Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 25

'Tis lively at a feair, among The chatten, laughen, shiften drong, When wold an' young, an' high an' low, Do streamy round, an' to an' fro; But what new feace that we don't know, Can ever meake 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 bubblen shoals!

An' oh! that zome o' them young souls, That we, in ja, did pla wi' then Could come back now, an' bring agean 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 feazen do but goo To be a-vollow'd still by new; But souls that be a-tried an' true Shall meet agean 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 feairest lights, Do zee but inward fancy's zights; When creepen years, wi' with'ren blights, 'V a-took off them that wer so dear, How touchen 'tis if we do hear The tuens o' the dead, John.

When I, a-stannen in the lew O' trees a storm's a-beaten drough, Do zee the slanten 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 heard the milk-mad's zong A-ringen out so clear an' shrill Along the meads an' roun' the hill.

I catch'd the tuen, an' stood still To hear 't; 'twer woone that Jeane did zing A-vield a-milken in the spring,-- Sweet music o' the dead, John.

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

THE PLEaCE A TEaLE'S A-TWOLD O'.

Why tidden vields an' runnen 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 pleace a teale's a-twold o'.

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

The mad a-lov'd to our heart's core, The dearest of our kin, Do meake us like the very door Where they went out an' in.

'Tis zome'hat touchen that bevel Poor flesh an' blood o' wold, O, Do meake us like to zee so well The pleace a teale's a-twold o'.

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

Zoo whether 'tis the humpy ground That wer a battle viel', Or mossy house, all ivy-bound, An' vallen 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 pleace a teale'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-steppen 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-la.s.sen 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 heair above my crown, An' whizz'd on down upon the groun', An' knock'd the bantam c.o.c.k right down, But up he sprung, a-teaken flight Wi' tothers, clucken in a fright, Vrom aunt in such a tantrum!

But d.i.c.k 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 STWONeN PWORCH.

A new house! Ees, indeed! a small Straght, upstart thing, that, after all, Do teake 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' dealen door a-meade 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 meake 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 stwonen 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' meade 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 evenen shed His light agean the elem's head, An' gnots did whiver in the zun, An' uncle's work wer all a-done, His whiffs o' melten smoke did roll Above his benden pipe's white bowl, While he did chat, or, zitten dumb, Inja his thoughts as they did come.

An' Jimmy, wi' his crowd below His chin, did dreve his nimble bow In tuens vor to meake us spring A-reelen, or in zongs to zing, An' there, between the dark an' light, Zot Poll by w.i.l.l.y's zide at night A-whisp'ren, 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-painted up so fine.

If I'd a wold grey house o' mine, Gi'e me vor all it should be small, A stwonen pworch instead [=o]'t all.

FARMER'S SONS.

Ov all the chaps a-burnt so brown By zunny hills an' hollors, Ov all the whindlen 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 earm an' knuckly vist ('Tis best to meake 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 feace so brown; An' health goo wi' en hwome at night, Vrom mead, 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 worken farmer's son, min.

JEaNE.