Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 35

My days, wi' wold vo'k all but gone, An' childern now a-comen on, Do bring me still my mother's smiles In light that now do show my chile's; An' I've a-shear'd the wold vo'ks' me'th, Avore the burnen Chris'mas he'th, At friendly bwoards, where feace by feace, Did, year by year, gi'e up its pleace, An' leave me here, behind, to tread The ground a-trod by wold vo'k dead.

But wold things be a-lost vor new, An' zome do come, while zome do goo: As wither'd beech-tree leaves do cling Among the nesh young buds o' Spring; An' fretten worms ha' slowly wound, Droo beams the wold vo'k lifted sound, An' trees they planted little slips Ha' stems that noo two earms can clips; An' grey an' yollow moss do spread On buildens new to wold vo'k dead.

The backs of all our zilv'ry hills, The brook that still do dreve our mills, The roads a-climen up the brows O' knaps, a-screen'd by meaple boughs, Wer all a-mark'd in sheade an' light Avore our wolder fathers' zight, In zunny days, a-gied their hands For happy work, a-tillen lands, That now do yield their childern bread Till they do rest wi' wold vo'k dead.

But liven vo'k, a-grieven on, Wi' lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone, Do zee their goodness, but do vind All else a-stealen out o' mind; As air do meake the vurthest land Look feairer than the vield at hand, An' zoo, as time do slowly pa.s.s, So still's a sheade upon the gra.s.s, Its wid'nen speace do slowly shed A glory roun' the wold vo'k dead.

An' what if good vo'ks' life o' breath Is zoo a-hallow'd after death, That they mid only know above, Their times o' fath, an' ja, an' love, While all the evil time ha' brought 'S a-lost vor ever out o' thought; As all the moon that idden bright, 'S a-lost in darkness out o' zight; And all the G.o.dly life they led Is glory to the wold vo'k dead.

If things be zoo, an' souls above Can only mind our e'thly love, Why then they'll veel our kindness drown The thoughts ov all that meade em frown.

An' ja o' jas will dry the tear O' sadness that do trickle here, An' nothen mwore o' life than love, An' peace, will then be know'd above.

Do good, vor that, when life's a-vled, Is still a pleasure to the dead.

CULVER DELL AND THE SQUIRE.

There's noo pleace I do like so well, As Elem Knap in Culver Dell, Where timber trees, wi' lofty shouds, Did rise avore the western clouds; An' stan' agean, wi' veathery tops, A-swayen up in North-Hill Copse.

An' on the east the mornen broke Above a dewy grove o' woak: An' noontide shed its burnen light On ashes on the southern height; An' I could vind zome teales to tell, O' former days in Culver Dell.

An' all the vo'k did love so well The good wold squire o' Culver Dell, That used to ramble drough the sheades O' timber, or the burnen gleades, An' come at evenen up the leaze Wi' red-ear'd dogs bezide his knees.

An' hold his gun, a-hangen drough His earmpit, out above his tooe.

Wi' kindly words upon his tongue, Vor vo'k that met en, wold an' young, Vor he did know the poor so well 'S the richest vo'k in Culver Dell.

An' while the woak, wi' spreaden head, Did sheade the foxes' verny bed; An' runnen heares, in zunny gleades, Did beat the gra.s.ses' quiv'ren' bleades; An' speckled pa'tridges took flight In stubble vields a-feaden white; Or he could zee the pheasant strut In sheady woods, wi' panted cwoat; Or long-tongued dogs did love to run Among the leaves, bezide his gun; We didden want vor call to dwell At hwome in peace in Culver Dell.

But now I hope his kindly feace Is gone to vind a better pleace; But still, wi' vo'k a-left behind He'll always be a-kept in mind, Vor all his springy-vooted hounds Ha' done o' trotten round his grounds, An' we have all a-left the spot, To teake, a-scatter'd, each his lot; An' even Father, lik' the rest, Ha' left our long vorseaken nest; An' we should vind it sad to dwell, Agean at hwome in Culver Dell.

The ary mornens still mid smite Our windows wi' their rwosy light, An' high-zunn'd noons mid dry the dew On growen groun' below our shoe; The blushen evenen still mid dye, Wi' viry red, the western sky; The zunny spring-time's quicknen power Mid come to oben leaf an' flower; An' days an' tides mid bring us on Woone pleasure when another's gone.

But we must bid a long farewell To days an' tides in Culver Dell.

OUR BE'THPLACE.

How dear's the door a latch do shut, An' gearden that a hatch do shut, Where vu'st our bloomen cheaks ha' prest The pillor ov our childhood's rest; Or where, wi' little tooes, we wore The paths our fathers trod avore; Or clim'd the timber's bark aloft, Below the zingen lark aloft, The while we heard the echo sound Drough all the ringen valley round.

A lwonesome grove o' woak did rise, To screen our house, where smoke did rise, A-twisten blue, while yeet the zun Did langthen on our childhood's fun; An' there, wi' all the sheapes an' sounds O' life, among the timber'd grounds, The birds upon their boughs did zing, An' milkmads by their cows did zing, Wi' merry sounds, that softly died, A-ringen down the valley zide.

By river banks, wi' reeds a-bound, An' sheenen pools, wi' weeds a-bound, The long-neck'd gander's ruddy bill To snow-white geese did cackle sh'ill; An' striden peewits heasten'd by, O' tiptooe wi' their screamen cry; An' stalken cows a-lowen loud, An' strutten c.o.c.ks a-crowen loud, Did rouse the echoes up to mock Their mingled sounds by hill an' rock.

The stars that clim'd our skies all dark, Above our sleepen eyes all dark, An' zuns a-rollen round to bring The seasons on, vrom Spring to Spring, Ha' vled, wi' never-resten flight, Drough green-bough'd day, an' dark-tree'd night; Till now our childhood's pleaces there, Be ga wi' other feaces there, An' we ourselves do vollow on Our own vorelivers dead an' gone.

THE WINDOW FREaM'D WI' STWONE.

When Pentridge House wer still the nest O' souls that now ha' better rest, Avore the vier burnt to ground His beams an' walls, that then wer sound, 'Ithin a nal-bestudded door, An' pa.s.sage wi' a stwonen vloor, There spread the hall, where zun-light shone In drough a window fream'd wi' stwone.

A clavy-beam o' sheenen woak Did span the he'th wi' twisten smoke, Where fleames did shoot in yollow streaks, Above the brands, their flashen peaks; An' aunt did pull, as she did stand O'-tip-tooe, wi' her lifted hand, A curtain feaded wi' the zun, Avore the window fream'd wi' stwone.

When Hwome-ground gra.s.s, below the moon, Wer damp wi' evenen dew in June, An' aunt did call the madens in Vrom walken, wi' their shoes too thin, They zot to rest their litty veet Upon the window's woaken seat, An' chatted there, in light that shone In drough the window fream'd wi' stwone.

An' as the seasons, in a ring, Roll'd slowly roun' vrom Spring to Spring, An' brought em on zome holy-tide, When they did cast their tools azide; How glad it meade em all to spy In Stwonylands their friends draw nigh, As they did know em all by neame Out drough the window's stwonen freame.

O evenen zun, a-riden drough The sky, vrom Sh'oton Hill o' blue, To leave the night a-brooden dark At Stalbridge, wi' its grey-wall'd park; Small ja to me the vields do bring, Vor all their zummer birds do zing, Since now thy beams noo mwore do fleame In drough the window's stwonen freame.

THE WATER-SPRING IN THE LEANE.

Oh! aye! the spring 'ithin the leane, A-leaden down to Lyddan Brook; An' still a-nesslen in his nook, As weeks do pa.s.s, an' moons do weane.

Nwone the drier, Nwone the higher, Nwone the nigher to the door Where we did live so long avore.

An' oh! what vo'k his mossy brim Ha' gathered in the run o' time!

The wife a-blushen in her prime; The widow wi' her eyezight dim; Madens dippen, Childern sippen, Water drippen, at the cool Dark wallen ov the little pool.

Behind the spring do lie the lands My father till'd, vrom Spring to Spring, Awaiten on vor time to bring The crops to pa his weary hands.

Wheat a-growen, Beans a-blowen, Gra.s.s vor mowen, where the bridge Do lead to Ryall's on the ridge.

But who do know when liv'd an' died The squier o' the mwoldren hall; That lined en wi' a stwonen wall, An' stean'd so clean his wat'ry zide?

We behind en, Now can't vind en, But do mind en, an' do thank His meaker vor his little tank.

THE POPLARS.

If thease day's work an' burnen sky 'V'a-zent hwome you so tired as I, Let's zit an' rest 'ithin the screen O' my wold bow'r upon the green; Where I do goo myself an' let The evenen aier cool my het, When dew do wet the gra.s.ses bleades, A-quiv'ren in the dusky sheades.

There yonder poplar trees do pla Soft music, as their heads do swa, While wind, a-rustlen soft or loud, Do stream agean their lofty sh'oud; An' seem to heal the ranklen zore My mind do meet wi' out o' door, When I've a-bore, in downcast mood, Zome evil where I look'd vor good.

O' they two poplars that do rise So high avore our naghbours' eyes, A-zet by gramfer, hand by hand, Wi' grammer, in their bit o' land; The woone upon the western zide Wer his, an' woone wer grammer's pride, An' since they died, we all do teake Mwore ceare o'm vor the wold vo'k's seake.

An' there, wi' stems a-growen tall Avore the houses mossy wall, The while the moon ha' slowly past The leafy window, they've a-cast Their sheades 'ithin the window peane; While childern have a-grown to men, An' then agean ha' left their beds, To bear their childern's heavy heads.