The Dialect of the West of England; Particularly Somersetshire Part 34

Mister Ginnins;

I a red thic ballet o' yourn called f.a.n.n.y Fear, an, zim ta I, there's naw moril to it. Nif zaw be you da thenk zo well o't, I'll gee one.

I dwont want to frunt any ov the gennelmen o' tha country, bit I always a thawt it desperd odd, that dogs should be keept in a kannel, and keept a hungered too, zaw that tha mid be moor eager to hunt thic poor little theng called a hare. I dwon' naw, bit I da thenk, nif I war a gennelman, that I'd vine better spoort than huntin; bezides, zim ta I 'tis desperd wicked to hunt animals vor one's spoort. Now, jitch a horrid blanscue as what happened at Shapick, niver could a bin but vor tha hungry houns. I haup that gennelmen ool thenk o't oten; an when tha da hire tha yell o' tha houns tha'll not vorgit f.a.n.n.y Fear; a-ma-be tha mid be zummet tha wiser an better vor't; I'm shower jitch a storry desarves ta be remimbered. This is the moril.

I am, sur, your sarvant,

TEDDY BAND.

THE CHURCHWARDEN.

Upon a time, naw matter whaur, Jitch plazen there be many a scaur In Zummerzet's girt gorden; (Ive hir'd 'twar handy ta tha zea, Not vur vrom whaur tha zantots be) There liv'd a young churchwarden.

A zim'd delighted when put in.

An zaw a thawt a ood begin Ta do hiz office duly: Bit zum o'm, girt vawk in ther wa-- Tha _Porish_ o'ten called,--a girt bell sheep Or two that lead the rest an quiet keep-- Put vooath ther hons iz coose to sta, Which made en quite unruly.

A went, of coose, ta Visitation Ta be sworn in;--an than 'twar nation Hord that a man his power should doubt,-- An moor--ta try ta turn en out!

"Naw, Naw!" exclaim'd our young churchwarden, I dwon't care vor ye all a copper varden!"

Tha church war durty.--Wevets here Hang'd danglin vrom tha ruf; an there Tha plaisterin shaw'd a crazy wall;

Tha altar-piece war dim and dowsty too, That Peter's maricle tha scase cood view.

Tha Ten Commandments nawbody cood rade; [Footnote: Read]

Tha Lord's Prayer ad nuthin in't bit "Brade;" [Footnote: Bread]

Nor had tha Creed A lain or letter parfit, grate or small.

'Twar time vor zum one ta renew 'em all.

I've tawld o' wevets--zum o'm odd enow; Tha look'd tha colour of a dork dun cow, An like a skin war stratched across tha corners; Tha knitters o' tha porish tak'd o knittin Stocking wi' 'em!--Bit aw, how unbevittin All tak like this!--aw fie, tha wicked scorners!

Ta work went tha Churchwarden; wevets tummel'd Down by tha bushel, an tha pride o' dowst war hummel'd.

Tha walls once moor look'd bright.

Tha Painter, f.a.gs, a war a Plummer An Glazier too, Put vooath his powers, (His workin made naw little sc.u.mmer!) In zentences, in flourishes, and flowers.

Tha chancel, church and all look'd new, An war well suited to avoord delight.

Tha Ten Commandments glitter'd wi' tha vornish; Compleat now, tha Lord's Prayer, what cood tornish.

As vor tha Creed 'twar made bran new Vrom top ta bottom; I tell ye true!

Tha altar piece wi' Peter war now naw libel Upon tha church, Which booath athin an, tower an all, athout Look'd like a well-dressed maid in pride about; Tha walls rejaic'd wi' texts took vrom tha Bible.

Bit vor all that, tha left en in tha lurch; I bag your pardon.

I mean, of all tha expense tha ood'n pa a varden.

Jitch zweepin, birshin, paintin, scrubbin; Tha tuts ad niver jitch a drubbin; Jitch white-washin and jitch brought gwain A power of money--Tha Painter's bill Made of itzel a pirty pill, Ta zwell which all o'm tried in vain!

Ther stomicks turn'd, ther drawts were norry; [Footnote: Narrow]

Jitch gillded pills tha cood'n corry.

An when our young churchwarden ax'd em why, Tha laugh'd at en, an zed, ther drawts war dry.

Tha keeper o' tha church war wrong; (Churchwarden still the burden o' my zong) A should at vust A call'd a Vestry: vor 'tis hord ta trust To Porish generasity; an zaw A voun it: I dwon' knaw

Whaur or who war his advisers; Zum zed a Layer gid en bad advice; A-ma-be saw; jitch vawk ben't always nice.

Layers o' advice be seltimes misers Nif there's wherewi' ta pa; Or, witherwise, good bwye ta Layers an tha La.

A Vestry than at last war cried-- A Vestry's power let noane deride-- When tha church war auver tha clork bal'd out, _Aw eese! aw eese! aw eese!_ All wonder'd what cood be about, An stratch'd ther necks like a vlock o' geese; Why--_ta make a Rate Vor tha church's late Repairation_.

A grate noration, A nation naise tha nawtice made, About tha cost ta be defray'd Vor tha church's _repairation_.

Tha Vestry met, all naise an bother; One ood'n wait ta hire tha tuther.

When tha war tir'd o' jitch a gabble, Ta bal na moor not one war yable, A man, a little zatenfare, Got up hiz verdi ta delcare.

Now Soce, zed he, why we be gwain Ta meet in Vestry here in vain.

Let's come to some determination, An not tak all in jitch a fashion.

Let's zee tha 'counts. A s.n.a.t.c.h'd tha book Vrom tha Churchwarden in't ta look.

_Tha, book war chain'd clooase to his wrist;_ A gid en slily jitch a twist!

That the young Churchwarden loud raur'd out, "You'll break my yarm!--what be about?"

Tha man a little zatenfare, An all tha Vestry wide did stare!

Bit Soce, zed he again, I niver zeed Money brought gwain zaw bad. What need War ther tha altar-piece ta t.i.tch?

What good war paintin, vornishin, an jitch?

What good war't vor'n ta mend Tha Ten Commandments?--Why did he Mell o' tha Lord's Prayer? Lockyzee!

Ther war naw need To mell or make wi' thic awld Creed.

I'm zorry vor'n; eesse zorry as a friend; Bit can't conzent our wherewi' zaw ta spend,

Tha all, wi one accord, At tha little zatenfare's word, Agreed, that, not one varden, By Rate, Should be collected vor tha late Repairation Of tha church by tha young Churchwarden.

THE FISHERMAN AND THE PLAYERS.

Now who is ther that han't a hir'd O' one young TOM CAME?

A Fisherman of Huntspill, An a well-knawn name.

A knaw'd much moor o' fishin Than many vawk bezides; An a knaw'd much moor than mooast about Tha zea an all tha tides.

A knaw'd well how ta make buts, An hullies too an jitch, An up an down tha river whaur Tha best place vor ta pitch.

A knaw'd all about tha stake-hangs Tha zalmon vor ta catch;-- Tha pitchin an tha dippin net,-- Tha Slime an tha Mud-Batch.

[Footnote: Two islands well known in the River Parret, near its mouth. Several words will be found in this Poem which I have not placed in the _Glossary_, because they seem too local and technical to deserve a place there: they shall be here explained,

_To Pitch, v.n._ To fish with a boat and a pitchin-net in a proper position across the current so that the fish may be caught.

_Pitchin-net. s._ A large triangular net attached to two poles, and used with a boat for the purpose, chiefly, of catching salmon.--The fishing boats in the Parret, are _flat- bottomed_, in length about seventeen feet, about four feet and a half wide, and pointed at both ends: they are easily managed by _one_ person, and rarely, if ever, known to overturn.

_Dippen-net. s._ A small net somewhat semicircular, and attached to two round sticks for sides, and a long pole for a handle. It is used for the purpose of _dipping salmon_ and some other fish, as the _shad_, out of water.

_Gad. s._ A long pole, having an iron point to it, so that it may be easily thrust into the ground. Two gads are used for each boats. Their uses are to keep the boat steady across the current in order that the net may be in a proper position.]

A handled too iz gads well His paddle and iz oor; [Footnote: Oar.]

A war always bawld an fearless-- A, when upon tha Goor.