off to work anew,
  Wi' slowly-ringn strokes, woone, two.

  Zoo let me zee noo darksome cloud
  Bedim to-day thy flow'ry sh'oud,
  But let en bloom on ev'ry spra,
  Drough all the days o' zunny Ma.




THE BLACKBIRD.


  'Twer out at Penley I'd a-past
  A zummer day that went too vast,
  An' when the zettn zun did spread
  On western clouds a vi'ry red;
  The elems' leafy limbs wer still
  Above the gravel-bedded rill,
  An' under en did warble sh'ill,
  Avore the dusk, the blackbird.

  An' there, in shedes o' darksome yews,
  Did vlee the madens on their tooes,
  A-laughn sh'ill wi' merry fece
  When we did vind their hidn plece.
  'Ithin the loose-bough'd ivys gloom,
  Or lofty lilac, vull in bloom,
  Or hazzle-wrides that gi'ed em room
  Below the zingn blackbird.

  Above our heads the rooks did vlee
  To reach their nested elem-tree,
  An' splashn vish did rise to catch
  The wheeln gnots above the hatch;
  An' there the miller went along,
  A-smiln, up the shedy drong,
  But yeet too deaf to hear the zong
  A-zung us by the blackbird.

  An' there the sh'illy-bubbln brook
  Did leve behind his rocky nook,
  To run drough meds a-chill'd wi' dew,
  Vrom hour to hour the whole night drough;
  But still his murmurs wer a-drown'd
  By vaces that mid never sound
  Agen together on that ground,
  Wi' whislns o' the blackbird.




THE SLANTN LIGHT O' FALL.


  Ah! Jene, my mad, I stood to you,
    When you wer christen'd, small an' light,
  Wi' tiny erms o' red an' blue,
    A-hangn in your robe o' white.
  We brought ye to the hallow'd stwone,
  Vor Christ to teke ye vor his own,
  When harvest work wer all a-done,
  An' time brought round October zun--
      The slantn light o' Fall.

  An' I can mind the wind wer rough,
    An' gather'd clouds, but brought noo storms,
  An' you did nessle warm enough,
    'Ithin your smiln mother's erms.
  The whindln grass did quiver light,
  Among the stubble, feded white,
  An' if at times the zunlight broke
  Upon the ground, or on the vo'k,
      'Twer slantn light o' Fall.

  An' when we brought ye drough the door
    O' Knapton Church, a child o' grece,
  There cluster'd round a'most a score
    O' vo'k to zee your tiny fece.
  An' there we all did veel so proud,
  To zee an' op'nn in the cloud,
  An' then a stream o' light break drough,
  A-sheenn brightly down on you--
      The slantn light o' Fall.

  But now your time's a-come to stand
    In church, a-blushn at my zide,
  The while a bridegroom vrom my hand
    Ha' took ye vor his fathvul bride.
  Your christn neme we gi'd ye here,
  When Fall did cool the westn year;
  An' now, agen, we brought ye drough
  The doorway, wi' your surneme new,
      In slantn light o' Fall.

  An' zoo vur, Jene, your life is feir,
    An' God ha' been your steadvast friend,
  An' mid ye have mwore ja than cere,
    Vor ever, till your journey's end.
  An' I've a-watch'd ye on wi' pride,
  But now I soon mus' leve your zide,
  Vor you ha' still life's spring-tide zun,
  But my life, Jene, is now a-run
    To slantn light o' Fall.




THISSLEDOWN.


  The thissledown by wind's a-roll'd
    In Fall along the zunny plan,
  Did catch the grass, but lose its hold,
    Or cling to bennets, but in van.

  But when it zwept along the grass,
    An' zunk below the hollow's edge,
  It lay at rest while winds did pass
    Above the pit-bescreenn ledge.

  The plan ha' brightness wi' his strife,
    The pit is only dark at best,
  There's pleasure in a worksome life,
    An' sloth is tiresome wi' its rest.

  Zoo, then, I'd sooner ber my pert,
    Ov all the trials vo'k do rue,
  Than have a deadness o' the heart,
    Wi' nothn mwore to veel or do.




THE MAY-TREE.


  I've a-come by the Ma-tree all times o' the year,
          When leaves wer a-springn,
          When vrost wer a-stingn,
  When cool-winded mornn did show the hills clear,
  When night wer bedimmn the vields vur an' near.

  When, in zummer, his head wer as white as a sheet,
          Wi' white buds a-zwelln,
          An' blossom, sweet-smelln,
  While leaves wi' green leaves on his bough-zides did meet,
  A-shedn the deisies down under our veet.

  When the zun, in the Fall, wer a-wandern wan,
          An' haws on his head
          Did sprinkle en red,
  Or bright drops o' ran wer a-hung loosely on,
  To the tips o' the sprigs when the scud wer a-gone.

  An' when, in the winter, the zun did goo low,
          An' keen win' did huffle,
          But never could ruffle
  The hard vrozen fece o' the water below,
  His limbs wer a-fringed wi' the vrost or the snow.




LYDLINCH BELLS.


  When skies wer pele wi' twinkln stars,
  An' whisln ar a-risn keen;
  An' birds did leve the icy bars
  To vind, in woods, their mossy screen;
  When vrozen grass, so white's a sheet,
  Did scrunchy sharp below our veet,
  An' water, that did sparkle red
  At zunzet, wer a-vrozen dead;
  The ringers then did spend an hour
  A-ringn changes up in tow'r;
  Vor Lydlinch bells be good vor sound,
  An' liked by all the naghbours round.

  An' while along the leafless boughs
  O' rusln hedges, win's did pass,
  An' orts ov ha, a-left by cows,
  Did russle on the vrozen grass,
  An' madens' pals, wi' all their work
  A-done, did hang upon their vurk,
  An' they, avore the flemn brand,
  Did teke their needle-work in hand,
  The men did cheer their heart an hour
  A-ringn changes up in tow'r;
  Vor Lydlinch bells be good vor sound,
  An' liked by all the naghbours round.

  There sons did pull the bells that rung
  Their mothers' weddn peals avore,
  The while their fathers led em young
  An' blushn vrom the churches door,
  An' still did cheem, wi' happy sound,
  As time did bring the Zundays round,
  An' call em to the holy plece
  Vor heav'nly gifts o' peace an' grece;
  An' vo'k did come, a-streamn slow
  Along below the trees in row,
  While they, in merry peals, did sound
  The bells vor all the naghbours round.

  An' when the bells, wi' changn peal,
  Did smite their own vo'ks window-penes,
  Their sof'en'd sound did often steal
  Wi' west winds drough the Bagber lenes;
  Or, as the win' did shift, mid goo
  Where woody Stock do nessle lew,
  Or where the risn moon did light
  The walls o' Thornhill on the height;
  An' zoo, whatever time mid bring
  To meke their vive clear vaces zing,
  Still Lydlinch bells wer good vor sound,
  An' liked by all the naghbours round.




THE STAGE COACH.


  Ah! when the wold vo'k went abroad
    They thought it vast enough,
  If vow'r good ho'ses bet the road
    Avore the coach's ruf;
        An' there they zot,
        A-cwold or hot,
  An' roll'd along the ground,
      While the whip did smack
      On the ho'ses' back,
  An' the wheels went swiftly round, Good so's;
          The wheels went swiftly round.

  Noo iron rals did streak the land
    To keep the wheels in track.
  The coachman turn'd his vow'r-in-hand,
    Out right, or left, an' back;
        An' he'd stop avore
        A man's own door,
  To teke en up or down:
      While the rens vell slack
      On the ho'ses' back,
  Till the wheels did rottle round agen;
          Till the wheels did rottle round.

  An' there, when wintry win' did blow,
    Athirt the plan an' hill,
  An' the zun wer pele above the snow,
    An' ice did stop the mill,
        They did laugh an' joke
        Wi' cwoat or cloke,
  So warmly roun' em bound,
      While the whip did crack
      On the ho'ses' back,
  An' the wheels did trundle round, d'ye know;
          The wheels did trundle round.

  An' when the rumbln coach did pass
    Where huffln winds did roar,
  They'd stop to teke a warmn glass
    By the sign above the door;
        An' did laugh an' joke
        An' ax the vo'k
  The miles they wer vrom town,
      Till the whip did crack
      On the ho'ses back,
  An' the wheels did truckle roun', good vo'k;
          The wheels did truckle roun'.

  An' galy rod wold age or youth,
    When zummer light did vall
  On woods in leaf, or trees in blooth,
    Or girt vo'ks parkzide wall.
        An' they thought they past
        The pleces vast,
  Along the dousty groun',
      When the whip did smack
      On the ho'ses' back,
  An' the wheels spun swiftly roun'. Them days
          The wheels spun swiftly roun'.




WAYFEAREN.


  The sky wer clear, the zunsheen glow'd
    On droopn flowers drough the day,
  As I did bet the dousty road
    Vrom hinder hills, a-fedn gray;
    Drough hollows up the hills,
    Vrom knaps along by mills,
  Vrom mills by churches tow'rs, wi' bells
  That twold the hours to woody dells.

  An' when the windn road do guide
    The thirsty vootman where mid flow
  The water vrom a rock bezide
    His vootsteps, in a sheenn bow;
    The hand a-hollow'd up
    Do bet a goolden cup,
  To catch an' drink it, bright an' cool,
  A-valln light 'ithin the pool.

  Zoo when, at last, I hung my head
    Wi' thirsty lips a-burnn dry,
  I come bezide a river-bed
    Where water flow'd so blue's the sky;
    An' there I mede me up
    O' coltsvoot leaf a cup,
  Where water vrom his lip o' gray,
  Wer sweet to sip thik burnn day.

  But when our work is right, a ja
    Do come to bless us in its tran,
  An' hardships ha' zome good to pa
    The thoughtvul soul vor all their pin:
    The het do sweetn shede,
    An' weary lim's ha' mede
  A bed o' slumber, still an' sound,
  By woody hill or grassy mound.

  An' while I zot in sweet delay
    Below an elem on a hill,
  Where boughs a-halfway up did swa
    In shedes o' lim's above em still,
    An' blue sky show'd between
    The flutt'rn leves o' green;
  I woulden gi'e that gloom an' shede
  Vor any room that welth ha' mede.

  But oh! that vo'k that have the roads
    Where weary-vooted souls do pass,
  Would leve bezide the stwone vor lwoads,
    A little strip vor zummer grass;
    That when the stwones do bruise
    An' burn an' gall our tooes,
  We then mid cool our veet on beds
  O' wild-thyme sweet, or deisy-heads.




THE LEANE.


  They do zay that a travelln chap
    Have a-put in the newspeper now,
  That the bit o' green ground on the knap
    Should be all a-took in vor the plough.
  He do fancy 'tis easy to show
    That we can be but stunpolls at best,
  Vor to leve a green spot where a flower can grow,
    Or a voot-weary walker mid rest.
  Tis hedge-grubbn, Thomas, an' ledge-grubbn,
        Never a-done
  While a sov'rn mwore's to be won.

  The road, he do zay, is so wide
    As 'tis wanted vor travellers' wheels,
  As if all that did travel did ride
    An' did never get galls on their heels.
  He would leve sich a thin strip o' groun',
    That, if a man's veet in his shoes
  Wer a-burnn an' zore, why he coulden zit down
    But the wheels would run over his tooes.
  Vor 'tis meke money, Thomas, an' teke money,
        What's zwold an' bought
  Is all that is worthy o' thought.

  Years agoo the lene-zides did bear grass,
    Vor to pull wi' the geeses' red bills,
  That did hiss at the vo'k that did pass,
    Or the bwoys that pick'd up their white quills.
  But shortly, if vower or vive
    Ov our goslns do creep vrom the agg,
  They must mwope in the gerden, mwore dead than alive,
    In a coop, or a-tied by the lag.
  Vor to catch at land, Thomas, an' snatch at land,
        Now is the plan;
  Meke money wherever you can.

  The childern wull soon have noo plece
    Vor to pla in, an' if they do grow,
  They wull have a thin musheroom fece,
    Wi' their bodies so sumple as dough.
  But a man is a-mede ov a child,
    An' his limbs do grow worksome by pla;
  An' if the young child's little body's a-spweil'd,
    Why, the man's wull the sooner deca.
  But wealth is wo'th now mwore than health is wo'th;
        Let it all goo,
  If't 'ull bring but a sov'rn or two.

  Vor to breed the young fox or the here,
    We can gi'e up whole ecres o' ground,
  But the greens be a-grudg'd, vor to rear
    Our young childern up healthy an' sound,
  Why, there woont be a-left the next age
    A green spot where their veet can goo free;
  An' the goocoo wull soon be committed to cage
    Vor a trespass in zomebody's tree.
  Vor 'tis lockn up, Thomas, an' blockn up,
        Stranger or brother,
  Men mussen come nigh woone another.

  Woone day I went in at a gete,
    Wi' my child, where an echo did sound,
  An' the owner come up, an' did rete
    Me as if I would car off his ground.
  But his vield an' the grass wer a-let,
    An' the damage that he could a-took
  Wer at mwost that the while I did open the gete
    I did rub roun' the eye on the hook.
  But 'tis drevn out, Thomas, an' hevn out.
        Trample noo grounds,
  Unless you be after the hounds.

  Ah! the Squir o' Culver-dell Hall
    Wer as diff'rent as light is vrom dark,
  Wi' zome vo'k that, as evenn did vall,
    Had a-broke drough long grass in his park;
  Vor he went, wi' a smile, vor to meet
    Wi' the trespassers while they did pass,
  An' he zaid, "I do fear you'll catch cwold in your veet,
    You've a-walk'd drough so much o' my grass."
  His mild words, Thomas, cut em like swords, Thomas,
        Newly a-whet,
  An' went vurder wi' them than a dreat.




THE RAILROAD.


  I took a flight, awhile agoo,
  Along the rals, a stage or two,
  An' while the heavy wheels did spin
  An' rottle, wi' a deafnn din,
  In clouds o' steam, the zweepn tran
  Did shoot along the hill-bound plan,
  As shedes o' birds in flight, do pass
  Below em on the zunny grass.
  An' as I zot, an' look'd abrode
  On lenen land an' windn road,
  The ground a-spread along our flight
  Did vlee behind us out o' zight;
  The while the zun, our heav'nly guide,
  Did ride on wi' us, zide by zide.
  An' zoo, while time, vrom stage to stage,
  Do car us on vrom youth to age,
  The e'thly pleasures we do vind
  Be soon a-met, an' left behind;
  But God, beholdn vrom above
  Our lowly road, wi' yearnn love,
  Do keep bezide us, stage by stage,
  Vrom be'th to youth, vrom youth to age.




THE RAILROAD.


  An' while I went 'ithin a tran,
  A-ridn on athirt the plan,
  A-cleren swifter than a hound,
  On twin-laid rails, the zwimmn ground;
  I cast my eyes 'ithin a park,
  Upon a woak wi' grey-white bark,
  An' while I kept his head my mark,
  The rest did wheel around en.

  An' when in life our love do cling
  The clwosest round zome single thing,
  We then do vind that all the rest
  Do wheel roun' that, vor vu'st an' best;
  Zoo while our life do last, mid nought
  But what is good an' feir be sought,
  In word or deed, or heart or thought,
  An' all the rest wheel round it.




SEATS.


  When starbright madens be to zit
    In silken frocks, that they do wear,
  The room mid have, as 'tis but fit,
    A han'some seat vor vo'k so feir;
  But we, in zun-dried vield an' wood,
    Ha' seats as good's a goolden chair.

  Vor here, 'ithin the woody drong,
    A ribbd elem-stem do lie,
  A-vell'd in Spring, an' stratch'd along
    A bed o' grgles up knee-high,
  A shedy seat to rest, an' let
    The burnn het o' noon goo by.

  Or if you'd look, wi' wider scope,
    Out where the gray-tree'd plan do spread,
  The ash bezide the zunny slope,
    Do shede a cool-ar'd deisy bed,
  An' grassy seat, wi' spreadn eaves
    O' rus'ln leaves, above your head.

  An' there the tran mid come in zight,
    Too vur to hear a-rolln by,
  A-breathn quick, in hesty flight,
    His breath o' tweil, avore the sky,
  The while the waggon, wi' his lwoad,
    Do crawl the rwoad a-windn nigh.

  Or now these happy holiday
    Do let vo'k rest their wery lim's,
  An' lwoaded hay's a-hangn gray,
    Above the waggon-wheels' dry rims,
  The med ha' seats in weles or pooks,
    By windn brooks, wi' crumbln brims.

  Or if you'd gi'e your thoughtvul mind
    To yonder long-vorseken hall,
  Then teke a stwonn seat behind
    The ivy on the broken wall,
  An' learn how e'thly wealth an' might
    Mid clim' their height, an' then mid vall.




SOUND O' WATER.


  I born in town! oh no, my dawn
  O' life broke here beside these lawn;
  Not where pent ar do roll along,
  In darkness drough the wall-bound drong,
  An' never bring the goo-coo's zong,
  Nor sweets o' blossoms in the hedge,
  Or bendn rush, or sheenn zedge,
    Or sounds o' flown water.

  The ar that I've a-breath'd did sheke
  The draps o' ran upon the breke,
  An' bear aloft the swingn lark,
  An' huffle roun' the elem's bark,
  In boughy grove, an' woody park,
  An' brought us down the dewy dells,
  The high-wound zongs o' nightingeles.
    An' sounds o' flown water.

  An' when the zun, wi' vi'ry rim,
  'S a-zinkn low, an' wearn dim,
  Here I, a-most too tired to stand,
  Do leve my work that's under hand
  In pathless wood or oben land,
  To rest 'ithin my thatchn oves,
  Wi' rusln win's in leafy groves,
    An' sounds o' flown water.




TREES BE COMPANY.


  When zummer's burnn het's a-shed
  Upon the droopn grasses head,
  A-drevn under shedy leaves
  The workvo'k in their snow-white sleeves,
  We then mid yearn to clim' the height,
    Where thorns be white, above the vern;
  An' ar do turn the zunsheen's might
    To softer light too weak to burn--
      On woodless downs we mid be free,
      But lowland trees be company.

  Though downs mid show a wider view
  O' green a-reachn into blue
  Than roads a-windn in the glen,
  An' ringn wi' the sounds o' men;
  The thissle's crown o' red an' blue
    In Fall's cwold dew do wither brown,
  An' larks come down 'ithin the lew,
    As storms do brew, an' skies do frown--
      An' though the down do let us free,
      The lowland trees be company.

  Where birds do zing, below the zun,
  In trees above the blue-smok'd tun,
  An' shedes o' stems do overstratch
  The mossy path 'ithin the hatch;
  If leaves be bright up over head,
    When Ma do shed its glitt'rn light;
  Or, in the blight o' Fall, do spread
    A yollow bed avore our zight--
      Whatever season it mid be,
      The trees be always company.

  When dusky night do nearly hide
  The path along the hedge's zide,
  An' dailight's hwomely sounds be still
  But sounds o' water at the mill;
  Then if noo fece we long'd to greet
    Could come to meet our lwonesome trece
  Or if noo pece o' weary veet,
    However fleet, could reach its plece--
      However lwonesome we mid be,
     The trees would still be company.




A PLECE IN ZIGHT.


  As I at work do look aroun'
  Upon the groun' I have in view,
  To yonder hills that still do rise
  Avore the skies, wi' backs o' blue;
  'Ithin the ridges that do vall
  An' rise roun' Blackmwore lik' a wall,
  'Tis yonder knap do teke my zight
  Vrom dawn till night, the mwost ov all.

  An' there, in Ma, 'ithin the lewth
  O' boughs in blooth, be shedy walks,
  An' cowslips up in yollow beds
  Do hang their heads on downy stalks;
  An' if the weather should be feir
  When I've a holiday to spere,
  I'll teke the chance o' gettn drough
  An hour or two wi' zome vo'k there.

  An' there I now can dimly zee
  The elem-tree upon the mound,
  An' there meke out the high-bough'd grove
  An' narrow drove by Redcliff ground;
  An' there by trees a-risn tall,
  The glown zunlight now do vall,
  Wi' shortest shedes o' middle day,
  Upon the gray wold house's wall.

  An' I can zee avore the sky
  A-risn high the churches speer,
  Wi' bells that I do goo to swing,
  An' like to ring, an' like to hear;
  An' if I've luck upon my zide,
  They bells shall sound bwoth loud an' wide,
  A peal above they slopes o' gray,
  Zome merry day wi' Jene a bride.




GWAIN TO BROOKWELL.


  At Easter, though the wind wer high,
  We vound we had a zunny sky,
  An' zoo wold Dobbin had to trudge
  His dousty road by knap an' brudge,
  An' jog, wi' hangn vetterlocks
  A-shekn roun' his heavy hocks,
  An' us, a lwoad not much too small,
  A-ridn out to Brookwell Hall;
  An' there in doust vrom Dobbin's heels,
  An' green light-waggon's vower wheels,
  Our merry laughs did loudly sound,
  In rolln winds athirt the ground;
  While sheenn-ribbons' color'd streks
  Did flutter roun' the madens' cheks,
  As they did zit, wi' smiln lips,
  A-reachn out their vinger-tips
  Toward zome tekn plece or zight
  That they did shew us, left or right;
  An' woonce, when Jimmy tried to plece
  A kiss on cousin Polly's fece,
  She push'd his hat, wi' wicked leers,
  Right off above his two red ears,
  An' there he roll'd along the groun'
  Wi' spreadn brim an' rounded crown,
  An' vound, at last, a cowpon's brim,
  An' launch'd hizzelf, to teke a zwim;
  An' there, as Jim did run to catch
  His neked noddle's bit o' thatch,
  To zee his stranns an' his strides,
  We laugh'd enough to split our zides.
  At Harwood Farm we pass'd the land
  That father's father had in hand,
  An' there, in oben light did spread,
  The very groun's his cows did tread,
  An' there above the stwonn tun
  Avore the dazzln mornn zun,
  Wer still the rolln smoke, the breath
  A-breath'd vrom his wold house's he'th;
  An' there did lie below the door,
  The drashol' that his vootsteps wore;
  But there his mete an' he bwoth died,
  Wi' hand in hand, an' zide by zide;
  Between the seme two peals a-rung,
  Two Zundays, though they wer but young,
  An' laid in sleep, their worksome hands,
  At rest vrom tweil wi' house or lands.
  Then vower childern laid their heads
  At night upon their little beds,
  An' never rose agen below
  A mother's love, or father's ho:
  Dree little madens, small in fece,
  An' woone small bwoy, the fourth in plece
  Zoo when their heedvul father died,
  He call'd his brother to his zide,
  To meke en stand, in hiz own stead,
  His childern's guide, when he wer dead;
  But still avore zix years brought round
  The woodland goo-coo's zummer sound,
  He wested all their little store,
  An' hardship drove em out o' door,
  To tweil till tweilsome life should end.
  'Ithout a single e'thly friend.
  But soon wi' Harwood back behind,
  An' out o' zight an' out o' mind,
  We went a-rottln on, an' mede
  Our way along to Brookwell Slede;
  An' then we vound ourselves draw nigh
  The Ledy's Tow'r that rose on high,
  An' seem'd a-comn on to meet,
  Wi' grown height, wold Dobbin's veet.




BROOKWELL.


  Well, I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while
  To bet the doust a good six mile
  To zee the plece the squier plann'd
  At Brookwell, now a-mede by hand;
  Wi' oben lawn, an' grove, an' pon',
  An' gravel-walks as clen as bron;
  An' grass a'most so soft to tread
  As velvet-pile o' silken thread;
  An' mounds wi' msh, an' rocks wi' flow'rs,
  An' ivy-sheded zummer bow'rs,
  An' dribbln water down below
  The stwonn archs lofty bow.
  An' there do sound the watervall
  Below a cavern's maeshy wall,
  Where pele-green light do struggle down
  A leafy crevice at the crown.
  An' there do gush the foamy bow
  O' water, white as driven snow:
  An' there, a zittn all alwone,
  A little mad o' marble stwone
  Do len her little chek azide
  Upon her lily han', an' bide
  Bezide the valln stream to zee
  Her pitcher vill'd avore her knee.
  An' then the brook, a-rolln dark
  Below a lenn yew-tree's bark,
  Wi' plasome ripples that do run
  A-flashn to the western zun,
  Do shoot, at last, wi' foamy shocks,
  Athirt a ledge o' craggy rocks,
  A-castn in his hesty flight,
  Upon the stwones a robe o' white;
  An' then agen do goo an' vall
  Below a bridge's archd wall,
  Where vo'k agwan athirt do pass
  Vow'r little bwoys a-cast in brass;
  An' woone do hold an angler's wand,
  Wi' steady hand, above the pond;
  An' woone, a-pwentn to the stream
  His little vinger-tip, do seem
  A-shown to his playmetes' eyes,
  Where he do zee the vishes rise;
  An' woone agen, wi' smiln lips,
  Do put a vish his han' do clips
  'Ithin a basket, loosely tied
  About his shoulder at his zide:
  An' after that the fourth do stand
  A-holdn back his pretty hand
  Behind his little ear, to drow
  A stwone upon the stream below.
  An' then the housn, that be all
  Sich pretty hwomes, vrom big to small,
  A-lookn south, do cluster round
  A zunny ledge o' risn ground,
  Avore a wood, a-nestled warm,
  In lewth agen the northern storm,
  Where smoke, a-wreathn blue, do spread
  Above the tuns o' dusky red,
  An' window-penes do glitter bright
  Wi' burnn streams o' zummer light,
  Below the vine, a-tran'd to hem
  Their zides 'ithin his leafy stem,
  An' rangle on, wi' flutt'rn leaves,
  Below the houses' thatchen eaves.
  An' drough a lawn a-spread avore
  The windows, an' the pworchd door,
  A path do wind 'ithin a hatch,
  A-vastn'd wi' a clickn latch,
  An' there up over ruf an' tun,
  Do stan' the smooth-wall'd church o' stwone,
  Wi' carvd windows, thin an' tall,
  A-reachn up the lofty wall;
  An' battlements, a-stannn round
  The tower, ninety veet vrom ground,
  Vrom where a tep'rn speer do spring
  So high's the mornn lark do zing.
  Zoo I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while
  To bet the doust a good six mile,
  To zee the plece the squier plann'd
  At Brookwell, now a-mede by hand.




THE SHY MAN.


  Ah! good Mester Gwillet, that you mid ha' know'd,
  Wer a-bred up at Coomb, an' went little abroad:
  An' if he got in among strangers, he velt
  His poor heart in a twitter, an' ready to melt;
  Or if, by ill luck, in his rambles, he met
  Wi' zome madens a-titt'rn, he burn'd wi' a het,
  That shot all drough the lim's o'n, an' left a cwold zweat,
      The poor little chap wer so shy,
      He wer ready to drap, an' to die.

  But at last 'twer the lot o' the poor little man
  To vall deeply in love, as the best ov us can;
  An' 'twer noo easy task vor a shy man to tell
  Sich a dazzln feir mad that he loved her so well;
  An' woone day when he met her, his knees nearly smote
  Woone another, an' then wi' a struggle he bro't
  A vew vords to his tongue, wi' some mwore in his droat.
      But she, 'ithout doubt, could soon vind
      Vrom two words that come out, zix behind.

  Zoo at langth, when he vound her so smiln an' kind,
  Why he wrote her zome lans, vor to tell her his mind,
  Though 'twer then a hard task vor a man that wer shy,
  To be married in church, wi' a crowd stannn by.
  But he twold her woone day, "I have housen an' lands,
  We could marry by licence, if you don't like banns,"
  An' he cover'd his eyes up wi' woone ov his han's,
      Vor his head seem'd to zwim as he spoke,
      An' the ar look'd so dim as a smoke.

  Well! he vound a good naghbour to goo in his plece
  Vor to buy the goold ring, vor he hadden the fece.
  An' when he went up vor to put in the banns,
  He did sheke in his lags, an' did sheke in his han's.
  Then they ax'd vor her neme, an' her parish or town,
  An' he gi'ed em a leaf, wi' her neme a-wrote down;
  Vor he coulden ha' twold em outright, vor a poun',
      Vor his tongue wer so weak an' so loose,
      When he wanted to speak 'twer noo use.

  Zoo they went to be married, an' when they got there
  All the vo'k wer a-gather'd as if 'twer a feir,
  An' he thought, though his plece mid be pleazn to zome,
  He could all but ha' wish'd that he hadden a-come.
  The bride wer a-smiln as fresh as a rwose,
  An' when he come wi' her, an' show'd his poor nose.
  All the little bwoys shouted, an' cried "There he goes,"
      "There he goes." Oh! vor his pert he velt
      As if the poor heart o'n would melt.

  An' when they stood up by the chancel together,
  Oh! a man mid ha' knock'd en right down wi' a veather,
  He did veel zoo ashem'd that he thought he would rather
  He wrden the bridegroom, but only the father.
  But, though 'tis so funny to zee en so shy,
  Yeet his mind is so lowly, his ams be so high,
  That to do a men deed, or to tell woone a lie,
      You'd vind that he'd shun mwore by half,
      Than to stan' vor vo'ks fun, or their laugh.




THE WINTER'S WILLOW.


  There Liddy zot bezide her cow,
    Upon her lowly seat, O;
  A hood did overhang her brow,
    Her pal wer at her veet, O;
  An' she wer kind, an' she wer feir,
  An' she wer young, an' free o' cere;
  Vew winters had a-blow'd her heir,
    Bezide the Winter's Willow.

  She idden woone a-rear'd in town
    Where many a gaer lass, O,
  Do trip a-smiln up an' down,
    So pele wi' smoke an' gas, O;
  But here, in vields o' grezn herds,
  Her vice ha' mingled sweetest words
  Wi' evenn cherms o' busy birds,
    Bezide the Winter's Willow.

  An' when, at last, wi' betn breast,
    I knock'd avore her door, O,
  She ax'd me in to teke the best
    O' pleces on the vloor, O;
  An' smiln feir avore my zight,
  She blush'd bezide the yollow light
  O' blezn brands, while winds o' night
    Do sheke the Winter's Willow.

  An' if there's readship in her smile,
    She don't begrudge to spere, O,
  To zomebody, a little while,
    The empty woaken chair, O;
  An' if I've luck upon my zide,
  Why, I do think she'll be my bride
  Avore the leaves ha' twice a-died
    Upon the Winter's Willow.

  Above the coach-wheels' rolln rims
    She never rose to ride, O,
  Though she do zet her comely lim's
    Above the mare's white zide, O;
  But don't become too proud to stoop
  An' scrub her milkn pal's white hoop,
  Or zit a-milkn where do droop,
    The wet-stemm'd Winter's Willow.

  An' I've a cow or two in leze,
    Along the river-zide, O,
  An' pals to zet avore her knees,
    At dawn an' evenn-tide, O;
  An' there she still mid zit, an' look
  Athirt upon the woody nook
  Where vu'st I zeed her by the brook
    Bezide the Winter's Willow.

  Zoo, who would heed the treeless down,
    A-bet by all the storms, O,
  Or who would heed the busy town,
    Where vo'k do goo in zwarms, O;
  If he wer in my house below
  The elems, where the vier did glow
  In Liddy's fece, though winds did blow
    Agen the Winter's Willow.




I KNOW WHO.


  Aye, aye, vull rathe the zun mus' rise
  To meke us tired o' zunny skies,
  A-sheenn on the whole day drough,
  From mornn's dawn till evenn's dew.
  When trees be brown an' meds be green,
  An' skies be blue, an' streams do sheen,
  An' thin-edg'd clouds be snowy white
  Above the bluest hills in zight;
  But I can let the daylight goo,
  When I've a-met wi'--I know who.

  In Spring I met her by a bed
  O' laurels higher than her head;
  The while a rwose hung white between
  Her blushes an' the laurel's green;
  An' then in Fall, I went along
  The row of elems in the drong,
  An' herd her zing bezide the cows,
  By yollow leaves o' meple boughs;
  But Fall or Spring is feir to view
  When day do bring me--I know who.

  An' when, wi' wint'r a-comn roun',
  The purple he'th's a-fedn brown,
  An' hangn vern's a-shekn dead,
  Bezide the hill's besheded head:
  An' black-wing'd rooks do glitter bright
  Above my head, in peler light;
  Then though the birds do still the glee
  That sounded in the zummer tree,
  My heart is light the winter drough,
  In me'th at night, wi'--I know who.




JESSIE LEE.


  Above the timber's bendn sh'ouds,
    The western wind did softly blow;
  An' up avore the knap, the clouds
    Did ride as white as driven snow.
  Vrom west to east the clouds did zwim
  Wi' wind that plied the elem's lim';
  Vrom west to east the stream did glide,
  A-sheenn wide, wi' windn brim.

  How feir, I thought, avore the sky
    The slowly-zwimmn clouds do look;
  How soft the win's a-streamn by;
    How bright do roll the wevy brook:
  When there, a-passn on my right,
  A-waikn slow, an' treadn light,
  Young Jessie Lee come by, an' there
  Took all my cere, an' all my zight.

  Vor lovely wer the looks her fece
    Held up avore the western sky:
  An' comely wer the steps her pece
    Did meke a-walkn slowly by:
  But I went east, wi' betn breast,
  Wi' wind, an' cloud, an' brook, vor rest,
  Wi' rest a-lost, vor Jessie gone
  So lovely on, toward the west.

  Blow on, O winds, athirt the hill;
    Zwim on, O clouds; O waters vall,
  Down mshy rocks, vrom mill to mill;
    I now can overlook ye all.
  But roll, O zun, an' bring to me
  My day, if such a day there be,
  When zome dear path to my abode
  Shall be the road o' Jessie Lee.




TRUE LOVE.


  As evenn ar, in green-treed Spring,
  Do sheke the new-sprung pa'sley bed,
  An' wither'd ash-tree keys do swing
  An' vall a-flutt'rn roun' our head:
  There, while the birds do zing their zong
  In bushes down the ash-tree drong,
  Come Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the plece
  Your vace an' fece can meke vor me.

  Below the buddn ashes' height
  We there can linger in the lew,
  While boughs, a-gilded by the light,
  Do sheen avore the sky o' blue:
  But there by zettn zun, or moon
  A-risn, time wull vlee too soon
  Wi' Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the plece
  Her vace an' fece can meke vor me.

  Down where the darksome brook do flow,
  Below the bridge's archd wall,
  Wi' alders dark, a-leann low,
  Above the gloomy watervall;
  There I've a-led ye hwome at night,
  Wi' noo fece else 'ithin my zight
  But yours so feir, an' sweet's the plece
  Your vace an' fece ha' mede me there.

  An' oh! when other years do come,
  An' zettn zuns, wi' yollow glere,
  Drough western window-penes, at hwome,
  Do light upon my evenn chair:
  While day do wene, an' dew do vall,
  Be wi' me then, or else in call,
  As time do vlee, vor sweet's the plece
  Your vace an' fece do meke vor me.

  Ah! you do smile, a-thinkn light
  O' my true words, but never mind;
  Smile on, smile on, but still your flight
  Would leve me little ja behind:
  But let me not be zoo a-tried
  Wi' you a-lost where I do bide,
  O Jessie Lee, in any plece
  Your vace an' fece ha' blest vor me.

  I'm sure that when a soul's a-brought
  To this our life ov ar an' land,
  Woone mwore's a-mark'd in God's good thought,
  To help, wi' love, his heart an' hand.
  An' oh! if there should be in store
  An angel here vor my poor door,
  'Tis Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the plece
  Her vace an' feace can meke vor me.




THE BEAN VIELD.


  'Twer where the zun did warm the lewth,
  An' win' did whiver in the shede,
  The sweet-ar'd bens were out in blooth,
  Down there 'ithin the elem glede;
  A yollow-banded bee did come,
  An' softly-pitch, wi' hushn hum,
  Upon a ben, an' there did sip,
  Upon a swan blossom's lip:
  An' there cried he, "Aye, I can zee,
  This blossom's all a-zent vor me."

  A-jilted up an' down, astride
  Upon a lofty ho'se a-trot,
  The mester then come by wi' pride,
  To zee the bens that he'd a-got;
  An' as he zot upon his ho'se,
  The ho'se agen did snort an' toss
  His high-ear'd head, an' at the zight
  Ov all the blossom, black an' white:
  "Ah! ah!" thought he, the seme's the bee,
  "These bens be all a-zent vor me."

  Zoo let the worold's riches breed
  A strife o' clams, wi' weak and strong,
  Vor now what cause have I to heed
  Who's in the right, or in the wrong;
  Since there do come drough yonder hatch,
  An' bloom below the house's thatch,
  The best o' madens, an' do own
  That she is mine, an' mine alwone:
  Zoo I can zee that love do gi'e
  The best ov all good gifts to me.

  Vor whose be all the crops an' land
  A-won an' lost, an' bought, an zwold
  Or whose, a-roll'd vrom hand to hand,
  The highest money that's a-twold?
  Vrom man to man a passn on,
  'Tis here to-day, to-morrow gone.
  But there's a blessn high above
  It all--a soul o' stedvast love:
  Zoo let it vlee, if God do gi'e
  Sweet Jessie vor a gift to me.




WOLD FRIENDS A-MET.


  Aye, vull my heart's blood now do roll,
  An' ga do rise my happy soul,
  An' well they mid, vor here our veet
  Avore woone vier agen do meet;
  Vor you've avoun' my fece, to greet
  Wi' welcome words my startln ear.
  An' who be you, but John o' Weer,
  An' I, but William Wellburn.

  Here, light a candle up, to shed
  Mwore light upon a wold friend's head,
  An' show the smile, his fece woonce mwore
  Ha' brought us vrom another shore.
  An' I'll heave on a brand avore
  The vier back, to meke good cheer,
  O' roarn flemes, vor John o' Weer
  To chat wi' William Wellburn.

  Aye, aye, it mid be true that zome,
  When they do wander out vrom hwome,
  Do leve their nearest friends behind,
  Bwoth out o' zight, an' out o' mind;
  But John an' I ha' ties to bind
  Our souls together, vur or near,
  For, who is he but John o' Weer.
  An' I, but William Wellburn.

  Look, there he is, with twinkln eyes,
  An' elbows down upon his thighs.
  A-chuckln low, wi' merry grin.
  Though time ha' roughen'd up his chin,
  'Tis still the seme true soul 'ithin,
  As woonce I know'd, when year by year,
  Thik very chap, thik John o' Weer,
  Did pla wi' William Wellburn.

  Come, John, come; don't be dead-alive
  Here, reach us out your clust'r o' vive.
  Oh! you be happy. Ees, but that
  Woon't do till you can laugh an' chat.
  Don't blinky, lik' a purrn cat,
  But lep an' laugh, an' let vo'k hear
  What's happen'd, min, that John o' Weer
  Ha' met wi' William Wellburn.

  Vor zome, wi' selfishness too strong
  Vor love, do do each other wrong;
  An' zome do wrangle an' divide
  In hets ov anger, bred o' pride;
  But who do think that time or tide
  Can breed ill-will in friends so dear,
  As William wer to John o' Weer,
  An' John to William Wellburn?

  If other vo'ks do gleen to zee
  How lovn an' how glad we be,
  What, then, poor souls, they had but vew
  Sich happy days, so long agoo,
  As they that I've a-spent wi' you;
  But they'd hold woone another dear,
  If woone o' them wer John o' Weer,
  An' tother William Wellburn.




FIFEHEAD.


  'Twer where my fondest thoughts do light,
  At Fifehead, while we spent the night;
  The millwheel's restn rim wer dry,
  An' houn's held up their evenn cry;
  An' lofty, drough the midnight sky,
  Above the vo'k, wi' heavy heads,
  Asleep upon their darksome beds,
  The stars wer all awake, John.

  Noo birds o' day wer out to spread
  Their wings above the gully's bed,
  An' darkness roun' the elem-tree
  'D a-still'd the charmy childern's glee.
  All he'ths wer cwold but woone, where we
  Wer ga, 'tis true, but ga an' wise,
  An' laugh'd in light o' maden's eyes,
  That glissen'd wide awake, John.

  An' when we all, lik' loosen'd hounds,
  Broke out o' doors, wi' merry sounds,
  Our friends among the plasome team,
  All brought us gwin so vur's the stream.
  But Jene, that there, below a gleam
  O' light, watch'd woone o's out o' zight;
  Vor willnly, vor his "Good night,"
  She'd longer bide awake, John.

  An' while up _Leighs_ we stepp'd along
  Our grassy path, wi' joke an' zong,
  There _Plumber_, wi' its woody ground,
  O' slopn knaps a-screen'd around,
  Rose dim 'ithout a breath o' sound,
  The wold abode o' squiers a-gone,
  Though while they lay a-sleepn on,
  Their stars wer still awake, John.




IVY HALL.


  If I've a-stream'd below a storm,
    An' not a-velt the ran,
  An' if I ever velt me warm,
    In snow upon the plan,
  'Twer when, as evenn skies wer dim,
  An' vields below my eyes wer dim,
  I went alwone at evenn-fall,
  Athirt the vields to Ivy Hall.

  I voun' the wind upon the hill,
    Last night, a-roarn loud,
  An' rubbn boughs a-creakn sh'ill
    Upon the ashes' sh'oud;
  But oh! the reeln copse mid groan;
  An' timber's lofty tops mid groan;
  The huffln winds be music all,
  Bezide my road to Ivy Hall.

  A shedy grove o' ribbd woaks,
    Is Wootton's shelter'd nest,
  An' woaks do keep the winter's strokes
    Vrom Knapton's evenn rest.
  An' woaks agen wi' bossy stems,
  An' elems wi' their mossy stems,
  Do rise to screen the leafy wall
  An' stwonn ruf ov Ivy Hall.

  The darksome clouds mid fling their sleet.
    An' vrost mid pinch me blue,
  Or snow mid cling below my veet,
    An' hide my road vrom view.
  The winter's only ja ov heart,
  An' storms do meke me ga ov heart,
  When I do rest, at evenn-fall,
  Bezide the he'th ov Ivy Hall.

  There leafy stems do clim' around
    The mossy stwonn eaves;
  An' there be window-zides a-bound
    Wi' quiv'rn ivy-leaves.
  But though the sky is dim 'ithout,
  An' feces mid be grim 'ithout,
  Still I ha' smiles when I do call,
  At evenn-tide, at Ivy Hall.




FALSE FRIENDS-LIKE.


  When I wer still a bwoy, an' mother's pride,
  A bigger bwoy spoke up to me so kind-like,
  "If you do like, I'll treat ye wi' a ride
  In these wheel-barrow here." Zoo I wer blind-like
  To what he had a-workn in his mind-like,
  An' mounted vor a passenger inside;
  An' comn to a puddle, perty wide,
  He tipp'd me in, a-grinnn back behind-like.
  Zoo when a man do come to me so thick-like,
  An' sheke my hand, where woonce he pass'd me by,
  An' tell me he would do me this or that,
  I can't help thinkn o' the big bwoy's trick-like.
  An' then, vor all I can but wag my hat
  An' thank en, I do veel a little shy.




THE BACHELOR.


  No! I don't begrudge en his life,
    Nor his goold, nor his housen, nor lands;
  Teke all o't, an' gi'e me my wife,
    A wife's be the cheapest ov hands.
      Lie alwone! sigh alwone! die alwone!
            Then be vorgot.
      No! I be content wi' my lot.

  Ah! where be the vingers so feir,
    Vor to pat en so soft on the fece,
  To mend ev'ry stitch that do tear,
    An' keep ev'ry button in plece?
      Crack a-tore! brack a-tore! back a-tore!
            Buttons a-vled!
     Vor want ov a wife wi' her thread.

  Ah! where is the sweet-perty head
    That do nod till he's gone out o' zight?
  An' where be the two erms a-spread,
    To show en he's welcome at night?
      Dine alwone! pine alwone! whine alwone!
            Oh! what a life!
      I'll have a friend in a wife.

  An' when vrom a meetn o' me'th
    Each husban' do led hwome his bride,
  Then he do slink hwome to his he'th,
    Wi' his erm a-hung down his cwold zide.
      Slinkn on! blinkn on! thinkn on!
            Gloomy an' glum;
      Nothn but dullness to come.

  An' when he do onlock his door,
    Do rumble as hollow's a drum,
  An' the veries a-hid roun' the vloor,
    Do grin vor to see en so glum.
      Keep alwone! sleep alwone! weep alwone!
            There let en bide,
      I'll have a wife at my zide.

  But when he's a-laid on his bed
    In a zickness, O, what wull he do!
  Vor the hands that would lift up his head,
    An' sheke up his pillor anew.
      Ills to come! pills to come! bills to come!
            Noo soul to shere
      The trials the poor wratch must bear.




MARRIED PEIR'S LOVE WALK.


  Come let's goo down the grove to-night;
  The moon is up, 'tis all so light
  As day, an' win' do blow enough
  To sheke the leaves, but tiddn rough.
  Come, Esther, teke, vor wold time's seke,
  Your hooded cloke, that's on the pin,
  An' wrap up warm, an' teke my erm,
  You'll vind it better out than in.
  Come, Etty dear; come out o' door,
  An' teke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

  How charmn to our very souls,
  Wer woonce your evenn maden strolls,
  The while the zettn zunlight dyed
  Wi' red the beeches' western zide,
  But back avore your vinger wore
  The weddn ring that's now so thin;
  An' you did shere a mother's cere,
  To watch an' call ye erly in.
  Come, Etty dear; come out o' door,
  An' teke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

  An' then agen, when you could slight
  The clock a-strikn lete at night,
  The while the moon, wi' risn rim,
  Did light the beeches' eastern lim'.
  When I'd a-bound your vinger round
  Wi' thik goold ring that's now so thin,
  An' you had nwone but me alwone
  To teke ye lete or erly in.
  Come, Etty dear; come out o' door,
  An' teke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

  But often when the western zide
  O' trees did glow at evenn-tide,
  Or when the leter moon did light
  The beeches' eastern boughs at night,
  An' in the grove, where vo'k did rove
  The crumpled leaves did vlee an' spin,
  You couldn shere the pleasure there:
  Your work or childern kept ye in.
  Come, Etty dear, come out o' door,
  An' teke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

  But ceres that zunk your oval chin
  Agen your bosom's lily skin,
  Vor all they mede our life so black,
  Be now a-lost behind our back.
  Zoo never mwope, in midst of hope,
  To slight our blessns would be sin.
  Ha! ha! well done, now this is fun;
  When you do like I'll bring ye in.
  Here, Etty dear; here, out o' door,
  We'll teke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.




A WIFE A-PRAS'D.


  'Twer Ma, but ev'ry leaf wer dry
  All day below a sheenn sky;
  The zun did glow wi' yollow glere,
  An' cowslips blow wi' yollow glere,
  Wi' grgles' bells a-droopn low,
  An' bremble boughs a-stoopn low;
  While culvers in the trees did coo
    Above the valln dew.

  An' there, wi' heir o' glossy black,
  Bezide your neck an' down your back,
  You rambled ga a-bloomn feir;
  By boughs o' ma a-bloomn feir;
  An' while the birds did twitter nigh,
  An' water weves did glitter nigh,
  You gather'd cowslips in the lew,
    Below the valln dew.

  An' now, while you've a-been my bride
  As years o' flow'rs ha' bloom'd an' died,
  Your smiln fece ha' been my ja;
  Your soul o' grece ha' been my ja;
  An' wi' my evenn rest a-come,
  An' zunsheen to the west a-come,
  I'm glad to teke my road to you
    Vrom vields o' valln dew.

  An' when the ran do wet the ma,
  A-bloomn where we woonce did stra,
  An' win' do blow along so vast,
  An' streams do flow along so vast;
  Agen the storms so rough abroad,
  An' angry tongues so gruff abroad,
  The love that I do meet vrom you
    Is lik' the valln dew.

  An' you be sprack's a bee on wing,
  In search ov honey in the Spring:
  The dawn-red sky do meet ye up;
  The birds vu'st cry do meet ye up;
  An' wi' your fece a-smiln on,
  An' busy hands a-tweiln on,
  You'll vind zome useful work to do
    Until the valln dew.




THE WIFE A-LOST.


  Since I noo mwore do zee your fece,
    Up steirs or down below,
  I'll zit me in the lwonesome plece,
    Where flat-bough'd beech do grow:
  Below the beeches' bough, my love,
    Where you did never come,
  An' I don't look to meet ye now,
    As I do look at hwome.

  Since you noo mwore be at my zide,
    In walks in zummer het,
  I'll goo alwone where mist do ride,
    Drough trees a-drippn wet:
  Below the ran-wet bough, my love,
    Where you did never come,
  An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
    As I do grieve at home.

  Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard
    Your vace do never sound,
  I'll eat the bit I can avword,
    A-vield upon the ground;
  Below the darksome bough, my love,
    Where you did never dine,
  An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
    As I at hwome do pine.

  Since I do miss your vace an' fece
    In praer at eventide,
  I'll pra wi' woone said vace vor grece
    To goo where you do bide;
  Above the tree an' bough, my love,
    Where you be gone avore,
  An' be a-watn vor me now,
    To come vor evermwore.




THE THORNS IN THE GETE.


  Ah! Mester Collins overtook
  Our knot o' vo'k a-stannn still,
  Last Zunday, up on Ivy Hill,
  To zee how strong the corn did look.
  An' he stay'd back awhile an' spoke
  A vew kind words to all the vo'k,
  Vor good or joke, an' wi' a smile
  Begun a-plan wi' a chile.

  The zull, wi' iron zide awry,
  Had long a-vurrow'd up the vield;
  The heavy roller had a-wheel'd
  It smooth vor showers vrom the sky;
  The bird-bwoy's cry, a-risn sh'ill,
  An' clacker, had a-left the hill,
  All bright but still, vor time alwone
  To speed the work that we'd a-done.

  Down drough the wind, a-blown keen,
  Did glere the nearly cloudless sky,
  An' corn in blede, up ancle-high,
  'lthin the gete did quiver green;
  An' in the gete a-lock'd there stood
  A prickly row o' thornn wood
  Vor vo'k vor food had done their best,
  An' left to Spring to do the rest.

  "The gete," he cried, "a-seal'd wi' thorn
  Vrom harmvul veet's a-left to hold
  The blede a-springn vrom the mwold,
  While God do ripen it to corn.
  An' zoo in life let us vulvil
  Whatever is our Meker's will,
  An' then bide still, wi' peacevul breast,
  While He do manage all the rest."




ANGELS BY THE DOOR.


  Oh! there be angels evermwore,
  A-passn onward by the door,
  A-zent to teke our jas, or come
  To bring us zome--O Merianne.
  Though doors be shut, an' bars be stout,
  Noo bolted door can keep em out;
  But they wull leve us ev'ry thing
  They have to bring--My Merianne.

  An' zoo the days a-stealn by,
  Wi' zuns a-ridn drough the sky,
  Do bring us things to leve us sad,
  Or meke us glad--O Merianne.
  The day that's mild, the day that's stern,
  Do teke, in stillness, each his turn;
  An' evils at their worst mid mend,
  Or even end--My Merianne.

  But still, if we can only bear
  Wi' fath an' love, our pan an' cere,
  We shan't vind missn jas a-lost,
  Though we be crost--O Merianne.
  But all a-took to heav'n, an' stow'd
  Where we can't weste em on the road,
  As we do wander to an' fro,
  Down here below--My Merianne.

  But there be jas I'd soonest choose
  To keep, vrom them that I must lose;
  Your workzome hands to help my tweil,
  Your cheerful smile--O Merianne.
  The Zunday bells o' yonder tow'r,
  The moonlight shedes o' my own bow'r,
  An' rest avore our vier-zide,
  At evenn-tide--My Merianne.




VO'K A-COMN INTO CHURCH.


  The church do zeem a touchn zight,
    When vo'k, a-comn in at door,
    Do softly tread the long-al'd vloor
  Below the pillar'd arches' height,
      Wi' bells a-pealn,
      Vo'k a-kneeln,
  Hearts a-healn, wi' the love
  An' pece a-zent em vrom above.

  An' there, wi' mild an' thoughtvul fece,
    Wi' downcast eyes, an' vaces dum',
    The wold an' young do slowly come,
  An' teke in stillness each his plece,
      A-zinkn slowly,
      Kneeln lowly,
  Seekn holy thoughts alwone,
  In pra'r avore their Meker's throne.

  An' there be sons in youthvul pride,
    An' fathers weak wi' years an' pan,
    An' daughters in their mother's tran.
  The tall wi' smaller at their zide;
      Heads in murnn
      Never turnn,
  Cheks a-burnn, wi' the het
  O' youth, an' eyes noo tears do wet.

  There friends do settle, zide by zide,
    The knower speechless to the known;
    Their vace is there vor God alwone
  To flesh an' blood their tongues be tied.
      Grief a-wringn,
      Ja a-zingn,
  Pray'r a-bringn welcome rest
  So softly to the troubled breast.




WOONE RULE.


  An' while I zot, wi' thoughtvul mind,
  Up where the lwonesome Coombs do wind,
  An' watch'd the little gully slide
  So crookd to the river-zide;
  I thought how wrong the Stour did zeem
  To roll along his rambln stream,
  A-runnn wide the left o' south,
  To vind his mouth, the right-hand zide.

  But though his stream do teke, at mill.
  An' eastward bend by Newton Hill,
  An' goo to lay his welcome boon
  O' daly water round Hammoon,
  An' then wind off agen, to run
  By Blanvord, to the noonday zun,
  'Tis only bound by woone rule all,
  An' that's to vall down steepest ground.

  An' zoo, I thought, as we do bend
  Our wa drough life, to reach our end,
  Our God ha' gi'ed us, vrom our youth,
  Woone rule to be our guide--His truth.
  An' zoo wi' that, though we mid teke
  Wide rambles vor our callns' seke,
  What is, is best, we needen fear,
  An' we shall steer to happy rest.




GOOD MESTER COLLINS.


  Aye, Mester Collins wer a-blest
  Wi' grece, an' now's a-gone to rest;
  An' though his heart did bet so meek
  'S a little child's, when he did speak,
  The godly wisdom ov his tongue
  Wer dew o' grece to wold an' young.

  'Twer woonce, upon a zummer's tide,
  I zot at Brookwell by his zide,
  Avore the leke, upon the rocks,
  Above the water's idle shocks,
  As little plasome weves did zwim
  Agen the water's windy brim,
  Out where the lofty tower o' stwone
  Did stan' to years o' wind an' zun;
  An' where the zwelln pillars bore
  A pworch above the heavy door,
  Wi' sister shedes a-reachn cool
  Athirt the stwones an' sparkln pool.

  I spoke zome word that mede en smile,
  O' girt vo'k's wealth an' poor vo'k's tweil,
  As if I pin'd, vor want ov grece,
  To have a lord's or squier's plece.
  "No, no," he zaid, "what God do zend
  Is best vor all o's in the end,
  An' all that we do need the mwost
  Do come to us wi' lest o' cost;--
  Why, who could live upon the e'th
  'Ithout God's gft ov ar vor breath?
  Or who could bide below the zun
  If water didden rise an' run?
  An' who could work below the skies
  If zun an' moon did never rise?
  Zoo ar an' water, an' the light,
  Be higher gifts, a-reckon'd right,
  Than all the goold the darksome cla
  Can ever yield to zunny da:
  But then the ar is roun' our heads,
  Abroad by day, or on our beds;
  Where land do gi'e us room to bide,
  Or seas do spread vor ships to ride;
  An' He do zend his waters free,
  Vrom clouds to lands, vrom lands to sea:
  An' mornn light do blush an' glow,
  'Ithout our tweil--'ithout our ho.

  "Zoo let us never pine, in sin,
  Vor gifts that ben't the best to win;
  The heaps o' goold that zome mid pile,
  Wi' sleepless nights an' peaceless tweil;
  Or manor that mid reach so wide
  As Blackmwore is vrom zide to zide,
  Or kingly swa, wi' life or death,
  Vor helpless childern ov the e'th:
  Vor these ben't gifts, as He do know,
  That He in love should vu'st bestow;
  Or else we should have had our shere
  O'm all wi' little tweil or cere.

  "Ov all His choicest gifts, His cry
  Is, 'Come, ye moneyless, and buy.'
  Zoo blest is he that can but lift
  His prayer vor a happy gift."




HERRENSTON.


  Zoo then the ledy an' the squier,
    At Chris'mas, gather'd girt an' small,
  Vor me'th, avore their roarn vier,
    An! roun' their bwoard, 'ithin the hall;
  An' there, in glitt'rn rows, between
  The roun'-rimm'd pletes, our knives did sheen,
    Wi' frothy ele, an' cup an' can,
    Vor mad an' man, at Herrenston.

  An' there the jeints o' beef did stand,
    Lik' cliffs o' rock, in goodly row;
  Where woone mid quarry till his hand
    Did tire, an' meke but little show;
  An' after we'd a-took our seat,
  An' grece had been a-zaid vor meat,
    We zet to work, an' zoo begun
    Our fest an' fun at Herrenston.

  An' mothers there, bezide the bwoards,
    Wi' little childern in their laps,
  Did stoop, wi' lovn looks an' words,
    An' veed em up wi' bits an' draps;
  An' smiln husbands went in quest
  O' what their wives did like the best;
    An' you'd ha' zeed a happy zight,
    Thik merry night, at Herrenston.

  An' then the band, wi' each his leaf
    O' notes, above us at the zide,
  Play'd up the prase ov England's beef
    An' vill'd our hearts wi' English pride;
  An' leafy chans o' garlands hung,
  Wi' dazzln stripes o' flags, that swung
    Above us, in a bleze o' light,
    Thik happy night, at Herrenston.

  An' then the clerk, avore the vier,
    Begun to lead, wi' smiln fece,
  A carol, wi' the Monkton quire,
    That rung drough all the crowded plece.
  An' dins' o' words an' laughter broke
  In merry peals drough clouds o' smoke;
    Vor hardly wer there woone that spoke,
    But pass'd a joke, at Herrenston.

  Then man an' mad stood up by twos,
    In rows, drough passage, out to door,
  An' galy bet, wi' nimble shoes,
    A dance upon the stwonn floor.
  But who is worthy vor to tell,
  If she that then did bear the bell,
    Wer woone o' Monkton, or o' Ceme,
    Or zome sweet neme ov Herrenston.

  Zoo peace betide the girt vo'k's land,
    When they can stoop, wi' kindly smile,
  An' teke a poor man by the hand,
    An' cheer en in his daily tweil.
  An' oh! mid He that's vur above
  The highest here, reward their love,
    An' gi'e their happy souls, drough grece,
    A higher plece than Herrenston.




OUT AT PLOUGH.


  Though cool avore the sheenn sky
  Do vall the shedes below the copse,
  The timber-trees, a-reachn high,
  Ha' zunsheen on their lofty tops,
  Where yonder land's a-lyn plow'd,
  An' red, below the snow-white cloud,
  An' vlocks o' pitchn rooks do vwold
  Their wings to walk upon the mwold.
      While floods be low,
      An' buds do grow,
          An' ar do blow, a-broad, O.

  But though the ar is cwold below
  The creakn copses' darksome screen,
  The truest shede do only show
  How strong the warmer zun do sheen;
  An' even times o' grief an' pan,
  Ha' good a-comn in their tran,
  An' 'tis but happiness do mark
  The shedes o' sorrow out so dark.
      As tweils be sad,
      Or smiles be glad,
          Or times be bad, at hwome, O

  An' there the zunny land do lie
  Below the hangn, in the lew,
  Wi' vurrows now a-crumbln dry,
  Below the plowman's dousty shoe;
  An' there the bwoy do whissel sh'ill,
  Below the skylark's merry bill,
  Where primrwose beds do deck the zides
  O' banks below the meple wrides.
      As trees be bright
      Wi' bees in flight,
          An' weather's bright, abroad, O.

  An' there, as sheenn wheels do spin
  Vull speed along the dousty rwoad,
  He can but stan', an' wish 'ithin
  His mind to be their happy lwoad,
  That he mid galy ride, an' goo
  To towns the rwoad mid teke en drough,
  An' zee, for woonce, the zights behind
  The bluest hills his eyes can vind,
      O' towns, an' tow'rs,
      An' downs, an' flow'rs,
          In zunny hours, abroad, O.

  But still, vor all the weather's feir,
  Below a cloudless sky o' blue,
  The bwoy at plough do little cere
  How vast the brightest day mid goo;
  Vor he'd be glad to zee the zun
  A-zettn, wi' his work a-done,
  That he, at hwome, mid still inja
  His happy bit ov evenn pla,
      So light's a lark
      Till night is dark,
          While dogs do bark, at hwome, O.




THE BWOAT.


  Where cows did slowly seek the brink
  O' _Stour_, drough zunburnt grass, to drink;
  Wi' vishn float, that there did zink
    An' rise, I zot as in a dream.
  The dazzln zun did cast his light
  On hedge-row blossom, snowy white,
  Though nothn yet did come in zight,
    A-stirrn on the stran stream;

  Till, out by shedy rocks there show'd,
  A bwoat along his foamy road,
  Wi' thik feir mad at mill, a-row'd
    Wi' Jene behind her brother's oars.
  An' stetely as a queen o' vo'k,
  She zot wi' floatn scarlet cloak,
  An' comn on, at ev'ry stroke,
    Between my withy-sheded shores.

  The broken stream did idly try
  To show her shepe a-ridn by,
  The rushes brown-bloom'd stems did ply,
    As if they bow'd to her by will.
  The rings o' water, wi' a sock,
  Did break upon the mossy rock,
  An' gi'e my betn heart a shock,
    Above my float's up-leapn quill.

  Then, lik' a cloud below the skies,
  A-drifted off, wi' less'nn size,
  An' lost, she floated vrom my eyes,
    Where down below the stream did wind;
  An' left the quiet weves woonce mwore
  To zink to rest, a sky-blue'd vloor,
  Wi' all so still's the clote they bore,
    Aye, all but my own ruffled mind.




THE PLECE OUR OWN AGEN.


  Well! thanks to you, my fathful Jene,
  So worksome wi' your head an' hand,
  We seved enough to get agen
  My poor vorefather's plot o' land.
  'Twer folly lost, an' cunnn got,
  What should ha' come to me by lot.
  But let that goo; 'tis well the land
  Is come to hand, by be'th or not.

  An' there the brook, a-windn round
  The parrick zide, do run below
  The grey-stwon'd bridge wi' gurgln sound,
  A-sheded by the arches' bow;
  Where former days the wold brown mere,
  Wi' father on her back, did wear
  Wi' heavy shoes the grav'ly lene,
  An' sheke her mene o' yollor heir.

  An' many zummers there ha' glow'd,
  To shrink the brook in bubbln shoals,
  An' warm the doust upon the road,
  Below the trav'ller's burnn zoles.
  An' zome ha' zent us to our bed
  In grief, an' zome in ja ha' vled;
  But vew ha' come wi' happier light
  Than what's now bright, above our head.

  The brook did pert, zome years agoo,
  Our Grenley meds vrom Knapton's Ridge
  But now you know, between the two,
  A-road's a-mede by Grenley Bridge.
  Zoo why should we shrink back at zight
  Ov hindrances we ought to slight?
  A hearty will, wi' God our friend,
  Will gan its end, if 'tis but right.




[Gothic: Eclogue.]

_John an' Thomas._


  THOMAS.

  How b'ye, then, John, to-night; an' how
  Be times a-waggn on w' ye now?
  I can't help slackenn my pece
  When I do come along your plece,
  To zee what crops your bit o' groun'
  Do bear ye all the zummer roun'.
  'Tis true you don't get fruit nor blooth,
  'Ithin the glassn houses' lewth;
  But if a man can rear a crop
  Where win' do blow an' ran can drop,
  Do seem to come, below your hand,
  As fine as any in the land.

  JOHN.

  Well, there, the gerden stuff an' flow'rs
  Don't leve me many idle hours;
  But still, though I mid plant or zow,
  'Tis Woone above do meke it grow.

  THOMAS.

  Aye, aye, that's true, but still your strip
  O' groun' do show good workmanship:
  You've onions there nine inches round,
  An' turmits that would wagh a pound;
  An' cabbage wi' its hard white head,
  An' teties in their dousty bed,
  An' carrots big an' straght enough
  Vor any show o' gerden stuff;
  An' trees ov apples, red-skinn'd balls
  An' purple plums upon the walls,
  An' peas an' bens; bezides a store
  O' herbs vor ev'ry pan an' zore.

  JOHN.

  An' over hedge the win's a-herd,
  A rusln drough my barley's beard;
  An' swaen wheat do overspread
  Zix ridges in a sheet o' red;
  An' then there's woone thing I do call
  The girtest handiness ov all:
  My ground is here at hand, avore
  My eyes, as I do stand at door;
  An' zoo I've never any need
  To goo a mile to pull a weed.

  THOMAS.

  No, sure, a mil shoulden stratch
  Between woone's gerden an' woone's hatch.
  A man would like his house to stand
  Bezide his little bit o' land.

  JOHN.

  Ees. When woone's groun' vor gerden stuff
  Is roun' below the house's ruf,
  Then woone can spend upon woone's land
  Odd minutes that mid lie on hand,
  The while, wi' night a-comn on,
  The red west sky's a-wearn wan;
  Or while woone's wife, wi' busy hands,
  Avore her vier o' burnn brands,
  Do put, as best she can avword,
  Her bit o' dinner on the bwoard.
  An' here, when I do teke my road,
  At breakfast-time, agwan abrode,
  Why, I can zee if any plot
  O' groun' do want a hand or not;
  An' bid my childern, when there's need,
  To draw a reke or pull a weed,
  Or heal young bens or peas in line,
  Or tie em up wi' rods an' twine,
  Or peel a kindly withy white
  To hold a droopn flow'r upright.

  THOMAS.

  No. Bits o' time can zeldom come
  To much on groun' a mile vrom hwome.
  A man at hwome should have in view
  The jobs his childern's hands can do,
  An' groun' abrode mid teke em all
  Beyond their mother's zight an' call,
  To get a zoakn in a storm,
  Or vall, i' may be, into harm.

  JOHN.

  Ees. Gerden groun', as I've a-zed,
  Is better near woone's bwoard an' bed.




PENTRIDGE BY THE RIVER.


  Pentridge!--oh! my heart's a-zwelln
  Vull o' ja wi' vo'k a-telln
    Any news o' thik wold plece,
  An' the boughy hedges round it,
  An' the river that do bound it
    Wi' his dark but glis'nn fece.
  Vor there's noo land, on either hand,
  To me lik' Pentridge by the river.

  Be there any leaves to quiver
  On the aspen by the river?
    Doo he shede the water still,
  Where the rushes be a-grown,
  Where the sullen Stour's a-flown
    Drough the meds vrom mill to mill?
  Vor if a tree wer dear to me,
  Oh! 'twer thik aspen by the river.

  There, in eegrass new a-shootn,
  I did run on even vootn,
    Happy, over new-mow'd land;
  Or did zing wi' zingn drushes
  While I plated, out o' rushes,
    Little baskets vor my hand;
  Bezide the clote that there did float,
  Wi' yollow blossoms, on the river.

  When the western zun's a valln,
  What sh'ill vace is now a-calln
    Hwome the deiry to the pals;
  Who do dreve em on, a-flingn
  Wide-bow'd horns, or slowly zwingn
    Right an' left their tufty tals?
  As they do goo a-huddled drough
  The gete a-ledn up vrom river.

  Bleded grass is now a-shootn
  Where the vloor wer woonce our vootn,
    While the hall wer still in plece.
  Stwones be looser in the walln;
  Hollow trees be nearer valln;
    Ev'ry thing ha' chang'd its fece.
  But still the neme do bide the seme--
  'Tis Pentridge--Pentridge by the river.




WHEAT.


  In brown-leav'd Fall the wheat a-left
    'Ithin its darksome bed,
  Where all the creakn roller's heft
    Seal'd down its lowly head,
  Sprung shekn drough the crumbln mwold,
    Green-yollow, vrom below,
  An' bent its bledes, a-glitt'rn cwold,
    At last in winter snow.
        Zoo luck betide
        The upland zide,
        Where wheat do wride,
        In corn-vields wide,
    By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

  An' while the screamn bird-bwoy shook
    Wi' little zun-burnt hand,
  His clacker at the bright-wing'd rook,
    About the zeeded land;
  His mester there did come an' stop
    His bridle-champn mere,
  Wi' thankvul heart, to zee his crop
    A-comn up so feir.
        As there awhile
        By gete or stile,
        He gi'ed the chile
        A cheern smile,
  By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

  At last, wi' ers o' darksome red,
    The yollow stalks did ply,
  A-swan slow, so heavy 's lead,
    In ar a-blown by;
  An' then the busy reapers laid
    In row their russln grips,
  An' sheves, a-lenn head by head,
    Did meke the stitches tips.
        Zoo food's a-vound,
        A-comn round,
        Vrom zeed in ground,
        To sheaves a-bound,
    By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

  An' now the wheat, in lofty lwoads,
    Above the meres' broad backs,
  Do ride along the crackln rwoads,
    Or dousty waggon-tracks.
  An' there, mid every busy pick,
    Ha' work enough to do;
  An' where, avore, we built woone rick,
    Mid these year gi'e us two;
        Wi' God our friend,
        An' wealth to spend,
        Vor zome good end,
        That times mid mend,
    In towns, an' Do'set Downs, O.

  Zoo let the merry thatcher veel
    Fine weather on his brow,
  As he, in happy work, do kneel
    Up roun' the new-built mow,
  That now do zwell in sich a size,
    An' rise to sich a height,
  That, oh! the miller's wistful eyes
    Do sparkle at the zight
        An' long mid stand,
        A happy band,
        To till the land,
        Wi' head an' hand,
    By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.




THE MED IN JUNE.


  Ah! how the looks o' sky an' ground
  Do change wi' months a-stealn round,
  When northern winds, by starry night,
  Do stop in ice the river's flight;
  Or brooks in winter rans do zwell,
  Lik' rolln seas athirt the dell;
  Or trickle thin in zummer-tide;
  Among the mossy stwones half dried;
  But still, below the zun or moon,
  The ferest vield's the med in June.

  An' I must own, my heart do bet
  Wi' pride avore my own blue gete,
  Where I can bid the stetely tree
  Be cast, at langth, avore my knee;
  An' clover red, an' dezies fear,
  An' gil'cups wi' their yollow glere,
  Be all a-match'd avore my zight
  By wheeln buttervlees in flight,
  The while the burnn zun at noon
  Do sheen upon my med in June.

  An' there do zing the swingn lark
  So ga's above the finest park,
  An' day do shede my trees as true
  As any stetely avenue;
  An' show'ry clouds o' Spring do pass
  To shed their ran on my young grass,
  An' ar do blow the whole day long,
  To bring me breath, an' teke my zong,
  An' I do miss noo needvul boon
  A-gi'ed to other meds in June.

  An' when the bloomn rwose do ride
  Upon the boughy hedge's zide,
  We haymekers, in snow-white sleeves,
  Do work in shedes o' quiv'rn leaves,
  In afternoon, a-liftn high
  Our rekes avore the viery sky,
  A-reken up the hay a-dried
  By day, in lwongsome weles, to bide
  In chilly dew below the moon,
  O' shorten'd nights in zultry June.

  An' there the brook do softly flow
  Along, a-bendn in a bow,
  An' vish, wi' zides o' zilver-white,
  Do flash vrom shoals a dazzln light;
  An' alders by the water's edge,
  Do shede the ribbon-bleded zedge,
  An' where, below the withy's head,
  The zwimmn clote-leaves be a-spread,
  The angler is a-zot at noon
  Upon the flow'ry bank in June.

  Vor all the air that do bring
  My little med the breath o' Spring,
  By day an' night's a-flown wide
  Above all other vields bezide;
  Vor all the zun above my ground
  'S a-zent vor all the naghbours round,
  An' ran do vall, an' streams do flow,
  Vor lands above, an' lands below,
  My bit o' med is God's own boon,
  To me alwone, vrom June to June.




EARLY RISN.


  The ar to gi'e your cheks a hue
  O' rwosy red, so fear to view,
  Is what do sheke the grass-bledes gray
  At brek o' day, in mornn dew;
  Vor vo'k that will be rathe abrode,
  Will meet wi' health upon their road.

  But bidn up till dead o' night,
  When han's o' clocks do stan' upright,
  By candle-light, do soon consume
  The fece's bloom, an' turn it white.
  An' light a-cast vrom midnight skies
  Do blunt the sparkln ov the eyes.

  Vor health do weke vrom nightly dreams
  Below the mornn's erly beams,
  An' leve the dead-ar'd houses' eaves,
  Vor quiv'rn leaves, an' bubbln streams,
  A-glitt'rn brightly to the view,
  Below a sky o' cloudless blue.




ZELLEN WOONE'S HONEY TO BUY ZOME'HAT SWEET.


  Why, his heart's lik' a popple, so hard as a stwone,
    Vor 'tis money, an' money's his ho,
  An' to handle an' reckon it up vor his own,
    Is the best o' the jas he do know.
  Why, vor money he'd gi'e up his lags an' be leme,
    Or would pert wi' his zight an' be blind,
  Or would lose vo'k's good will, vor to have a bad neme,
    Or his peace, an' have trouble o' mind.
  But wi' ev'ry good thing that his menness mid bring,
      He'd pa vor his money,
  An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

  He did whisper to me, "You do know that you stood
    By the Squier, wi' the vote that you had,
  You could ax en to help ye to zome'hat as good,
    Or to vind a good plece vor your lad."
  "Aye, aye, but if I wer beholdn vor bread
    To another," I zaid, "I should bind
  All my body an' soul to the nod of his head,
    An' gi'e up all my freedom o' mind."
  An' then, if my pan wer a-zet wi' my gan,
      I should pa vor my money,
  An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

  Then, if my bit o' brook that do wind so vur round,
    Wer but his, why, he'd straghten his bed,
  An' the wold stunpole woak that do stan' in my ground,
    Shoudden long shede the grass wi' his head.
  But if I do vind ja where the leaves be a-shook
    On the limbs, wi' their shedes on the grass,
  Or below, in the bow o' the withy-bound nook,
    That the rock-washn water do pass,
  Then wi' they jas a-vled an' zome goold in their stead,
      I should pay vor my money,
  An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

  No, be my lot good work, wi' the lungs well in pla,
    An' good rest when the body do tire,
  Vor the mind a good conscience, wi' hope or wi' ja,
    Vor the body, good lewth, an' good vire,
  There's noo good o' goold, but to buy what 'ull meke
    Vor our happiness here among men;
  An' who would gi'e happiness up vor the seke
    O' zome money to buy it agen?
  Vor 'twould seem to the eyes ov a man that is wise,
      Lik' money vor money,
  Or zelln woone's honey to buy zome'hat sweet.




DOBBIN DEAD.

_Thomas_ (1) _an' John_ (2) _a-ta'n o't._


  2. I do veel vor ye, Thomas, vor I be a-fer'd
     You've a-lost your wold mere then, by what I've a-herd.

  1. Ees, my mere is a-gone, an' the cart's in the shed
     Wi' his wheelbonds a-rustn, an' I'm out o' bread;
     Vor what be my han's vor to ern me a croust,
     Wi' noo mere's vower legs vor to trample the doust.

  2. Well, how did it happen? He vell vrom the brim
     Ov a cliff, as the tele is, an' broke ev'ry lim'.

  1. Why, I gi'ed en his run, an' he shook his wold mene,
     An' he rambled a-veedn in Westergap Lene;
     An' there he must needs goo a-riggn, an' crope
     Vor a vew bledes o' grass up the wo'st o' the slope;
     Though I should ha' thought his wold head would ha' know'd
     That vor stiff lags, lik' his, the best plece wer the road.

  2. An' you hadden a-kept en so short, he must clim',
     Lik' a gwoat, vor a blede, at the risk ov a lim'.

  1. Noo, but there, I'm a-twold, he did clim' an' did slide,
     An' did screpe, an' did slip, on the shelvn bank-zide,
     An' at langth lost his vootn, an' roll'd vrom the top,
     Down, thump, kick, an' higgledly, piggledly, flop.

  2. Dear me, that is bad! I do veel vor your loss,
     Vor a vew years agoo, Thomas, I lost my ho'se.

  1. How wer't? If I herd it, I now ha' vorgot;
     Wer the poor thing bewitch'd or a-pweison'd, or what?

  2. He wer out, an' a-mekn his way to the brink
     O' the stream at the end o' Church Lene, vor to drink;
     An' he met wi' zome yew-twigs the men had a-cast
     Vrom the yew-tree, in churchyard, the road that he past.
     He wer pweison'd. (1.) O dear, 'tis a hard loss to bear,
     Vor a tranter's whole bread is a-lost wi' his mere;
     But ov all churches' yew-trees, I never zet eyes
     On a tree that would come up to thik woone vor size.

  2. Noo, 'tis long years agone, but do linger as clear
     In my mind though as if I'd a-herd it to year.
     When King George wer in Do'set, an' show'd us his fece
     By our very own doors, at our very own plece,
     That he look'd at thik yew-tree, an' nodded his head,
     An' he zaid,--an' I'll tell ye the words that he zaid:--
     "I'll be bound, if you'll sarch my dominions all drough.
     That you woon't vind the fellow to thik there wold yew."




HAPPINESS.


  Ah! you do seem to think the ground,
  Where happiness is best a-vound,
  Is where the high-pel'd park do reach
  Wi' elem-rows, or clumps o' beech;
  Or where the coach do stand avore
  The twelve-tunn'd house's lofty door,
  Or men can ride behin' their hounds
  Vor miles athirt their own wide grounds,
    An' seldom wi' the lowly;
  Upon the green that we do tread,
  Below the welsh-nut's wide-limb'd head,
  Or grass where apple trees do spread?
  No, so's; no, no: not high nor low:
  'Tis where the heart is holy.

  'Tis true its veet mid tread the vloor,
  'Ithin the marble-pillar'd door,
  Where day do cast, in high-ruf'd halls.
  His light drough lofty window'd walls;
  An' wax-white han's do never tire
  Wi' strokes ov heavy work vor hire,
  An' all that money can avword
  Do lwoad the zilver-brighten'd bwoard:
    Or mid be wi' the lowly,
  Where turf's a-smwoldern avore
  The back, to warm the stwonn vloor
  An' love's at hwome 'ithin the door?
  No, so's; no, no; not high nor low:
    'Tis where the heart is holy.

  An' cere can come 'ithin a ring
  O' sworded guards, to smite a king,
  Though he mid hold 'ithin his hands
  The zwarmn vo'k o' many lands;
  Or goo in drough the iron-gete
  Avore the house o' lofty stete;
  Or reach the miser that do smile
  A-buildn up his goolden pile;
    Or else mid smite the lowly,
  That have noo pow'r to loose or bind
  Another's body, or his mind,
  But only hands to help mankind.
  If there is rest 'ithin the breast,
    'Tis where the heart is holy.




GRUFFMOODY GRIM.


  Aye, a sad life his wife must ha' led,
  Vor so snappish he's letely a-come,
  That there's nothn 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 ran, if do hold up or vall;
  There is nothn vrom mornn till night
  Do come right to Gruffmoody Grim.

  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 burnn the child,
  An' het it among the cat's hears;
  An' then bet the cat, a-run wild,
  Wi' a spark on her back up the stears:
  Vor even the vier an' fleme
  Be to bleme 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 vier, vor 'twer then scaldn hot;
  Then he growl'd that the bread wer sich stuff
  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 bekers an' mekers o' tools
  Be all fools wi' Gruffmoody Grim.

  Oone day as he vish'd at the brook,
  He flung up, wi' a quick-handed knack,
  His long line, an' his high-vlen hook
  Wer a-hitch'd in zome briars at his back.
  Then he zwore at the brembles, an' prick'd
  His bere hand, as he pull'd the hook free;
  An' agen, in a rage, as he kick'd
  At the briars, wer a-scratch'd on the knee.
  An' he wish'd ev'ry bremble an' briar
  Wer o' vier, did Gruffmoody Grim.

  Oh! he's welcome, vor me, to breed dread
  Wherever his shede mid alight,
  An' to live wi' noo me'th round his head,
  An' noo fece 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.

  To zit down by the vier at night,
  Is my ja--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 eche
  Or o' naghbours in sorrow o' soul,
  An' I'll tweil all the night vor their seke;
  An' show that to teke 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 mad come an' coax me to bag
  Vor a frock, an' a frock she shall win;
  Or, then if my wife do meke light
  O' whatever the bwoys mid ha' broke,
  It wull seem but so small in my zight,
  As a leaf a-het down vrom a woak
  An' not meke me ceper an' froth
  Vull o' wrath, lik' Gruffmoody Grim.




THE TURN O' THE DAYS.


  O the wings o' the rook wer a-glittern bright,
  As he wheel'd on above, in the zun's evenn light,
  An' noo snow wer a-left, but in patches o' white,
    On the hill at the turn o' the days.
  An' along on the slope wer the bere-timber'd copse,
  Wi' the dry wood a-shekn, wi' red-twiggd tops.
  Vor the dry-flown wind, had a-blow'd off the drops
    O' the ran, at the turn o' the days.

  There the stream did run on, in the shede o' the hill,
  So smooth in his flown, as if he stood still,
  An' bright wi' the skylight, did slide to the mill,
    By the meds, at the turn o' the days.
  An' up by the copse, down along the hill brow,
  Wer vurrows a-cut down, by men out at plough,
  So straght as the zunbeams, a-shot drough the bough
    O' the tree at the turn o' the days.

  Then the boomn wold clock in the tower did mark
  His vive hours, avore the cool evenn wer dark,
  An' ivy did glitter a-clung round the bark
    O' the tree, at the turn o' the days.
  An' womn a-frad o' the road in the night,
  Wer a-hestenn on to reach hwome by the light,
  A-castn long shedes on the road, a-dried white,
    Down the hill, at the turn o' the days.

  The father an' mother did walk out to view
  The moss-bedded snow-drop, a-sprung in the lew,
  An' hear if the birds wer a-zingn anew,
    In the boughs, at the turn o' the days.
  An' young vo'k a-laughn wi' smooth glossy fece,
  Did hie over vields, wi' a light-vooted pece,
  To friends where the tow'r did betoken a plece
    Among trees, at the turn o' the days.




THE SPARROW CLUB.


  Last night the merry farmers' sons,
    Vrom biggest down to lest, min,
  Gi'ed in the work of all their guns,
    An' had their sparrow fest, min.
  An' who vor woone good merry soul
    Should goo to shere their me'th, min,
  But Gammon Ga, a chap so droll,
    He'd meke ye laugh to death, min.

  Vor heads o' sparrows they've a-shot
    They'll have a prize in cwein, min,
  That is, if they can meke their scot,
    Or else they'll pa a fine, min.
  An' all the money they can teke
    'S a-gather'd up there-right, min,
  An' spent in meat an' drink, to meke
    A supper vor the night, min.

  Zoo when they took away the cloth,
    In middle of their din, min,
  An' cups o' ele begun to froth,
    Below their merry chin, min.
  An' when the zong, by turn or chace,
    Went roun' vrom tongue to tongue, min,
  Then Gammon pitch'd his merry vace,
    An' here's the zong he zung, min.

  _Zong._

  If you'll but let your clackers rest
    Vrom jabbern an' hootn,
  I'll teke my turn, an' do my best,
    To zing o' sparrow shootn.
  Since every woone mus' pitch his key,
    An' zing a zong, in coo'se, lads,
  Why sparrow heads shall be to-day
    The heads o' my discoo'se, lads.

  We'll zend abroad our viery hal
    Till ev'ry foe's a-vled, lads,
  An' though the rogues mid all turn tal,
    We'll quickly show their head, lads.
  In corn, or out on oben ground,
    In bush, or up in tree, lads,
  If we don't kill em, I'll be bound,
    We'll meke their veathers vlee, lads.

  Zoo let the belted spwortsmen brag
    When they've a-won a neme, so's,
  That they do vind, or they do bag,
    Zoo many head o' geme, so's;
  Vor when our cwein is woonce a-won,
    By heads o' sundry sizes,
  Why, who can slight what we've a-done?
    We've all a-won _head_ prizes.

  Then teke a drap vor harmless fun,
    But not enough to quarrel;
  Though where a man do like the gun,
    He can't but need the barrel.
  O' goodly fere, avore we'll start,
    We'll zit an' teke our vill, min;
  Our supper-bill can be but short,
    'Tis but a sparrow-bill, min.




GAMMONY GA[:Y].


  Oh! thik Gammony Ga is so droll,
  That if he's at hwome by the he'th,
  Or wi' vo'k out o' door, he's the soul
  O' the meetn vor antics an' me'th;
  He do cast off the thoughts ov ill luck
  As the water's a-shot vrom a duck;
  He do zing where his naghbours would cry
  He do laugh where the rest o's would sigh:
  Noo other's so merry o' fece,
  In the plece, as Gammony Ga.

  An' o' workn days, Oh! he do wear
  Such a funny roun' hat,--you mid know't--
  Wi' a brim all a-strout roun' his heir,
  An' his glissenn eyes down below't;
  An' a cwoat wi' broad skirts that do vlee
  In the wind ov his walk, round his knee;
  An' a peir o' girt pockets lik' bags,
  That do swing an' do bob at his lags:
  While me'th do walk out drough the plece,
  In the fece o' Gammony Ga.

  An' if he do goo over groun'
  Wi' noo soul vor to greet wi' his words,
  The fece o'n do look up an' down,
  An' round en so quick as a bird's;
  An' if he do vall in wi' vo'k,
  Why, tidden vor want ov a joke,
  If he don't zend em on vrom the plece
  Wi' a smile or a grin on their fece:
  An' the young wi' the wold have a-herd
  A kind word vrom Gammony Ga.

  An' when he do whissel or hum,
  'Ithout thinkn o' what he's a-don,
  He'll bet his own lags vor a drum,
  An' bob his ga head to the tun;
  An' then you mid zee, 'etween whiles,
  His fece all alive wi' his smiles,
  An' his ga-breathn bozom do rise,
  An' his me'th do sheen out ov his eyes:
  An' at last to have prase or have bleme,
  Is the seme to Gammony Ga.

  When he drove his wold cart out, an' broke
  The nut o' the wheel at a butt.
  There wer "woo'se things," he cried, wi' a joke.
  "To grieve at than crackn a nut."
  An' when he tipp'd over a lwoad
  Ov his reed-sheaves woone day on the rwoad,
  Then he spet in his han's, out o' sleeves,
  An' whissel'd, an' flung up his sheaves,
  As very vew others can wag,
  Erm or lag, but Gammony Ga.

  He wer wi' us woone night when the band
  Wer a-come vor to gi'e us a hop,
  An' he pull'd Grammer out by the hand
  All down drough the dance vrom the top;
  An' Grammer did hobble an' squall,
  Wi' Gammon a-ledn the ball;
  While Gammon did sheke up his knee
  An' his voot, an' zing "Diddle-ee-dee!"
  An' we laugh'd ourzelves all out o' breath
  At the me'th o' Gammony Ga.

  When our tun wer' o' vier he rod
  Out to help us, an' mede us sich fun,
  Vor he clomb up to dreve in a wad
  O' wet thorns, to the he'th, vrom the tun;
  An' there he did stamp wi' his voot,
  To push down the thorns an' the zoot,
  Till at last down the chimney's black wall
  Went the wad, an' poor Gammon an' all:
  An' sefe on the he'th, wi' a grin
  On his chin pitch'd Gammony Ga.

  All the house-dogs do waggle their tals,
  If they do but catch zight ov his fece;
  An' the ho'ses do look over rals,
  An' do whicker to zee'n at the plece;
  An' he'll always bestow a good word
  On a cat or a whisseln bird;
  An' even if culvers do coo,
  Or an owl is a-cryn "Hoo, hoo,"
  Where he is, there's always a joke
  To be spoke, by Gammony Ga.




THE HEARE.

(_Dree o'm a-ta'kn o't._)


  (1) There be the greyhounds! lo'k! an' there's the here!
  (2) What houn's, the squier's, Thomas? where, then, where?

  (1) Why, out in Ash Hill, near the barn, behind
      Thik tree. (3) The pollard? (1) Pollard! no, b'ye blind?
  (2) There, I do zee em over-right thik cow.
  (3) The red woone? (1) No, a mile beyand her now.
  (3) Oh! there's the here, a-mekn for the drong.
  (2) My goodness! How the dogs do zweep along,
      A-pokn out their pweinted noses' tips.
  (3) He can't allow hizzelf much time vor slips!
  (1) They'll hab'en, after all, I'll bet a crown.
  (2) Done vor a crown. They woon't! He's gwin to groun'.
  (3) He is! (1) He idden! (3) Ah! 'tis well his tooes
      Ha' got noo corns, inside o' hobnal shoes.
  (1) He's geme a runnn too. Why, he do mwore
      Than ern his life. (3) His life wer his avore.
  (1) There, now the dogs wull turn en. (2) No! He's right.
  (1) He idden! (2) Ees he is! (3) He's out o' zight.
  (1) Aye, aye. His mettle wull be well a-tried
      Agwan down Verny Hill, o' tother zide.
      They'll have en there. (3) O no! a vew good hops
      Wull teke en on to Knapton Lower Copse.
  (2) An' that's a meesh that he've a-took avore.
  (3) Ees, that's his hwome. (1) He'll never reach his door.
  (2) He wull. (1) He woon't. (3) Now, hark, d'ye her em now?
  (2) O! here's a bwoy a-come athirt the brow
      O' Knapton Hill. We'll ax en. (1) Here, my bwoy!
      Can'st tell us where's the here? (4) He's got awoy.
  (2) Ees, got awoy, in coo'se, I never zeed
      A here a-scotn on wi' half his speed.
  (1) Why, there, the dogs be wold, an' half a-done.
      They can't catch anything wi' lags to run.
  (2) Vrom vu'st to last they had but little chance
      O' catchn o'n. (3) They had a perty dance.
  (1) No, catch en, no! I little thought they would;
      He know'd his road too well to Knapton Wood.
  (3) No! no! I wish the squier would let me fere
      On rabbits till his hounds do catch thik here.




NANNY GILL.


  Ah! they wer times, when Nanny Gill
  Went so'jern agenst her will,
  Back when the King come down to view
  His ho'se an' voot, in red an' blue,
    An' they did march in rows,
    An' wheel in lines an' bows,
    Below the King's own nose;
  An' guns did pwoint, an' swords did glere,
  A-fightn foes that werden there.

  Poor Nanny Gill did goo to zell
  In town her glitt'rn macarel,
  A-pack'd wi' cere, in even lots,
  A-ho'seback in a peir o' pots.
    An' zoo when she did ride
    Between her panniers wide,
    Red-cloked in all her pride,
  Why, who but she, an' who but broke
  The road avore her scarlet cloke!

  But Nanny's ho'se that she did ride,
  Woonce carr'd a sword agen his zide,
  An' had, to prick en into rank,
  A so'jer's spurs agen his flank;
    An' zoo, when he got zight
    O' swords a-gleamn bright,
    An' men agwan to fight,
  He set his eyes athirt the ground,
  An' prick'd his ears to catch the sound.

  Then Nanny gi'ed his zide a kick,
  An' het en wi' her limber stick;
  But suddenly a horn did sound,
  An' zend the ho'semen on vull bound;
    An' her ho'se at the zight
    Went after em, vull flight,
    Wi' Nanny in a fright,
  A-pulln, wi' a scream an' grin,
  Her wold brown rans to hold en in.

  But no! he went away vull bound,
  As vast as he could tear the ground,
  An' took, in line, a so'jer's plece,
  Vor Nanny's cloke an' frighten'd fece;
    While vo'k did laugh an' shout
    To zee her cloke stream out,
    As she did wheel about,
  A-cryn, "Oh! la! dear!" in fright,
  The while her ho'se did pla sham fight.




MOONLIGHT ON THE DOOR.


  A-swan slow, the poplar's head,
    Above the slopn thatch did ply,
  The while the midnight moon did shed
    His light below the spangled sky.
  An' there the road did reach avore
    The hatch, all vootless down the hill;
    An' hands, a-tired by day, wer still,
  Wi' moonlight on the door.

  A-boomn deep, did slowly sound
    The bell, a-telln middle night;
  The while the quiv'rn ivy, round
    The tree, did sheke in softest light.
  But vootless wer the stwone avore
    The house where I, the madens guest,
    At evenn, woonce did zit at rest
  By moonlight on the door.

  Though till the dawn, where night's a-mede
    The day, the laughn crowds be ga,
  Let evenn zink wi' quiet shede,
    Where I do hold my little swa.
  An' childern dear to my heart's core,
    A-sleep wi' little heavn breast,
    That pank'd by day in pla, do rest
  Wi' moonlight on the door.

  But still 'tis good, woonce now an' then
    To rove where moonlight on the land
  Do show in van, vor heedless men,
    The road, the vield, the work in hand.
  When curtains be a-hung avore
    The glitt'rn windows, snowy white,
    An' vine-leaf shedes do sheke in light
  O' moonlight on the door.




MY LOVE'S GUARDIAN ANGEL.


  As in the cool-ar'd road I come by,
                               --in the night,
  Under the moon-clim'd height o' the sky,
                               --in the night,
  There by the lime's broad lim's as I sta'd,
  Dark in the moonlight, bough's shedows pla'd
  Up on the window-glass that did keep
  Lew vrom the wind, my true love asleep,
                               --in the night.

  While in the grey-wall'd height o' the tow'r,
                               --in the night,
  Sounded the midnight bell wi' the hour,
                               --in the night,
  There lo! a bright-heir'd angel that shed
  Light vrom her white robe's zilvery thread,
  Put her vore-vinger up vor to meke
  Silence around lest sleepers mid weke,
                               --in the night.

  "Oh! then," I whisper'd, do I behold
                               --in the night.
  Linda, my true-love, here in the cwold,
                               --in the night?"
  "No," she mede answer, "you do misteke:
  She is asleep, but I that do weke,
  Here be on watch, an' angel a-blest,
  Over her slumber while she do rest,
                               --in the night."

  "Zee how the winds, while here by the bough,
                               --in the night,
  They do pass on, don't smite on her brow,
                              in the night;
  Zee how the cloud-shedes naseless do zweep
  Over the house-top where she's asleep.
  You, too, goo by, in times that be near,
  You too, as I, mid speak in her ear
                               --in the night."




LEEBURN MILL,


  Ov all the meds wi' shoals an' pools,
  Where streams did sheke the limber zedge,
  An' milkn vo'k did teke their stools,
  In evenn zun-light under hedge:
  Ov all the wears the brook did vill,
  Or all the hatches where a sheet
  O' foam did lep below woone's veet,
  The plece vor me wer Leeburn Mill.

  An' while below the mossy wheel
  All day the foamn stream did roar,
  An' up in mill the floatn meal
  Did pitch upon the shekn vloor.
  We then could vind but vew han's still,
  Or veet a-restn off the ground,
  An' seldom hear the merry sound
  O' gemes a-play'd at Leeburn Mill.

  But when they let the stream goo free,
  Bezide the drippn wheel at rest,
  An' leaves upon the poplar-tree
  Wer dark avore the glown west;
  An' when the clock, a-ringn sh'ill,
  Did slowly bet zome evenn hour,
  Oh! then 'ithin the leafy bow'r
  Our tongues did run at Leeburn Mill.

  An' when November's win' did blow,
  Wi' huffln storms along the plan,
  An' blacken'd leaves did lie below
  The neked tree, a-zoak'd wi' ran,
  I werden at a loss to vill
  The darkest hour o' rany skies,
  If I did vind avore my eyes
  The feces down at Leeburn Mill.




PRAISE O' DO'SET.


  We Do'set, though we mid be hwomely,
    Be'nt ashem'd to own our plece;
  An' we've zome women not uncomely;
    Nor ashem'd to show their fece:
  We've a med or two wo'th mown,
  We've an ox or two we'th shown,
        In the village,
        At the tillage,
  Come along an' you shall vind
  That Do'set men don't sheme their kind.
      Friend an' wife,
      Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers,
      Happy, happy, be their life!
      Vor Do'set dear,
      Then gi'e woone cheer;
      D'ye hear? woone cheer!

  If you in Do'set be a-roamn,
    An' ha' business at a farm,
  Then woont ye zee your ele a-foamn!
    Or your cider down to warm?
  Woont ye have brown bread a-put ye,
  An' some vinny cheese a-cut ye?
        Butter?--rolls o't!
        Cream?--why bowls o't!
  Woont ye have, in short, your vill,
  A-gi'ed wi' a right good will?
      Friend an' wife,
      Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers.
      Happy, happy, be their life!
      Vor Do'set dear,
      Then gi'e woone cheer;
      D'ye hear? woone cheer!

  An' woont ye have vor ev'ry shilln,
    Shilln's wo'th at any shop,
  Though Do'set chaps be up to zelln,
    An' can meke a tidy swop?
  Use em well, they'll use you better;
  In good turns they woont be debtor.
        An' so comely,
        An' so hwomely,
  Be the madens, if your son
  Took woone o'm, then you'd cry "Well done!"
      Friend an' wife,
      Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers,
        Happy, happy, be their life!
        Vor Do'set dear,
        Then gi'e woone cheer;
        D'ye hear? woone cheer!

  If you do zee our good men travel,
    Down a-voot, or on their meres,
  Along the windn lenes o' gravel,
    To the markets or the feirs,--
  Though their ho'ses cwoats be ragged,
  Though the men be muddy-laggd,
        Be they roughish,
        Be they gruffish,
  They be sound, an' they will stand
  By what is right wi' heart an' hand.
      Friend an' wife,
      Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers,
      Happy, happy, be their life!
      Vor Do'set dear,
      Then gi'e woone cheer;
      D'ye hear? woone cheer!




POEMS OF RURAL LIFE.


THIRD COLLECTION.




WOONE SMILE MWORE.


  O! Mery, when the zun went down,
    Woone night in Spring, wi' vi'ry rim,
  Behind thik nap wi' woody crown,
    An' left your smiln fece so dim;
  Your little sister there, inside,
    Wi' bellows on her little knee,
  Did blow the vier, a-glearn wide
    Drough window-penes, that I could zee,--
  As you did stan' wi' me, avore
  The house, a-perten,--woone smile mwore.

  The chatt'rn birds, a-risn high,
    An' zinkn low, did swiftly vlee
  Vrom shrinkn moss, a-grown dry,
    Upon the lenn apple tree.
  An' there the dog, a-whippn wide
    His heiry tal, an' comn near,
  Did fondly lay agen your zide
    His coal-black nose an' russet ear:
  To win what I'd a-won avore,
  Vrom your ga fece, his woone smile mwore.

  An' while your mother bustled sprack,
    A-gettn supper out in hall,
  An' cast her shede, a-whiv'rn black
    Avore the vier, upon the wall;
  Your brother come, wi' easy pece,
    In drough the slammn gete, along
  The path, wi' healthy-bloomn fece,
    A-whis'ln shrill his last new zong;
  An' when he come avore the door,
  He met vrom you his woone smile mwore.

  Now you that wer the daughter there,
    Be mother on a husband's vloor,
  An' mid ye meet wi' less o' cere
    Than what your hearty mother bore;
  An' if abroad I have to rue
    The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed,
  Mid I come hwome to shere wi' you
    What's needvul free o' pinchn need:
  An' vind that you ha' still in store,
  My evenn meal, an' woone smile mwore.




THE ECHO.


  About the tow'r an' churchyard wall,
    Out nearly overright our door,
  A tongue ov wind did always call
   Whatever we did call avore.
  The vace did mock our nemes, our cheers,
    Our merry laughs, our hands' loud claps,
  An' mother's call "Come, come, my dears"
                                --_my dears_;
    Or "Do as I do bid, bad chaps"
                                --_bad chaps_.

  An' when o' Zundays on the green,
    In frocks an' cwoats as ga as new,
  We walk'd wi' shoes a-mede to sheen
    So black an' bright's a vull-ripe slooe
  We then did hear the tongue ov ar
    A-mockn mother's vace so thin,
  "Come, now the bell do goo vor pra'r"
                                --_vor pray'r_;
  "'Tis time to goo to church; come in"
                                --_come in_.

  The night when little Anne, that died,
    Begun to zickn, back in Ma,
  An' she, at dusk ov evenn-tide,
    Wer out wi' others at their pla,
  Within the churchyard that do keep
    Her little bed, the vace o' thin
  Dark ar, mock'd mother's call "To sleep"
                                --_to sleep_;
  "'Tis bed time now, my love, come in"
                                --_come in_.

  An' when our Jene come out so smart
    A-married, an' we help'd her in
  To Henry's newly-panted cart,
    The while the wheels begun to spin,
  An' her ga nods, vor all she smil'd,
    Did sheke a tear-drop vrom each eye,
  The vace mock'd mother's call, "Dear child"
                                --_dear child_;
    "God bless ye evermwore; good bye"
                                --_good bye_.




VULL A MAN.


  No, I'm a man, I'm vull a man,
  You bet my manhood, if you can.
  You'll be a man if you can teke
  All stetes that household life do meke.
  The love-toss'd child, a-croodln loud,
    The bwoy a-screamn wild in pla,
  The tall grown youth a-steppn proud,
    The father stad, the house's sta.
      No; I can boast if others can,
            I'm vull a man.

  A young-chek'd mother's tears mid vall,
  When woone a-lost, not half man-tall,
  Vrom little hand, a-called vrom pla,
  Do leve noo tool, but drop a ta,
  An' die avore he's father-free
    To shepe his life by his own plan;
  An' vull an angel he shall be,
    But here on e'th not vull a man,
      No; I could boast if others can,
            I'm vull a man.

  I woonce, a child, wer father-fed,
  An' I've a vound my childern bread;
  My erm, a sister's trusty crook,
  Is now a fathvul wife's own hook;
  An' I've a-gone where vo'k did zend,
    An' gone upon my own free mind,
  An' of'en at my own wits' end.
    A-led o' God while I wer blind.
      No; I could boast if others can
            I'm vull a man.

  An' still, ov all my tweil ha' won,
  My lovn mad an' merry son,
  Though each in turn's a ja an' cere,
  'Ve a-had, an' still shall have, their shere:
  An' then, if God should bless their lives,
    Why I mid zend vrom son to son
  My life, right on drough men an' wives,
    As long, good now, as time do run.
      No; I could boast if others can,
            I'm vull a man.




NAIGHBOUR PLA[:Y]METES.


  O ja betide the dear wold mill,
    My naghbour plametes' happy hwome,
  Wi' rolln wheel, an' lepn foam,
    Below the overhangn hill,
        Where, wide an' slow,
        The stream did flow,
  An' flags did grow, an' lightly vlee
  Below the grey-leav'd withy tree,
  While clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,
  Wi' whirln stwone, an' streamn flour,
  Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.

  An' there in gemes by evenn skies,
    When Mery zot her down to rest,
  The broach upon her pankn breast,
    Did quickly vall an' lightly rise,
        While swans did zwim
        In stetely trim.
  An' swifts did skim the water, bright
  Wi' whirln froth, in western light;
  An' clack, clack, clack, that happy hour,
  Wi' whirln stwone, an' streamn flour,
  Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.

  Now mortery jeints, in streaks o' white,
    Along the gerdn wall do show
  In Ma, an' cherry boughs do blow,
    Wi' bloomn tutties, snowy white,
        Where rolln round,
        Wi' rumbln sound,
  The wheel woonce drown'd the vace so dear
  To me. I fan would goo to hear
  The clack, clack, clack, vor woone short hour,
  Wi' whirln stwone, an' streamn flour,
  Bezide the mill on cloty Stour.

  But should I vind a-heavn now
    Her breast wi' ar o' thik dear plece?
  Or zee dark locks by such a brow,
    Or het o' pla on such a fece?
        No! She's now stad,
        An' where she pla'd,
  There's noo such mad that now ha' took
  The plece that she ha' long vorsook,
  Though clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,
  Wi' whirln stwone an' streamn flour,
  Do goo the mill by cloty Stour.

  An' still the pulley rwope do heist
    The wheat vrom red-wheeled waggon beds.
  An' ho'ses there wi' lwoads of grist,
    Do stand an' toss their heavy heads;
        But on the vloor,
        Or at the door,
  Do show noo mwore the kindly fece
  Her father show'd about the plece,
  As clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,
  Wi' whirln stwone, an' streamn flour,
  Did goo his mill by cloty Stour.




THE LARK.


   As I, below the mornn sky,
    Wer out a workn in the lew
  O' black-stemm'd thorns, a-springn high,
    Avore the worold-boundn blue,
  A-rekn, under woak tree boughs,
  The orts a-left behin' by cows.

  Above the grey-grow'd thistle rings,
    An' deisy-buds, the lark, in flight,
  Did zing a-loft, wi' flappn wings,
    Tho' mwore in hern than in zight;
  The while my bwoys, in plavul me'th,
  Did run till they wer out o' breath.

  Then woone, wi' han'-besheded eyes,
    A-stoppn still, as he did run,
  Look'd up to zee the lark arise
    A-zingn to the high-gone zun;
  The while his brother look'd below
  Vor what the groun' mid have to show

  Zoo woone did watch above his head
    The bird his hands could never teke;
  An' woone, below, where he did tread,
    Vound out the nest within the breke;
  But, aggs be only woonce a-vound,
  An' uncaught larks agen mid sound.




THE TWO CHURCHES.


  A happy day, a happy year.
  A zummer Zunday, dazzln clear,
  I went athirt vrom Lea to Noke.
  To goo to church wi' Fanny's vo'k:
  The sky o' blue did only show
  A cloud or two, so white as snow,
  An' ar did swa, wi' softest strokes,
  The eltrot roun' the dark-bough'd woaks.
  O day o' rest when bells do toll!
  O day a-blest to ev'ry soul!
  How sweet the zwells o' Zunday bells.

  An' on the cowslip-knap at Creech,
  Below the grove o' stetely beech,
  I herd two tow'rs a-cheemn clear,
  Vrom woone I went, to woone drew near,
  As they did call, by flow'ry ground,
  The bright-shod veet vrom housen round,
  A-drownn wi' their holy call,
  The goocoo an' the water-vall.
  Die off, O bells o' my dear plece,
  Ring out, O bells avore my fece,
  Vull sweet your zwells, O ding-dong bells.

  Ah! then vor things that time did bring
  My kinsvo'k, _Lea_ had bells to ring;
  An' then, agen, vor what bevell
  My wife's, why _Noke_ church had a bell;
  But soon wi' hopevul lives a-bound
  In woone, we had woone tower's sound,
  Vor our high jas all vive bells rung
  Our losses had woone iron tongue.
  Oh! ring all round, an' never mwon
  So deep an' slow woone bell alwone,
  Vor sweet your swells o' vive clear bells.




WOAK HILL.


  When sycamore leaves wer a-spreadn,
          Green-ruddy, in hedges,
  Bezide the red doust o' the ridges,
          A-dried at Woak Hill;

  I packed up my goods all a-sheenn
          Wi' long years o' handln,
  On dousty red wheels ov a waggon,
          To ride at Woak Hill.

  The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwelln,
          I then wer a-levn,
  Had shelter'd the sleek head o' Mery,
          My bride at Woak Hill.

  But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall
          'S a-lost vrom the vloorn.
  Too soon vor my ja an' my childern,
          She died at Woak Hill.

  But still I do think that, in soul,
          She do hover about us;
  To ho vor her motherless childern,
          Her pride at Woak Hill.

  Zoo--lest she should tell me hereafter
          I stole off 'ithout her,
  An' left her, uncall'd at house-riddn,
          To bide at Woak Hill--

  I call'd her so fondly, wi' lippns
          All soundless to others,
  An' took her wi' ar-reachn hand,
          To my zide at Woak Hill.

  On the road I did look round, a-talkn
          To light at my shoulder,
  An' then led her in at the door-way,
          Miles wide vrom Woak Hill.

  An' that's why vo'k thought, vor a season,
          My mind wer a-wandrn
  Wi' sorrow, when I wer so sorely
          A-tried at Woak Hill.

  But no; that my Mery mid never
          Behold herzelf slighted,
  I wanted to think that I guided
          My guide vrom Woak Hill.




THE HEDGER.


  Upon the hedge these bank did bear,
    Wi' lwonesome thought untwold in words,
  I woonce did work, wi' noo sound there
    But my own strokes, an' chirpn birds;
  As down the west the zun went wan,
  An' days brought on our Zunday's rest,
  When sounds o' cheemn bells did vill
  The ar, an' hook an' axe wer stll.

  Along the wold town-path vo'k went,
    An' met unknown, or friend wi' friend,
  The mad her busy mother zent,
    The mother wi' noo mad to zend;
  An' in the light the glezier's glass,
  As he did pass, wer dazzln bright,
  Or woone went by w' down-cast head,
  A wrapp'd in blackness vor the dead.

  An' then the bank, wi' risn back,
    That's now a-most a-troddn down,
  Bore thorns wi' rind o' sheeny black,
    An' meple stems o' ribby brown;
  An' in the lewth o' these tree heads,
  Wer primrwose beds a-sprung in blooth,
  An' here a gete, a-slammn to,
  Did let the slow-wheel'd plough roll drough.

  Ov all that then went by, but vew
    Be now a-left behine', to bet
  The mornn flow'rs or evenn dew,
    Or slam the woakn vive-bar'd gete;
  But woone, my wife, so litty-stepp'd,
  That have a-kept my path o' life,
  Wi' her vew errands on the road,
  Where woonce she bore her mother's lwoad.




IN THE SPRING.


  My love is the mad ov all madens,
    Though all mid be comely,
  Her skin's lik' the jessamy blossom
    A-spread in the Spring.

  Her smile is so sweet as a beby's
    Young smile on his mother,
  Her eyes be as bright as the dew drop
    A-shed in the Spring.

  O grey-leafy pinks o' the gerden,
    Now bear her sweet blossoms;
  Now deck wi' a rwose-bud, O briar.
    Her head in the Spring.

  O light-rolln wind blow me hither,
    The vice ov her talkn,
  Or bring vrom her veet the light doust,
    She do tread in the Spring.

  O zun, meke the gil'cups all glitter,
    In goold all around her;
  An' meke o' the deisys' white flowers
    A bed in the Spring.

  O whissle ga birds, up bezide her,
    In drong-wa, an' woodlands,
  O zing, swingn lark, now the clouds,
    Be a-vled in the Spring.

  An' who, you mid ax, be my prases
    A-mekn so much o',
  An' oh! 'tis the mad I'm a-hopn
    To wed in the Spring.




THE FLOOD IN SPRING.


  Last night below the elem in the lew
      Bright the sky did gleam
  On water blue, while ar did softly blow
      On the flown stream,
  An' there wer gil'cups' buds untwold,
  An' deisies that begun to vwold
  Their low-stemm'd blossoms vrom my zight
  Agen the night, an' evenn's cwold.

  But, oh! so cwold below the darksome cloud
      Soon the night-wind roar'd,
  Wi' rany storms that zent the zwolln streams
      Over ev'ry vword.
  The while the drippn tow'r did tell
  The hour, wi' storm-be-smother'd bell,
  An' over ev'ry flower's bud
  Roll'd on the flood, 'ithin the dell.

  But when the zun arose, an' lik' a rwose
      Shone the mornn sky;
  An' roun' the woak, the wind a-blown weak,
      Softly whiver'd by.
  Though drown'd wer still the deasy bed
  Below the flood, its fece instead
  O' flow'ry grown', below our shoes
  Show'd feirest views o' skies o'er head.

  An' zoo to try if all our fath is true
      Ja mid end in tears,
  An' hope, woonce feir, mid saddn into fear,
      Here in e'thly years.
  But He that tried our soul do know
  To meke us good amends, an' show
  Instead o' things a-took awa,
  Some higher ja that He'll bestow.




COMEN HWOME.


  As clouds did ride wi' hesty flight.
  An' woods did swy upon the height,
  An' bledes o' grass did sheke, below
  The hedge-row bremble's swingn bow,
  I come back hwome where winds did zwell,
    In whirls along the woody gledes,
    On primrwose beds, in windy shedes,
  To Burnley's dark-tree'd dell.

  There hills do screen the timber's bough,
  The trees do screen the leze's brow,
  The timber-sheded leze do bear
  A beten path that we do wear.
  The path do stripe the leze's zide,
    To willows at the river's edge.
    Where huffln winds did sheke the zedge
  An' sparkln weves did glide.

  An' where the river, bend by bend,
  Do drin our med, an' mark its end,
  The hangn leze do teke our cows,
  An' trees do shede em wi' their boughs,
  An' I the quicker bet the road,
    To zee a-comn into view,
    Still greener vrom the sky-line's blue,
  Wold Burnley our abode.




GRAMMER A-CRIPPLED.


  "The zunny copse ha' birds to zing,
    The leze ha' cows to low,
  The elem trees ha' rooks on wing,
    The meds a brook to flow,
  But I can walk noo mwore, to pass
    The drashel out abrode,
  To wear a path in these year's grass
    Or tread the wheelworn road,"
  Cried Grammer, "then adieu,
      O runnn brooks,
      An' vlen rooks,
  I can't come out to you.
  If 'tis God's will, why then 'tis well,
  That I should bide 'ithin a wall."

  An' then the childern, wild wi' fun,
    An' loud wi' javul sounds,
  Sprung in an' cried, "We had a run,
    A-plan here an' hounds;
  But oh! the cowslips where we stopt
    In Macreech, on the knap!"
  An' vrom their little han's each dropt
    Some cowslips in her lap.
  Cried Grammer, "Only zee!
      I can't teke strolls,
      An' little souls
  Would bring the vields to me.
  Since 'tis God's will, an' mus' be well
  That I should bide 'ithin a wall."

  "Oh! there be prison walls to hold
    The han's o' lawless crimes,
  An' there be walls arear'd vor wold
    An' zick in tryn times;
  But oh! though low mid slant my ruf,
    Though hard my lot mid be,
  Though dry mid come my daily lwoaf,
    Mid mercy leve me free!"
  Cried Grammer, "Or adieu
      To ja; O grounds,
      An' bird's ga sounds
  If I mus' gi'e up you,
  Although 'tis well, in God's good will,
  That I should bide 'ithin a wall."

  "Oh! then," we answer'd, "never fret,
    If we shall be a-blest,
  We'll work vull hard drough het an' wet
    To keep your heart at rest:
  To woaken chair's vor you to vill,
    For you shall glow the coal,
  An' when the win' do whissle sh'ill
    We'll screen it vrom your poll."
  Cried Grammer, "God is true.
      I can't but feel
      He smote to heal
  My wounded heart in you;
  An' zoo 'tis well, if 'tis His will,
  That I be here 'ithin a wall."




THE CASTLE RUINS.


  A happy day at Whitsuntide,
    As soon's the zun begun to vall,
  We all stroll'd up the steep hill-zide
    To Meldon, girt an' small;
  Out where the castle wall stood high
  A-mwoldrn to the zunny sky.

  An' there wi' Jenny took a stroll
    Her youngest sister, Poll, so ga,
  Bezide John Hind, ah! merry soul,
    An' mid her wedlock fa;
  An' at our zides did play an' run
  My little mad an' smaller son.

  Above the beten mwold upsprung
    The driven doust, a-spreadn light,
  An' on the new-leav'd thorn, a-hung,
    Wer wool a-quiv'rn white;
  An' corn, a sheenn bright, did bow,
  On slopn Meldon's zunny brow.

  There, down the rufless wall did glow
    The zun upon the grassy vloor,
  An' weakly-wandrn winds did blow,
    Unhinder'd by a door;
  An' smokeless now avore the zun
  Did stan' the ivy-girded tun.

  My bwoy did watch the daws' bright wings
    A-flappn vrom their ivy bow'rs;
  My wife did watch my mad's light springs,
    Out here an' there vor flow'rs;
  And John did zee noo tow'rs, the plece
  Vor him had only Polly's fece.

  An' there, of all that pried about
    The walls, I overlook'd em best,
  An' what o' that? Why, I mede out
    Noo mwore than all the rest:
  That there wer woonce the nest of zome
  That wer a-gone avore we come.

  When woonce above the tun the smoke
    Did wreathy blue among the trees,
  An' down below, the livn vo'k,
    Did tweil as brisk as bees;
  Or zit wi' weary knees, the while
  The sky wer lightless to their tweil.




[Gothic: Eclogue.]

JOHN, JEALOUS AT SHROTON FEIR.

_Jene; her Brother; John, her Sweetheart; and Racketn Joe_


  JENE.

  I'm thankvul I be out o' that
  Thick crowd, an' not asquot quite flat.
  That ever we should plunge in where the vo'k do drunge
  So tight's the cheese-wring on the vet!
  I've sca'ce a thing a-left in plece.
  'Tis all a-tore vrom pin an' lece.
  My bonnet's like a wad, a-bet up to a dod,
  An' all my heir's about my fece.

  HER BROTHER.

  Here, come an' zit out here a bit,
  An' put yourzelf to rights.

  JOHN.

  No, Jene; no, no! Now you don't show
  The very wo'st o' plights.

  HER BROTHER.

  Come, come, there's little harm adone;
  Your hoops be out so roun's the zun.

  JOHN.

  An' there's your bonnet back in shepe.

  HER BROTHER.

  An' there's your pin, and there's your cepe.

  JOHN.

  An' there your curls do match, an' there
  'S the vittiest mad in all the feir.

  JENE.

  Now look, an' tell us who's a-spied
  Vrom Sturminster, or Manston zide.

  HER BROTHER.

  There's rantn Joe! How he do stalk,
  An' zwang his whip, an' laugh, an' talk!

  JOHN.

  An' how his head do wag, avore his steppn lag.
  Jist like a pigeon's in a walk!

  HER BROTHER.

  Heigh! there, then, Joey, ben't we proud

  JENE.

  He can't hear you among the crowd.

  HER BROTHER.

  Why, no, the thunder peals do drown the sound o' wheels.
  His own pipe is a-pitched too loud.
  What, you here too?

  RACKETN JOE.

                       Yes, Sir, to you.
  All o' me that's a-left.

  JENE.

  A body plump's a goodish lump
  Where remes ha' such a heft.

  JOHN.

  Who lost his crown a-racn?

  RACKETN JOE.

                               Who?
  Zome silly chap abackn you.
  Well, now, an' how do vo'k treat Jene?

  JENE.

  Why not wi' ferns.

  RACKETN JOE.

                        What d'ye men,
  When I've a-brought ye such a bunch
  O' these nice ginger-nuts to crunch?
  An' here, John, here! you teke a vew.

  JOHN.

  No, keep em all vor Jene an' you!

  RACKETN JOE.

  Well, Jene, an' when d'ye men to come
  An' call on me, then, up at hwome.
  You han't a-come athirt, since I'd my voot a-hurt,
  A-slippn vrom the tree I clomb.

  JENE.

  Well, if so be that you be stout
  On voot agen, you'll vind me out.

  JOHN.

  Aye, better chaps woont goo, not many steps vor you,
  If you do hawk yourzelf about.

  RACKETN JOE.

  Wull John, come too?

  JOHN.

                       No, thanks to you.
  Two's company, dree's nwone.

  HER BROTHER.

  There don't be stung by his mad tongue,
  'Tis nothn else but fun.

  JENE.

  There, what d'ye think o' my new cepe?

  JOHN.

  Why, think that 'tis an ugly shepe.

  JENE.

  Then you should buy me, now these feir,
  A mwore becomn woone to wear.

  JOHN.

  I buy your cepe! No; Joe wull screpe
  Up dibs enough to buy your cepe.
  As things do look, to meke you fine
  Is long Joe's business mwore than mine.

  JENE.

  Lauk, John, the mwore that you do pout
  The mwore he'll gl[=e]ne.

  JOHN.

                           A yelpn lout.




EARLY PLA[:Y]METE.


  After many long years had a-run,
    The while I wer a-gone vrom the plece,
  I come back to the vields, where the zun
    Ov her childhood did show me her fece.
  There her father, years wolder, did stoop.
    An' her brother, wer now a-grow'd stad,
  An' the apple tree lower did droop.
    Out in the orcha'd where we had a-pla'd,
  There wer zome things a-seemn the seme,
    But Mery's a-married awa.

  There wer two little childern a-zent,
    Wi' a message to me, oh! so fear
  As the mother that they did zoo ment,
    When in childhood she pla'd wi' me there.
  Zoo they twold me that if I would come
    Down to Coomb, I should zee a wold friend,
  Vor a plamete o' mine wer at hwome,
    An' would sta till another week's end.
  At the dear pworchd door, could I dare
    To zee Mery a-married awa!

  On the flower-not, now all a-trod
    Stwony hard, the green grass wer a-spread,
  An' the long-slighted woodbine did nod
    Vrom the wall, wi' a loose-hangn head.
  An' the martin's clay nest wer a-hung
    Up below the brown oves, in the dry,
  An' the rooks had a-rock'd broods o' young
    On the elems below the Ma sky;
  But the bud on the bed, coulden bide,
    Wi' young Mery a-married awa.

  There the copse-wood, a-grow'd to a height,
    Wer a-vell'd, an' the primrwose in blooth,
  Among chips on the ground a-turn'd white,
    Wer a-quiv'rn, all bere ov his lewth.
  The green moss wer a-spread on the thatch,
    That I left yollow reed, an' avore
  The small green, there did swing a new hatch,
    Vor to let me walk into the door.
  Oh! the rook did still rock o'er the rick,
    But wi' Mery a-married awa.




PICKEN O' SCROFF.


  Oh! the wood wer a-vell'd in the copse,
    An' the moss-bedded primrwose did blow;
  An' vrom tall-stemmd trees' leafless tops,
    There did lie but slight shedes down below.
  An' the sky wer a-shown, in drough
  By the tree-stems, the deepest o' blue,
  Wi' a light that did vall on an' off
  The dry ground, a-strew'd over wi' scroff.

  There the hedge that wer letely so high,
    Wer a-plush'd, an' along by the zide,
  Where the waggon 'd a-haul'd the wood by,
    There did reach the deep wheelrouts, a-dried.
  An' the groun' wi' the sticks wer bespread,
  Zome a-cut off alive, an' zome dead.
  An' vor burnn, well wo'th rekn off,
  By the childern a-pickn o' scroff.

  In the tree-studded leze, where the woak
    Wer a-spreadn his head out around,
  There the scrags that the wind had a-broke,
    Wer a-lyn about on the ground
  Or the childern, wi' little red hands,
  Wer a-tyn em up in their bands;
  Vor noo squier or farmer turn'd off
  Little childern a-pickn o' scroff.

  There wer woone bloomn child wi' a cloak
    On her shoulders, as green as the ground;
  An' another, as gray as the woak,
    Wi' a bwoy in a brown frock, a-brown'd.
  An' woone got up, in pla, vor to tat,
  On a woak-limb, a-grown out straght.
  But she soon wer a-tated down off,
  By her metes out a-pickn o' scroff.

  When they childern do grow to stad vo'k,
    An' goo out in the worold, all wide
  Vrom the copse, an' the zummerleze woak,
    Where at last all their elders ha' died,
  They wull then vind it touchn to bring,
  To their minds, the sweet springs o' their spring,
  Back avore the new vo'k did turn off
  The poor childern a-pickn o' scroff.




GOOD NIGHT.


  While down the meds wound slow,
    Water vor green-wheel'd mills,
  Over the streams bright bow,
    Win' come vrom dark-back'd hills.
  Birds on the win' shot along down steep
  Slopes, wi' a swift-swung zweep.
  Dim wen'd the red streak'd west
  Lim'-weary souls "Good rest."

  Up on the plough'd hill brow,
    Still wer the zull's wheel'd beam,
  Still wer the red-wheel'd plough,
    Free o' the strong limb'd team,
  Still wer the shop that the smith mede ring,
  Dark where the sparks did spring;
  Low shot the zun's last beams.
  Lim'-weary souls "Good dreams."

  Where I vrom dark bank-shedes
    Turn'd up the west hill road,
  Where all the green grass bledes
    Under the zunlight glow'd.
  Startled I met, as the zunbeams play'd
  Light, wi' a zunsmote mad,
  Come vor my day's last zight,
  Zun-brighten'd mad "Good night."




WENT HWOME.


  Upon the slope, the hedge did bound
  The yield wi' blossom-whited zide,
  An' charlock patches, yollow-dyed,
  Did reach along the white-soil'd ground,
  An' vo'k, a-comn up vrom med,
    Brought gil'cup meal upon the shoe;
  Or went on where the road did led,
    Wi' smeechy doust from heel to tooe.
  As noon did smite, wi' burnn light,
  The road so white, to Meldonley.

  An' I did tramp the zun-dried ground,
  By hedge-climb'd hills, a-spread wi' flow'rs,
  An' watershootn dells, an' tow'rs,
  By elem-trees a-hemm'd all round,
  To zee a vew wold friends, about
    Wold Meldon, where I still ha' zome,
  That bid me speed as I come out,
    An' now ha' bid me welcome hwome,
  As I did goo, while skies wer blue,
  Vrom view to view, to Meldonley.

  An' there wer timber'd knaps, that show'd
  Cool shedes, vor rest, on grassy ground,
  An' thatch-brow'd windows, flower-bound,
  Where I could wish wer my abode.
  I pass'd the mad avore the spring,
    An' shepherd by the thornn tree;
  An' herd the merry drver zing,
    But met noo kith or kin to me,
  Till I come down, vrom Meldon's crown
  To rufs o' brown, at Meldonley.




THE HOLLOW WOAK.


  The woaken tree, so hollow now,
    To souls ov other times wer sound,
  An' reach'd on ev'ry zide a bough
    Above their heads, a-gather'd round,
      But zome light veet
      That here did meet
  In friendship sweet, vor rest or ja,
  Shall be a-miss'd another Ma.

  My childern here, in plavul pride
    Did zit 'ithin his wooden walls,
  A-mentn stetely vo'k inside
    O' castle towers an' lofty halls.
      But now the vloor
      An' mossy door
  That woonce they wore would be too small
  To teke em in, so big an' tall.

  These year do show, wi' snow-white cloud,
    An' desies in a sprinkled bed,
  An' green-bough birds a-whisln loud,
    The looks o' zummer days a-vled;
          An' grass do grow,
          An' men do mow,
  An' all do show the wold times' fece
  Wi' new things in the wold things' plece.




CHILDERN'S CHILDERN.


  Oh! if my ling'rn life should run,
    Drough years a-reckoned ten by ten,
  Below the never-tirn zun,
    Till bebes agen be wives an' men;
  An' stillest deafness should ha' bound
  My ears, at last, vrom ev'ry sound;
  Though still my eyes in that sweet light,
  Should have the zight o' sky an' ground:
        Would then my stete
        In time so lete,
  Be ja or pan, be pan or ja?

  When Zunday then, a-wenn dim,
    As these that now's a-clwosn still,
  Mid lose the zun's down-zinkn rim,
    In light behind the vier-bound hill;
  An' when the bells' last peal's a-rung,
  An' I mid zee the wold an' young
  A-vlockn by, but shoulden hear,
  However near, a voot or tongue:
        Mid zuch a zight,
        In that soft light
  Be ja or pan, be pan or ja.

  If I should zee among em all,
    In merry youth, a-glidn by,
  My son's bwold son, a-grown man-tall,
    Or daughter's daughter, woman-high;
  An' she mid smile wi' your good fece,
  Or she mid walk your comely pece,
  But seem, although a-chattn loud,
  So dumb's a cloud, in that bright plece:
        Would youth so feir,
        A-passn there,
  Be ja or pan, be pan or ja.

  'Tis seldom strangth or comeliness
    Do leve us long. The house do show
  Men's sons wi' mwore, as they ha' less,
    An' daughters brisk, vor mothers slow.
  A dawn do clear the night's dim sky,
  Woone star do zink, an' woone goo high,
  An' livn gifts o' youth do vall,
  Vrom girt to small, but never die:
        An' should I view,
        What God mid do,
  Wi' ja or pan, wi' pan or ja?




THE RWOSE IN THE DARK.


  In zummer, lete at evenn tide,
    I zot to spend a moonless hour
  'Ithin the window, wi' the zide
    A-bound wi' rwoses out in flow'r,
  Bezide the bow'r, vorsook o' birds,
  An' listen'd to my true-love's words.

  A-risn to her comely height,
    She push'd the swingn cesement round;
  And I could hear, beyond my zight,
    The win'-blow'd beech-tree softly sound,
  On higher ground, a-swayn slow,
  On drough my happy hour below.

  An' tho' the darkness then did hide
    The dewy rwose's blushn bloom,
  He still did cast sweet ar inside
    To Jene, a-chattn in the room;
  An' though the gloom did hide her fece,
  Her words did bind me to the plece.

  An' there, while she, wi' runnn tongue,
    Did talk unzeen 'ithin the hall,
  I thought her like the rwose that flung
    His sweetness vrom his darken'd ball,
  'Ithout the wall, an' sweet's the zight
  Ov her bright fece by mornn light.




COME.


  Wull ye come in erly Spring,
  Come at Easter, or in Ma?
  Or when Whitsuntide mid bring
  Longer light to show your wa?
  Wull ye come, if you be true,
  Vor to quicken love anew.
  Wull ye call in Spring or Fall?
  Come now soon by zun or moon?
              Wull ye come?

  Come wi' vace to vace the while
  All their words be sweet to hear;
  Come that fece to fece mid smile,
  While their smiles do seem so dear;
  Come within the year to seek
  Woone you have sought woonce a week?
  Come while flow'rs be on the bow'rs.
  And the bird o' zong's a-herd.
              Wull ye come?

  Ees come _to_ ye, an' come _vor_ ye, is my word,
              I wull come.




ZUMMER WINDS.


  Let me work, but mid noo tie
  Hold me vrom the oben sky,
  When zummer winds, in plasome flight,
  Do blow on vields in noon-day light,
  Or rusln trees, in twilight night.
         Sweet's a stroll,
  By flow'ry knowl, or blue-fecd pool
  That zummer win's do ruffle cool.

  When the moon's broad light do vill
  Plans, a-sheenn down the hill;
  A-glittern on window glass,
  O then, while zummer win's do pass
  The rippled brook, an' swan grass,
        Sweet's a walk,
  Where we do talk, wi' feces bright,
  In whispers in the peacevul night.

  When the swan men do mow
  Flow'ry grass, wi' zweepn blow,
  In het a-most enough to dry
  The flat-spread clote-leaf that do lie
  Upon the stream a-stealn by,
        Sweet's their rest,
  Upon the breast o' knap or mound
  Out where the goocoo's vace do sound.

  Where the sleek-heir'd mad do zit
  Out o' door to zew or knit,
  Below the elem where the spring
  'S a-runnn, an' the road do bring
  The people by to hear her zing,
        On the green,
  Where she's a-zeen, an' she can zee,
  O ga is she below the tree.

  Come, O zummer wind, an' bring
  Sounds o' birds as they do zing,
  An' bring the smell o' bloomn ma,
  An' bring the smell o' new-mow'd ha;
  Come fan my fece as I do stra,
        Fan the heir
  O' Jessie feir; fan her cool,
  By the weves o' stream or pool.




THE NEME LETTERS.


  When high-flown larks wer on the wing,
  A warm-ar'd holiday in Spring,
  We stroll'd, 'ithout a cere or frown,
    Up roun' the down at Meldonley;
  An' where the hawthorn-tree did stand
  Alwone, but still wi' mwore at hand,
  We zot wi' shedes o' clouds on high
    A-flittn by, at Meldonley.

  An' there, the while the tree did shede
  Their giggln heads, my knife's keen blede
  Carved out, in turf avore my knee,
    J. L., *T. D., at Meldonley.
  'Twer Jessie Lee J. L. did men,
  T. D. did stan' vor Thomas Dene;
  The "L" I scratch'd but slight, vor he
    Mid soon be D, at Meldonley.

  An' when the vields o' wheat did spread
  Vrom hedge to hedge in sheets o' red.
  An' bennets wer a-shekn brown.
    Upon the down at Meldonley,
  We stroll'd agen along the hill,
  An' at the hawthorn-tree stood still,
  To zee J. L. vor Jessie Lee,
    An' my T. D., at Meldonley.

  The grey-poll'd bennet-stems did hem
  Each half-hid letter's zunken rim,
  By ledy's-vingers that did spread
    In yollow red, at Meldonley.
  An' herebells there wi' light blue bell
  Shook soundless on the letter L,
  To ment the bells when L vor Lee
    Become a D at Meldonley.

  Vor Jessie, now my wife, do strive
  Wi' me in life, an' we do thrive;
  Two sleek-heired meres do sprackly pull
    My waggon vull, at Meldonley;
  An' small-hoof'd sheep, in vleeces white,
  Wi' quickly-pankn zides, do bite
  My thymy grass, a-mark'd vor me
    In black, T. D., at Meldonley.




THE NEW HOUSE A-GETTN WOLD.


  Ah! when our wedded life begun,
    These clean-wall'd house of ours wer new;
  Wi' thatch as yollor as the zun
    Avore the cloudless sky o' blue;
  The sky o' blue that then did bound
  The blue-hilled worold's flow'ry ground.

  An' we've a-vound it weather-brown'd,
    As Spring-tide blossoms oben'd white,
  Or Fall did shed, on zunburnt ground,
    Red apples from their leafy height:
  Their leafy height, that Winter soon
  Left leafless to the cool-feced moon.

  An' ran-bred moss ha' stan'd wi' green
    The smooth-feced wall's white-morter'd streaks,
  The while our childern zot between
    Our seats avore the fleme's red peaks:
  The fleme's red peaks, till axan white
  Did quench em vor the long-sleep'd night.

  The bloom that woonce did overspread
    Your rounded chek, as time went by,
  A-shrinkn to a patch o' red,
    Did fede so soft's the evenn sky:
  The evenn sky, my faithful wife,
  O' days as feir's our happy life.




ZUNDAY.


  In zummer, when the shedes do creep
    Below the Zunday steeple, round
  The mossy stwones, that love cut deep
    Wi' nemes that tongues noo mwore do sound,
  The lene do lose the stalkn team,
    An' dry-rimm'd waggon-wheels be still,
  An' hills do roll their down-shot stream
    Below the restn wheel at mill.
  O holy day, when tweil do cese,
  Sweet day o' rest an' grece an' pece!

  The eegrass, vor a while unwrung
    By hoof or shoe, 's a sheenn bright,
  An' clover flowers be a-sprung
    On new-mow'd knaps in beds o' white,
  An' sweet wild rwoses, up among
    The hedge-row boughs, do yield their smells.
  To aer that do bear along
    The loud-rung peals o' Zunday bells,
  Upon the day o' days the best,
  The day o' grece an' pece an' rest.

  By brightshod veet, in peir an' peir,
    Wi' comely steps the road's a-took
  To church, an' work-free han's do ber
    Woone's walkn stick or sister's book;
  An' there the bloomn niece do come
    To zee her aunt, in all her best;
  Or married daughter do bring hwome
    Her vu'st sweet child upon her breast,
  As she do seek the holy plece,
 The day o' rest an' pece an' grece.




THE PILLAR'D GETE.


  As I come by, zome years agoo,
  A-burnt below a sky o' blue,
  'Ithin the pillar'd gete there zung
  A vace a-soundn sweet an' young,
  That mede me veel awhile to zwim
  In weves o' ja to hear its hymn;
  Vor all the zinger, angel-bright,
  Wer then a-hidden vrom my zight,
      An' I wer then too low
  To seek a mete to match my stete
  'Ithin the lofty-pillar'd gete,
  Wi' stwonn balls upon the walls:
      Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

  Another time as I come by
  The house, below a dark-blue sky,
  The pillar'd gete wer oben wide,
  An' who should be a-show'd inside,
  But she, the comely mad whose hymn
  Woonce mede my giddy bran to zwim,
  A-zittn in the shede to zew,
  A-clad in robes as white as snow.
      What then? could I so low
  Look out a mete ov higher stete
  So ga 'ithin a pillar'd gete,
  Wi' high walls round the smooth-mow'd ground?
      Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

  Long years stole by, a-glidn slow,
  Wi' winter cwold an' zummer glow,
  An' she wer then a widow, clad
  In grey; but comely, though so sad;
  Her husband, heartless to his bride,
  Spent all her store an' wealth, an' died,
  Though she noo mwore could now rejace,
  Yet sweet did sound her zongless vace.
      But had she, in her woe,
  The higher stete she had o' lete
  'Ithin the lofty pillar'd gete,
  Wi' stwonn balls upon the walls?
      Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

  But while she vell, my Meker's grece
  Led me to teke a higher plece,
  An' lighten'd up my mind wi' lore,
  An' bless'd me wi' a worldly store;
  But still noo winsome fece or vace,
  Had ever been my wedded chace;
  An' then I thought, why do I mwope
  Alwone without a ja or hope?
      Would she still think me low?
  Or scorn a mete, in my feir stete,
  In here 'ithin a pillar'd gete,
  A happy plece wi' her kind fece?
      Oh, no! my hope, no, no.

  I don't stand out 'tis only fete
  Do gi'e to each his wedded mete;
  But eet there's woone above the rest,
  That every soul can like the best.
  An' my wold love's a-kindled new,
  An' my wold dream's a-come out true;
  But while I had noo soul to shere
  My good an' ill, an' jy an cere,
      Should I have bliss below,
  In glemn plete an' lofty stete
  'Ithin the lofty pillar'd gete,
  Wi' feirest flow'rs, an' ponds an' tow'rs?
      Oh, no! my heart, no, no.




ZUMMER STREAM.


  Ah! then the grassy-meded Ma
  Did warm the passn year, an' gleam
  Upon the yellow-grounded stream,
  That still by beech-tree shedes do stra.
  The light o' weves, a-runnn there,
    Did pla on leaves up over head,
  An' vishes scely zides did glere,
    A-dartn on the shallow bed,
  An' like the stream a-slidn on,
  My zun out-measur'd time's agone.

  There by the path, in grass knee-high,
  Wer buttervlees in giddy flight,
  All white above the deisies white,
  Or blue below the deep blue sky.
  Then glown warm wer ev'ry brow,
    O' mad, or man, in zummer het,
  An' warm did glow the cheks I met
    That time, noo mwore to meet em now.
  As brooks, a-slidn on their bed,
  My season-measur'd time's a-vled.

  Vrom yonder window, in the thatch,
  Did sound the madens' merry words,
  As I did stand, by zingn birds,
  Bezide the elem-sheded hatch.
  'Tis good to come back to the plece,
    Back to the time, to goo noo mwore;
  'Tis good to meet the younger fece
    A-mentn others here avore.
  As streams do glide by green mead-grass,
  My zummer-brighten'd years do pass.




LINDA DENE.


  The bright-tunn'd house, a-risn proud,
  Stood high avore a zummer cloud,
  An' windy shedes o' tow'rs did vall
  Upon the many-window'd wall;
  An' on the grassy terrace, bright
  Wi' white-bloom'd zummer's deasy beds,
  An' snow-white lilies noddn heads,
  Sweet Linda Dene did walk in white;
  But ah! avore too high a door,
  Wer Linda Dene ov Ellendon.

  When sparkln brooks an' grassy ground,
  By keen-ar'd Winter's vrost wer bound,
  An' star-bright snow did streak the forms
  O' bere-lim'd trees in darksome storms,
  Sweet Linda Dene did lightly glide,
  Wi' snow-white robe an' rwosy fece,
  Upon the smooth-vloor'd hall, to trece
  The merry dance o' Chris'mas tide;
  But oh! not mine be balls so fine
  As Linda Dene's at Ellendon.

  Sweet Linda Dene do match the skies
  Wi' sheenn blue o' glisnn eyes,
  An' fearest blossoms do but show
  Her forehead's white, an' fece's glow;
  But there's a winsome ja above,
  The brightest hues ov e'th an' skies.
  The dearest zight o' many eyes,
  Would be the smile o' Linda's love;
  But high above my lowly love
  Is Linda Dene ov Ellendon.




[Gothic: Eclogue.]

COME AND ZEE US IN THE ZUMMER.

_John; William; William's Bwoy; and William's Mad at Feir._


  JOHN.

  Zoo here be your childern, a-shern
  Your feir-day, an' each wi' a feirn.

  WILLIAM.

  Aye, well, there's noo peace 'ithout comn
  To stannn an' show, in the zummer.

  JOHN.

  An' how is your Jene? still as merry
  As ever, wi' cheks lik' a cherry?

  WILLIAM.

  Still merry, but beauty's as fedesome
  'S the ran's glown bow in the zummer.

  JOHN.

  Well now, I do hope we shall vind ye
  Come soon, wi' your childern behind ye,
  To Stowe, while o' bwoth zides o' hedges,
  The zunsheen do glow in the zummer.

  WILLIAM.

  Well, aye, when the mown is over,
  An' ee-grass do whiten wi' clover.
  A man's a-tired out, vor much walken,
  The while he do mow in the zummer.

  WILLIAM'S BWOY.

  I'll goo, an' we'll zet up a wicket,
  An' have a good innns at cricket;
  An' teke a good plounce in the water.
  Where clote-leaves do grow in the zummer.

  WILLIAM'S MAID.

  I'll goo, an' we'll play "Thread the needle"
  Or "Huntn the slipper," or wheedle
  Young Jemmy to fiddle, an' reely
  So brisk to an' fro in the zummer.

  JOHN.

  An' Jene. Mind you don't come 'ithout her,
  My wife is a-thinkn about her;
  At our house she'll find she's as welcome
  'S the rwose that do blow in the zummer.




LINDENORE.


  At Lindenore upon the steep,
    Bezide the trees a-reachn high,
  The while their lower limbs do zweep
    The river-stream a-flown by;
  By grgle bells in beds o' blue,
  Below the tree-stems in the lew,
  Calm ar do vind the rwose-bound door,
  Ov Ellen Dare o' Lindenore.

  An' there noo foam do hiss avore
    Swift bwoats, wi' water-plown keels,
  An' there noo broad high-road's a-wore
    By vur-brought trav'lers' crackln wheels;
  Noo crowd's a-passn to and fro,
  Upon the bridge's high-sprung bow:
  An' vew but I do seek the door
  Ov Ellen Dare o' Lindenore.

  Vor there the town, wi' zun-bright walls,
    Do sheen vur off, by hills o' grey,
  An' town-vo'k ha' but seldom calls
    O' business there, from day to day:
  But Ellen didden leve her ruf
  To be admir'd, an' that's enough--
  Vor I've a-vound 'ithin her door,
  Feir Ellen Dare o' Lindenore.




ME'TH BELOW THE TREE.


  O when these elems' crooked boughs,
  A'most too thin to shede the cows,
  Did slowly swing above the grass
  As winds o' Spring did softly pass,
  An' zunlight show'd the shiftn shede,
  While youthful me'th wi' laughter loud,
  Did twist his lim's among the crowd
  Down there below; up there above
  Wer bright-ey'd me'th below the tree.

  Down there the merry vo'k did vill
  The stwonn doorway, now so still;
  An' zome did joke, wi' cesement wide,
  Wi' other vo'k a-stood outside,
  Wi' words that head by head did heed.
  Below blue sky an' blue-smok'd tun,
  'Twer ja to zee an' hear their fun,
  But sweeter ja up here above
  Wi' bright-ey'd me'th below the tree.

  Now unknown veet do bet the vloor,
  An' unknown han's do shut the door,
  An' unknown men do ride abrode,
  An' hwome agen on thik wold road,
  Drough getes all now a-hung anew.
  Noo mind but mine agen can call
  Wold feces back around the wall,
  Down there below, or here above,
  Wi' bright-ey'd me'th below the tree.

  Aye, pride mid seek the crowded plece
  To show his head an' frownn fece,
  An' pleasure vlee, wi' goold in hand,
  Vor zights to zee vrom land to land,
  Where winds do blow on seas o' blue:--
  Noo wealth wer mine to travel wide
  Vor ja, wi' Pleasure or wi' Pride:
  My happiness wer here above
  The fest, wi' me'th below the tree.

  The wild rwose now do hang in zight,
  To mornn zun an' evenn light,
  The bird do whissle in the gloom,
  Avore the thissle out in bloom,
  But here alwone the tree do len.
  The twig that woonce did whiver there
  Is now a limb a-wither'd bere:
  Zoo I do miss the shede above
  My head, an' me'th below the tree.




TREAT WELL YOUR WIFE.


  No, no, good Mester Collins cried,
  Why you've a good wife at your zide;
  Zoo do believe the heart is true
  That gi'ed up all bezide vor you,
  An' still beheve as you begun
  To seek the love that you've a-won
      When woonce in dewy June,
  In hours o' hope soft eyes did flash,
  Each bright below his shedy lash,
      A-glisnn to the moon.

  Think how her girlhood met noo cere
  To pele the bloom her fece did wer,
  An' how her glossy temple prest
  Her pillow down, in still-feced rest,
  While shedes o' window bars did vall
  In moonlight on the gloomy wall,
      In cool-ar'd nights o' June;
  The while her lids, wi' bendn streks
  O' lashes, met above her cheks,
      A-bloomn to the moon.

  Think how she left her childhood's plece,
  An' only sister's long-known fece,
  An' brother's jokes so much a-miss'd,
  An' mother's chek, the last a-kiss'd;
  An' how she lighted down avore
  Her new abode, a husband's door,
      Your weddn night in June;
  Wi' heart that bet wi' hope an' fear,
  While on each eye-lash hung a tear,
      A-glisnn to the moon.

  Think how her father zot all dum',
  A-thinkn on her, back at hwome,
  The while grey axan gather'd thick,
  On dyn embers, on the brick;
  An' how her mother look'd abrode,
  Drough window, down the moon-bright road,
      Thik cloudless night o' June,
  Wi' tears upon her lashes big
  As ran-drops on a slender twig,
      A-glisnn to the moon.

  Zoo don't zit thoughtless at your cup
  An' keep your wife a-witn up,
  The while the clock's a-tickn slow
  The chilly hours o' vrost an' snow,
  Until the zinkn candle's light
  Is out avore her drowsy sight,
      A-dimm'd wi' grief too soon;
  A-levn there alwone to murn
  The fedn chek that woonce did burn,
      A-bloomn to the moon.




THE CHILD AN' THE MOWERS.


  O, aye! they had woone child bezide,
    An' a finer your eyes never met,
  'Twer a dear little fellow that died
    In the zummer that come wi' such het;
  By the mowers, too thoughtless in fun,
    He wer then a-zent off vrom our eyes,
  Vrom the light ov the dew-dryn zun,--
    Aye! vrom days under blue-hollow'd skies.

  He went out to the mowers in med,
    When the zun wer a-rose to his height,
  An' the men wer a-swingn the sned,
    Wi' their erms in white sleeves, left an' right;
  An' out there, as they rested at noon,
    O! they drench'd en vrom ele-horns too deep,
  Till his thoughts wer a-drown'd in a swoon;
    Aye! his life wer a-smother'd in sleep.

  Then they laid en there-right on the ground,
    On a grass-heap, a-zweltrn wi' het,
  Wi' his heir all a-wetted around
    His young fece, wi' the big drops o' zweat;
  In his little left palm he'd a-zet,
    Wi' his right hand, his vore-vinger's tip,
  As for zome'hat he woulden vorget,--
    Aye! zome thought that he woulden let slip.

  Then they took en in hwome to his bed,
    An' he rose vrom his pillow noo mwore,
  Vor the curls on his sleek little head
    To be blown by the wind out o' door.
  Vor he died while the hy russled grey
    On the staddle so letely begun:
  Lik' the mown-grass a-dried by the day,--
    Aye! the zwath-flow'r's a-killed by the zun.




THE LOVE CHILD.


  Where the bridge out at Woodley did stride,
    Wi' his wide arches' cool sheded bow,
  Up above the clear brook that did slide
    By the popples, befoam'd white as snow:
  As the gilcups did quiver among
    The white deisies, a-spread in a sheet.
  There a quick-trippn mad come along,--
    Aye, a girl wi' her light-steppn veet.

  An' she cried "I do pra, is the road
    Out to Lincham on here, by the med?"
  An' "oh! ees," I mede answer, an' show'd
    Her the way it would turn an' would led:
  "Goo along by the beech in the nook,
    Where the childern do play in the cool,
  To the steppn stwones over the brook,--
    Aye, the grey blocks o' rock at the pool."

  "Then you don't seem a-born an' a-bred,"
    I spoke up, "at a place here about;"
  An' she answer'd wi' cheks up so red
    As a pi'ny but lete a-come out,
  "No, I liv'd wi' my uncle that died
    Back in Epril, an' now I'm a-come
  Here to Ham, to my mother, to bide,--
    Aye, to her house to vind a new hwome."

  I'm ashemed that I wanted to know
    Any mwore of her childhood or life,
  But then, why should so feir a child grow
    Where noo father did bide wi' his wife;
  Then wi' blushes of zunrisn morn,
    She replied "that it midden be known,
  "Oh! they zent me away to be born,--[C]
    Aye, they hid me when zome would be shown."

  Oh! it mede me a'most teary-ey'd,
    An' I vound I a'most could ha' groan'd--
  What! so winnn, an' still cast a-zide--
    What! so lovely, an' not to be own'd;
  Oh! a God-gift a-treated wi' scorn,
    Oh! a child that a squier should own;
  An' to zend her away to be born!--
    Aye, to hide her where others be shown!

[Footnote C: Words once spoken to the writer.]




HAWTHORN DOWN.


  All up the down's cool brow
    I work'd in noontide's glere,
  On where the slow-wheel'd plow
    'D a-wore the grass half bare.
  An' gil'cups quiver'd quick,
    As ar did pass,
  An' deisies huddled thick
    Among the grass.

  The while my erms did swing
    Wi' work I had on hand,
  The quick-wing'd lark did zing
    Above the green-tree'd land,
  An' bwoys below me chafed
    The dog vor fun,
  An' he, vor all they laef'd,
    Did meke em run.

  The south zide o' the hill,
    My own tun-smoke rose blue,--
  In North Coomb, near the mill,
    My mother's wer in view--
  Where woonce her vier vor all
    Ov us did burn,
  As I have childern small
    Round mine in turn.

  An' zoo I still wull cheer
    Her life wi' my small store,
  As she do drop a tear
    Bezide her lwonesome door.
  The love that I do owe
    Her ruf, I'll pa,
  An' then zit down below
    My own wi' ja.




OBEN VIELDS.


  Well, you mid keep the town an' street,
  Wi' grassless stwones to bet your veet,
  An' zunless windows where your brows
  Be never cooled by swan boughs;
  An' let me end, as I begun,
  My days in oben ar an' zun,
  Where zummer win's a-blown sweet,
  Wi' blooth o' trees as white's a sheet;
  Or swan boughs, a-bendn low
  Wi' rip'nn apples in a row,
  An' we a-risn rathe do meet
  The bright'nn dawn wi' dewy veet,
  An' leve, at night, the vootless groves,
  To rest 'ithin our thatchen oves.
  An' here our childern still do bruise
  The deisy buds wi' tiny shoes,
  As we did meet avore em, free
  Vrom cere, in play below the tree.
  An' there in me'th their lively eyes
  Do glissen to the zunny skies,
  As ar do blow, wi' lezy pece
  To cool, in shede, their burnn fece.
  Where leaves o' spreadn docks do hide
  The zawpit's timber-lwoaded zide,
  An' trees do lie, wi' scraggy limbs,
  Among the deisy's crimson rims.
  An' they, so proud, wi' erms a-spread
  To keep their balance good, do tread
  Wi' cereful steps o' tiny zoles
  The narrow zides o' trees an' poles.
  An' zoo I'll leve vor your light veet
  The pevement o' the zunless street,
  While I do end, as I begun,
  My days in oben ar an' zun.




WHAT JOHN WER A-TELLN HIS MIS'ESS OUT IN THE CORN GROUND.


  Ah! mam! you woonce come here the while
    The zun, long years agoo, did shed
  His het upon the wheat in hile,
    Wi' yollow hau'm an' ears o' red,
  Wi' little shoes too thin vor walks
    Upon the scratchn stubble-stalks;
  You hardly reach'd wi' glossy head,
    The vore wheel's top o' dousty red.
  How time's a-vled! How years do vlee!

  An' there you went an' zot inzide
    A hile, in ar a-streamn cool,
  As if 'ithin a room, vull wide
    An' high, you zot to guide an' rule.
  You lez'd about the stubbly land,
    An' soon vill'd up your small left hand
  Wi' ruddy ears your right hand vound,
    An' tral'd the stalks along the ground.
  How time's a-gone! How years do goo!

  Then in the waggon you did teke
    A ride, an' as the wheels vell down
  Vrom ridge to vurrow, they did sheke
    On your small head your poppy crown,
  An' now your little mad, a dear,
    Your childhood's very daps, is here,
  Zoo let her sta, that her young fece
    Mid put a former year in plece.
  How time do run! How years do roll!




SHEDES.


  Come here an' zit a while below
   These tower, grey and ivy-bound,
  In shede, the while the zun do glow
    So hot upon the flow'ry ground;
        An' winds in flight,
        Do briskly smite
  The blossoms bright, upon the glede,
  But never stir the sleepn shede.

  As when you stood upon the brink
    O' yonder brook, wi' back-zunn'd head,
  Your zunny-grounded shede did zink
    Upon the water's grav'lly bed,
        Where weves could zweep
        Away, or keep,
  The gravel heap that they'd a-mede,
  But never wash away the shede.

  An' zoo, when you can woonce vulvil
    What's feir, a-tried by heaven's light,
  Why never fear that evil will
    Can meke a wrong o' your good right.
        The right wull stand,
        Vor all man's hand,
  Till streams on zand, an' wind in gledes,
  Can zweep awa the zuncast shedes.




TIMES O' YEAR.


  Here did swy the eltrot flow'rs,
  When the hours o' night wer vew,
  An' the zun, wi' erly beams
  Brighten'd streams, an' dried the dew,
  An' the goocoo there did greet
  Passers by wi' dousty veet.

  There the milkmad hung her brow
  By the cow, a-sheenn red;
  An' the dog, wi' upward looks,
  Watch'd the rooks above his head,
  An' the brook, vrom bow to bow,
  Here went swift, an' there wer slow.

  Now the cwolder-blown blast,
  Here do cast vrom elems' heads
  Feded leaves, a-whirln round,
  Down to ground, in yollow beds,
  Rusln under milkers' shoes,
  When the day do dry the dews.

  Soon shall grass, a-vrosted bright,
  Glisten white instead o' green,
  An' the wind shall smite the cows,
  Where the boughs be now their screen.
  Things do change as years do vlee;
  What ha' years in store vor me?




[Gothic: Eclogue.]

RACKETN JOE.


_Racketn Joe; his Sister; his Cousin Fanny; and the Dog._


  RACKETN JOE.

  Heigh! heigh! here. Who's about?

  HIS SISTER.

  Oh! lauk! Here's Joe, a rantn lout,

  A-mekn his wild randy-rout.

  RACKETN JOE.

  Heigh! Fanny! How d'ye do? (_slaps her._)

  FANNY.

  Oh! fie; why all the woo'se vor you
  A-slappn o' me, black an' blue,
  My back!

  HIS SISTER.

            A whack! you loose-erm'd chap,
  To gi'e your cousin sich a slap!

  FANNY.

  I'll pull the heir o'n, I do vow;

  HIS SISTER.

  I'll pull the ears o'n. There.

  THE DOG.

                                 Wowh! wow!

  FANNY.

  A-comn up the drong,
  How he did smack his leather thong,
  A-zingn, as he thought, a zong;

  HIS SISTER.

  An' there the pigs did scote
  Azide, in fright, wi' squeakn droat,
  Wi' geese a pitchn up a note.
  Look there.

  FANNY.

               His chair!

  HIS SISTER.

                            He thump'd en down,
  As if he'd het en into ground.

  RACKETN JOE.

  Heigh! heigh! Look here! the vier is out.

  HIS SISTER.

  How he do knock the tongs about!

  FANNY.

  Now there's his whip-nob, plum
  Upon the teble vor a drum;

  HIS SISTER.

  An' there's a dent so big's your thumb.

  RACKETN JOE.

  My hat's awore so quaer.

  HIS SISTER.

  'Tis quaer enough, but not wi' wear;
  But dabs an' dashes he do bear.

  RACKETN JOE.

  The zow!

  HIS SISTER.

           What now?

  RACKETN JOE.

                     She's in the plot.
  A-routn 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.

  RACKETN JOE.

  She's out.

  FANNY.

              Noo doubt.

  HIS SISTER.

                          Athirt the bank,
  Look! how the dog an' he do pank.

  FANNY.

  Sta out, an' heed her now an' then,
  To zee she don't come in agen.




ZUMMER AN' WINTER.


  When I led by zummer streams
    The pride o' Lea, as naghbours thought her,
  While the zun, wi' evenn beams,
    Did cast our shedes athirt the water;
          Winds a-blown,
          Streams a-flown,
          Skies a-glown,
  Tokens ov my ja zoo fleetn,
  Heighten'd it, that happy meetn.

  Then, when mad an' man took pleces,
   Ga in winter's Chris'mas dances,
  Shown in their merry feces
    Kindly smiles an' glisnn glances;
          Stars a-winkn,
          Day a-shrinkn,
          Shedes a-zinkn,
  Brought anew the happy meetn,
  That did meake the night too fleetn.




TO ME.


  At night, as drough the med I took my wa,
  In ar a-sweeten'd by the new-mede ha,
  A stream a-valln 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 evenn darkness, an' the risn hill,
  Kept all the quiv'rn leaves unshown to me,

  Within the copse, below the zunless sky,
  I herd a nightngele, a-warbln high
  Her lwoansome zong, a-hidden vrom my zight,
  An' shown nothn but her mwoan to me.

  An' by a house, where rwoses hung avore
  The thatch-brow'd window, an' the oben door,
  I herd the merry words, an' hearty laugh
  O' zome feir maid, as eet unknown to me.

  High over head the white-rimm'd clouds went on,
  Wi' woone a-comn up, vor woone a-gone;
  An' feir they floated in their sky-back'd flight,
  But still they never mede a sound to me.

  An' there the miller, down the stream did float
  Wi' all his childern, in his white-sal'd bwoat,
  Vur off, beyond the straggln cows in med,
  But zent noo vace, athirt the ground, to me.

  An' then a buttervlee, in zultry light,
  A-wheeln on about me, vier-bright,
  Did show the gaest colors to my eye,
  But still did bring noo vace around to me.

  I met the merry laugher on the down,
  Bezide her mother, on the path to town,
  An' oh! her shepe wer comely to the zight,
  But wordless then wer she a-vound to me.

  Zoo, sweet ov unzeen things mid be sound,
  An' feir to zight mid soundless things be vound,
  But I've the laugh to hear, an' fece to zee,
  Vor they be now my own, a-bound to me.




TWO AN' TWO.


  The zun, O Jessie, while his fece do rise
    In vi'ry skies, a-sheddn out his light
  On yollow corn a-wevn down below
    His yollow glow, is ga avore the zight.
      By two an' two,
      How goodly things do goo,
    A-matchn woone another to fulvill
    The goodness ov their Mekr's will.

  How bright the spreadn water in the lew
    Do catch the blue, a-sheenn vrom the sky;
  How true the grass do teke the dewy bead
    That it do need, while dousty roads be dry.
      By peir an' peir
      Each thing's a-mede to shere
    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 shede;
  The ar's to bear the bird, the bird's to rise;
    Vor light the eyes, vor eyes the light's a-mede.
      'Tis gi'e an' teke,
      An' woone vor others' seke;
    In peirs a-workn 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 ran 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 unmolestn me a-restn,
      Where I la 'ithin the lew.

  My wife's bright vier indoors did cast
    Its fleme upon the window penes
  That screen'd her teble, while the blast
    Vled on in music down the lenes;
  An' as I zot in vaceless thought
  Ov other zummer-tides, that brought
  The sheenn grass below the lark,
  Or left their ricks a-wearn 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 leve the childern, big or small;
  But He that mede the wind, an' mede
  The lewth, an' zent wi' het the shede,
  Can keep my childern, all alwone
  O' under me, an' though vull grown
  Or little lispers, wi' their whispers,
      There a-lyn in the lew.




THE WIND IN WOONE'S FECE.


  There lovely Jenny past,
    While the blast did blow
  On over Ashknowle Hill
    To the mill below;
  A-blinkn quick, wi' lashes long,
    Above her cheks o' red,
  Agen the wind, a-betn strong,
    Upon her droopn head.

  Oh! let dry win' blow blek,
    On her chek so hele,
  But let noo ran-shot chill
    Meke her ill an' pele;
  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-heir
    Ov my feirest dear;
  An' mid noo unkind deed o' mine
    Spweil what my love mid gan,
  Nor meke my merry Jenny pine
    At last wi' dim-ey'd pan.




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 agen the mwoldrn door
    'S a tken 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 Mery gi'e
  Tht she'd a-liv'd, an' liv'd vor me,
  But things a-done vor thought an' view?
  Good things that nwone agen 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 hauln
    Now vrom grey's a-feded dark,
  An' off the barken ral's a-valln,
    Day by day, the rottn bark.--
  But short's the time our works do stand,
  So feir's we put em out ov hand,
  Vor time a-passn, wet an' dry,
  Do spwel em wi' his changn sky,
  The while wi' strivn hope, we men,
    Though a-run time's undon,
  Still do tweil an' tweil agen.

  In wall-zide shedes, by leafy bowers,
    Underneath the swayn tree,
  O' lete, as round the bloomn flowers,
    Lowly humm'd the giddy bee,
  My childern's small left voot did smite
  Their tiny spede, the while the right
  Did trample on a deisy head,
  Bezde the flower's dousty bed,
  An' though their work wer idle then,
    They a-smiln, an' a-tweiln,
  Still did work an' work agen.

  Now their little limbs be stronger,
    Deeper now their vace do sound;
  An' their little veet be longer,
    An' do tread on other ground;
  An' rust is on the little bledes
    Ov all the broken-hafted spedes,
  An' flow'rs that wer my hope an' pride
  Ha' long agoo a-bloom'd an' died,
  But still as I did lebor then
    Vor love ov all them childern small,
  Zoo now I'll tweil an' tweil agen.

  When the smokeless tun's a-grown
    Cwold as dew below the stars,
  An' when the vier noo mwore's a-glown
    Red between the window bars,
  We then do lay our weary heads
  In peace upon their nightly beds,
  An' gi'e woone sock, wi' heavn 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 agen.

  Where the vace o' the winds is mildest,
    In the plan, their stroke is keen;
  Where their dreatnn vace is wildest,
    In the grove, the grove's our screen.
  An' where the worold in their strife
  Do dreatn mwost our tweilsome life,
  Why there Almighty cere mid cast
  A better screen agen the blast.
  Zoo I woon't live in fear o' men,
    But, man-neglected, God-directed,
  Still wull tweil an' tweil agen.




FANCY.


   In stillness we ha' words to hear,
    An' shepes to zee in darkest night,
  An' tongues a-lost can hal 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' westn life's slow-beatn track.

  When fedn leaves do drip wi' ran,
    Our thoughts can ramble in the dry;
  When Winter win' do zweep the plan
    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 pan our thoughts can pass to ese,
    In work our souls can be at pla,
  An' leve behind the chilly lese
    Vor warm-ar'd meds o' new mow'd ha.
  When we do vlee in Fancy's flight
    Vrom daily ills avore our fece,
    An' linger in zome happy plece
  Ov m'th an' smiles, an' warmth an' light.




THE BROKEN HEART.


  News o' grief had overteken
  Dark-ey'd Fanny, now vorseken;
  There she zot, wi' breast a-heavn,
  While vrom zide to zide, wi' grievn,
  Vell her head, wi' tears a-creepn
  Down her cheks, in bitter weepn.
  There wer still the ribbon-bow
  She tied avore her hour ov woe,
  An' there wer still the han's that tied it
          Hangn white,
          Or wringn tight,
  In cere that drown'd all cere bezide it.

  When a man, wi' heartless slightn,
  Mid become a maden's blightn,
  He mid cerlessly vorseke her,
  But must answer to her Meker;
  He mid slight, wi' selfish blindness,
  All her deeds o' lovn-kindness,
  God wull wagh em wi' the slightn
  That mid be her love's requitn;
  He do look on each deceiver,
          He do know
          What weight o' woe
  Do brek the heart ov ev'ry griever.




EVENN LIGHT.


  The while I took my bit o' rest,
    Below my house's eastern shede,
    The things that stood in vield an' glede
  Wer bright in zunsheen vrom the west.
    There bright wer east-ward mound an' wall,
    An' bright wer trees, arisn 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 evenn dusk did gather slow;
    But bright did glere the twinkln spwokes
    O' runnn 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 agen his fece mid rise,
    A-sheenn vrom the eastern skies
  To brighten up the rwose-borne dew;
    But still his lingrn light did gi'e
    My heart a touchn ja, to zee
  His beams a-shed, wi' stratchn shede,
    On east-ward wall an' tree.

  When ja, a-zent me vrom above,
    Vrom my sad heart is now agone,
   An' others be a-walkn on,
  Amid the light ov Heavn's love,
    Oh! then vor lovn-kindness seke,
    Mid I rejice that zome do teke
  My hopes a-gone, until agen
    My happy dawn do brek.




VIELDS BY WATERVALLS.


  When our downcast looks be smileless,
    Under others' wrongs an' slightns,
  When our daily deeds be guileless,
    An' do meet unkind requitns,
  You can meke us zome amends
  Vor wrongs o' foes, an' slights o' friends;--
  O flow'ry-gleded, timber-sheded
  Vields by flown watervalls!

  Here be softest ars a-blown
    Drough the boughs, wi' zingn drushes,
  Up above the streams, a-flown
    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 flown watervalls.

  Waters, wi' their giddy rollns;
    Breezes wi' their plasome woons;
  Here do heal, in soft consolns,
    Hearts a-wrung wi' man's wrong dons.
  Day do come to us as ga
  As to a king ov widest swa,
  In deisy-whitn'd, gil'cup-brightn'd
  Vields by flown watervalls.

  Zome feir buds mid outlive blightns,
    Zome sweet hopes mid outlive sorrow.
  After days of wrongs an' slightns
    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.




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 Jene, vrom Aunt o' Camwy dell.

  Zoo all the lot o' stuff a-tied
    Upon the plow, a tidy tod,
  On gravel-crunchn 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,
    Astran'd athirt, an' stran'd along,
  Down Thornhay's evenn-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-bearn land,
  When beech-leaves slowly whiver'd down.
    By evenn 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 agen did show vull bright,
  In two long streaks o' glitt'rn white.

  But when, upon our weddn night,
    The cart's light wheels, a-rolln round,
  Brought Jenny hwome, they run too light
   To mark the yieldn ground;
  Or welcome would be vound a peir
  O' green-vill'd routs a-runnn there.

  Zoo let me never bring 'ithin
    My dwelln 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
  W' leaves, wi' grass, wi' groun' wi' snow.




NANNY'S NEW ABODE.


  Now day by day, at lofty height,
    O zummer noons, the burnn zun
  'Ve a-show'd avore our eastward zight,
    The sky-blue zide ov Hameldon,
  An' shone agen, on new-mow'd ground,
    Wi' ha a-piled up grey in pook,
  An' down on lezes, bennet-brown'd,
    An' wheat a-vell avore the hook;
  Till, under elems tall,
    The leaves do lie on lenn lands,
  In leter 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-wevn by the brink
    O' shallow brooks, do slowly die.
  An' on the timber tall,
    The boughs, half bere, do bend above
  The bulgn banks in Fall.

  There, we'd a spring o' water near,
    Here, water's deep in wink-dran'd wells,
  The church 'tis true, is nigh out here,
    Too nigh wi' vive loud-boomn bells.
  There, naghbours wer vull wide a-spread,
    But vo'k be here too clwose a-stow'd.
  Vor childern now do stun woone's head,
    Wi' nasy pla bezide the road,
  Where big so well as small,
    The little lad, an' lump'rn lout,
  Do lep an' laugh these Fall.




LEAVES A-VALLN.


  There the ash-tree leaves do vall
    In the wind a-blown 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 vaces or their me'th.

  There dead ash leaves be a-toss'd
    In the wind, a-blown 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 teke 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 meke woone hour asunder;
  Woone hour onward, woone hour nigher
    To the hopeful eastern skies,
  Where his mornn rim o' vier
    Soon agen shall meet his eyes.

  Leaves be now a-scatter'd round
    In the wind, a-blown bleaker,
  An' if we do walk the ground
    Wi' our life-strangth woone year weaker.
  Woone year weaker, woone year nigher
    To the plece 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-smiln, while her lids do rise
   To show her eyes as bright as dew.
  An' comely do she look at night,
  A-dancn in her skirt o' white,
  An' blushn wi' a rwose o' red
  Bezide her glossy head.

  Feir is the rwose o' blushn hue,
    Behung wi' dew, in mornn's hour,
  Feir is the rwose, so sweet below
    The noontide glow, bezide the bow'r.
  Vull feir, an' eet I'd rather zee
  The rwose a-gather'd off the tree,
  An' bloomn 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 weann life,
    Or mad or wife, be loved and blest.
  Though I mid never zing anew
  To neme the mad so feir an' true,
  A-blushn, 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 beten rock,
  I still do seem to hear the sound
  O' weves that drove me vrom my track,
  An' zee my struggln hopes a-drown'd,
  An' all my jas a-floated back.
  By storms a-toss'd, I'll gi'e God prase,
  Wi' much a-lost I still ha' jas.
  My peace is rest, my fath is hope,
  An' freedom's my unbounded scope.

  Vor fath 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 blessns now a-left.
  What e'th do own, to e'th mid vall,
  But what's my own my own I'll call,
  My fath, an' pece, the gifts o' grece,
  An' freedom still to shift my plece.

  When I've a-had a tree to screen
    My meal-rest vrom the high zunn'd-sky,
  Or ivy-holdn wall between
    My head an' win's a-rustln by,
  I had noo call vor han's to bring
  Their sev'ry danties at my nod,
  But stoop'd a-drinkn vrom the spring,
  An' took my meal, wi' thanks to God,
  Wi' fath to keep me free o' dread,
  An' pece to sleep wi' steadvast head,
  An' freedom's hands, an' veet unbound
  To woone man's work, or woone seme ground.




FALL TIME.


  The gather'd clouds, a-hangn low,
    Do meke the woody ridge look dim;
  An' ran-vill'd streams do brisker flow,
    Arisn 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 mornn winds a-blown keen;
  When they wer green the moss wer dead,
    Now they be dead the moss is green.
  Low the evenn zun do sheen
      By the boughs,
  Where the cows do swing their tals
  Over the merry milkers' pals.




FALL.


  Now the yollow zun, a-runnn
    Daily round a smaller bow,
  Still wi' cloudless sky's a-zunnn
   All the sheenn land below.
    Vewer blossoms now do blow,
  But the fruit's a-shown
    Reds an' blues, an' purple hues,
  By the leaves a-glown.

  Now the childern be a-pryn
    Roun' the berried bremble-bow,
  Zome a-laughn, woone a-cryn
    Vor the slent her frock do show.
    Bwoys be out a-pulln low
  Slooe-boughs, or a-runnn
    Where, on zides of hazzle-wrides,
  Nuts do hang a-zunnn.

  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
  Bloomn balls below em,
    That shall hide, on ev'ry zide
  Ground where we do drow em.




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' mad.
  But rwose-trees down along the wall,
    That then wer all the maden's cere,
  An' all a-trimm'd an' tran'd, did bear
    Their bloomn 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 pla to bet em down.
  An' where vor years zome busy hand
    Did tran 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-swayn wi' low-rusln 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-mede vast,
    Wer the childern's light swing, a-hung low,
  An' a-rock'd by the brisk-blown 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-shekn the flow'rs,
    Aye, the blast the feir buds on the ground.

  Oh! the moon, wi' his pele 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 ar is a-warm'd by the zun,
    Aye, the win' by the day's vi'ry wheel.




THE CHILD'S GREVE.


  Avore the time when zuns went down
  On zummer's green a-turn'd to brown,
  When shedes o' swan wheat-ers vell
  Upon the scarlet pimpernel;
  The while you still mid goo, an' vind
   'Ithin the gerden's mossy wall,
    Sweet blossoms, low or risn tall,
  To meke a tutty to your mind,
  In churchyard heav'd, wi' grassy breast,
  The greve-mound ov a beby's rest.

  An' when a high day broke, to call
  A throng 'ithin the churchyard wall,
  The mother brought, wi' thoughtvul mind,
  The feirest buds her eyes could vind,
  To trim the little greve, an' show
    To other souls her love an' loss,
    An' mede a Sevior's little cross
  O' brightest flow'rs that then did blow,
  A-droppn tears a-sheenn bright,
  Among the dew, in mornn light

  An' woone sweet bud her han' did plece
  Up where did droop the Sevior's fece;
  An' two she zet a-bloomn bright,
  Where reach'd His hands o' left an' right;
  Two mwore feir blossoms, crimson dyed,
    Did mark the pleces ov his veet,
    An' woone did lie, a-smelln sweet,
  Up where the spear did wound the zide
  Ov Him that is the life ov all
  Greve sleepers, whether big or small.

  The mother that in fath could zee
  The Sevior on the high cross tree
  Mid be a-vound a-grievn sore,
  But not to grieve vor evermwore,
  Vor He shall show her fathvul mind,
    His chace is all that she should choose,
    An' love that here do grieve to lose,
  Shall be, above, a ja to vind,
  Wi' Him that evermwore shall keep
  The souls that He do lay asleep.




WENT VROM HWOME.


  The stream-be-wander'd dell did spread
    Vrom height to woody height,
  An' meds did lie, a grassy bed,
    Vor elem-shedn light.
  The milkmad by her white-horn'd cow,
    Wi' pal so white as snow,
  Did zing below the elem bough
    A-swan to an' fro.

  An' there the evenn's low-shot light
    Did smite the high tree-tops,
  An' rabbits vrom the grass, in fright,
    Did lep 'ithin the copse.
  An' there the shepherd wi' his crook.
    An' dog bezide his knee,
  Went whissln by, in ar that shook
    The ivy on the tree.

  An' on the hill, ahead, wer bars
    A-shown dark on high,
  Avore, as eet, the evenn stars
    Did twinkle in the sky,
  An' then the last sweet evenn-tide
    That my long shede vell there,
  I went down Brindon's thymy zide,
    To my last sleep at Ware.




THE FANCY FEIR AT MADEN NEWTON.


  The Frome, wi' ever-water'd brink,
  Do run where shelvn hills do zink
  Wi' housen all a-cluster'd roun'
  The parish tow'rs below the down.
  An' now, vor woonce, at lest, ov all
  The plecen 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 Feir
          Is on at Maden Newton.

  An' vo'k, a-smarten'd up, wull hop
  Out here, as ev'ry tran do stop,
  Vrom up the line, a longish ride,
  An' down along the river-zide.
  An' zome do bet, wi' heels an' tooes,
  The lenes an' paths, in nimble shoes,
  An' bring, bezides, a biggish knot,
  Ov all their childern that can trot,
          A-vlockn where the Fancy Feir
          Is here at Maden 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 Feir
          Is on at Maden Newton.

  Come, young men, come, an' here you'll vind
  A gift to please a maden's mind;
  Come, husbands, here be gifts to please
  Your wives, an' meke em smile vor days;
  Come, so's, an' buy at Fancy Feir
  A keepseke vor your friends elsewhere;
  You can't but stop an' spend a cwein
  Wi' ledies that ha' goods so fine;
          An' all to meake, vor childern's seke,
          The School at Maden Newton.




THINGS DO COME ROUND.


  Above the leafless hazzle-wride
    The wind-drove ran did quickly vall,
  An' on the meple's ribby zide
    Did hang the ran-drops quiv'rn ball;
  Out where the brook o' foamy yollow
  Roll'd along the med's deep hollow,
  An' noo birds wer out to bet,
  Wi' flappn wings, the vlen wet
  O' zunless clouds on flow'rless ground.
  How time do bring the seasons round!

  The moss, a-bet vrom trees, did lie
    Upon the ground in ashen droves,
  An' western wind did huffle high,
    Above the sheds' quick-drippn oves.
  An' where the rusln straw did sound
    So dry, a-shelter'd in the lew,
  I staed 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 pla, did seem
    In work o' men to teke a pert,
  A-drevn on our wild bwoy team,
    Or lwoadn 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 jas a-lost, an' jas 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 pla the merry geme,
    Wi' childern ev'ry holitide,
  But coulden tell the vace or neme
    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 plece,
    A husband to a wife's true vow,
  I never thought by neme or fece
    O' childern that be round me now.
  An' now they all do grow vrom small,
  Drough life's feir shepes to big an' tall,
  I still be blind to God's good plan,
  To plece 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 evenn, as I shook
  My locks ov ha by Leecombe brook.
  The yollow zun did weakly glance
  Upon the winter med askance,
  A-castn out my narrow shede
  Athirt the brook, an' on the med.
  The while agen my lwonesome ears
  Did russle weatherbeten 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 bledes
  Rung sh'ill along the green-bough'd gledes,
  An' madens ga, wi' plasome 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-runnn lowly round,
  Do mark the shedes the hedge do cast
    At noon, in hoarvrost, on the ground,
  I'm out when snow's a-lyn white
    In keen-ar'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 hangn steep,
          Or hollow deep,
                  At Lindenore.

  O welcome is the lewth a-vound
    By rustln copse, or ivied bank,
  Or by the ha-rick, weather-brown'd
    By barken-grass, a-springn 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 hangn 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 vaces vull or thin,
  A pran vor the souls vur out
    At sea, an' cry wi' bibb'rn 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-swingn on the tree,
  An' beten weves below.
  Zee how the tweiln vo'k do bend
    Upon their windward track,
  Wi' ev'ry string, an' garment's end,
    A-flutt'rn 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' weves do sheen below;
  An' neked stems o' wood in hedge
    Do glem in streks o' light,
  An' rocks do glere upon the ledge
    O' yonder zunny height,
  "No, Jene, wi' trials now withdrawn,
  Lik' darkness at a happy dawn."
    I cried, "Noo mwore despair;
  Wi' our lost peace agen a-vound,
    'Tis wrong to harbour cere."




SLIDN.


          When wind wer keen,
          Where ivy-green
          Did clwosely wind
          Roun' woak-tree rind,
          An' ice shone bright,
  An' meds wer white, wi' thin-spread snow
    Then on the pond, a-spreadn wide,
    We bwoys did zweep along the slide,
  A-strikn on in merry row.

          There rudd-feced,
          In busy heste,
          We all did wag
          A spankn lag,
          To win good speed,
  When we, straght-knee'd, wi' foreright tooes,
    Should shoot along the slipp'ry track,
    Wi' grindn sound, a-gettn slack,
  The slower went our clumpn shoes.

          Vor zome slow chap,
          Did teke 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 laughn crew.

          As to an' fro,
          In merry row,
          We all went round
          On ice, on ground
          The madens nigh
  A-stannn shy, did zee us slide,
    An' in their eprons small, did vwold
    Their little hands, a-got red-cwold,
  Or slide on ice o' two veet wide.

          By leafless copse,
          An' bere tree-tops,
          An' zun's low beams,
          An' ice-boun' streams,
          An' vrost-boun' mill,
  A-stannn still. Come wind, blow on,
    An' gi'e the bwoys, this Chris'mas tide,
    The glitt'rn ice to meke a slide,
  As we had our slide, years agone.




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-shedn bow
    Do hang in leaf, an' win'-blow'd flow'rs,
  Avore my lwonesome eyes do show
    These bright November hours.
  Avore my lwonesome eyes do show
  Wi' nwone but I to zee em blow.

  The shedes o' leafy buds, avore
    The penes, do sheke 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-stirrn nothn mwore.

  This win' mid dreve upon the man,
    My brother's ship, a-plown foam,
  But not bring mother, cwold, nor ran,
    At her now happy hwome.
  But not bring mother, cwold, nor ran,
  Where she is out o' pain.

  Zoo now that I'm a-mwopn dumb,
    A-keepn 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.




A SNOWY NIGHT.


  'Twer at night, an' a keen win' did blow
    Vrom the east under pele-twinkln stars,
  All a-zweepn along the white snow;
    On the groun', on the trees, on the bars,
  Vrom the hedge where the win' russled drough,
    There a light-russln snow-doust did vall;
  An' noo plece 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-comn 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-bloomn fece,
  An' she blink'd wi' her head all a-zide,
    An' a-chuckln, went back to her plece.

  An' in there, as we zot roun' the brands,
    Though the talkers wer manly the men,
  Bloomn Jene, wi' her work in her hands,
    Did put in a good word now an' then.
  An' when I took my leave, though so blek
    Wer the weather, she went to the door,
  Wi' a smile, an' a blush on the chek
    That the snow had a-smitten avore.




THE YEAR-CLOCK.


  We zot bezide the lefy wall,
  Upon the bench at evenfall,
  While aunt led off our minds vrom cere
  Wi' veiry teles, I can't tell where:
  An' vound us woone among her stock
  O' febles, o' the girt Year-clock.
  His fece wer blue's the zummer skies,
  An' wide's the zight o' lookn eyes,
  For hands, a zun wi' glown fece,
  An' peler moon wi' swifter pece,
  Did wheel by stars o' twinkln light,
  By bright-wall'd day, an' dark-treed night;
  An' down upon the high-sky'd land,
  A-reachn wide, on either hand,
  Wer hill an' dell wi' win'-swa'd trees,
  An' lights a-zweepn over seas,
  An' gleamn cliffs, an' bright-wall'd tow'rs,
  Wi' shedes a-markn on the hours;
  An' as the fece, a-rolln round,
  Brought comely shepes along the ground.
  The Spring did come in winsome stete
  Below a glown ranbow gete;
  An' fan wi' ar a-blown weak,
  Her glossy heir, an' rwosy chek,
  As she did shed vrom oben hand,
  The lepn zeed on vurrow'd land;
  The while the rook, wi' hesty flight,
  A-floatn in the glown 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-sher'd beam,
  Avore the wery oxen team,
  Wi' Spring a-gone there come behind
  Sweet Zummer, ja ov ev'ry mind,
  Wi' fece a-beamn to beguile
  Our wery souls ov ev'ry tweil.
  While birds did warble in the dell
  In softest ar o' sweetest smell;
  An' she, so winsome-feir 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' shepes o' buttervlees in flight.
  When Zummer went, the next ov all
  Did come the shepe o' brown-fec'd Fall,
  A-smiln in a comely gown
  O' green, a-shot wi' yellow-brown,
  A-border'd wi' a goolden stripe
  O' fringe, a-mede o' corn-ears ripe,
  An' up agen her comely zide,
  Upon her rounded erm, 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 Lebor there did come
  A-zingn 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 agen to mild-fec'd Fall
  Did come pele Winter, last ov all,
  A-bendn down, in thoughtvul mood,
  Her head 'ithin a snow-white hood
  A-deck'd wi' icy-jewels, bright
  An' cwold as twinkln stars o' night;
  An' there wer weary Lebor, slack
  O' veet to keep her vrozen track,
  A-lookn off, wi' wistful eyes,
  To reefs o' smoke, that there did rise
  A-meltn to the pele-fec'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-rolln round
  'Ithout a bet, 'ithout a sound.




NOT GOO HWOME TO-NIGHT.


  No, no, why you've noo wife at hwome
  Abidn up till you do come,
  Zoo leve your hat upon the pin,
  Vor I'm your water. 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-stannn still,
  The sleepn 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' neked trees, the purple wood,
  The scarlet hunter's ho'ses veet
  Tore up the shekn ground, wind-fleet,
  Wi' reachn heads, an' pankn hides;
  The while the flat-wing'd rooks in vlock.
  Did zwim a-sheenn 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 huffln win' do blow,
  A-whirln down the giddy snow:
  Zee how the sky's a-wern dim,
  Behind the elem's neked lim'.
  That there do len above the lene:
  Zoo teke your plece bezide the dogs,
  An' sip a drop o' hwome-brew'd ele,
  An' zing your zong or tell your tele,
  While I do bat the vier wi' logs.
  No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night,
  Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill.

  Your mere's in steble wi' her hocks
  In straw above her vetterlocks,
  A-reachn up her meney neck,
  An' pulln down good hay vrom reck,
  A-mekn slight o' snow an' sleet;
  She don't want you upon her back,
  To vall upon the slippery stwones
  On Hollyhl, 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.




THE HUMSTRUM.


  Why woonce, at Chris'mas-tide, avore
  The wold year wer a-reckon'd out,
  The humstrums here did come about,
  A-soundn up at ev'ry door.
  But now a bow do never screpe
    A humstrum, any where all round,
  An' zome can't tell a humstrum's shepe,
    An' never herd his jingln 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'rn, zide by zide,
  Above the humstrum's hollow back.
  An' there the bwoy, wi' bended stick,
    A-strung wi' heir, to meke a bow,
  Did dreve his elbow, light'nn 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 jingln sound,
  The merry mad, a-scrubbn round
  Her white-stev'd pal, did stop her brush.
  The mis'ess there, vor wold time's seke,
    Had gifts to gi'e, and smiles to show,
  An' mester, too, did stan' an' sheke
    His two broad zides, a-chuckln low,
  While _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string,
  While _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang.

  The plaers' pockets wer a-strout,
  Wi' wold brown pence, a-rottln in,
  Their zwangn 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-runnn 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 FEIR.


  When hillborne Paladore did show
  So bright to me down miles below.
  As woonce the zun, a-rolln west,
  Did brighten up his hill's high breast.
  Wi' walls a-lookn dazzln white,
  Or yollow, on the grey-topp'd height
  Of Paladore, as pele day wore
          Awa so feir.
  Oh! how I wish'd that I wer there.

  The plece wer too vur off to spy
  The livn vo'k a-passn by;
  The vo'k too vur vor ar 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 pele day wore
          Awa so feir;
  But how I wish'd that I wer there.

  But when I clomb the lofty ground
  Where livn veet an' tongues did sound,
  At feir, bezide your bloomn fece,
  The pertiest in all the plece,
  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 feir.

  Since vu'st I trod thik steep hill-zide
  My grievn soul 'v a-been a-tried
  Wi' pan, an' loss o' worldly ger,
  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 feir.

  The wold brown mere'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 feir upon the new green cart,
  An' teke our little Poll between
  Our zides, as proud's a little queen,
  To Paladore. Aye, Poll a dear,
          Vor now 'tis feir,
  An' she's a longn to goo there.

  While Paladore, on watch, do stran
  Her eyes to Blackmwore's blue-hill'd plin,
  While Duncliffe is the traveller's mark,
  Or cloty Stour's a-rolln dark;
  Or while our bells do call, vor grece,
  The vo'k avore their Sevior's fece,
  Mid Paladore, an' Poll a dear,
          Vor ever know
  O' pece an' plenty down below.




THE BETEN PATH.


  The beten path where vo'k do meet
    A-comn on vrom vur an' near;
  How many errands had the veet
    That wore en out along so clear!
  Where eegrass bledes be green in med,
    Where bennets up the leze be brown,
  An' where the timber bridge do led
    Athirt the cloty brook to town,
  Along the path by mile an' mile,
  Athirt the yield, an' brook, an' stile,

  There runnn childern's hearty laugh
    Do come an' vlee along--win' swift:
  The wold man's glossy-knobbd staff
    Do help his veet so hard to lift;
  The mad do bear her basket by,
    A-hangn at her brethn zide;
  An' cereless young men, straght an' spry,
    Do whissle hwome at eventide,
  Along the path, a-reachn by
  Below tall trees an' oben sky.

  There woone do goo to ja a-head;
    Another's ja'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-tekn on,
  As he that letely vrom abroad
    Come hwome to seek his love a-gone,
  Noo mwore to tread, wi' comely ese,
  The beten path athirt the leze.

  In tweilsome hardships, year by year,
    He drough the worold wander'd wide,
  Still bent, in mind, both vur an' near
    To come an' meke his love his bride.
  An' passn here drough evenn dew
    He hesten'd, happy, to her door,
  But vound the wold vo'k only two,
    Wi' noo mwore vootsteps on the vloor,
  To walk agen below the skies,
  Where beten paths do vall an' rise;

  Vor she wer gone vrom e'thly eyes
    To be a-kept in darksome sleep,
  Until the good agen do rise
    A-ja to souls they left to weep.
  The rwose wer doust that bound her brow;
    The moth did eat her Zunday cepe;
  Her frock wer out o' fashion now;
    Her shoes wer dried up out o' shepe--
  The shoes that woonce did glitter black
  Along the lezes beten track.




RUTH A-RIDN.


  Ov all the roads that ever bridge
    Did bear athirt a river's fece,
  Or ho'ses up an' down the ridge
    Did wear to doust at ev'ry pece,
  I'll teke the Stalton lene to tread,
  By banks wi' primrwose-beds bespread,
  An' stetely elems over head,
      Where Ruth do come a-ridn.

  An' I would rise when vields be grey
    Wi' mornn dew, avore 'tis dry,
  An' bet the doust droughout the day
    To bluest hills ov all the sky;
  If there, avore the dusk o' night,
  The evenn zun, a-sheenn bright,
  Would pay my lebors wi' the zight
      O' Ruth--o' Ruth a-ridn.

  Her healthy fece is rwosy feir,
    She's comely in her gat an' lim',
  An' sweet's the smile her fece do wear,
    Below her cap's well-rounded brim;
  An' while her skirt's a-spredn wide,
  In vwolds upon the ho'se's zide,
  He'll toss his head, an' snort wi' pride,
      To trot wi' Ruth a-ridn.

  An' as her ho'se's rottln pece
    Do slacken till his veet do bet
  A slower trot, an' till her fece
    Do bloom avore the tollman's gete;
  Oh! he'd be glad to oben wide
  His high-back'd gete, an' stand azide,
  A-givn up his toll wi' pride,
      Vor zight o' Ruth a-ridn.

  An' oh! that Ruth could be my bride,
    An' I had ho'ses at my will,
  That I mid teke her by my zide,
    A-ridn over dell an' hill;
  I'd zet wi' pride her litty tooe
  'Ithin a stirrup, sheenn new,
  An' leve all other jas to goo
      Along wi' Ruth a-ridn.

  If madens that be wek an' pele
    A-mwopn in the house's shede,
  Would wish to be so blithe and hele
    As you did zee young Ruth a-mede;
  Then, though the zummer zun mid glow,
  Or though the Winter win' mid blow,
  They'd lep upon the saddle's bow,
      An' goo, lik' Ruth, a-ridn.

  While evenn light do sof'ly gild
    The moss upon the elem's bark,
  Avore the zingn bird's a-still'd,
    Or woods be dim, or day is dark,
  Wi' quiv'rn grass avore his breast,
  In cowslip beds, do lie at rest,
  The ho'se that now do goo the best
      Wi' rwosy Ruth a-ridn.




BEAUTY UNDECKED.


  The grass mid sheen when wat'ry beds
  O' dew do glitter on the meds,
  An' thorns be bright when quiv'rn studs
  O' ran do hang upon their buds--
  As jewels be a-mede by art
  To zet the planest vo'k off smart.

  But shekn ivy on its tree,
  An' low-bough'd laurel at our knee,
  Be bright all da, without the glere,
  O' drops that duller leves mid wer--
  As Jene is feir to look upon
  In planest gear that she can don.




MY LOVE IS GOOD.


  My love is good, my love is feir,
    She's comely to behold, O,
  In ev'rything that she do wear,
    Altho' 'tis new or wold, O.
  My heart do lep to see her walk,
    So straght do step her veet, O,
  My tongue is dum' to hear her talk,
    Her vace 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 feirest to my zight, O,
  Till she do stan' an' I do deem,
    She's feirest at her height, O.
  An' she do seem 'ithin a room
    The feirest on a floor, O,
  Till I agen do zee her bloom
    Still feirer out o' door, O.
  Where flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green
  Do bear but vew, so good an' true.

  An' when the deisies be a-press'd
    Below her vootsteps waght, O,
  Do seem as if she look'd the best
    Ov all in walkn gat, O.
  Till I do zee her zit upright
    Behind the ho'ses neck, O,
  A-holdn wi' the ran so tight
    His tossn 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 leser 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 ga to my eyes,
  Where her feir fece did arise,
  She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts,
    Than the high moon in the skies.

  Oh! I vu'st herd her a-zingn,
    As a sweet bird on a tree,
  Though her zingn wer my pleasure,
    'Twer noo zong she zung to me.
  Though her sweet vace that wer nigh,
  Mede 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-weepn,
    As a ran-dimm'd mornn sky,
  Though her ter-draps dimm'd her blushes,
    They wer noo draps I could dry.
  Ev'ry bright tear that did roll,
  Wer a keen pan to my soul,
  But noo hert'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-mede her.
    As an angel at my zide;
  I've her best smiles that mid pla,
  I've her me'th when she is ga,
  When her tear-draps be a-rolln,
  I can now wipe em awa.




THE DO'SET MILITIA.


  Hurrah! my lads, vor Do'set men!
  A-muster'd here in red agen;
  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'rns thin or thick;
  God speed the Colonel on the hill,[D]
  An' Mrs Bingham,[E] 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 loppn limbs a-tired,
  An you be dry an' burnn hot,
  Why here's your tea an' coffee pot
  At Mister Greenn'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."

  Jene Hart, that's Joey Duntley's chace,
  Do praise en up wi' her sweet vace,
  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' Jene do write, an' brag o' Joe
  To teke 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, toppn 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-plan up their notes,
  An' all the men vrom vur an' near
  We'll gi'e em all a hearty cheer.
  An' then another cheern still
  Vor Mrs Bingham, off o' drill.

[Footnote D: Poundbury, Dorchester, the drill ground.]

[Footnote E: The colonel's wife, who opened a room with a
coffee-stall, and entertainments for the men off drill.]




A DO'SET SALE.

WITH A MISTAKE.

(_Thomas and Mr Auctioneer._)


  _T._ Well here, then, Mister auctioneer,
      Be these 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 diddn buy.
      I don't want _vuzzen_, now. Not I.
      Why _firs_ an' _furze_ do sound the seme.
      Why don't ye gi'e a thing his neme?
      Aye, _firs_ and _furze_! Why, who can tell
      Which 'tis that you do men to zell?
      No, no, be kind enough to call
      Em _virs_, and _vuzzen_, then, that's all.




DON'T CERE.


  At the fest, I do mind very well, all the vo'ks
    Wer a-took in a happern storm,
  But we chaps took the madens, an' kept em wi' clokes
    Under shelter, all dry an' all warm;
  An' to my lot vell Jene, 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 cere if they do."
  When the time o' the fest wer agen 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 sefely hwome to her door.
  Zaid her mother, "'Tis sure to be wet."
  Zaid her cousin, "'T'ull ran by zunzet."
  Zaid her aunt, "Why the clouds there do look black an' blue,"
  An' zaid she, "I don't cere if they do."

  An' at last, when she own'd I mid meke her my bride,
    Vor to help me, an' shere all my lot,
  An' wi' fathvulness keep all her life at my zide,
    Though my wa mid be happy or not.
  Zaid her naghbours, "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 cere 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 fece 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 cere if they do."

  Now vor me I can zing in my business abrode,
    Though the storm do bet down on my poll,
  There's a wife-brighten'd vier at the end o' my road,
    An' her love vor the ja o' my soul.
  Out o' door I wi' rogues mid be tried:
  Out o' door be brow-beten wi' pride;
  Men mid scowl out o' door, if my wife is but true--
  Let em scowl, "I don't cere if they do."




CHANGES.


  By time's a-brought the mornn light,
    By time the light do wene;
  By time's a-brought the young man's might,
    By time his might do wene;
  The Winter snow do whitn grass,
  The zummer flow'rs do brightn grass,
  Vor zome things we do lose wi' pan,
  We've mwore that mid be ja to gan,
  An' my dear life do seem the seme
        While at my zide
        There still do bide
  Your welcome fece an' hwomely neme.

  W' ev'ry day that woonce come on
    I had to choose a ja,
  Wi' many that be since a-gone
    I had to lose a ja.
  Drough longsome years a-wandern,
  Drough lwonesome rest a-pondern,
  Woone peaceful daytime wer a-bro't
  To heal the heart another smote;
  But my dear life do seem the seme
        While I can hear,
        A-soundn near,
  Your answ'rn vace an' long-call'd neme.

  An' oh! that hope, when life do dawn,
    Should rise to light our wa,
  An' then, wi' wenn het withdrawn,
    Should soon benight our wa.
  Whatever mid beval me still,
  Wherever chance mid call me still,
  Though lete my evenn tweil mid cease,
  An' though my night mid lose its peace,
  My life will seem to me the seme
        While you do shere
        My daily cere,
  An' answer to your long-call'd neme.




KINDNESS.


  Good Mester Collins herd woone day
  A man a-talkn, that did zay
  It woulden answer to be kind,
  He thought, to vo'k o' grov'ln mind,
  Vor they would only teke 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 reman
  As thankless as the sea vor ran,
  On them the good's a-lost 'tis true,
  But never can be lost to you.
  Look on the cool-feced moon at night
  Wi' light-vull ring, at utmost height,
  A-castn down, in gleamn strokes,
  His beams upon the dim-bough'd woaks,
  To show the cliff a-risn steep,
  To show the stream a-valln deep,
  To show where windn roads do led,
  An' prickly thorns do ward the med.
  While shedes o' boughs do flutter dark
  Upon the woak-trees' moon-bright bark.
  There in the lewth, below the hill,
  The nightngele, wi' ringn bill,
  Do zing among the soft-ar'd groves,
  While up below the house's oves
  The mad, a-lookn vrom her room
  Drough window, in her youthvul bloom,
  Do listen, wi' white ears among
  Her glossy heirlocks, to the zong.
  If, then, the while the moon do lght
  The lwonesome zinger o' the night,
  His cwold-beam'd light do seem to show
  The prowln owls the mouse below.
  What then? Because an evil will,
  Ov his sweet good, mid meke zome ill,
  Shall all his fece be kept behind
  The dark-brow'd hills to leve 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 fer,
  If selfishness do wring us here,
  Be souls a-holdn in their hand,
  The might an' riches o' the land.

  But when the wicked, now so strong,
    Shall stan' vor judgment, pele as ashes,
  By the souls that rued their wrong,
    Wi' tears a-hangn on their lashes--
  Then wthstanders they shall dere
  The lest 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' forgn;
  Souls o' driven sleves that left
    Their wery limbs a-mark'd by scourgn;
  They that God ha' call'd to die
  Vor truth agen the worold's lie,
  An' they that groan'd an' cried in van,
  A-bound by foes' unrighteous chan.

  The mad that selfish craft led on
    To sin, an' left wi' hope a-blighted;
  Starvn workmen, thin an' wan,
    Wi' hopeless lebour 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 Seviour,
  Vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show,
    The marks o' man's unkind beheviour:
  Wi' speechless tongue, an' burnn cheak,
  The strong shall bow avore the wek,
  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 naghbours 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 meke it out.

  Wi' narrow fece, an' nose so thin
  That light a'most shone drough the skin,
  As he did talk, wi' his red peir
  O' lips, an' his vull eyes did stere,
    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 outlandsh 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 mornn 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' lookn on an' off the ea'th,
  He cried, a-drawn a vull breath,
    Why, I do know; what, can't ye zee 't?
  I'll bet a shilln 'twer a deer
  Broke out o' park, an' sprung on here,
    Wi' quoits upon his veet.




TURNN THINGS OFF.


  Upzides wi' Polly! no, he'd vind
  That Poll would soon leve 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 steirs
  On merry Polly unaweres,
  The while her nimble tongue did run
  A-telln, all alive wi' fun,
  To sister Anne, how Simon Here
  Did hanker after her at feir.
  "He left," cried Polly, "cousin Jene,
  An' kept wi' us all down the lene,
  An' which way ever we did led
  He vollow'd over hill an' med;
  An' wi' his head o' shaggy heir,
  An' sleek brown cwoat that he do were,
  An' collar that did reach so high
  'S his two red ears, or perty nigh,
  He swung his til, wi' steps o' pride,
  Back right an' left, vrom zide to zide,
  A-walkn 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 Here," 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 evenn as she zot bezide
  The wall the rangln vine do hide,
  A-prattln 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 overherd her talk agen
  O' Robin Hine, ov Ivy Lene,
  "Oh! no, what he!" she cried in scorn,
  "I wouldn gie a penny vor'n;
  The best ov him's outzide in view;
  His cwoat is ga enough, 'tis true,
  But then the wold vo'k didden bring
  En up to know a single thing,
  An' as vor zingn,--what do seem
  His zingn's nothn but a scream."
  "So ho!" cried Jim, "Who's that, then, Mery,
  That you be now a-talkn o'?"
  He thought to catch her then, but, no,
  Cried Polly, "Oh! why Jene's canery,
  Wi' what have you a-been misled,
  I wonder. Tell me what I zaid."




THE GIANTS IN TREDES.

GRAMFER'S FEBLE.

(_How the steam engine come about._)


  _Vier, Ar, E'th, Water_, wer a-mede
  Good workers, each o'm in his trede,
  An' _Ar_ an' _Water_, wer a-match
    Vor woone another in a mill;
  The giant _Water_ at a hatch,
    An' _Ar_ on the windmill hill.
  Zoo then, when _Water_ had a-mede
  Zome money, _ir_ begrudg'd his trede,
  An' come by, unaweres 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 grindn any corn vor bread.
  Then _Water_ cried to _Vier_, "Alack!
    Look, here be I, so stiff's a log,
  Thik fellor _Ar_ do keep me back
    Vrom grindn. 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 neme,
  Vor 'twerden I that wer to bleme,
  I never wagg'd, though I be'nt cringn,
  Till men did dreve me wi' their engine.
  Do zet me free vrom these cwold jacket,
  Vor I myzelf shall never crack it."
  "Well come," cried _Vier_, "My vo'k ha' mede
  An engine that 'ull work your trede.
  If _E'th_ is only in the mood,
  While I do work, to gi'e me food,
  I'll help ye, an' I'll meke your skill
  A match vor Mister _Ar'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' these 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 meke, as sure as death,
  Thik fellor _Ar_ to vind me breath,
  An' you shall grind, an' pull, an' dreve,
  An' zaw, an' drash, an' pump, an' heave,
  An' get vrom _Ar_, in time, I'll lay
  A pound, the drevn 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 perts 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 Dene so good an' feir?
  'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

  In our deep hollow where the zun
  Did erly leve the smoky tun,
  An' all the meds a-grown dim,
  Below the hill wi' zunny rim;
  Oh! small the land the hills did bound,
  But there did walk upon the ground
  Young Fanny Dene so good an' feir:
  'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

  O' lete upon the misty plan
  I sta'd vor shelter vrom the ran,
  Where sharp-leav'd ashs' heads did twist
  In huffln wind, an' driftn mist,
  An' small the worold I could zee;
  But then it had below the tree
  My Fanny Dene so good an' feir:
  'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

  An' I've a house wi' thatchen ridge,
  Below the elems by the bridge:
  Wi' small-pen'd windows, that do look
  Upon a knap, an' rambln brook;
  An' small's my house, my ruf is low,
  But then who mid it have to show
  But Fanny Dene so good an' feir?
  'Tis fine enough if peace is there.




BAD NEWS.


  I do mind when there broke bitter tidns,
      Woone day, on their ears,
  An' their souls wer a-smote wi' a stroke
  As the lightnn 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-rolln
      The white-threaded ball.

  Oh! vor their minds the daylight around em
      Had nothn to show.
  Though it brighten'd their tears as they vell,
  An' did sheen on their lips that did tell,
  In their vaces all thrilln an' mwoansome,
      O' nothn 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 ernest in words o' thanksgivn,
      Vor mercies anew.




THE TURNSTILE.


  Ah! sad wer we as we did pece
  The wold church road, wi' downcast fece,
  The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep
  Above our child a-left asleep,
  Wer now a-zingn all alive
  Wi' tother bells to meke the vive.
  But up at woone plece we come by,
  'Twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry:
  On Sten-cliff road, 'ithin the drong,
  Up where, as vo'k do pass along,
  The turnn stile, a-panted 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' spreadn erms that wheel'd to guide
  Us each in turn to tother zide.
  An' vu'st ov all the tran he took
  My wife, wi' winsome gat an' look;
  An' then zent on my little mad,
  A-skippn onward, overja'd
  To reach agen the plece o' pride,
  Her comely mother's left han' zide.
  An' then, a-wheeln roun', he took
  On me, 'ithin his third white nook.
  An' in the fourth, a-shekn wild,
  He zent us on our giddy child.
  But eesterday he guided slow
  My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe,
  An' then my little mad in black,
  A-walkn softly on her track;
  An' after he'd a-turn'd agen,
  To let me goo along the lene,
  He had noo little bwoy to vill
  His last white erms, an' they stood still.




THE BETTER VOR ZEN O' YOU.


  'Twer good what Mester Collins spoke
  O' spite to two poor spitevul vo'k,
  When woone twold tother o' the two
  "I be never the better vor zen o' you."
  If soul to soul, as Christians should,
  Would always try to do zome good,
  "How vew," he cried, "would zee our fece
  A-brighten'd up wi' smiles o' grece,
  An' tell us, or could tell us true,
  I be never the better vor zen o' you."

  A man mus' be in evil cese
  To live 'ithin a land o' grece,
  Wi' nothn 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' weepn eyes;
  To sta 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 zen o' you."

  Oh! no, mid all o's try to spend
  Our passn time to zome good end,
  An' zoo vrom day to day teke heed,
  By mind, an' han', by word or deed;
  To lessen evil, and increase
  The growth o' righteousness an' pece,
  A-speakn words o' lovn-kindness,
  Openn the eyes o' blindness;
  Helpn helpless striver's weakness,
  Cheern hopeless grievers' meekness,
  Mekn friends at every meetn,
  Veel the happier vor their greetn;
  Zoo that vew could tell us true,
  "I be never the better vor zen o' you."
  No, let us even try to win
  Zome little good vrom sons o' sin,
  An' let their evils warn us back
  Vrom tekn 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 zen o' you."




PITY.


  Good Mester 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 praer to the God o' might,
  He vound a fourth, 'ithout a neme,
  A-walkn wi' em in the fleme.

  An' zoo, whenever we mid hurt,
    Vrom spite, or vrom disdan,
  A brother's soul, or meke en smert
    Wi' keen an' needless pan,
  Another that we midden know
  Is always wi' en in his woe.
  Vor you do know our Lord ha' cried,
  "By fath my bretheren do bide
  In me the livn vine,
    As branches in a livn 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 leve a heart o' flesh an' blood so cwold
    At such a touchn 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."




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-mede 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.
  "Meke room," woone naghbour 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-twitn o'n wi' wrong,
  Zoo he did sleep till mornn broke,
    An' birds did call en wi' their zong.
  But he did love a harmless joke,
  An' love his evenn whiff o' smoke,
  A-zittn in his cheir 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 meke 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' teke the ral outright."
  "Your fere," the booker cried;
  "There, there," good Bloom replied;
  "Why this June het do meke 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 tran, vrom slow to vast.
  An' oh! at last how they did spank
  By cuttn 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 fere," the boots then cried;
  "I'm there," the man replied.
  "The glassen plece, your quickest pece,"
  Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

  The steps went down wi' rottln slap,
    The zwingn door went open wide:
  Wide? no; vor when the worthy chap
    Stepp'd up to teke his plece 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 these vooty thing!"
  Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

  "Come," cried the drever. "Pay your fere
    You'll teke up all my time, good man."
  "Well," answer'd Bloom, "to meke that square,
    You teke 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 meke 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, "meke 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' MADENS A-RUNNN THE VIELDS.[F]


  "Come on. Be sprack, a-laggn back."
  "Oh! be there any cows to hook?"
  "Lauk she's afrad, a silly mad,"
  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. These 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-slippn 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-zingn 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 crawln thing,
  A sneke." "A slooworm; he wont sting."
  "Hee! hee! how she did squal an' hop,
  A-spinnn roun' so quick's a top."
  "Look here, oh! quick, be quick."
  "What is it? what then? where?"
  "A rabbit." "No, a here."
  "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' sheke it out."
  "Oh! emmets, oh! ooh, ooh,
  A-crawln all about."
  "What bird is that, O harken, hush.
  How sweetly he do zing."
  "A nightingele." "La! no, a drush."
  "Oh! here's a funny thing."
  "Oh! how the bull do hook,
  An' blere, 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 sheke wi' fright."
  "A musheroom." "O lau!
  A twoadstool! Pwoison! Augh."
  "What's that, a mouse?"
                          "O no,
  Teke cere, why 'tis a shrow."
  "Be sure don't let en come
  An' run athirt your shoe
  He'll meke your voot so numb
  That you wont veel a tooe."[G]
  "Oh! what wer that so loud
  A-rumbln?" "Why a clap
  O' thunder. Here's a cloud
  O' ran. I veel a drap."
  "A thunderstorm. Do ran.
  Run hwome wi' might an' main."
  "Hee! hee! oh! there's a drop
  A-trckled 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!"

[Footnote F: 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.]

[Footnote G: The folklore is, that if a shrew-mouse run over a
person's foot, it will lame him.]

       *       *       *       *       *




A LIST OF SOME DORSET WORDS

WITH A FEW HINTS ON DORSET WORD-SHAPES.


THE MAIN SOUNDS.

  1. _ee_ in beet.
  2. _e_ in Dorset (a sound between 1 and 3.)
  3. _a_ in mate.
  4. _i_ in birth.
  5. _a_ in father.
  6. _aw_ in awe.
  7. _o_ in dote.
  8. _oo_ in rood.

In Dorset words which are forms of book-English ones, the Dorset words
differ from the others mainly by Grimm's law, that "likes shift into
likes," and I have given a few hints by which the putting of an
English heading for the Dorset one will give the English word. If the
reader is posed by _dreaten_, he may try for _dr_, _thr_, which will
bring out _threaten_. See _Dr_ under _D_.


A.

_a_ in father, and _au_ in daughter are, in "Blackmore," often _a_ = 3.
  So king Alfred gives a legacy to his _yldsta dehter_--oldest daehter.
  _a_ is a fore-eking to participles of a fore time, as _a-vound_;
       also for the Anglo-Saxon _an_, _in_ or _on_,
           as _a-huntn_ for _an huntunge_.
    _a_, _a_ (5, 1), Mad, Ma.
      (_Note_--The numbers (as 5, 1) refer to the foregiven table.)
    _ag_, often for _eg_, as bag, agg, beg, egg.

_Anewst_, _Anighst_, very near, or nearly.

_A'r a_, ever a, as.

_A'r a dog_, ever a dog.

_Amper_, pus.

_A'r'n_, e'er a one.

_A-stooded_ (as a waggon), with wheels sunk fast into rotten ground.

_A-stogged_, _A-stocked_, with feet stuck fast in clay.

_A-strout_, stiff stretched.

_A-thirt_, athwart (_th_ soft).

_A-vore_, afore, before.

_Ax_, ask.

_Axan_, ashes (of fire).

_A-zew_, dry, milkless.


B.

_Backbran' (brand)_, _Backbron' (brond)_, A big brand or block of wood
     put on the back of the fire.

_Ballywrag_, scold.

_Bandy_, a long stick with a bent end to beat abroad cow-dung.

_Barken_, _Barton_,  a stack-yard or cow yard.

_Bavn_, a faggot of long brushwood.

_Be'nhan'_ (1, 3, 5), bear in hand, uphold or maintain, as an opinion
     or otherwise.

_Bet_ (1, 4), _up_, to beat one's way up.

_Bennets_, flower-stalks of grass.

_Be'th_, birth.

_Bibber_, to shake with cold.
  [This is a Friesic and not an Anglo-Saxon form of the word, and
   Halbertsma, in his "Lexicon Frisicum," gives it, among others,
   as a token that Frisians came into Wessex with the Saxons.
   _See_ Eltrot.]

_Bissen_, thou bist not.

_Bittle_, a beetle.

_Blatch_, black stuff; smut.

_Blather_, a bladder.

_Blere_ (1, 3), to low as a cow.

_Blind-buck o' Davy_, blindman's buff.

_Bloodywarrior_, the ruddy Stock gilliflower.

_Bloons_, blossoms.

_Blooth_, blossom in the main.

_Bluevinny_, blue mouldy.

_Brack_, a breach. "Neither brack nor crack in it."

_Bran'_, a brand.

_Brantn_, brazen-faced.

_Bring-gwan_ (Bring-going), to bring one on his way.

_Brocks_, broken pieces (as of food).

_Bron'_, a brand.

_Bruckly_, _Bruckle_, brittle.

_Bundle_, to bound off; go away quickly.

_Bu'st_, burst.


C.

_Caddle_, a muddle; a puzzling plight amid untoward things, such that
     a man knows not what to do first.

_Car_, to carry.

_Cassen_, _casn_, canst not.

_Chanker_, a wide chink.

_Charlick_, _charlock_, field-mustard; _Sinapis arvensis_.

_Charm_, a noise as of many voices.

_Choor_, _a chare_, a (weekly) job as of house work.

_Chuck_, to throw underhanded to a point, or for a catch.

_Clack_, _Clacker_, a bird-clacker; a bird-boy's clacking tool,
     to fray away birds; also the tongue.

_Clavy_, _Clavy-bwoard_, the mantel-shelf.

_Clden_, cleavers, goosegrass; _Galium aparine._

_Clips_, to clasp.

_Clitty_, clingy.

_Clocks_, ornaments on the ankles of stockings.

_Clom'_, clomb, climbed.

_Clote_, the yellow water-lily; _Nuphar lutea_.

_Clout_, a blow with the flat hand.

_Clum_, to handle clumsily.

_Cluster o' vive_ (cluster of five), the fist or hand with its five
     fingers; wording taken from a cluster of nuts.

_Cockle_, _Cuckle_, the bur of the burdock.

_Cockleshell_, snail shell.

_Colepexy_, to glean the few apples left on the tree after intaking.

_Coll_ (7), to embrace the neck.

_Conker_, the hip, or hep; the fruit of the briar.

_Cothe_, _coath_ (_th_ soft), a disease of sheep, the
     plaice or flook, a flat worm _Distoma nepaticum_ in the stomach.

_Cou'den_, could not.

_Coussen_, _Coossen_, _coosn_, couldest not.

_Craze_, to crack a little.

_Critch_, a big pitcher.

_Crock_, an iron cooking-pot.

_Croodle_, to crow softly.

_Croop_, _Croopy-down_, to bend down the body; to stoop very low.

_Crope_, crept.

_Crowshell_, shell of the fresh-water mussel, as taken out of the
     river for food by crows.

_Cubby-hole_, _Cubby-house_, between the father's knees.

_Culver_, the wood pigeon.

_Cutty_, _Cut_, the kittywren.

_Cwen_, _Cwon_, (4, 1) coin.

_Cwoffer_ (8, 4, 4), a coffer.


D.

_Dadder_, _dather_, _dudder_, to maze or bewilder.

_Dag_, _childag_, a chilblain.

_Dake_, to ding or push forth.

_Daps_, the very likeness, as that of a cast from the same mould.

_Dather_, see _Dadder_.

_Dent_, a dint.

_Dewberry_, a big kind of blackberry.

_Dibs_, coins; but truly, the small knee bones of a sheep used in the
     game of Dibs.

_Didden (didn)_, did not.

_Do_, the _o_, when not under a strain of voice, is (4) as _e_ in 'the man'
     or as _e_ in the French _le_.

_Dod_, a dump.

_Dogs_, andirons.

_Don_, to put on.

_Doust_, dust.

_dr_ for _thr_ in some words, as Drash, thresh.

_Drashel_, threshold.

_Dreaten_, threaten.

_Dree_, three.

_Dringe_, _Drunge_, to throng; push as in a throng.

_Droat_, throat.

_Drong_, throng; also a narrow way.

_Drough_, through.

_Drow_, throw.

_Drub_, throb.

_Drush_, thrush.

_Drust_, thrust.

_Drean_, _Drne_ (2), to drawl.

_Drve_ (2), drive.

_Duck_, a darkening, dusk.

_Dumbledore_, the humble bee.

_Dummet_, dusk.

_Dunch_, dull of hearing, or mind.

_Dunch-nettle_, the dead nettle, _Lamium_.

_Dunch-pudden_, pudding of bare dough.

_Dungpot_, a dungcart.

_Dunt_, to blunten as an edge or pain.

_Durns_, the side posts of a door.


E.

  long itself alone has mostly the Dorset sound (2.)

_e_ (1, 4) for _ea_, with the _a_ unsounded as lead, mead, led, med.

_e_ (1, 3) for the long _a_, 3, as in lade, made, lede, mede.

_ea_ of one sound (2) as meat.

_e_ is put in before s after st, as nestes, nests, vistes, fists.

  The two sundry soundings of _ea_ 2 and 3 do not go by our spelling
     _ea_ for both, but have come from earlier forms of the words.

  After a roof letter it may stay as it is, a roof letter, as madden,
     madd'n; rotten, rott'n. So with _en_ for him, tell en, tell'n.

  The _en_ sometimes at the end of words means not, as bisse'n, bist not;
     coust'en, cous'n, could'st not; I didd'n, I did not; diss'n, didst not;
     hadd'n, had not; muss'n, must not; midd'n, mid not;
     should'n, should not; 'tis'n, 'tis not; would'n, would not.

_en_--not _n_--in Dorset, as well as in book English, as an ending of
     some kinds of words often, in running talk, loses the _e_, and in
     some cases shifts into a sound of the kind of the one close before it.
  After a lip-letter it becomes a lip-letter _m_, as Rub en, Rub-him;
     rub'n, rub'm; oven, ov'm; open, op'n op'm, in Dorset mostly oben,
     ob'n, ob'm. So after _f'_, deafen, deaf'n, deaf m, heaven, heav'n,
     heav'm, in Dorset sometimes heab'm. zeven, zeb'n, zeb'm.
  After a throat-letter it becomes a throat one, _ng_, as token,
     tok'n, tok'ng.

_[=e]_ (2).

_Eegrass_, aftermath.

_Eltrot_, Eltroot, cowparsley (_Myrrhis_). [Elt is Freisic, robustus,
     vegetus, as cowparsley is among other kinds.] _See_ Bibber.

_Emmet_, an ant.

_Emmetbut_, an anthill.

_En_, him; A.-Saxon, _hine_.

_n_, for ing, zingn, singing.

_Eve_, to become wet as a cold stone floor from thickened steam in
     some weather.

_Evet_, eft, newt.

_Exe_, an axle.


F.

_Fakket_, a faggot.

_Fall_, autumn; to fall down is _vall_.

_Fa_ (5, 1) to speed, succeed.

_Fest_ (1, 4), a village wake or festival; _festa_.

_Flag_, a water plant.

_Flinders_, flying pieces of a body smashed; "Hit it all to flinders."

_Flounce_, a flying fall as into water.

_Flout_, a flinging, or blow of one.

_Flush_, fledged.

_Footy_, unhandily little.


G.

_Gally_, to frighten, fray.

_Gee_, _jee_, to go, fit, speed.

_Giddygander_, the meadow orchis.

_Gil'cup_, gilt cup, the buttercup.

_Girt_, great.

_Gl[=e]ne_ (2), to smile sneeringly.

_Glutch_, to swallow.

_Gnang_, to mock one with jaw waggings, and noisy sounds.

_Gnot_, a gnat.

_Goo_, go.

_Goocoo flower_, _Cardamine pratensis_.

_Goodnow_, goodn'er, good neighbour; my good friend; "No, no; not I,
     goodnow;" "No, no; not I, my good friend."

_Goolden chain_, the laburnum.

_Gout_, an underground gutter.

_Grgle_, _Greygle_, the wild hyacinth, _Hyacinthus nonscriptus_.

_Gramfer_, grandfather.

_Ground-ash_, an ash stick that springs from the ground, and so is tough;
     "Ground the pick," to put the stem of it on the ground, to raise
     a pitch of hay.

_Gwoad_ (8, 4), a goad.


H.

_Hacker_, a hoe.

_Hagrod_, hagridden in sleep, if not under the nightmare.

_Han_ (5, 1), to fence in ground or shut up a field for mowing.

_Ha'me_, see _Hau'm_.

_Hangn_, sloping ground.

_Hansel_, _Handsel_, a hand gift.

_Hansel_, _Handsel_, to use a new thing for the first time.

_Happer_, to hop up as hailstones or rain-drops from ground or pavement
     in a hard storm, or as down-shaken apples; to fall so hard as to
     hop up at falling.

_Haps_, a hasp.

_Ha'skim_, halfskim cheese of milk skimmed only once.

_Hassen_, hast not.

_Haum_, _Haulm_, _Hulm_, the hollow stalks of plants. _Tetie haum_
     potatoe stalks.

_Hatch_, a low wicket or half door.

_Hamekn_, haymaking.

The steps of haymaking by hand, in the rich meadow lands of Blackmore,
ere machines were brought into the field, were these:--The grass being
mown, and laying in _swath_ it was (1) _tedded_, spread evenly over
the ground; (2) it was _turned_ to dry the under side; (3) it was in
the evening raked up into _rollers_, each roller of the grass of the
stretch of one rake, and the rollers were sometimes put up into hay
cocks; (4) in the morning the rollers were cast abroad into _pa'sels_
(parcels) or broad lists, with clear ground between each two; (5) the
parcels were turned, and when dry they were pushed up into _weles_
(weales) or long ridges, and, with a fear of rain, the weles were put
up into _pooks_, or big peaked heaps; the waggon (often called the
_plow_) came along between two weles or rows of pooks, with two
loaders, and a pitcher on each side pitched up to them the hay of his
side, while two women raked after plow, or raked up the leavings of
the pitchers, who stepped back from time to time to take it from them.

_Hazen_, to forebode.

_Hazzle_, hazel.

_Heal_ (2), hide, to cover.

_Heal pease_, to hoe up the earth on them.

_Hen_ (1, 4), a haft, handle.

_Heft_, weight.

_Herence_, hence.

_Here right_, here on the spot, etc.

_Het_, heat, also a heat in running.

_Het_, to hit.

_Heth_, a hearth, a heath.

_Hick_, to hop on one leg.

_Hidelock_, _Hidlock_, a hiding place. "He is in hidelock." He is
     absconded.

_Hidybuck_, hide-and-seek, the game.

_Hile of Sheaves_, ten, 4 against 4 in a ridge, and 1 at each end.

_Ho_, to feel misgiving care.

_Hodmadod_, a little dod or dump; in some parts of England a snail.

_Holm_, ho'me, holly.

_Hook_, to gore as a cow.

_Honeyzuck_, honeysuckle.

_Ho'se-tinger_, the dragon-fly, _Libellula_. _Horse_ does not mean a horse,
     but is an adjective meaning coarse or big of its kind, as in
     horse-radish, or horse-chesnut; most likely the old form of the
     word gave name to the horse as the big beast where there was not
     an elephant or other greater one. The dragon-fly is, in some parts
     called the "tanging ether" or tanging adder, from _tang_,
     a long thin body, and a sting. Very few Dorset folk believe that
     the dragon-fly stings horses any more than that the horse eats
     horse-brambles or horse-mushrooms.

_Hud_, a pod, a hood-like thing.

_Ho'se_, hoss, a board on which a ditcher may stand in a wet ditch.

_Huddick_ (hoodock), a fingerstall.

_Hull_, a pod, a hollow thing.

_Humbuz_, a notched strip of lath, swung round on a string, and humming
     or buzzing.

_Humstrum_, a rude, home made musical instrument, now given up.


J.

_Jack-o'-lent_, a man-like scarecrow.
  The true Jack-o'-lent was, as we learn from Taylor, the water poet,
     a ragged, lean-like figure which went as a token of Lent, in olden
     times, in Lent processions.

_Jist_, just.

_Jut_, to nudge or jog quickly.


K.

_Kag_, a keg.

_Kapple cow_, a cow with a white muzzle.

_Kern_, to grow into fruit.

_Ketch_, _Katch_, to thicken or harden from thinness, as melted fat.

_Kecks_, _Kex_, a stem of the hemlock or cowparsley.

_Keys_, (2), the seed vessels of the sycamore.

_Kid_, a pod, as of the pea.

_Kittyboots_, low uplaced boots, a little more than ancle high.

_Knap_, a hillock, a head, or knob, (2.) a knob-like bud, as of the
     potatoe.  "The teties be out in knap."


L.

_Liter_ (5, 1), one run of laying of a hen.

_Len_ (1, 4), to lean.

_Lene_ (1, 3), a lane.

_Lese_ (1, 4), to glean.

_Lese_ (1, 4), _Leze_, an unmown field, stocked through the Spring
     and Summer.

_Leer_, _Leery_, empty.

_Lence_, a loan, a lending.

_Levers_, _Livers_, the corn flag.

_Lew_, sheltered from cold wind.

_Lewth_, lewness.

_Libbets_, loose-hanging rags.

_Limber_, limp.

_Linch_, _Linchet_, a ledge on a hill-side.

_Litsome_, lightsome, gay.

_Litty_, light and brisk of body.

_Lo't_ (7), loft, an upper floor.

_Lowl_, to loll loosely.

_Lumper_, a loose step.


M.

_Maesh_ (2), _Mesh_, (Blackmore) moss, also a hole or run of a hare,
      fox, or other wild animal.

_Mammet_, an image, scarecrow.

_Marrels_, _Merrels_, The game of nine men's morris.

_Mawn_, m[=a]n, (5) a kind of basket.

_Meden_ (1, 4), stinking chamomile.

_Ment_ (2), to imitate, be like.

_M[=e]sh_, (2) moss.

_Mid_, might.

_Miff_, a slight feud, a tiff.

_Min_ (2), observe. You must know.

_Mither ho_, come hither. A call to a horse on the road.

_Moot_, the bottom and roots of a felled tree.

_More_, a root, taproot.

_Muggy_, misty, damp (weather).


N.

_Na'r a_, never a (man).

_Nar'n_, never a one.

_N'eet_, not yet.

_N[=e]sh_ (2), soft.

_Nesthooden_, a hooding over a bird's nest, as a wren's.

_Netlns_, a food of a pig's inwards tied in knots.

_Never'stide_, never at all.

_Nicky_, a very small fagot of sticks.

_Nppy_, hungry, catchy.

_Nitch_, a big fagot of wood; a load; a fagot of wood which custom allows
a hedger to carry home at night.

_Not_ (hnot or knot), hornless.

_Nother_, neither (adverb).

_Nunch_, a nog or knob of food.

_Nut_ (of a wheel), the stock or nave.


O.

_O'_, of.

_O'm_ (2), of em, them.

_O'n_ (2), of him.

_O's_ (2), of us.

_Orts_, leavings of hay put out in little heaps in the fields for the cows.

_Over-right_, opposite.

_Oves_, eaves.


P.

_Paladore_, a traditional name of Shaftesbury, the British _Caer Paladr_,
      said by British history to have been founded by _Rhun Paladr-bras_,
      'Rhun of the stout spear.'

_Pank_, pant.

_Par_, to shut up close; confine.

_Parrick_, a small enclosed field; a paddock--but paddock was an old
     word for a toad or frog.

_Pa'sels_, parcels. _See_ Hamekn.

_Pert_ (1, 4), pert; lively.

_Peaze_, _Peeze_ (2), to ooze.

_Peewit_, the lapwing.

_Pitch._  _See_ Hamekn.

_Plesh_, (2) _Plush_ (a hedge), to lay it.
  To cut the stems half off and peg them down on the bank where they
     sprout upward.
  To plush, shear, and trim a hedge are sundry handlings of it.

_Plim_, to swell up.

_Plock_, a hard block of wood.

_Plow_, a waggon, often so called.
  The plough or plow for ploughing is the Zull.

_Plounce_, a strong plunge.

_Pluffy_, plump.

_Pont_, to hit a fish or fruit, so as to bring on a rotting.

_Pooks._  _See_ Hamekn.

_Popple_, a pebble.

_Prase_ (5, 1), prize, to put forth or tell to others a pain or ailing.
     "I had a risn on my erm, but I didden prase it," say anything
     about it.

_Pummy_, pomice.

   _ps_ for _sp_ in clasp, claps; hasp, haps; wasp, waps.


Q.

_Quaer_, queer.

_Quag_, a quaking bog.

_Quar_, a quarry.

_Quarrel_, a square window pane.

_Quid_, a cud.

_Quirk_, to grunt with the breath without the voice.


R.

_R_, at the head of a word, is strongly breathed, as _Hr_ in Anglo-Saxon,
      as _Hhrong_, the rong of a ladder.

_R_ is given in Dorset by a rolling of the tongue back under the roof.

For _or_, as an ending sometimes given before a free breathing, or _h_,
      try _ow_,--_hollor_, hollow.

_R_ before _s_, _st_, and _th_ often goes out, as bu'st, burst;
     ve'ss, verse; be'th, birth; cu'st, curst; fwo'ce, force; me'th, mirth.

_Raft_, to rouse, excite.

_Rake_, to reek.

_Ram_, _Rammish_, rank of smell.

_Rammil_, raw milk (cheese), of unskimmed milk.

_Ramsclaws_, the creeping crowfoot. _Ranunculus repens._

_Randy_, a merry uproar or meeting.

_Rangle_, to range or reach about.

_Rathe_, early; whence rather.

_Ratch_, to stretch.

_Readship_, criterion, counsel.

_Remes_, (1, 3),  skeleton, frame.

_Ren_ (1, 4), to reach in greedily in eating.

_Reves_, a frame of little rongs on the side of a waggon.

_Reed_ (2), wheat hulm drawn for thatching.

_Reely_, to dance a reel.

_Reem_, to stretch, broaden.

_Rick_, a stack.

_Rig_, to climb about.

_Rivel_, shrivel; to wrinkle up.

_Robin Hood_, The Red campion.

_Roller_ (6, 4). _See_ Hamekn.
  A Roller was also a little roll of wool from the card of a woolcomber.

_Rottlepenny_, the yellow rattle. _Rhinanthus Crista-galli._

_Rouet_, a rough tuft of grass.


S.

_Sammy_, soft, a soft head; simpleton.

_Sar_, to serve or give food to (cattle).

_Sarch_, to search.

_Scote_, to shoot along fast in running.

_Scrag_, a crooked branch of a tree.

_Scraggle_, to screw scramly about (of a man), to screw the limbs
     scramly as from rheumatism.

_Scram_, distorted, awry.

_Scroff_, bits of small wood or chips, as from windfalls or hedge plushing.

_Scroop_, to skreak lowly as new shoes or a gate hinge.

_Scud_, a sudden or short down-shooting of rain, a shower.

_Scwo'ce_, chop or exchange.

_Settle_, a long bench with a high planken back.

_Shard_, a small gap in a hedge.

_Sharps_, shafts of a waggon.

_Shatten_, shalt not.

_Shroud_ (trees), to cut off branches.

_Sheeted cow_, with a broad white band round her body.

_Shoulden (Shoodn)_, should not.

_Shrow_, _Sh'ow_, _Sh'ow-crop_, the shrew mouse.

_Skim_, _Skimmy_, grass; to cut off rank tuffs, or rouets.

_Slat_, (5, 1) _Slite_, a slade, or sheep run.

_Slent_, a tear in clothes.

_Slidder_, to slide about.

_Slim_, sly.

_Sloo_, sloe.

_Slooworm_, the slow-worm.

_Smame_, to smear.

_Smeech_, a cloud of dust.

_Smert_, to smart; pain.

_Snabble_, to snap up quickly.

_Snags_, small pea-big sloes, also stumps.

_Sned_ (1, 4), a scythe stem.

_Snoatch_, to breathe loudly through the nose.

_Snoff_, a snuff of a candle.

_Sock_, a short loud sigh.

_Spur (dung)_, to cast it abroad.

_Squal_ (5, 1), to fling something at a bird or ought else.

_Squot_, to flatten by a blow.

_Sowel_, _Zowel_, a hurdle stake.

_Sparbill_, _Sparrabill_, a kind of shoe nail.

_Spars_, forked sticks used in thatching.

_Speker_ (1 4), a long spike of wood to bear the hedger's nitch on
     his shoulder.

_Spears_, _Speers_, the stalks of reed grass.

_Spik_, spike, lavender.

_Sprack_, active.

_Sprethe_ (2), to chap as of the skin, from cold.

_Spry_, springy in leaping, or limb work.

_Staddle_, a bed or frame for ricks.

_Stad_ (5, 1), steady, oldish.

_Stannns_, stalls in a fair or market.

_Sten_ (1, 4) (a road), to lay it in stone.

_Stert_ (1, 4), a tail or outsticking thing.

_Stout_, the cowfly, _Tabanus_.

_Stitch_ (of corn), a conical pile of sheaves.

_Strawn_, a strewing. All the potatoes of one mother potatoe.

_Strawmote_, a straw or stalk.

_Strent_, a long slent or tear.

_Streech_, an outstretching (as of a rake in raking); a-strout stretched
     out stiffly like frozen linen.

_Stubbard_, a kind of apple.

_Stunpoll_ (7), stone head, blockhead; also an old tree almost dead.


T.

_th_ is soft (as _th_ in thee), as a heading of these words:--
  thatch, thief, thik, thimble, thin, think, thumb.

_Tack_, a shelf on a wall.

_Taffle_, to tangle, as grass or corn beaten down by storms.

_Tat_, to play at see-saw.

_Tamy_ (3, 1), _tammy_ (5, 1), tough, that may be drawn out in strings,
      as rich toasted cheese.

_Teve_, (1, 3), to reach about strongly as in work or a struggle.

_Teery_, _Tewly_, weak of growth.

_Tewly_, weakly.

_These_, this or these.

_Theasum_ (1, 4), these.

_Tidden (tidn)_, it is not.

_Tilty_, touchy, irritable.

_Timmersome_, restless.

_Tine_, to kindle, also to fence in ground.

_Tistytosty_, a toss ball of cowslip blooms.

_To-year_, this year (as to-day.)

_Tranter_, a common carrier.

_Trendel_, a shallow tub.

_Tump_, a little mound.

_Tun_, the top of the chimney above the roof ridge.

_Tut_ (work), piecework.

_Tutty_, a nosegay.

_Tweil_, (4, 1) toil.

_Twite_, to twit reproach.


U.

_Unheal_, uncover, unroof.


V.

_v_ is taken for _f_ as the heading of some purely English words,
     as vall, fall, vind, find.

_Veag_, _V[=e]g_ (2), a strong fit of anger.

_Vern_, fern.

_Ve'se_, vess, a verse.

_Vinny cheese_, cheese with fen or blue-mould.

_Vitty_, nice in appearance.

_Vlanker_, a flake of fire.

_Vlee_, fly.

_Vo'k_, folk.

_Vooty_, unhandily little.

_Vuz_, _Vuzzen_, furze, gorse.


W.

_wo_ (8, 4), for the long o, 7, as bwold, bold; cwold, cold.

_Wag_, to stir.

_Wagwanton_, quaking grass.

_Wese_, (1, 4) a pad or wreath for the head under a milkpail.

_Wele_ (1, 3), a ridge of dried hay; see _Hamekn_.

_Welshnut_, a walnut.

_Werden_, were not or was not.

_Wevet_, a spider's web.

_Whindln_, weakly, small of growth.

_Whicker_, to neigh.

_Whiver_, to hover, quiver.

_Whog_, go off; to a horse.

_Whur_, to fling overhanded.

_Wi'_, with.

_Widdicks_, withes or small brushwood.

_Wink_, a winch; crank of a well.

_Withwind_, the bindweed,

_Wont_, a mole.

_Wops_, wasp.
  _ps_, not _sp_, in Anglo-Saxon, and now in Holstein.

_Wotshed_, _Wetshod_, wet-footed.

_Wride_, to spread out in growth.

_Wride_, the set of stems or stalks from one root or grain of corn.

_Writh_, a small wreath of tough wands, to link hurdles to the sowels
     (stakes).

_Wrix_, wreathed or wattle work, as a fence.


Y.

_Yop_, yelp.


Z.

_z_ for _s_ as a heading of some, not all, pure Saxon words, nor [or?]
     for _s_ of inbrought foreign words.

_Zand_, sand.

_Zennit_, _Zennight_, seven night; "This day zennit."

_Zew, azew_, milkless.

_Zoo_, so.

_Zive_, a scythe.

_Zull_ a plough to plough ground.

_Zwath_, a swath.


       *       *       *       *       *

_Turnbull & Spears, Printers._


       *       *       *       *       *


Transcriber's Note:

TOC: 423 corrected to 243

Page 137: Replaced missing end-quote.

Page 194: Replaced missing end-quote.

Page 197: Changed jy to ja.

Page 235: replaced two periods with commas.

Page 243: restored title: BLEKE'S HOUSE IN BLACKMWORE.

Page 297: Replaced missing end-quote.

Page 350: Changed jy to ja.

Page 432: changed dy to da.

Page 444: Replaced missing end-quote.

   Index: Added missing stops to E, F, G, H.

          Realigned 'Scote' alphabetically.







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