Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 8

When I do pitchy, 'tis my pride Vor Jenny Hine to reake my zide, An' zee her fling her reake, an' reach So vur, an' teake in sich a streech; An' I don't shatter ha, an' meake Mwore work than needs vor Jenny's reake.

I'd sooner zee the weales' high rows Lik' hedges up above my nose, Than have light work myzelf, an' vind Poor Jeane a-beat an' left behind; Vor she would sooner drop down dead.

Than let the pitchers get a-head.

'Tis merry at the rick to zee How picks do wag, an' ha do vlee.

While woone's unlwoaden, woone do teake The pitches in; an' zome do meake The lofty rick upright an' roun', An' tread en hard, an' reake en down, An' tip en, when the zun do zet, To shoot a sudden vall o' wet.

An' zoo 'tis merry any day Where vo'k be out a-carren hay.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

THE BEST MAN IN THE VIELD.

_Sam and Bob._

SAM.

That's slowish work, Bob. What'st a-been about?

Thy pooken don't goo on not over sprack.

Why I've a-pook'd my weale, lo'k zee, clear out, An' here I be agean a-turnen back.

BOB.

I'll work wi' thee then, Sammy, any day, At any work dost like to teake me at, Vor any money thou dost like to lay.

Now, Mister Sammy, what dost think o' that?

My weale is nearly twice so big as thine, Or else, I warnt, I shouldden be behin'.

SAM.

Ah! hang thee, Bob! don't tell sich whoppen lies.

_My_ weale's the biggest, if do come to size.

'Tis jist the seame whatever bist about; Why, when dost goo a-tedden gra.s.s, you sloth, Another hand's a-fwo'c'd to teake thy zwath, An' ted a half way back to help thee out; An' then a-reaken rollers, bist so slack, Dost keep the very bwoys an' women back.

An' if dost think that thou canst challenge I At any thing,--then, Bob, we'll teake a pick a-piece, An' woonce thease zummer, goo an' try To meake a rick a-piece.

A rick o' thine wull look a little funny, When thou'st a-done en, I'll bet any money.

BOB.

You noggerhead! last year thou mead'st a rick, An' then we had to trig en wi' a stick.

An' what did John that tipp'd en zay? Why zaid He stood a-top o'en all the while in dread, A-thinken that avore he should a-done en He'd tumble over slap wi' him upon en.

SAM.

You yoppen dog! I warnt I meade my rick So well's thou mead'st thy lwoad o' ha last week.

They hadden got a hundred yards to haul en, An' then they vound 'twer best to have en boun', Vor if they hadden, 'twould a-tumbl'd down; An' after that I zeed en all but vallen, An' trigg'd en up wi' woone o'm's pitchen pick, To zee if I could meake en ride to rick; An' when they had the dumpy heap unboun', He vell to pieces flat upon the groun'.

BOB.

Do shut thy lyen chops! What dosten mind Thy pitchen to me out in Gully-plot, A-meaken o' me wat (wast zoo behind) A half an hour vor ev'ry pitch I got?

An' how didst groun' thy pick? an' how didst quirk To get en up on end? Why hadst hard work To rise a pitch that wer about so big 'S a goodish crow's nest, or a wold man's wig!

Why bist so weak, dost know, as any roller: Zome o' the women vo'k will beat thee hollor.

SAM.

You snub-nos'd flopperchops! I pitch'd so quick, That thou dost know thou hadst a hardish job To teake in all the pitches off my pick; An' dissen zee me groun' en, nother, Bob.

An' thou bist stronger, thou dost think, than I?

Girt bandy-lags! I jist should like to try.

We'll goo, if thou dost like, an' jist zee which Can heave the mwost, or car the biggest nitch.

BOB.

There, Sam, do meake me zick to hear thy braggen!

Why bissen strong enough to car a flagon.

SAM.

You grinnen fool! why I'd zet thee a-blowen, If thou wast wi' me vor a day a-mowen.

I'd wear my cwoat, an' thou midst pull thy rags off, An' then in half a zwath I'd mow thy lags off.

BOB.

Thee mow wi' me! Why coossen keep up wi' me: Why bissen fit to goo a-vield to skimmy, Or mow down docks an' thistles! Why I'll bet A shillen, Samel, that thou ca.s.sen whet.

SAM.

Now don't thee zay much mwore than what'st a-zaid, Or else I'll knock thee down, heels over head.

BOB.

Thou knock me down, indeed! Why ca.s.sen gi'e A blow half hard enough to kill a bee.

SAM.

Well, thou shalt veel upon thy chops and snout.

BOB.

Come on, then, Samel; jist let's have woone bout.

WHERE WE DID KEEP OUR FLAGON.

When we in mornen had a-drow'd The gra.s.s or russlen ha abrode, The lit'some madens an' the chaps, Wi' bits o' nunchens in their laps, Did all zit down upon the knaps Up there, in under hedge, below The highest elem o' the row, Where we did keep our flagon.