Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 68

(_How the steam engine come about._)

_Vier, Ar, E'th, Water_, wer a-meade Good workers, each o'm in his treade, An' _Ar_ an' _Water_, wer a-match Vor woone another in a mill; The giant _Water_ at a hatch, An' _Ar_ on the windmill hill.

Zoo then, when _Water_ had a-meade Zome money, _air_ begrudg'd his treade, An' come by, unaweares woone night, An' vound en at his own mill-head, An' cast upon en, iron-tight, An icy cwoat so stiff as lead.

An' there he wer so good as dead Vor grinden any corn vor bread.

Then _Water_ cried to _Vier_, "Alack!

Look, here be I, so stiff's a log, Thik fellor _Ar_ do keep me back Vrom grinden. I can't wag a cog.

If I, dear _Vier_, did ever souse Your nimble body on a house, When you wer on your merry pranks Wi' thatch or refters, beams or planks, Vorgi'e me, do, in pity's neame, Vor 'twerden I that wer to bleame, I never wagg'd, though I be'nt cringen, Till men did dreve me wi' their engine.

Do zet me free vrom thease cwold jacket, Vor I myzelf shall never crack it."

"Well come," cried _Vier_, "My vo'k ha' meade An engine that 'ull work your treade.

If _E'th_ is only in the mood, While I do work, to gi'e me food, I'll help ye, an' I'll meake your skill A match vor Mister _Ar's_ wold mill."

"What food," cried _E'th_, "'ull suit your bwoard?"

"Oh! trust me, I ben't over nice,"

Cried _Vier_, "an' I can eat a slice Ov any thing you can avword."

"I've lots," cried _E'th_, "ov coal an' wood."

"Ah! that's the stuff," cried _Vier_, "that's good."

Zoo _Vier_ at woonce to _Water_ cried, "Here, _Water_, here, you get inside O' thease girt bwoiler. Then I'll show How I can help ye down below, An' when my work shall woonce begin You'll be a thousand times so strong, An' be a thousand times so long An' big as when you vu'st got in.

An' I wull meake, as sure as death, Thik fellor _Ar_ to vind me breath, An' you shall grind, an' pull, an' dreve, An' zaw, an' drash, an' pump, an' heave, An' get vrom _Ar_, in time, I'll lay A pound, the dreven ships at sea."

An' zoo 'tis good to zee that might Wull help a man a-wrong'd, to right.

THE LITTLE WOROLD.

My hwome wer on the timber'd ground O' Duncombe, wi' the hills a-bound: Where vew from other pearts did come, An' vew did travel vur from hwome, An' small the worold I did know; But then, what had it to bestow But f.a.n.n.y Deane so good an' feair?

'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

In our deep hollow where the zun Did early leave the smoky tun, An' all the meads a-growen dim, Below the hill wi' zunny rim; Oh! small the land the hills did bound, But there did walk upon the ground Young f.a.n.n.y Deane so good an' feair: 'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

O' leate upon the misty plan I sta'd vor shelter vrom the ran, Where sharp-leav'd ashes' heads did twist In hufflen wind, an' driften mist, An' small the worold I could zee; But then it had below the tree My f.a.n.n.y Deane so good an' feair: 'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

An' I've a house wi' thatchen ridge, Below the elems by the bridge: Wi' small-pean'd windows, that do look Upon a knap, an' ramblen brook; An' small's my house, my ruf is low, But then who mid it have to show But f.a.n.n.y Deane so good an' feair?

'Tis fine enough if peace is there.

BAD NEWS.

I do mind when there broke bitter tidens, Woone day, on their ears, An' their souls wer a-smote wi' a stroke As the lightnen do vall on the woak, An' the things that wer bright all around em Seem'd dim drough their tears.

Then unheeded wer things in their vingers, Their grief wer their all.

All unheeded wer zongs o' the birds, All unheeded the child's perty words, All unheeded the kitten a-rollen The white-threaded ball.

Oh! vor their minds the daylight around em Had nothen to show.

Though it brighten'd their tears as they vell, An' did sheen on their lips that did tell, In their vaces all thrillen an' mwoansome, O' nothen but woe.

But they vound that, by Heavenly mercy, The news werden true; An' they shook, wi' low laughter, as quick As a drum when his blows do vall thick, An' wer earnest in words o' thanksgiven, Vor mercies anew.

THE TURNSTILE.

Ah! sad wer we as we did peace The wold church road, wi' downcast feace, The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep Above our child a-left asleep, Wer now a-zingen all alive Wi' tother bells to meake the vive.

But up at woone pleace we come by, 'Twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry: On Stean-cliff road, 'ithin the drong, Up where, as vo'k do pa.s.s along, The turnen stile, a-panted white, Do sheen by day an' show by night.

Vor always there, as we did goo To church, thik stile did let us drough, Wi' spreaden earms that wheel'd to guide Us each in turn to tother zide.

An' vu'st ov all the tran he took My wife, wi' winsome gat an' look; An' then zent on my little mad, A-skippen onward, overja'd To reach agean the pleace o' pride, Her comely mother's left han' zide.

An' then, a-wheelen roun', he took On me, 'ithin his third white nook.

An' in the fourth, a-sheaken wild, He zent us on our giddy child.

But eesterday he guided slow My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe, An' then my little mad in black, A-walken softly on her track; An' after he'd a-turn'd agean, To let me goo along the leane, He had noo little bwoy to vill His last white earms, an' they stood still.

THE BETTER VOR ZEeN O' YOU.

'Twer good what Measter Collins spoke O' spite to two poor spitevul vo'k, When woone twold tother o' the two "I be never the better vor zeen o' you."

If soul to soul, as Christians should, Would always try to do zome good, "How vew," he cried, "would zee our feace A-brighten'd up wi' smiles o' greace, An' tell us, or could tell us true, I be never the better vor zeen o' you."

A man mus' be in evil cease To live 'ithin a land o' greace, Wi' nothen that a soul can read O' goodness in his word or deed; To still a breast a-heav'd wi' sighs, Or dry the tears o' weepen eyes; To sta a vist that spite ha' wrung, Or cool the het ov anger's tongue: Or bless, or help, or gi'e, or lend; Or to the friendless stand a friend, An' zoo that all could tell en true, "I be never the better vor zeen o' you."

Oh! no, mid all o's try to spend Our pa.s.sen time to zome good end, An' zoo vrom day to day teake heed, By mind, an' han', by word or deed; To lessen evil, and increase The growth o' righteousness an' peace, A-speaken words o' loven-kindness, Openen the eyes o' blindness; Helpen helpless striver's weakness, Cheeren hopeless grievers' meekness, Meaken friends at every meeten, Veel the happier vor their greeten; Zoo that vew could tell us true, "I be never the better vor zeen o' you."

No, let us even try to win Zome little good vrom sons o' sin, An' let their evils warn us back Vrom teaken on their hopeless track, Where we mid zee so clear's the zun That harm a-done is harm a-won, An' we mid cry an' tell em true, "I be even the better vor zeen o' you."

PITY.

Good Measter Collins! aye, how mild he spoke Woone day o' Mercy to zome cruel vo'k.

"No, no. Have Mercy on a helpless head, An' don't be cruel to a zoul," he zaid.

"When Babylon's king woonce cast 'ithin The viery furnace, in his spite, The vetter'd souls whose only sin Wer praer to the G.o.d o' might, He vound a fourth, 'ithout a neame, A-walken wi' em in the fleame.

An' zoo, whenever we mid hurt, Vrom spite, or vrom disdan, A brother's soul, or meake en smert Wi' keen an' needless pan, Another that we midden know Is always wi' en in his woe.

Vor you do know our Lord ha' cried, "By fath my bretheren do bide In me the liven vine, As branches in a liven tree; Whatever you've a-done to mine Is all a-done to me.

Oh! when the new-born child, the e'th's new guest, Do lie an' heave his little breast, In pillow'd sleep, wi' sweetest breath O' sinless days drough rwosy lips a-drawn; Then, if a han' can smite en in his dawn O' life to darksome death, Oh! where can Pity ever vwold Her wings o' swiftness vrom their holy flight, To leave a heart o' flesh an' blood so cwold At such a touchen zight?

An' zoo mid meek-soul'd Pity still Be zent to check our evil will, An' keep the helpless soul from woe, An' hold the hardened heart vrom sin.

Vor they that can but mercy show Shall all their Father's mercy win."