Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 34

But pinen souls, wi' heads a-hung In heavy sorrow vor the young, The sister ov the brother dead, The father wi' a child a-vled, The husband when his bride ha' laid Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn, Have all a-vound the time to murn Vor youth that died in beauty.

An' yeet the church, where praer do rise Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi' downcast eyes.

An' village greens, a-beat half beare By dancers that do meet, an' wear Such merry looks at feast an' feair, Do gather under leatest skies, Their bloomen cheaks an' sparklen eyes, Though young ha' died in beauty.

But still the dead shall mwore than keep The beauty ov their early sleep; Where comely looks shall never wear Uncomely, under tweil an' ceare.

The feair at death be always feair, Still feair to livers' thought an' love, An' feairer still to G.o.d above, Than when they died in beauty.

FAIR EMILY OV YARROW MILL.

Dear Yarrowham, 'twer many miles Vrom thy green meads that, in my walk, I met a mad wi' winnen smiles, That talk'd as vo'k at hwome do talk; An' who at last should she be vound, Ov all the souls the sky do bound, But woone that trod at vu'st thy groun'

Fair Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

But thy wold house an' elmy nook, An' wall-screen'd gearden's mossy zides, Thy gra.s.sy meads an' zedgy brook, An' high-bank'd leanes, wi' sheady rides, Wer all a-known to me by light Ov early days, a-quench'd by night, Avore they met the younger zight Ov Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

An' now my heart do leap to think O' times that I've a-spent in pla, Bezide thy river's rushy brink, Upon a deaizybed o' Ma; I lov'd the friends thy land ha' bore, An' I do love the paths they wore, An' I do love thee all the mwore, Vor Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

When bright above the e'th below The moon do spread abroad his light, An' ar o' zummer nights do blow Athirt the vields in plasome flight, 'Tis then delightsome under all The sheades o' boughs by path or wall, But mwostly thine when they do vall On Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

THE SCUD.

Aye, aye, the leane wi' flow'ry zides A-kept so lew, by hazzle-wrides, Wi' beds o' graegles out in bloom, Below the timber's windless gloon An' geate that I've a-swung, An' rod as he's a-hung, When I wer young, in Woakley Coomb.

'Twer there at feast we all did pa.s.s The evenen on the leanezide gra.s.s, Out where the geate do let us drough, Below the woak-trees in the lew, In merry geames an' fun That meade us skip an' run, Wi' burnen zun, an' sky o' blue.

But still there come a scud that drove The t.i.tt'ren madens vrom the grove; An' there a-left wer flow'ry mound, 'Ithout a vace, 'ithout a sound, Unless the ar did blow, Drough ruslen leaves, an' drow, The ran drops low, upon the ground.

I linger'd there an' miss'd the nase; I linger'd there an' miss'd our jas; I miss'd woone soul beyond the rest; The mad that I do like the best.

Vor where her vace is ga An' where her smiles do pla, There's always ja vor ev'ry breast.

Vor zome vo'k out abroad ha' me'th, But nwone at hwome bezide the he'th; An' zome ha' smiles vor strangers' view; An' frowns vor kith an' kin to rue; But her sweet vace do vall, Wi' kindly words to all, Both big an' small, the whole day drough.

An' when the evenen sky wer peale, We heard the warblen nightengeale, A-drawen out his lwonesome zong, In winden music down the drong; An' Jenny vrom her he'th, Come out, though not in me'th, But held her breath, to hear his zong.

Then, while the bird wi' oben bill Did warble on, her vace wer still; An' as she stood avore me, bound In stillness to the flow'ry mound, "The bird's a ja to zome,"

I thought, "but when he's dum, Her vace will come, wi' sweeter sound."

MINDEN HOUSE.

'Twer when the vo'k wer out to hawl A vield o' ha a day in June, An' when the zun begun to vall Toward the west in afternoon, Woone only wer a-left behind To bide indoors, at hwome, an' mind The house, an' answer vo'k avore The geate or door,--young f.a.n.n.y Deane.

The ar 'ithin the gearden wall Wer deadly still, unless the bee Did hummy by, or in the hall The clock did ring a-hetten dree, An' there, wi' busy hands, inside The iron ceas.e.m.e.nt, oben'd wide, Did zit an' pull wi' nimble twitch Her tiny st.i.tch, young f.a.n.n.y Deane.

As there she zot she heard two blows A-knock'd upon the rumblen door, An' laid azide her work, an' rose, An' walk'd out feair, athirt the vloor; An' there, a-holden in his hand His bridled meare, a youth did stand, An' mildly twold his neame and pleace Avore the feace o' f.a.n.n.y Deane.

He twold her that he had on hand Zome business on his father's zide, But what she didden understand; An' zoo she ax'd en if he'd ride Out where her father mid be vound, Bezide the plow, in Cowslip Ground; An' there he went, but left his mind Back there behind, wi' f.a.n.n.y Deane.

An' oh! his hwomeward road wer ga In ar a-blowen, whiff by whiff, While sheenen water-weaves did pla An' boughs did swa above the cliff; Vor Time had now a-show'd en dim The ja it had in store vor him; An' when he went thik road agean His errand then wer f.a.n.n.y Deane.

How strangely things be brought about By Providence, noo tongue can tell, She minded house, when vo'k wer out, An' zoo mus' bid the house farewell; The bees mid hum, the clock mid call The lwonesome hours 'ithin the hall, But in behind the woaken door, There's now noo mwore a f.a.n.n.y Deane.

THE LOVELY MAD OV ELWELL MEaD.

A mad wi' many gifts o' greace, A mad wi' ever-smilen feace, A child o' yours my chilhood's pleace, O leanen lawns ov Allen; 'S a-walken where your stream do flow, A-blushen where your flowers do blow, A-smilen where your zun do glow, O leanen lawns ov Allen.

An' good, however good's a-wagh'd, 'S the lovely mad ov Elwell Mead.

An' oh! if I could teame an' guide The winds above the e'th, an' ride As light as shooten stars do glide, O leanen lawns ov Allen, To you I'd teake my daily flight, Drough dark'nen ar in evenen's light, An' bid her every night "Good night,"

O leanen lawns ov Allen.

Vor good, however good's a-wagh'd, 'S the lovely mad ov Elwell Mead.

An' when your hedges' slooes be blue, By blackberries o' dark'nen hue, An' spiders' webs behung wi' dew, O leanen lawns ov Allen Avore the winter ar's a-chill'd, Avore your winter brook's a-vill'd Avore your zummer flow'rs be kill'd, O leanen lawns ov Allen; I there would meet, in white arra'd, The lovely mad ov Elwell Mead.

For when the zun, as birds do rise, Do cast their sheades vrom autum' skies, A-sparklen in her dewy eyes, O leanen lawns ov Allen Then all your mossy paths below The trees, wi' leaves a-vallen slow, Like zinken fleakes o' yollow snow, O leanen lawns ov Allen.

Would be mwore teaken where they stra'd The lovely mad ov Elwell Mead.

OUR FATHERS' WORKS.

Ah! I do think, as I do tread Thease path, wi' elems overhead, A-climen slowly up vrom Bridge, By easy steps, to Broadwoak Ridge, That all thease roads that we do bruise Wi' hosses' shoes, or heavy lwoads; An' hedges' bands, where trees in row Do rise an' grow aroun' the lands, Be works that we've a-vound a-wrought By our vorefathers' ceare an' thought.

They clear'd the groun' vor gra.s.s to teake The pleace that bore the bremble breake, An' dran'd the fen, where water spread, A-lyen dead, a beane to men; An' built the mill, where still the wheel Do grind our meal, below the hill; An' turn'd the bridge, wi' arch a-spread, Below a road, vor us to tread.

They vound a pleace, where we mid seek The gifts o' greace vrom week to week; An' built wi' stwone, upon the hill, A tow'r we still do call our own; With bells to use, an' meake rejace, Wi' giant vace, at our good news: An' lifted stwones an' beams to keep The ran an' cwold vrom us asleep.

Zoo now mid nwone ov us vorget The pattern our vorefathers zet; But each be fain to underteake Some work to meake vor others' gan, That we mid leave mwore good to sheare, Less ills to bear, less souls to grieve, An' when our hands do vall to rest, It mid be vrom a work a-blest.

THE WOLD VO'K DEAD.