Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect - novelonlinefull.com
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Aye, that's the thing, you zee. Now I do mow My bit o' gra.s.s, an' meake a little rick; An' in the zummer, while do grow, My cow do run in common vor to pick A bleade or two o' gra.s.s, if she can vind em, Vor tother cattle don't leave much behind em.
Zoo in the evenen, we do put a lock O' nice fresh gra.s.s 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 zeale 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 feast,--vor we be eable To clap the giblets up a-top o' teable.
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' nothen else to do, Why I can teake my hook an' gloves, an' goo To cut a lot o' vuzz and briars Vor heten ovens, or vor lighten viers.
An' when the childern be too young to earn 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 teake it vrom en.
But I wer twold back tother day, That they be got into a way O' letten 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 measter soon, then, I do vind; He's gwan to leave his farm, as I do larn, At Mielmas; an' I be zorry vor'n.
What, is he then a little bit behind?
THOMAS.
O no! at Mielmas his time is up, An' thik there sly wold fellow, Farmer Tup, A-fearen 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 measter zoo?
THOMAS.
Why, he an' measter had a word or two.
ROBERT.
Is Farmer Tup a-gwan to leave his farm?
He han't a-got noo young woones vor to zwarm.
Poor over-reachen 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 eacre Or two o' ground a-rented by the beaker, An' what the butcher had to keep his hoss; An' vo'k do beanhan' now, that measter's lot Will be a-drowd along wi' what he got.
ROBERT.
That's it. In thease here pleace 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 been 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 leab'ren men; An' many leab'ren 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' sc.r.a.pe together zome vew pound, To buy some cows an' teake 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 skea'ce, woone got no scope; If woone could seave 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-drashen half the winter drough; An' now, woone's drashels be'n't a bit o' good.
They got machines to drashy wi', plague teake em!
An' he that vu'st vound out the way to meake em, I'd drash his busy zides vor'n if I could!
Avore they took away our work, they ought To meake us up the bread our leabour bought.
ROBERT.
They hadden need meake poor men's leabour less, Vor work a'ready is uncommon skea'ce.
THOMAS.
Ah! Robert! times be badish vor the poor; An' worse will come, I be a-fear'd, if Moore In thease year's almanick do tell us right.
ROBERT.
Why then we sartainly must starve. Good night!
WINTER
