Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 48

An' women a-frad o' the road in the night, Wer a-heastenen on to reach hwome by the light, A-casten long sheades on the road, a-dried white, Down the hill, at the turn o' the days.

The father an' mother did walk out to view The moss-bedded snow-drop, a-sprung in the lew, An' hear if the birds wer a-zingen anew, In the boughs, at the turn o' the days.

An' young vo'k a-laughen wi' smooth glossy feace, Did hie over vields, wi' a light-vooted peace, To friends where the tow'r did betoken a pleace Among trees, at the turn o' the days.

THE SPARROW CLUB.

Last night the merry farmers' sons, Vrom biggest down to least, min, Gi'ed in the work of all their guns, An' had their sparrow feast, min.

An' who vor woone good merry soul Should goo to sheare their me'th, min, But Gammon Ga, a chap so droll, He'd meake ye laugh to death, min.

Vor heads o' sparrows they've a-shot They'll have a prize in cwein, min, That is, if they can meake their scot, Or else they'll pa a fine, min.

An' all the money they can teake 'S a-gather'd up there-right, min, An' spent in meat an' drink, to meake A supper vor the night, min.

Zoo when they took away the cloth, In middle of their din, min, An' cups o' eale begun to froth, Below their merry chin, min.

An' when the zong, by turn or chace, Went roun' vrom tongue to tongue, min, Then Gammon pitch'd his merry vace, An' here's the zong he zung, min.

_Zong._

If you'll but let your clackers rest Vrom jabberen an' hooten, I'll teake my turn, an' do my best, To zing o' sparrow shooten.

Since every woone mus' pitch his key, An' zing a zong, in coo'se, lads, Why sparrow heads shall be to-day The heads o' my discoo'se, lads.

We'll zend abroad our viery hal Till ev'ry foe's a-vled, lads, An' though the rogues mid all turn tal, We'll quickly show their head, lads.

In corn, or out on oben ground, In bush, or up in tree, lads, If we don't kill em, I'll be bound, We'll meake their veathers vlee, lads.

Zoo let the belted spwortsmen brag When they've a-won a neame, so's, That they do vind, or they do bag, Zoo many head o' geame, so's; Vor when our cwein is woonce a-won, By heads o' sundry sizes, Why, who can slight what we've a-done?

We've all a-won _head_ prizes.

Then teake a drap vor harmless fun, But not enough to quarrel; Though where a man do like the gun, He can't but need the barrel.

O' goodly feare, avore we'll start, We'll zit an' teake our vill, min; Our supper-bill can be but short, 'Tis but a sparrow-bill, min.

GAMMONY GA[:Y].

Oh! thik Gammony Ga is so droll, That if he's at hwome by the he'th, Or wi' vo'k out o' door, he's the soul O' the meeten vor antics an' me'th; He do cast off the thoughts ov ill luck As the water's a-shot vrom a duck; He do zing where his naghbours would cry He do laugh where the rest o's would sigh: Noo other's so merry o' feace, In the pleace, as Gammony Ga.

An' o' worken days, Oh! he do wear Such a funny roun' hat,--you mid know't-- Wi' a brim all a-strout roun' his heair, An' his glissenen eyes down below't; An' a cwoat wi' broad skirts that do vlee In the wind ov his walk, round his knee; An' a peair o' girt pockets lik' bags, That do swing an' do bob at his lags: While me'th do walk out drough the pleace, In the feace o' Gammony Ga.

An' if he do goo over groun'

Wi' noo soul vor to greet wi' his words, The feace o'n do look up an' down, An' round en so quick as a bird's; An' if he do vall in wi' vo'k, Why, tidden vor want ov a joke, If he don't zend em on vrom the pleace Wi' a smile or a grin on their feace: An' the young wi' the wold have a-heard A kind word vrom Gammony Ga.

An' when he do whissel or hum, 'Ithout thinken o' what he's a-doen, He'll beat his own lags vor a drum, An' bob his ga head to the tuen; An' then you mid zee, 'etween whiles, His feace all alive wi' his smiles, An' his ga-breathen bozom do rise, An' his me'th do sheen out ov his eyes: An' at last to have prase or have bleame, Is the seame to Gammony Ga.

When he drove his wold cart out, an' broke The nut o' the wheel at a b.u.t.t.

There wer "woo'se things," he cried, wi' a joke.

"To grieve at than cracken a nut."

An' when he tipp'd over a lwoad Ov his reed-sheaves woone day on the rwoad, Then he spet in his han's, out o' sleeves, An' whissel'd, an' flung up his sheaves, As very vew others can wag, Earm or lag, but Gammony Ga.

He wer wi' us woone night when the band Wer a-come vor to gi'e us a hop, An' he pull'd Grammer out by the hand All down drough the dance vrom the top; An' Grammer did hobble an' squall, Wi' Gammon a-leaden the ball; While Gammon did sheake up his knee An' his voot, an' zing "Diddle-ee-dee!"

An' we laugh'd ourzelves all out o' breath At the me'th o' Gammony Ga.

When our tun wer' o' vier he rod Out to help us, an' meade us sich fun, Vor he clomb up to dreve in a wad O' wet thorns, to the he'th, vrom the tun; An' there he did stamp wi' his voot, To push down the thorns an' the zoot, Till at last down the chimney's black wall Went the wad, an' poor Gammon an' all: An' seafe on the he'th, wi' a grin On his chin pitch'd Gammony Ga.

All the house-dogs do waggle their tals, If they do but catch zight ov his feace; An' the ho'ses do look over rals, An' do whicker to zee'n at the pleace; An' he'll always bestow a good word On a cat or a whisselen bird; An' even if culvers do coo, Or an owl is a-cryen "Hoo, hoo,"

Where he is, there's always a joke To be spoke, by Gammony Ga.

THE HEARE.

(_Dree o'm a-ta'ken o't._)

(1) There be the greyhounds! lo'k! an' there's the heare!

(2) What houn's, the squier's, Thomas? where, then, where?

(1) Why, out in Ash Hill, near the barn, behind Thik tree. (3) The pollard? (1) Pollard! no, b'ye blind?

(2) There, I do zee em over-right thik cow.

(3) The red woone? (1) No, a mile beyand her now.

(3) Oh! there's the heare, a-meaken for the drong.

(2) My goodness! How the dogs do zweep along, A-poken out their pweinted noses' tips.

(3) He can't allow hizzelf much time vor slips!

(1) They'll hab'en, after all, I'll bet a crown.

(2) Done vor a crown. They woon't! He's gwain to groun'.

(3) He is! (1) He idden! (3) Ah! 'tis well his tooes Ha' got noo corns, inside o' hobnal shoes.

(1) He's geame a runnen too. Why, he do mwore Than earn his life. (3) His life wer his avore.

(1) There, now the dogs wull turn en. (2) No! He's right.

(1) He idden! (2) Ees he is! (3) He's out o' zight.

(1) Aye, aye. His mettle wull be well a-tried Agwan down Verny Hill, o' tother zide.

They'll have en there. (3) O no! a vew good hops Wull teake en on to Knapton Lower Copse.

(2) An' that's a meesh that he've a-took avore.

(3) Ees, that's his hwome. (1) He'll never reach his door.

(2) He wull. (1) He woon't. (3) Now, hark, d'ye hear em now?

(2) O! here's a bwoy a-come athirt the brow O' Knapton Hill. We'll ax en. (1) Here, my bwoy!

Can'st tell us where's the heare? (4) He's got awoy.

(2) Ees, got awoy, in coo'se, I never zeed A heare a-scoten on wi' half his speed.

(1) Why, there, the dogs be wold, an' half a-done.

They can't catch anything wi' lags to run.

(2) Vrom vu'st to last they had but little chance O' catchen o'n. (3) They had a perty dance.

(1) No, catch en, no! I little thought they would; He know'd his road too well to Knapton Wood.

(3) No! no! I wish the squier would let me feare On rabbits till his hounds do catch thik heare.