Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 45

HERRENSTON.

Zoo then the leady an' the squier, At Chris'mas, gather'd girt an' small, Vor me'th, avore their roaren vier, An! roun' their bwoard, 'ithin the hall; An' there, in glitt'ren rows, between The roun'-rimm'd pleates, our knives did sheen, Wi' frothy eale, an' cup an' can, Vor mad an' man, at Herrenston.

An' there the jeints o' beef did stand, Lik' cliffs o' rock, in goodly row; Where woone mid quarry till his hand Did tire, an' meake but little show; An' after we'd a-took our seat, An' greace had been a-zaid vor meat, We zet to work, an' zoo begun Our feast an' fun at Herrenston.

An' mothers there, bezide the bwoards, Wi' little childern in their laps, Did stoop, wi' loven looks an' words, An' veed em up wi' bits an' draps; An' smilen husbands went in quest O' what their wives did like the best; An' you'd ha' zeed a happy zight, Thik merry night, at Herrenston.

An' then the band, wi' each his leaf O' notes, above us at the zide, Play'd up the prase ov England's beef An' vill'd our hearts wi' English pride; An' leafy chans o' garlands hung, Wi' dazzlen stripes o' flags, that swung Above us, in a bleaze o' light, Thik happy night, at Herrenston.

An' then the clerk, avore the vier, Begun to lead, wi' smilen feace, A carol, wi' the Monkton quire, That rung drough all the crowded pleace.

An' dins' o' words an' laughter broke In merry peals drough clouds o' smoke; Vor hardly wer there woone that spoke, But pa.s.s'd a joke, at Herrenston.

Then man an' mad stood up by twos, In rows, drough pa.s.sage, out to door, An' galy beat, wi' nimble shoes, A dance upon the stwonen floor.

But who is worthy vor to tell, If she that then did bear the bell, Wer woone o' Monkton, or o' Ceame, Or zome sweet neame ov Herrenston.

Zoo peace betide the girt vo'k's land, When they can stoop, wi' kindly smile, An' teake a poor man by the hand, An' cheer en in his daily tweil.

An' oh! mid He that's vur above The highest here, reward their love, An' gi'e their happy souls, drough greace, A higher pleace than Herrenston.

OUT AT PLOUGH.

Though cool avore the sheenen sky Do vall the sheades below the copse, The timber-trees, a-reachen high, Ha' zunsheen on their lofty tops, Where yonder land's a-lyen plow'd, An' red, below the snow-white cloud, An' vlocks o' pitchen rooks do vwold Their wings to walk upon the mwold.

While floods be low, An' buds do grow, An' ar do blow, a-broad, O.

But though the ar is cwold below The creaken copses' darksome screen, The truest sheade do only show How strong the warmer zun do sheen; An' even times o' grief an' pan, Ha' good a-comen in their tran, An' 'tis but happiness do mark The sheades o' sorrow out so dark.

As tweils be sad, Or smiles be glad, Or times be bad, at hwome, O

An' there the zunny land do lie Below the hangen, in the lew, Wi' vurrows now a-crumblen dry, Below the plowman's dousty shoe; An' there the bwoy do whissel sh'ill, Below the skylark's merry bill, Where primrwose beds do deck the zides O' banks below the meaple wrides.

As trees be bright Wi' bees in flight, An' weather's bright, abroad, O.

An' there, as sheenen wheels do spin Vull speed along the dousty rwoad, He can but stan', an' wish 'ithin His mind to be their happy lwoad, That he mid galy ride, an' goo To towns the rwoad mid teake en drough, An' zee, for woonce, the zights behind The bluest hills his eyes can vind, O' towns, an' tow'rs, An' downs, an' flow'rs, In zunny hours, abroad, O.

But still, vor all the weather's feair, Below a cloudless sky o' blue, The bwoy at plough do little ceare How vast the brightest day mid goo; Vor he'd be glad to zee the zun A-zetten, wi' his work a-done, That he, at hwome, mid still inja His happy bit ov evenen pla, So light's a lark Till night is dark, While dogs do bark, at hwome, O.

THE BWOAT.

Where cows did slowly seek the brink O' _Stour_, drough zunburnt gra.s.s, to drink; Wi' vishen float, that there did zink An' rise, I zot as in a dream.

The dazzlen zun did cast his light On hedge-row blossom, snowy white, Though nothen yet did come in zight, A-stirren on the straen stream;

Till, out by sheady rocks there show'd, A bwoat along his foamy road, Wi' thik feair mad at mill, a-row'd Wi' Jeane behind her brother's oars.

An' steately as a queen o' vo'k, She zot wi' floaten scarlet cloak, An' comen on, at ev'ry stroke, Between my withy-sheaded sh.o.r.es.

The broken stream did idly try To show her sheape a-riden by, The rushes brown-bloom'd stems did ply, As if they bow'd to her by will.

The rings o' water, wi' a sock, Did break upon the mossy rock, An' gi'e my beaten heart a shock, Above my float's up-leapen quill.

Then, lik' a cloud below the skies, A-drifted off, wi' less'nen size, An' lost, she floated vrom my eyes, Where down below the stream did wind; An' left the quiet weaves woonce mwore To zink to rest, a sky-blue'd vloor, Wi' all so still's the clote they bore, Aye, all but my own ruffled mind.

THE PLEaCE OUR OWN AGEaN.

Well! thanks to you, my fathful Jeane, So worksome wi' your head an' hand, We seaved enough to get agean My poor vorefather's plot o' land.

'Twer folly lost, an' cunnen got, What should ha' come to me by lot.

But let that goo; 'tis well the land Is come to hand, by be'th or not.

An' there the brook, a-winden round The parrick zide, do run below The grey-stwon'd bridge wi' gurglen sound, A-sheaded by the arches' bow; Where former days the wold brown meare, Wi' father on her back, did wear Wi' heavy shoes the grav'ly leane, An' sheake her meane o' yollor heair.

An' many zummers there ha' glow'd, To shrink the brook in bubblen shoals, An' warm the doust upon the road, Below the trav'ller's burnen zoles.

An' zome ha' zent us to our bed In grief, an' zome in ja ha' vled; But vew ha' come wi' happier light Than what's now bright, above our head.

The brook did peart, zome years agoo, Our Grenley meads vrom Knapton's Ridge But now you know, between the two, A-road's a-meade by Grenley Bridge.

Zoo why should we shrink back at zight Ov hindrances we ought to slight?

A hearty will, wi' G.o.d our friend, Will gan its end, if 'tis but right.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

_John an' Thomas._

THOMAS.

How b'ye, then, John, to-night; an' how Be times a-waggen on w' ye now?

I can't help slackenen my peace When I do come along your pleace, To zee what crops your bit o' groun'

Do bear ye all the zummer roun'.

'Tis true you don't get fruit nor blooth, 'Ithin the gla.s.sen houses' lewth; But if a man can rear a crop Where win' do blow an' ran can drop, Do seem to come, below your hand, As fine as any in the land.

JOHN.

Well, there, the gearden stuff an' flow'rs Don't leave me many idle hours; But still, though I mid plant or zow, 'Tis Woone above do meake it grow.

THOMAS.

Aye, aye, that's true, but still your strip O' groun' do show good workmanship: You've onions there nine inches round, An' turmits that would wagh a pound; An' cabbage wi' its hard white head, An' teaties in their dousty bed, An' carrots big an' straght enough Vor any show o' gearden stuff; An' trees ov apples, red-skinn'd b.a.l.l.s An' purple plums upon the walls, An' peas an' beans; bezides a store O' hearbs vor ev'ry pan an' zore.

JOHN.