Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 41

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 teake my zight Vrom dawn till night, the mwost ov all.

An' there, in Ma, 'ithin the lewth O' boughs in blooth, be sheady walks, An' cowslips up in yollow beds Do hang their heads on downy stalks; An' if the weather should be feair When I've a holiday to speare, I'll teake the chance o' getten 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 meake out the high-bough'd grove An' narrow drove by Redcliff ground; An' there by trees a-risen tall, The glowen zunlight now do vall, Wi' shortest sheades o' middle day, Upon the gray wold house's wall.

An' I can zee avore the sky A-risen 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' Jeane 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' hangen vetterlocks A-sheaken roun' his heavy hocks, An' us, a lwoad not much too small, A-riden 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 rollen winds athirt the ground; While sheenen-ribbons' color'd streaks Did flutter roun' the madens' cheaks, As they did zit, wi' smilen lips, A-reachen out their vinger-tips Toward zome teaken pleace or zight That they did shew us, left or right; An' woonce, when Jimmy tried to pleace A kiss on cousin Polly's feace, She push'd his hat, wi' wicked leers, Right off above his two red ears, An' there he roll'd along the groun'

Wi' spreaden brim an' rounded crown, An' vound, at last, a cowpon's brim, An' launch'd hizzelf, to teake a zwim; An' there, as Jim did run to catch His neaked noddle's bit o' thatch, To zee his stranens an' his strides, We laugh'd enough to split our zides.

At Harwood Farm we pa.s.s'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 stwonen tun Avore the dazzlen mornen zun, Wer still the rollen 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 meate an' he bwoth died, Wi' hand in hand, an' zide by zide; Between the seame 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 agean below A mother's love, or father's ho: Dree little madens, small in feace, An' woone small bwoy, the fourth in pleace Zoo when their heedvul father died, He call'd his brother to his zide, To meake 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 weasted 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-rottlen on, an' meade Our way along to Brookwell Sleade; An' then we vound ourselves draw nigh The Leady's Tow'r that rose on high, An' seem'd a-comen on to meet, Wi' growen height, wold Dobbin's veet.

BROOKWELL.

Well, I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while To beat the doust a good six mile To zee the pleace the squier plann'd At Brookwell, now a-meade by hand; Wi' oben lawn, an' grove, an' pon', An' gravel-walks as clean as bron; An' gra.s.s a'most so soft to tread As velvet-pile o' silken thread; An' mounds wi' maesh, an' rocks wi' flow'rs, An' ivy-sheaded zummer bow'rs, An' dribblen water down below The stwonen arches lofty bow.

An' there do sound the watervall Below a cavern's maeshy wall, Where peale-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 zitten all alwone, A little mad o' marble stwone Do lean her little cheak azide Upon her lily han', an' bide Bezide the vallen stream to zee Her pitcher vill'd avore her knee.

An' then the brook, a-rollen dark Below a leanen yew-tree's bark, Wi' plasome ripples that do run A-flashen to the western zun, Do shoot, at last, wi' foamy shocks, Athirt a ledge o' craggy rocks, A-casten in his heasty flight, Upon the stwones a robe o' white; An' then agean do goo an' vall Below a bridge's arched wall, Where vo'k agwan athirt do pa.s.s Vow'r little bwoys a-cast in bra.s.s; An' woone do hold an angler's wand, Wi' steady hand, above the pond; An' woone, a-pwenten to the stream His little vinger-tip, do seem A-showen to his playmeates' eyes, Where he do zee the vishes rise; An' woone agean, wi' smilen 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-holden back his pretty hand Behind his little ear, to drow A stwone upon the stream below.

An' then the housen, that be all Sich pretty hwomes, vrom big to small, A-looken south, do cl.u.s.ter round A zunny ledge o' risen ground, Avore a wood, a-nestled warm, In lewth agean the northern storm, Where smoke, a-wreathen blue, do spread Above the tuns o' dusky red, An' window-peanes do glitter bright Wi' burnen streams o' zummer light, Below the vine, a-tran'd to hem Their zides 'ithin his leafy stem, An' rangle on, wi' flutt'ren leaves, Below the houses' thatchen eaves.

An' drough a lawn a-spread avore The windows, an' the pworched door, A path do wind 'ithin a hatch, A-vasten'd wi' a clicken latch, An' there up over ruf an' tun, Do stan' the smooth-wall'd church o' stwone, Wi' carved windows, thin an' tall, A-reachen up the lofty wall; An' battlements, a-stannen round The tower, ninety veet vrom ground, Vrom where a teap'ren speer do spring So high's the mornen lark do zing.

Zoo I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while To beat the doust a good six mile, To zee the pleace the squier plann'd At Brookwell, now a-meade by hand.

THE SHY MAN.

Ah! good Measter 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-t.i.tt'ren, 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 dazzlen feair 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 smilen 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 stannen 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 pleace Vor to buy the goold ring, vor he hadden the feace.

An' when he went up vor to put in the banns, He did sheake in his lags, an' did sheake in his han's.

Then they ax'd vor her neame, an' her parish or town, An' he gi'ed em a leaf, wi' her neame 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 feair, An' he thought, though his pleace mid be pleazen to zome, He could all but ha' wish'd that he hadden a-come.

The bride wer a-smilen 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 peart 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 asheam'd that he thought he would rather He werden 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 mean 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 feair, An' she wer young, an' free o' ceare; Vew winters had a-blow'd her heair, Bezide the Winter's Willow.

She idden woone a-rear'd in town Where many a gaer la.s.s, O, Do trip a-smilen up an' down, So peale wi' smoke an' gas, O; But here, in vields o' greazen herds, Her vaice ha' mingled sweetest words Wi' evenen chearms o' busy birds, Bezide the Winter's Willow.

An' when, at last, wi' beaten breast, I knock'd avore her door, O, She ax'd me in to teake the best O' pleaces on the vloor, O; An' smilen feair avore my zight, She blush'd bezide the yollow light O' bleazen brands, while winds o' night Do sheake the Winter's Willow.

An' if there's readship in her smile, She don't begrudge to speare, 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' rollen 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 milken pal's white hoop, Or zit a-milken where do droop, The wet-stemm'd Winter's Willow.

An' I've a cow or two in leaze, Along the river-zide, O, An' pals to zet avore her knees, At dawn an' evenen-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-beat 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 feace, though winds did blow Agean the Winter's Willow.

I KNOW WHO.

Aye, aye, vull rathe the zun mus' rise To meake us tired o' zunny skies, A-sheenen on the whole day drough, From mornen's dawn till evenen's dew.

When trees be brown an' meads 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' heard her zing bezide the cows, By yollow leaves o' meaple boughs; But Fall or Spring is feair to view When day do bring me--I know who.

An' when, wi' wint'r a-comen roun', The purple he'th's a-feaden brown, An' hangen vern's a-sheaken dead, Bezide the hill's besheaded head: An' black-wing'd rooks do glitter bright Above my head, in pealer 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.