Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 57

I'll goo, an' we'll play "Thread the needle"

Or "Hunten the slipper," or wheedle Young Jemmy to fiddle, an' reely So brisk to an' fro in the zummer.

JOHN.

An' Jeane. Mind you don't come 'ithout her, My wife is a-thinken about her; At our house she'll find she's as welcome 'S the rwose that do blow in the zummer.

LINDENORE.

At Lindenore upon the steep, Bezide the trees a-reachen high, The while their lower limbs do zweep The river-stream a-flowen by; By graegle bells in beds o' blue, Below the tree-stems in the lew, Calm ar do vind the rwose-bound door, Ov Ellen Dare o' Lindenore.

An' there noo foam do hiss avore Swift bwoats, wi' water-plowen keels, An' there noo broad high-road's a-wore By vur-brought trav'lers' cracklen wheels; Noo crowd's a-pa.s.sen to and fro, Upon the bridge's high-sprung bow: An' vew but I do seek the door Ov Ellen Dare o' Lindenore.

Vor there the town, wi' zun-bright walls, Do sheen vur off, by hills o' grey, An' town-vo'k ha' but seldom calls O' business there, from day to day: But Ellen didden leave her ruf To be admir'd, an' that's enough-- Vor I've a-vound 'ithin her door, Feair Ellen Dare o' Lindenore.

ME'TH BELOW THE TREE.

O when thease elems' crooked boughs, A'most too thin to sheade the cows, Did slowly swing above the gra.s.s As winds o' Spring did softly pa.s.s, An' zunlight show'd the shiften sheade, While youthful me'th wi' laughter loud, Did twist his lim's among the crowd Down there below; up there above Wer bright-ey'd me'th below the tree.

Down there the merry vo'k did vill The stwonen doorway, now so still; An' zome did joke, wi' ceas.e.m.e.nt wide, Wi' other vo'k a-stood outside, Wi' words that head by head did heed.

Below blue sky an' blue-smok'd tun, 'Twer ja to zee an' hear their fun, But sweeter ja up here above Wi' bright-ey'd me'th below the tree.

Now unknown veet do beat the vloor, An' unknown han's do shut the door, An' unknown men do ride abrode, An' hwome agean on thik wold road, Drough geates all now a-hung anew.

Noo mind but mine agean can call Wold feaces back around the wall, Down there below, or here above, Wi' bright-ey'd me'th below the tree.

Aye, pride mid seek the crowded pleace To show his head an' frownen feace, An' pleasure vlee, wi' goold in hand, Vor zights to zee vrom land to land, Where winds do blow on seas o' blue:-- Noo wealth wer mine to travel wide Vor ja, wi' Pleasure or wi' Pride: My happiness wer here above The feast, wi' me'th below the tree.

The wild rwose now do hang in zight, To mornen zun an' evenen light, The bird do whissle in the gloom, Avore the thissle out in bloom, But here alwone the tree do lean.

The twig that woonce did whiver there Is now a limb a-wither'd beare: Zoo I do miss the sheade above My head, an' me'th below the tree.

TREAT WELL YOUR WIFE.

No, no, good Measter Collins cried, Why you've a good wife at your zide; Zoo do believe the heart is true That gi'ed up all bezide vor you, An' still beheave as you begun To seek the love that you've a-won When woonce in dewy June, In hours o' hope soft eyes did flash, Each bright below his sheady lash, A-glisnen to the moon.

Think how her girlhood met noo ceare To peale the bloom her feace did wear, An' how her glossy temple prest Her pillow down, in still-feaced rest, While sheades o' window bars did vall In moonlight on the gloomy wall, In cool-ar'd nights o' June; The while her lids, wi' benden streaks O' lashes, met above her cheaks, A-bloomen to the moon.

Think how she left her childhood's pleace, An' only sister's long-known feace, An' brother's jokes so much a-miss'd, An' mother's cheak, the last a-kiss'd; An' how she lighted down avore Her new abode, a husband's door, Your wedden night in June; Wi' heart that beat wi' hope an' fear, While on each eye-lash hung a tear, A-glisnen to the moon.

Think how her father zot all dum', A-thinken on her, back at hwome, The while grey axan gather'd thick, On dyen embers, on the brick; An' how her mother look'd abrode, Drough window, down the moon-bright road, Thik cloudless night o' June, Wi' tears upon her lashes big As ran-drops on a slender twig, A-glisnen to the moon.

Zoo don't zit thoughtless at your cup An' keep your wife a-waiten up, The while the clock's a-ticken slow The chilly hours o' vrost an' snow, Until the zinken candle's light Is out avore her drowsy sight, A-dimm'd wi' grief too soon; A-leaven there alwone to murn The feaden cheak that woonce did burn, A-bloomen to the moon.

THE CHILD AN' THE MOWERS.

O, aye! they had woone child bezide, An' a finer your eyes never met, 'Twer a dear little fellow that died In the zummer that come wi' such het; By the mowers, too thoughtless in fun, He wer then a-zent off vrom our eyes, Vrom the light ov the dew-dryen zun,-- Aye! vrom days under blue-hollow'd skies.

He went out to the mowers in mead, When the zun wer a-rose to his height, An' the men wer a-swingen the snead, Wi' their earms in white sleeves, left an' right; An' out there, as they rested at noon, O! they drench'd en vrom eale-horns too deep, Till his thoughts wer a-drown'd in a swoon; Aye! his life wer a-smother'd in sleep.

Then they laid en there-right on the ground, On a gra.s.s-heap, a-zweltren wi' het, Wi' his heair all a-wetted around His young feace, wi' the big drops o' zweat; In his little left palm he'd a-zet, Wi' his right hand, his vore-vinger's tip, As for zome'hat he woulden vorget,-- Aye! zome thought that he woulden let slip.

Then they took en in hwome to his bed, An' he rose vrom his pillow noo mwore, Vor the curls on his sleek little head To be blown by the wind out o' door.

Vor he died while the hay russled grey On the staddle so leately begun: Lik' the mown-gra.s.s a-dried by the day,-- Aye! the zwath-flow'r's a-killed by the zun.

THE LOVE CHILD.

Where the bridge out at Woodley did stride, Wi' his wide arches' cool sheaded bow, Up above the clear brook that did slide By the popples, befoam'd white as snow: As the gilcups did quiver among The white deaisies, a-spread in a sheet.

There a quick-trippen mad come along,-- Aye, a girl wi' her light-steppen veet.

An' she cried "I do pra, is the road Out to Lincham on here, by the mead?"

An' "oh! ees," I meade answer, an' show'd Her the way it would turn an' would lead: "Goo along by the beech in the nook, Where the childern do play in the cool, To the steppen stwones over the brook,-- Aye, the grey blocks o' rock at the pool."

"Then you don't seem a-born an' a-bred,"

I spoke up, "at a place here about;"

An' she answer'd wi' cheaks up so red As a pi'ny but leate a-come out, "No, I liv'd wi' my uncle that died Back in Eapril, an' now I'm a-come Here to Ham, to my mother, to bide,-- Aye, to her house to vind a new hwome."

I'm asheamed that I wanted to know Any mwore of her childhood or life, But then, why should so feair a child grow Where noo father did bide wi' his wife; Then wi' blushes of zunrisen morn, She replied "that it midden be known, "Oh! they zent me away to be born,--[C]

Aye, they hid me when zome would be shown."

Oh! it meade me a'most teary-ey'd, An' I vound I a'most could ha' groan'd-- What! so winnen, an' still cast a-zide-- What! so lovely, an' not to be own'd; Oh! a G.o.d-gift a-treated wi' scorn, Oh! a child that a squier should own; An' to zend her away to be born!-- Aye, to hide her where others be shown!

[Footnote C: Words once spoken to the writer.]

HAWTHORN DOWN.

All up the down's cool brow I work'd in noontide's gleare, On where the slow-wheel'd plow 'D a-wore the gra.s.s half bare.