Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 67

Zaid her aunt, "You'll vind trials enough vor to rue,"

An', zaid she, "I don't ceare if I do."

Now she's married, an' still in the midst ov her tweils She's as happy's the daylight is long, She do goo out abroad wi' her feace vull o' smiles, An' do work in the house wi' a zong.

An', zays woone, "She don't grieve, you can tell."

Zays another, "Why, don't she look well!"

Zays her aunt, "Why the young vo'k do envy you two,"

An', zays she, "I don't ceare if they do."

Now vor me I can zing in my business abrode, Though the storm do beat down on my poll, There's a wife-brighten'd vier at the end o' my road, An' her love vor the ja o' my soul.

Out o' door I wi' rogues mid be tried: Out o' door be brow-beaten wi' pride; Men mid scowl out o' door, if my wife is but true-- Let em scowl, "I don't ceare if they do."

CHANGES.

By time's a-brought the mornen light, By time the light do weane; By time's a-brought the young man's might, By time his might do weane; The Winter snow do whiten gra.s.s, The zummer flow'rs do brighten gra.s.s, Vor zome things we do lose wi' pan, We've mwore that mid be ja to gan, An' my dear life do seem the seame While at my zide There still do bide Your welcome feace an' hwomely neame.

W' ev'ry day that woonce come on I had to choose a ja, Wi' many that be since a-gone I had to lose a ja.

Drough longsome years a-wanderen, Drough lwonesome rest a-ponderen, Woone peaceful daytime wer a-bro't To heal the heart another smote; But my dear life do seem the seame While I can hear, A-sounden near, Your answ'ren vace an' long-call'd neame.

An' oh! that hope, when life do dawn, Should rise to light our wa, An' then, wi' weanen het withdrawn, Should soon benight our wa.

Whatever mid beval me still, Wherever chance mid call me still, Though leate my evenen tweil mid cease, An' though my night mid lose its peace, My life will seem to me the seame While you do sheare My daily ceare, An' answer to your long-call'd neame.

KINDNESS.

Good Measter Collins heard woone day A man a-talken, that did zay It woulden answer to be kind, He thought, to vo'k o' grov'len mind, Vor they would only teake it wrong, That you be weak an' they be strong.

"No," cried the goodman, "never mind, Let vo'k be thankless,--you be kind; Don't do your good for e'thly ends At man's own call vor man's amends.

Though souls befriended should reman As thankless as the sea vor ran, On them the good's a-lost 'tis true, But never can be lost to you.

Look on the cool-feaced moon at night Wi' light-vull ring, at utmost height, A-casten down, in gleamen strokes, His beams upon the dim-bough'd woaks, To show the cliff a-risen steep, To show the stream a-vallen deep, To show where winden roads do lead, An' p.r.i.c.kly thorns do ward the mead.

While sheades o' boughs do flutter dark Upon the woak-trees' moon-bright bark.

There in the lewth, below the hill, The nightengeale, wi' ringen bill, Do zing among the soft-ar'd groves, While up below the house's oves The mad, a-looken vrom her room Drough window, in her youthvul bloom, Do listen, wi' white ears among Her glossy heairlocks, to the zong.

If, then, the while the moon do lght The lwonesome zinger o' the night, His cwold-beam'd light do seem to show The prowlen owls the mouse below.

What then? Because an evil will, Ov his sweet good, mid meake zome ill, Shall all his feace be kept behind The dark-brow'd hills to leave us blind?"

WITHSTANDERS.

When weakness now do strive wi' might In struggles ov an e'thly trial, Might mid overcome the right, An' truth be turn'd by might's denial; Withstanders we ha' mwost to fear, If selfishness do wring us here, Be souls a-holden in their hand, The might an' riches o' the land.

But when the wicked, now so strong, Shall stan' vor judgment, peale as ashes, By the souls that rued their wrong, Wi' tears a-hangen on their lashes-- Then wthstanders they shall deare The least ov all to meet wi' there, Mid be the helpless souls that now Below their wrongvul might mid bow.

Sweet childern o' the dead, bereft Ov all their goods by guile an' forgen; Souls o' driven sleaves that left Their weary limbs a-mark'd by scourgen; They that G.o.d ha' call'd to die Vor truth agean the worold's lie, An' they that groan'd an' cried in van, A-bound by foes' unrighteous chan.

The mad that selfish craft led on To sin, an' left wi' hope a-blighted; Starven workmen, thin an' wan, Wi' hopeless leabour ill requited; Souls a-wrong'd, an' call'd to vill Wi' dread, the men that us'd em ill.

When might shall yield to right as pliant As a dwarf avore a giant.

When there, at last, the good shall glow In starbright bodies lik' their Seaviour, Vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show, The marks o' man's unkind beheaviour: Wi' speechless tongue, an' burnen cheak, The strong shall bow avore the weak, An' vind that helplessness, wi' right, Is strong beyond all e'thly might.

DANIEL DWITHEN, THE WISE CHAP.

Dan Dwithen wer the chap to show His naghbours mwore than they did know, Vor he could zee, wi' half a thought, What zome could hardly be a-taught; An' he had never any doubt Whatever 'twer, but he did know't, An' had a-reach'd the bottom o't, Or soon could meake it out.

Wi' narrow feace, an' nose so thin That light a'most shone drough the skin, As he did talk, wi' his red peair O' lips, an' his vull eyes did steare, What nippy looks friend Daniel wore, An' how he smiled as he did bring Such reasons vor to clear a thing, As dather'd vo'k the mwore!

When woonce there come along the road At night, zome show-vo'k, wi' a lwoad Ov half the wild outlandsh things That crawl'd, or went wi' veet, or wings; Their elephant, to stratch his knees, Walk'd up the road-zide turf, an' left His tracks a-zunk wi' all his heft As big's a vinny cheese.

An' zoo next mornen zome vo'k vound The girt round tracks upon the ground, An' view'd em all wi' stedvast eyes, An' wi' their vingers spann'd their size, An' took their depth below the brink: An' whether they mid be the tracks O' things wi' witches on their backs, Or what, they coulden think.

At last friend Dan come up, an' brought His wit to help their dizzy thought, An' looken on an' off the ea'th, He cried, a-drawen a vull breath, Why, I do know; what, can't ye zee 't?

I'll bet a shillen 'twer a deer Broke out o' park, an' sprung on here, Wi' quoits upon his veet.

TURNeN THINGS OFF.

Upzides wi' Polly! no, he'd vind That Poll would soon leave him behind.

To turn things off! oh! she's too quick To be a-caught by ev'ry trick.

Woone day our Jimmy stole down steairs On merry Polly unaweares, The while her nimble tongue did run A-tellen, all alive wi' fun, To sister Anne, how Simon Heare Did hanker after her at feair.

"He left," cried Polly, "cousin Jeane, An' kept wi' us all down the leane, An' which way ever we did lead He vollow'd over hill an' mead; An' wi' his head o' s.h.a.ggy heair, An' sleek brown cwoat that he do weare, An' collar that did reach so high 'S his two red ears, or perty nigh, He swung his tail, wi' steps o' pride, Back right an' left, vrom zide to zide, A-walken on, wi' heavy strides A half behind, an' half upzides."

"Who's that?" cried Jimmy, all agog; An' thought he had her now han'-pat, "That's Simon Heare," but no, "Who's that?"

Cried she at woonce, "Why Uncle's dog, Wi' what have you a-been misled I wonder. Tell me what I zaid."

Woone evenen as she zot bezide The wall the ranglen vine do hide, A-prattlen on, as she did zend Her needle, at her vinger's end.

On drough the work she had in hand, Zome bran-new thing that she'd a-plann'd, Jim overheard her talk agean O' Robin Hine, ov Ivy Leane, "Oh! no, what he!" she cried in scorn, "I woulden gie a penny vor'n; The best ov him's outzide in view; His cwoat is ga enough, 'tis true, But then the wold vo'k didden bring En up to know a single thing, An' as vor zingen,--what do seem His zingen's nothen but a scream."

"So ho!" cried Jim, "Who's that, then, Meary, That you be now a-talken o'?"

He thought to catch her then, but, no, Cried Polly, "Oh! why Jeane's caneary, Wi' what have you a-been misled, I wonder. Tell me what I zaid."

THE GIANTS IN TREaDES.

GRAMFER'S FEaBLE.