Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 28

Aye, aye. But we would have a better plan O' voten, than the woone we got. A man, As things be now, d'ye know, can't goo an' vote Agean another man, but he must know't.

We'll have a box an' b.a.l.l.s, vor voten 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 agean. He woon't be led To choose a man to teake 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 mean "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 b.a.l.l.s, 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 pinchen me, so well as you, But I can't tell what ever they can do.

TOM.

Why meake the farmers gi'e their leabouren men Mwore wages,--half or twice so much agean As what they got.

JOHN.

But, Thomas, you can't meake A man pay mwore away than he can teake.

If you do meake en gi'e, to till a vield, So much agean as what the groun' do yield, He'll shut out farmen--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.

Leabour, the seame'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 theasem vo'k could come an' meake mwore lands, If they could teake wold England in their hands An' stratch it out jist twice so big agean, They'd be a-doen some'hat vor us then.

TOM.

But if they wer a-zent to Parli'ment To meake 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 thease men wer all to hold together, They coulden meake new laws to change the weather!

They ben't so mighty as to think o' frightenen The vrost an' ran, the thunder an' the lightenen!

An' as vor me, I don't know what to think O' them there fine, big-talken, cunnen, Strange men, a-comen 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-zenden peapers up to Parli'ment.

JOHN.

Ah! teake ceare how dost trust em. Dost thou know The funny feable o' the pig an' crow?

Woone time a crow begun to strut an' hop About some groun' that men'd a-been a-drillen Wi' barley or some wheat, in hopes o' villen Wi' good fresh corn his empty crop.

But lik' a thief, he didden like the pans O' worken hard to get en a vew grans; Zoo while the sleeky rogue wer there a-hunten, Wi' little luck, vor corns that mid be vound A-pecken vor, he heard a pig a-grunten Just tother zide o' hedge, in tother ground.

"Ah!" thought the cunnen rogue, an' gi'ed a hop, "Ah! that's the way vor me to vill my crop; Aye, that's the plan, if nothen don't defeat 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' bowen, lik' a man at hustens, spoke: "My friend," zaid he, "that's poorish liven vor ye In thik there leaze. Why I be very zorry To zee how they hard-hearted vo'k do sarve ye.

You can't live there. Why! do they mean to starve ye?"

"Ees," zaid the pig, a-grunten, "ees; What wi' the hosses an' the geese, There's only docks an' thissles here to chaw.

Instead o' liven well on good warm straw, I got to grub out here, where I can't pick Enough to meake me half an ounce o' flick."

"Well," zaid the crow, "d'ye know, if you'll stan' that, You mussen think, my friend, o' getten 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 Thease gap up here, why you mid vill your belly.

Why, they've a-been a-drillen corn, d'ye know, In thease 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, believen ev'ry single word That wer a-twold en by the cunnen 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-routen up the gran; An' as the cunnen crow did gi'e a caw A-praisen [=o]'n, oh! he did veel so proud!

An' work'd, an' blow'd, an' toss'd, an' ploughed The while the cunnen crow did vill his maw.

An' after worken till his bwones Did eache, 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 heairy plougher.

A-brislen up an' looken 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 leave 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-zwingen 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 teale 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' cunnen rooks.

If we be grubben 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' G.o.d!

If we've a-got a friend at all, Why who can tell--I'm sure thou ca.s.sen-- 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 blessens, shoulden let theirzelves vorget How 'tis where the vo'k do never zet A bit o' meat within their rusty pot.

The man a-zitten in his easy chair To flesh, an' vowl, an' vish, should try to speare The poor thease 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 feair means, then we wull by might.

We'll meake 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 meake things wo'se, i'-ma'-be, by a riot.

You'll get into a mess, Tom, I'm afeard; You'll goo vor wool, an' then come hwome a-shear'd.

POEMS OF RURAL LIFE.