The Dialect of the West of England; Particularly Somersetshire Part 33

"Luck, Luck in tha Bag! Good Luck!

Put in an try yer fortin; Come, try yer luck in tha Lucky Bag!

You'll git a prize vor sartin."

Mooast plazen ha their customs Ther manners an ther men; We too a got our customs, Our manners and our men.

He who a bin ta Huntspill Fayer Or Highbridge--Pawlet Revel-- Or Burtle Sa.s.sions, whaur tha pla Zumtimes tha very devil,

Mist mine once a man well That war a call'd TOM GOOL; Zum thawt en mazed, while withers thawt En moor a knave than fool.

At all tha fayers an revels too TOM GOOL war shower ta be, A takin vlother vast awa,-- A hoopin who bit he.

Vor' all that a had a zoort o' wit That zet tha vawk a laughin; An mooast o' that, when ho tha yal Ad at tha fayer bin quaffin.

A corr'd a kit o' pedlar's waur, Like awld _Joannah Martin_; [Footnote: This Lady, who was for many years known in Somersetshire as an itinerant dealer in earthenware, rags, &c., and occasionally a _fortune-teller_, died a few years since at Huntspill, where she had resided for the greater part of a century. She was extremely illiterate, so much so, as not to be able to write, and, I think, could scarcely read. She lived for some years in a house belonging to my father, and while a boy, I was very often her gratuitous amanuensis, in writing letters for her to her children. She possessed, however, considerable shrewdness, energy, and perseverance, and ama.s.sed property to the amount of several hundred pounds. She had three husbands; the name of the first was, I believe, _Gool_ or _Gould_, a relation of _Thomas Gool_, the subject of the above Poem; the name of the second was _Martin_, of the third _Pain_; but as the last lived a short time only after having married her, she always continued to be called Joannah Martin.

_Joannah_ was first brought into public notice by the Rev.

Mr. WARNER, in his _Walks through the Western Counties_, published in 1800, in which work will be found a lively and interesting description of her; but she often said that she should wish me to write her life, as I was, of course, more intimately acquainted with it than any casual inquirer could possibly be. An additional notice of Joannah was inserted by me in the _Monthly Magazine_, for Nov. 1816, page 310. I had among my papers, the _original song composed_ by her, which I copied from her dictation many years ago,--the only, copy in existence; I regret that I cannot lay my hand upon it; as it contains much of the Somersetshire idiom. I have more than once heard her sing this song, which was satirical, and related to the conduct of a female, one of her neighbours, who had become a thief.

Such was JOANNAH MARTIN, a woman whose name (had she moved in a sphere where her original talents could have been improved by education,) might have been added to the list of distinguished female worthies of our country.

[The MS. song was never, that I am aware of, discovered after my relative's death.--Editor, J. K. J.]]

An nif yon han't a hired o' her, You zumtime sholl vor sartin.

"Luck, Luck in tha Bag!" TOM, cried "Put in and try yer fortin; Come try yer luck in tha lucky bag; You'll git a prize vor sartin.

All prizes, norra blank, Norra blank, all prizes!

A waiter--knife--or scissis sheer-- A splat o' pins--put in my dear!-- Whitechapel nills all sizes.

Luck, Luck in tha Bag!--only a penny vor a venter--you mid get, a- ma-be, a girt prize--a _Rawman waiter!_--I can avoord it as cheep as thic that stawl it--I a bote it ta trust, an niver intend to pa vor't. Luck, Luck in tha bag! all prizes; norra blank!

Luck, Luck in tha Bag! Good Luck!

Put in an try yer fortin; Come, try yer luck in tha lucky bag!

You'll git a prize vor sartin.

Come, niver mine tha single-sticks, Tha whoppin or tha stickler, You dwon't want now a brawken head, "Nor jitchy zoort o' tickler!

Now Lady! yer prize is--'A SNUFF-BOX,'

A treble-j.a.pann'd Pontypool!

You'll shower come again ta my luck in tha bag, Or niver trust me--TOMMY GOOL.

Luck, Luck in tha bag! Good Luck!

Put in an try yer fortin; Come, try yer luck in tha lucky bag!

You'll git a prize for sartin!

TEDDY BAND.

"The short and simple annals of the poor." GRAY.

_Miss Hanson to Miss Mortimer. Ashcot, July_ 21st.

My Dear Jane.

Will you do me the favour to amuse yourself and your friends with the enclosed epistle? it is certainly an original--written in the dialect of the County. You will easily understand it, and, I do not doubt, the "moril" too.

Edward Band, or as he is more commonly called here, Teddy Band, is a poor, but honest and industrious cottager, but I am, nevertheless, disposed to think that "if ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."

My dear Jane, affectionately yours,

MARIA HANSON.

_Teddy Band to Miss Hanson._

Mam,

I da thenk you'll smile at theeazam here veo lains that I write ta you, bin I be naw scholard; vor vather coud'n avoord ta put I ta school. Bit nif you'll vorgee me vor my bauldniss, a-ma-be, I mid not be afeard ta za zummet ta you that you, mam yourzell mid like ta hire. Bit how be I ta knaw that? I knaw that you be a goodhorted Lady, an da like ta zee poor vawk well-at-eased an happy. You axt I tother da ta zing a zong: now I dwont much like zum o' tha zongs that I hired thic night at squire Reevs's when we made an end o' Ha-corrin: vor, zim ta I, there war naw moril to 'em. I like zongs wi' a moril to 'em. Tha nawtes, ta be shower, war zat anow, bit, vor all that, I war looking vor tha moril, mam.

Zo, when I c.u.m'd whim, I tawld our Pall, that you axt I ta zing: an I war zorry aterward that I did'n, bin you be always zo desperd good ta poor vowk. Bit I thawt, a-ma-be, you mid be angry wi' my country lidden. Why Teddy, zed Pall, dwontye zend Miss Hanson thic zong which ye made yerzel; I thenk ther is a moril in thic. An zo, mam, nif you please, I a zent tha zong. I haup you'll vorgee me.

Mam, your humble sarvant,

TEDDY BAND.

ZONG.

I have a cot o' Cob-wall Roun which tha ivy clims; My Pally at tha night-vall Er c.r.a.ppin vier trims.

A comin vrom tha plow-veel I zee tha blankers rise, Wi' blue smauk cloudy curlin, An whivering up tha skies.

When tha winter wines be crousty, An snaws dreav vast along, I hurry whim--tha door tine, An cheer er wi' a zong.

When spreng, adresst in tutties, Calls all tha birds abroad; An wrans an robin-ridd.i.c.ks, Tell all the cares o' G.o.d,

I zit bezides my cot-door After my work is done, While Pally, bizzy knittin, Looks at tha zottin zun.

When zummertime is pa.s.sin, An narras das be vine, I drenk tha sporklin cider, An wish naw wither wine.

How zweet tha smill o' clawver, How zweet tha smill o' ha; How zweet is haulsom labour, ^ Bit zweeter Pall than tha.

An who d'ye thenk I envy?-- Tha nawbles o' tha land?

Tha can't be moor than happy, An that is Teddy Band.