Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 7

An' then they stump'd along vrom there A-vield, to zee the cows an' meare; An' she, when uncle come in zight, Look'd up, an' p.r.i.c.k'd her ears upright, An' whicker'd out wi' all her might; An' he, a-chucklen, went to zee The cows below the sheady tree, Wi' leafy boughs a-swaen.

An' last ov all, they went to know How vast the gra.s.s in mead did grow An' then aunt zaid 'twer time to goo In hwome,--a-holden up her shoe, To show how wet he wer wi' dew.

An' zoo they toddled hwome to rest, Lik' doves a-vleen to their nest In leafy boughs a-swaen.

HAVEN WOONES FORTUNE A-TWOLD.

In leane the gipsies, as we went A-milken, had a-pitch'd their tent, Between the gravel-pit an' clump O' trees, upon the little hump: An' while upon the gra.s.sy groun'

Their smoken vire did crack an' bleaze, Their s.h.a.ggy-cwoated hoss did greaze Among the bushes vurder down.

An' zoo, when we brought back our pals, The woman met us at the rals, An' zaid she'd tell us, if we'd show Our han's, what we should like to know.

Zoo Poll zaid she'd a mind to try Her skill a bit, if I would vu'st; Though, to be sure, she didden trust To gipsies any mwore than I.

Well; I agreed, an' off all dree O's went behind an elem tree, An' after she'd a-zeed 'ithin My han' the wrinkles o' the skin, She twold me--an' she must a-know'd That d.i.c.ky met me in the leane,-- That I'd a-walk'd, an' should agean, Wi' zomebody along thik road.

An' then she twold me to bewar O' what the letter _M_ stood vor.

An' as I walk'd, o' _M_onday night, Drough _M_ead wi' d.i.c.ky overright The _M_ill, the _M_iller, at the stile, Did stan' an' watch us teake our stroll, An' then, a blabben dousty-poll!

Twold _M_other o't. Well wo'th his while!

An' Poll too wer a-bid bewar O' what the letter _F_ stood vor; An' then, because she took, at _F_eair, A bosom-pin o' Jimmy Heare, Young _F_ranky beat en black an' blue.

'Tis _F_ vor _F_eair; an' 'twer about A _F_earen _F_rank an' Jimmy fought, Zoo I do think she twold us true.

In short, she twold us all about What had a-vell, or would vall out; An' whether we should spend our lives As madens, or as wedded wives; But when we went to bundle on, The gipsies' dog were at the rals A-lappen milk vrom ouer pals,-- A pretty deal o' Poll's wer gone.

JEANE'S WEDDEN DAY IN MORNEN.

At last Jeane come down stairs, a-drest Wi' wedden knots upon her breast, A-blushen, while a tear did lie Upon her burnen cheak half dry; An' then her Robert, drawen nigh Wi' tothers, took her han' wi' pride, To meake her at the church his bride, Her wedden day in mornen.

Wi' litty voot an' beaten heart She stepp'd up in the new light cart, An' took her bridemad up to ride Along wi' Robert at her zide: An' uncle's meare look'd roun' wi' pride To zee that, if the cart wer vull, 'Twer Jenny that he had to pull, Her wedden day in mornen.

An' aunt an' uncle stood stock-still, An' watch'd em trotten down the hill; An' when they turn'd off out o' groun'

Down into leane, two tears run down Aunt's feace; an' uncle, turnen roun', Sigh'd woonce, an' stump'd off wi' his stick, Because did touch en to the quick To peart wi' Jeane thik mornen.

"Now Jeane's agone," Tom mutter'd, "we Shall mwope lik' owls 'ithin a tree; Vor she did zet us all agog Vor fun, avore the burnen log."

An' as he zot an' talk'd, the dog Put up his nose athirt his thighs, But coulden meake en turn his eyes, Jeane's wedden day in mornen.

An' then the naghbours round us, all By woones an' twos begun to call, To meet the young vo'k, when the meare Mid bring em back a married peair: An' all o'm zaid, to Robert's sheare, There had a-vell the fearest feace, An' kindest heart in all the pleace, Jeane's wedden day in mornen.

RIVERS DON'T GI'E OUT.

The brook I left below the rank Ov alders that do sheade his bank, A-runnen down to dreve the mill Below the knap, 's a runnen still; The creepen days an' weeks do vill Up years, an' meake wold things o' new, An' vok' do come, an' live, an' goo, But rivers don't gi'e out, John.

The leaves that in the spring do shoot Zo green, in fall be under voot; Ma flow'rs do grow vor June to burn, An' milk-white blooth o' trees do kern, An' ripen on, an' vall in turn; The miller's moss-green wheel mid rot, An' he mid die an' be vorgot, But rivers don't gi'e out, John.

A vew short years do bring an' rear A mad--as Jeane wer--young an' feair, An' vewer zummer-ribbons, tied In Zunday knots, do feade bezide Her cheak avore her bloom ha' died: Her youth won't sta,--her rwosy look 'S a feaden flow'r, but time's a brook To run an' not gi'e out, John.

An' yet, while things do come an' goo, G.o.d's love is steadvast, John, an' true; If winter vrost do chill the ground, 'Tis but to bring the zummer round, All's well a-lost where He's a-vound, Vor if 'tis right, vor Christes seake He'll gi'e us mwore than he do teake,-- His goodness don't gi'e out, John.

MEAKEN UP A MIFF.

Vorgi'e me, Jenny, do! an' rise Thy hangen head an' teary eyes, An' speak, vor I've a-took in lies, An' I've a-done thee wrong; But I wer twold,--an' thought 'twer true,-- That Sammy down at Coome an' you Wer at the feair, a-walken drough The pleace the whole day long.

An' tender thoughts did melt my heart, An' zwells o' viry pride did dart Lik' lightnen drough my blood; a-peart Ov your love I should scorn, An' zoo I vow'd, however sweet Your looks mid be when we did meet, I'd trample ye down under veet, Or let ye goo forlorn.

But still thy neame would always be The sweetest, an' my eyes would zee Among all madens nwone lik' thee Vor ever any mwore; Zoo by the walks that we've a-took By flow'ry hedge an' zedgy brook, Dear Jenny, dry your eyes, an' look As you've a-look'd avore.

Look up, an' let the evenen light But sparkle in thy eyes so bright, As they be open to the light O' zunzet in the west; An' let's stroll here vor half an hour, Where hangen boughs do meake a bow'r Above thease bank, wi' eltrot flow'r An' robinhoods a-drest.

HAY-MEAKEN.

'Tis merry ov a zummer's day, Where vo'k be out a-meaken ha; Where men an' women, in a string, Do ted or turn the gra.s.s, an' zing, Wi' cheemen vaces, merry zongs, A-tossen o' their sheenen p.r.o.ngs Wi' earms a-zw.a.n.gen left an' right, In colour'd gowns an' shirtsleeves white; Or, wider spread, a reaken round The rwosy hedges o' the ground, Where Sam do zee the speckled sneake, An' try to kill en wi' his reake; An' Poll do jump about an' squall, To zee the twisten slooworm crawl.

'Tis merry where a ga-tongued lot Ov ha-meakers be all a-squot, On lightly-russlen ha, a-spread Below an elem's lofty head, To rest their weary limbs an' munch Their bit o' dinner, or their nunch; Where teethy reakes do lie all round By picks a-stuck up into ground.

An' wi' their vittles in their laps, An' in their hornen cups their draps O' cider sweet, or frothy eale, Their tongues do run wi' joke an' teale.

An' when the zun, so low an' red, Do sheen above the leafy head O' zome broad tree, a-rizen high Avore the vi'ry western sky, 'Tis merry where all han's do goo Athirt the groun', by two an' two, A-reaken, over humps an' hollors, The russlen gra.s.s up into rollers.

An' woone do row it into line, An' woone do clwose it up behine; An' after them the little bwoys Do stride an' fling their earms all woys, Wi' busy picks, an' proud young looks A-meaken up their tiny pooks.

An' zoo 'tis merry out among The vo'k in ha-vield all day long.

HAY-CARREN.

'Tis merry ov a zummer's day, When vo'k be out a-haulen ha, Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground, Do meake the staddle big an' round; An' gra.s.s do stand in pook, or lie In long-back'd weales or pa.r.s.els, dry.

There I do vind it stir my heart To hear the frothen hosses snort, A-haulen on, wi' sleek heair'd hides, The red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides.

Aye; let me have woone cup o' drink, An' hear the linky harness clink, An' then my blood do run so warm, An' put sich strangth 'ithin my earm, That I do long to toss a pick, A-pitchen or a-meaken rick.

The bwoy is at the hosse's head, An' up upon the waggon bed The lwoaders, strong o' earm do stan', At head, an' back at tal, a man, Wi' skill to build the lwoad upright An' bind the vwolded corners tight; An' at each zide [=o]'m, sprack an' strong, A pitcher wi' his long-stem'd p.r.o.ng, Avore the best two women now A-call'd to reaky after plough.