Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 36

THE LINDEN ON THE LAWN.

No! Jenny, there's noo pleace to charm My mind lik' yours at Woakland farm, A-pearted vrom the busy town, By longsome miles ov ary down, Where woonce the meshy wall did gird Your flow'ry gearden, an' the bird Did zing in zummer wind that stirr'd The spreaden linden on the lawn.

An' now ov all the trees wi' sheades A-wheelen round in Blackmwore gleades, There's noo tall poplar by the brook, Nor elem that do rock the rook, Nor ash upon the shelven 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' sheake the dewy rwose a-tied Up roun' the window's stwonen zide.

An' while the carter rod' along A-zingen, 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 nightengeale'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 stwonen-window'd hall, Avore your father's blinken eyes, His evenen 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 geabled house's pworched door, Noo laughen child a-cloth'd in white, Look'd drough the stwonen 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 feace My smile should yield a frown its pleace, Then, Jenny, only laugh an' call My mind 'ithin the gearden 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 evenen he'th's a-glowen warm, Drough wringen vrost, an' roaren storm, Though winds mid meake the wold beams sheake, In our abode in Arby Wood.

An' there, though we mid hear the timber Creake avore the windy ran; An' climen ivy quiver, limber, Up agean the window peane; Our merry vaces then do sound, In rollen 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' teales Vrom vace o' mad or youth, An' sweeter than the nightengeale'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 peace O' comen days a-head, That now do seem as in a reace Wi' ar-birds to ha' vled.

THE VIER-ZIDE.

'Tis zome vo'ks ja to teake the road, An' goo abro'd, a-wand'ren wide, Vrom shere to shere, vrom pleace to pleace, The swiftest peace 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-rollen wide, Drough bridge-voot rals, a-panted white, To be at night the traveller's guide, Gi'e me a pleace that's warm an' dry, A-zitten 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'nen door Would lead noo mwore where he did bide An' where I heard his vaces sound, In me'th around the vier-zide.

As I've a-zeed how vast do vall The mwold'ren 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 feaces there! Ah! zome ha' died, An' zome be gone to leave wi' gaps O' missen 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 speare To zit an' sheare 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 pleace to pleace, John, Zome would goo from feace to feace, John, But I be happy in my hwomely nest; An' slight's the hope vor any pleace bezide, To leave the plan abode where love do bide.

Where the shelven knap do vall, John, Under trees a-springen tall, John; 'Tis there my house do show his sheenen zide, Wi' his walls vor ever green, John, Under ivy that's a screen, John, Vrom wet an' het, an' ev'ry changen tide, An' I do little ho vor goold or pride, To leave the plan abode where love do bide.

There the benden 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-looken out o' mill: The while 'ithin his lightly-sheaken door.

His wheaten flour do whiten all his floor.

When my daily work's a-done, John, At the zetten o' the zun, John, An' I all day 've a-pla'd a good man's peart, 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 pa.s.s 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 heair; While a zingen drush do swa, John, Up an' down upon a spra, John, An' cast his sheade 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-zingen by the stream, John, Or carter whislen wi' his team, John, Or zingen 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-burnen on my bwoard, Then vor pleasures out o' door, John, I've enough upon my vloor, John: My Jenny's loven deed, an' look, an' word, An' we be lwoth, lik' culvers zide by zide, To leave the plan abode where love do bide.

HALLOWED PLEaCES.

At Woodcombe farm, wi' ground an' tree Hallow'd by times o' youthvul glee, At Chris'mas time I spent a night Wi' feaces dearest to my zight; An' took my wife to tread, woonce mwore, Her maden hwome's vorseaken vloor, An' under stars that slowly wheel'd Aloft, above the keen-ar'd vield, While night bedimm'd the rus'len 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' zitten round, The brimvul mug o' cider stood An' hiss'd avore the bleazen wood; An' zome, a-zitten knee by knee, Did tell their teales wi' hearty glee, An' others gamboll'd in a roar O' laughter on the stwonen 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' neames That rung there woonce, in evenen geames; An' while the swaen cypress bow'd, In chilly wind, his darksome sh'oud An' honeyzuckles, beare o' leaves, Still reach'd the window-sheaden eaves Up where the clematis did trim The stwonen arches mossy rim, The hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung Wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young.

There, in the gearden's wall-bound square, Hallow'd by times o' strollen there, The winter wind, a-hufflen loud, Did swa the pear-tree's leafless sh'oud, An' beat the bush that woonce did bear The damask rwose vor Jenny's heair; An' there the walk o' peaven 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 geate that woonce wer blue Hallow'd by times o' pa.s.sen drough, Light strawmotes rose in flaggen 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'ren 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.