Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 32

(3) You build your lwoads up tight enough to ride.

(1) I can't do less, d'ye know, wi' you vor guide.

GWAN DOWN THE STEPS VOR WATER.

While zuns do roll vrom east to west To bring us work, or leave us rest, There down below the steep hill-zide, Drough time an' tide, the spring do flow; An' mothers there, vor years a-gone, Lik' daughters now a-comen on, To bloom when they be weak an' wan, Went down the steps vor water.

An' what do yonder ringers tell A-ringen changes, bell by bell; Or what's a-show'd by yonder zight O' vo'k in white, upon the road, But that by John o' Woodleys zide, There's now a-blushen vor his bride, A pretty mad that vu'st he spied, Gwan down the steps vor water.

Though she, 'tis true, is feair an' kind, There still be mwore a-left behind; So clean 's the light the zun do gi'e, So sprack 's a bee when zummer's bright; An' if I've luck, I woont be slow To teake off woone that I do know, A-trippen galy to an' fro, Upon the steps vor water.

Her father idden poor--but vew In parish be so well to do; Vor his own cows do swing their tals Behind his pals, below his boughs: An' then agean to win my love, Why, she's as hwomely as a dove, An' don't hold up herzelf above Gwan down the steps vor water.

Gwan down the steps vor water! No!

How handsome it do meake her grow.

If she'd be straght, or walk abrode, To tread her road wi' comely gat, She coulden do a better thing To zet herzelf upright, than bring Her pitcher on her head, vrom spring Upon the steps, wi' water.

No! don't ye neame in woone seame breath Wi' bachelors, the husband's he'th; The happy pleace, where vingers thin Do pull woone's chin, or pat woone's feace.

But still the bleame is their's, to slight Their happiness, wi' such a zight O' madens, mornen, noon, an' night, A-gwan down steps vor water.

ELLEN BRINE OV ALLENBURN.

Noo soul did hear her lips complan, An' she's a-gone vrom all her pan, An' others' loss to her is gan For she do live in heaven's love; Vull many a longsome day an' week She bore her alen, still, an' meek; A-worken while her strangth held on, An' guiden housework, when 'twer gone.

Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn, Oh! there be souls to murn.

The last time I'd a-cast my zight Upon her feace, a-feaded white, Wer in a zummer's mornen light In hall avore the smwold'ren vier, The while the childern beat the vloor, In pla, wi' tiny shoes they wore, An' call'd their mother's eyes to view The feat's their little limbs could do.

Oh! Ellen Brine ov Allenburn, They childern now mus' murn.

Then woone, a-stoppen vrom his reace, Went up, an' on her knee did pleace His hand, a-looken in her feace, An' wi' a smilen mouth so small, He zaid, "You promised us to goo To Shroton feair, an' teake us two!"

She heard it wi' her two white ears, An' in her eyes there sprung two tears, Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn Did veel that they mus' murn.

September come, wi' Shroton feair, But Ellen Brine wer never there!

A heavy heart wer on the meare Their father rod his hwomeward road.

'Tis true he brought zome fearens back, Vor them two childern all in black; But they had now, wi' plathings new, Noo mother vor to shew em to, Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn Would never mwore return.

THE MOTHERLESS CHILD.

The zun'd a-zet back tother night, But in the zetten pleace The clouds, a-redden'd by his light, Still glow'd avore my feace.

An' I've a-lost my Meary's smile, I thought; but still I have her chile, Zoo like her, that my eyes can treace The mother's in her daughter's feace.

O little feace so near to me, An' like thy mother's gone; why need I zay Sweet night cloud, wi' the glow o' my lost day, Thy looks be always dear to me.

The zun'd a-zet another night; But, by the moon on high, He still did zend us back his light Below a cwolder sky.

My Meary's in a better land I thought, but still her chile's at hand, An' in her chile she'll zend me on Her love, though she herzelf's a-gone.

O little chile so near to me, An' like thy mother gone; why need I zay, Sweet moon, the messenger vrom my lost day, Thy looks be always dear to me.

THE LEaDY'S TOWER.

An' then we went along the gleades O' zunny turf, in quiv'ren sheades, A-winden off, vrom hand to hand, Along a path o' yollow zand, An' clomb a stickle slope, an' vound An open patch o' lofty ground, Up where a steately tow'r did spring, So high as highest larks do zing.

"Oh! Measter Collins," then I zaid, A-looken up wi' back-flung head; Vor who but he, so mild o' feace, Should teake me there to zee the pleace.

"What is it then thease tower do mean, A-built so feair, an' kept so clean?"

"Ah! me," he zaid, wi' thoughtvul feace, "'Twer grief that zet thease tower in pleace.

The squier's e'thly life's a-blest Wi' gifts that mwost do teake vor best; The lofty-pinion'd rufs do rise To screen his head vrom stormy skies; His land's a-spreaden roun' his hall, An' hands do leabor at his call; The while the ho'se do fling, wi' pride, His lofty head where he do guide; But still his e'thly ja's a-vled, His woone true friend, his wife, is dead.

Zoo now her happy soul's a-gone, An' he in grief's a-ling'ren on, Do do his heart zome good to show His love to flesh an' blood below.

An' zoo he rear'd, wi' smitten soul, Thease Leady's Tower upon the knowl.

An' there you'll zee the tow'r do spring Twice ten veet up, as roun's a ring, Wi' pillars under mwolded eaves, Above their heads a-carv'd wi' leaves; An' have to peace, a-walken round His voot, a hunderd veet o' ground.

An' there, above his upper wall, A rounded tow'r do spring so tall 'S a springen arrow shot upright, A hunderd giddy veet in height.

An' if you'd like to stran your knees A-climen up above the trees, To zee, wi' slowly wheelen feace, The vur-sky'd land about the pleace, You'll have a flight o' steps to wear Vor forty veet, up steair by steair, That roun' the risen tow'r do wind, Like withwind roun' the saplen's rind, An' reach a landen, wi' a seat, To rest at last your weary veet, 'Ithin a breast be-screenen wall, To keep ye vrom a longsome vall.

An' roun' the winden steairs do spring Aght stwonen pillars in a ring, A-reachen up their heavy strangth Drough forty veet o' slender langth, To end wi' carved heads below The broad-vloor'd landen's ary bow.

Aght zides, as you do zee, do bound The lower builden on the ground, An' there in woone, a two-leav'd door Do zwing above the marble vloor: An' ae, as luck do zoo betide Our comen, wi' can goo inside.

The door is oben now. An' zoo The keeper kindly let us drough.

There as we softly trod the vloor O' marble stwone, 'ithin the door, The echoes ov our vootsteps vled Out roun' the wall, and over head; An' there a-panted, zide by zide, In memory o' the squier's bride, In zeven pantens, true to life, Wer zeven zights o' wedded life."

Then Measter Collins twold me all The teales a-panted roun' the wall; An' vu'st the bride did stan' to plight Her wedden vow, below the light A-shooten down, so bright's a fleame, In drough a churches window freame.

An' near the bride, on either hand, You'd zee her comely bridemads stand, Wi' eyelashes a-bent in streaks O' brown above their bloomen cheaks: An' sheenen feair, in mellow light, Wi' flowen heair, an' frocks o' white.

"An' here," good Measter Collins cried, "You'll zee a creadle at her zide, An' there's her child, a-lyen deep 'Ithin it, an' a-gone to sleep, Wi' little eyelashes a-met In fellow streaks, as black as jet; The while her needle, over head, Do nimbly lead the snow-white thread, To zew a robe her love do meake Wi' happy leabor vor his seake.

"An' here a-gean's another pleace, Where she do zit wi' smilen feace, An' while her bwoy do lean, wi' pride, Agean her lap, below her zide, Her vinger tip do lead his look To zome good words o' G.o.d's own book.

"An' next you'll zee her in her pleace, Avore her happy husband's feace, As he do zit, at evenen-tide, A-resten by the vier-zide.

An' there the childern's heads do rise Wi' laughen lips, an' beamen eyes, Above the bwoard, where she do lay Her sheenen tacklen, wi' the tea.

"An' here another zide do show Her vinger in her scizzars' bow Avore two daughters, that do stand, Wi' learnsome minds, to watch her hand A-sheapen out, wi' skill an' ceare, A frock vor them to zew an' wear.

"Then next you'll zee her bend her head Above her alen husband's bed, A-fannen, wi' an inward pra'r, His burnen brow wi' beaten ar; The while the clock, by candle light, Do show that 'tis the dead o' night.

"An' here agean upon the wall, Where we do zee her last ov all, Her husband's head's a-hangen low, 'Ithin his hands in deepest woe.

An' she, an angel ov his G.o.d, Do cheer his soul below the rod, A-liften up her han' to call His eyes to writen on the wall, As white as is her spotless robe, 'Hast thou remembered my servant Job?'

"An' zoo the squier, in grief o' soul, Built up the Tower upon the knowl."