Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 3

Long life to Bob! the very soul O' me'th at merry feast an' pole; Vor when the crowd do leave his jowl, They'll all be in the dumps.

Zoo at the dance another year, At _s.h.i.+llinston_ or _Hazelbur'_, Mid Bob be there to meake em stir, In merry jigs, their stumps!

HOPE IN SPRING.

In happy times a while agoo, My lively hope, that's now a-gone Did stir my heart the whole year drough, But mwost when green-bough'd spring come on; When I did rove, wi' litty veet, Drough deaisy-beds so white's a sheet, But still avore I us'd to meet The blushen cheaks that bloom'd vor me!

An' afterward, in lightsome youth, When zummer wer a-comen on, An' all the trees wer white wi' blooth, An' dippen zwallows skimm'd the pon'; Sweet hope did vill my heart wi' ja, An' tell me, though thik spring wer ga, There still would come a brighter Ma, Wi' blushen cheaks to bloom vor me!

An' when, at last, the time come roun', An' brought a lofty zun to sheen Upon my smilen f.a.n.n.y, down Drough n[=e]sh young leaves o' yollow green; How charmen wer the het that glow'd, How charmen wer the sheade a-drow'd, How charmen wer the win' that blow'd Upon her cheaks that bloom'd vor me!

But hardly did they times begin, Avore I vound em short to sta: An' year by year do now come in, To peart me wider vrom my ja, Vor what's to meet, or what's to peart, Wi' madens kind, or madens smart, When hope's noo longer in the heart, An' cheaks noo mwore do bloom vor me!

But there's a worold still to bless The good, where zickness never rose; An' there's a year that's winterless, Where gla.s.sy waters never vroze; An' there, if true but e'thly love Do seem noo sin to G.o.d above, 'S a smilen still my harmless dove, So feair as when she bloom'd vor me!

THE WHITE ROAD UP ATHIRT THE HILL.

When hot-beam'd zuns do strik right down, An' burn our zweaty feazen brown; An' zunny slopes, a-lyen nigh, Be back'd by hills so blue's the sky; Then, while the bells do sweetly cheem Upon the champen high-neck'd team, How lively, wi' a friend, do seem The white road up athirt the hill.

The zwellen downs, wi' chalky tracks A-climmen up their zunny backs, Do hide green meads an' zedgy brooks.

An' clumps o' trees wi' glossy rooks, An' hearty vo'k to laugh an' zing, An' parish-churches in a string, Wi' tow'rs o' merry bells to ring, An' white roads up athirt the hills.

At feast, when uncle's vo'k do come To spend the day wi' us at hwome, An' we do lay upon the bwoard The very best we can avvword, The wolder woones do talk an' smoke, An' younger woones do pla an' joke, An' in the evenen all our vo'k Do bring em gwan athirt the hill.

An' while the green do zwarm wi' wold An' young, so thick as sheep in vwold, The bellows in the blacksmith's shop, An' miller's moss-green wheel do stop, An' lwonesome in the wheelwright's shed 'S a-left the wheelless waggon-bed; While zwarms o' comen friends do tread The white road down athirt the hill.

An' when the winden road so white, A-climmen up the hills in zight, Do lead to pleazen, east or west, The vu'st a-known, an' lov'd the best, How touchen in the zunsheen's glow, Or in the sheades that clouds do drow Upon the zunburnt downs below, 'S the white road up athirt the hill.

What peaceful hollows here the long White roads do windy round among!

Wi' deairy cows in woody nooks, An' haymeakers among their pooks, An' housen that the trees do screen From zun an' zight by boughs o' green!

Young blushen beauty's hwomes between The white roads up athirt the hills.

THE WOODY HOLLOW.

If mem'ry, when our hope's a-gone, Could bring us dreams to cheat us on, Ov happiness our hearts voun' true In years we come too quickly drough; What days should come to me, but you, That burn'd my youthvul cheaks wi' zuns O' zummer, in my plasome runs About the woody hollow.

When evenen's risen moon did peep Down drough the hollow dark an' deep, Where gigglen sweethearts meade their vows In whispers under waggen boughs; When whisslen bwoys, an' rott'len ploughs Wer still, an' mothers, wi' their thin Shrill vaces, call'd their daughters in, From walken in the hollow;

What souls should come avore my zight, But they that had your zummer light?

The litsome younger woones that smil'd Wi' comely feazen now a-spweil'd; Or wolder vo'k, so wise an' mild, That I do miss when I do goo To zee the pleace, an' walk down drough The lwonesome woody hollow?

When wrongs an' overbearen words Do p.r.i.c.k my bleeden heart lik' swords, Then I do try, vor Christes seake, To think o' you, sweet days! an' meake My soul as 'twer when you did weake My childhood's eyes, an' when, if spite Or grief did come, did die at night In sleep 'ithin the hollow.

JENNY'S RIBBONS.

Jean ax'd what ribbon she should wear 'Ithin her bonnet to the feair?

She had woone white, a-gi'ed her when She stood at Meary's chrissenen; She had woone brown, she had woone red, A keepseake vrom her brother dead, That she did like to wear, to goo To zee his greave below the yew.

She had woone green among her stock, That I'd a-bought to match her frock; She had woone blue to match her eyes, The colour o' the zummer skies, An' thik, though I do like the rest, Is he that I do like the best, Because she had en in her heair When vu'st I walk'd wi' her at feair.

The brown, I zaid, would do to deck Thy heair; the white would match thy neck; The red would meake thy red cheak wan A-thinken o' the gi'er gone; The green would show thee to be true; But still I'd sooner zee the blue, Because 'twer he that deck'd thy heair When vu'st I walk'd wi' thee at feair.

Zoo, when she had en on, I took Her han' 'ithin my elbow's crook, An' off we went athirt the weir An' up the mead toward the feair; The while her mother, at the geate, Call'd out an' bid her not sta leate, An' she, a-smilen wi' her bow O' blue, look'd roun' and nodded, _No_.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

THE 'LOTMENTS.

_John and Richard._

JOHN.

Zoo you be in your groun' then, I do zee, A-worken and a-zingen lik' a bee.

How do it answer? what d'ye think about it?

D'ye think 'tis better wi' it than without it?

A-recknen rent, an' time, an' zeed to stock it, D'ye think that you be any thing in pocket?

RICHARD.

O', 'tis a goodish help to woone, I'm sure o't.

If I had not a-got it, my poor bwones Would now ha' each'd a-cracken stwones Upon the road; I wish I had zome mwore o't.

JOHN.

I wish the girt woones had a-got the greace To let out land lik' this in ouer pleace; But I do fear there'll never be nwone vor us, An' I can't tell whatever we shall do: We be a-most starven, an' we'd goo To 'merica, if we'd enough to car us.

RICHARD.

Why 'twer the squire, good now! a worthy man, That vu'st brought into ouer pleace the plan, He zaid he'd let a vew odd eacres O' land to us poor leab'ren men; An', fath, he had enough o' teakers Vor that, an' twice so much agean.