Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 46

An' over hedge the win's a-heard, A ruslen drough my barley's beard; An' swaen wheat do overspread Zix ridges in a sheet o' red; An' then there's woone thing I do call The girtest handiness ov all: My ground is here at hand, avore My eyes, as I do stand at door; An' zoo I've never any need To goo a mile to pull a weed.

THOMAS.

No, sure, a miel shoulden stratch Between woone's gearden an' woone's hatch.

A man would like his house to stand Bezide his little bit o' land.

JOHN.

Ees. When woone's groun' vor gearden stuff Is roun' below the house's ruf, Then woone can spend upon woone's land Odd minutes that mid lie on hand, The while, wi' night a-comen on, The red west sky's a-wearen wan; Or while woone's wife, wi' busy hands, Avore her vier o' burnen brands, Do put, as best she can avword, Her bit o' dinner on the bwoard.

An' here, when I do teake my road, At breakfast-time, agwan abrode, Why, I can zee if any plot O' groun' do want a hand or not; An' bid my childern, when there's need, To draw a reake or pull a weed, Or heal young beans or peas in line, Or tie em up wi' rods an' twine, Or peel a kindly withy white To hold a droopen flow'r upright.

THOMAS.

No. Bits o' time can zeldom come To much on groun' a mile vrom hwome.

A man at hwome should have in view The jobs his childern's hands can do, An' groun' abrode mid teake em all Beyond their mother's zight an' call, To get a zoaken in a storm, Or vall, i' may be, into harm.

JOHN.

Ees. Gearden groun', as I've a-zed, Is better near woone's bwoard an' bed.

PENTRIDGE BY THE RIVER.

Pentridge!--oh! my heart's a-zwellen Vull o' ja wi' vo'k a-tellen Any news o' thik wold pleace, An' the boughy hedges round it, An' the river that do bound it Wi' his dark but glis'nen feace.

Vor there's noo land, on either hand, To me lik' Pentridge by the river.

Be there any leaves to quiver On the aspen by the river?

Doo he sheade the water still, Where the rushes be a-growen, Where the sullen Stour's a-flowen Drough the meads vrom mill to mill?

Vor if a tree wer dear to me, Oh! 'twer thik aspen by the river.

There, in eegra.s.s new a-shooten, I did run on even vooten, Happy, over new-mow'd land; Or did zing wi' zingen drushes While I plated, out o' rushes, Little baskets vor my hand; Bezide the clote that there did float, Wi' yollow blossoms, on the river.

When the western zun's a vallen, What sh'ill vace is now a-callen Hwome the deairy to the pals; Who do dreve em on, a-flingen Wide-bow'd horns, or slowly zwingen Right an' left their tufty tals?

As they do goo a-huddled drough The geate a-leaden up vrom river.

Bleaded gra.s.s is now a-shooten Where the vloor wer woonce our vooten, While the hall wer still in pleace.

Stwones be looser in the wallen; Hollow trees be nearer vallen; Ev'ry thing ha' chang'd its feace.

But still the neame do bide the seame-- 'Tis Pentridge--Pentridge by the river.

WHEAT.

In brown-leav'd Fall the wheat a-left 'Ithin its darksome bed, Where all the creaken roller's heft Seal'd down its lowly head, Sprung sheaken drough the crumblen mwold, Green-yollow, vrom below, An' bent its bleades, a-glitt'ren cwold, At last in winter snow.

Zoo luck betide The upland zide, Where wheat do wride, In corn-vields wide, By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

An' while the screamen bird-bwoy shook Wi' little zun-burnt hand, His clacker at the bright-wing'd rook, About the zeeded land; His measter there did come an' stop His bridle-champen meare, Wi' thankvul heart, to zee his crop A-comen up so feair.

As there awhile By geate or stile, He gi'ed the chile A cheeren smile, By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

At last, wi' ears o' darksome red, The yollow stalks did ply, A-swaen slow, so heavy 's lead, In ar a-blowen by; An' then the busy reapers laid In row their russlen grips, An' sheaves, a-leanen head by head, Did meake the st.i.tches tips.

Zoo food's a-vound, A-comen round, Vrom zeed in ground, To sheaves a-bound, By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

An' now the wheat, in lofty lwoads, Above the meares' broad backs, Do ride along the cracklen rwoads, Or dousty waggon-tracks.

An' there, mid every busy pick, Ha' work enough to do; An' where, avore, we built woone rick, Mid thease year gi'e us two; Wi' G.o.d our friend, An' wealth to spend, Vor zome good end, That times mid mend, In towns, an' Do'set Downs, O.

Zoo let the merry thatcher veel Fine weather on his brow, As he, in happy work, do kneel Up roun' the new-built mow, That now do zwell in sich a size, An' rise to sich a height, That, oh! the miller's wistful eyes Do sparkle at the zight An' long mid stand, A happy band, To till the land, Wi' head an' hand, By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

THE MEaD IN JUNE.

Ah! how the looks o' sky an' ground Do change wi' months a-stealen round, When northern winds, by starry night, Do stop in ice the river's flight; Or brooks in winter rans do zwell, Lik' rollen seas athirt the dell; Or trickle thin in zummer-tide; Among the mossy stwones half dried; But still, below the zun or moon, The fearest vield's the mead in June.

An' I must own, my heart do beat Wi' pride avore my own blue geate, Where I can bid the steately tree Be cast, at langth, avore my knee; An' clover red, an' deazies fear, An' gil'cups wi' their yollow gleare, Be all a-match'd avore my zight By wheelen b.u.t.tervlees in flight, The while the burnen zun at noon Do sheen upon my mead in June.

An' there do zing the swingen lark So ga's above the finest park, An' day do sheade my trees as true As any steately avenue; An' show'ry clouds o' Spring do pa.s.s To shed their ran on my young gra.s.s, An' ar do blow the whole day long, To bring me breath, an' teake my zong, An' I do miss noo needvul boon A-gi'ed to other meads in June.

An' when the bloomen rwose do ride Upon the boughy hedge's zide, We haymeakers, in snow-white sleeves, Do work in sheades o' quiv'ren leaves, In afternoon, a-liften high Our reakes avore the viery sky, A-reaken up the hay a-dried By day, in lwongsome weales, to bide In chilly dew below the moon, O' shorten'd nights in zultry June.

An' there the brook do softly flow Along, a-benden in a bow, An' vish, wi' zides o' zilver-white, Do flash vrom shoals a dazzlen light; An' alders by the water's edge, Do sheade the ribbon-bleaded zedge, An' where, below the withy's head, The zwimmen clote-leaves be a-spread, The angler is a-zot at noon Upon the flow'ry bank in June.

Vor all the aier that do bring My little mead the breath o' Spring, By day an' night's a-flowen wide Above all other vields bezide; Vor all the zun above my ground 'S a-zent vor all the naghbours round, An' ran do vall, an' streams do flow, Vor lands above, an' lands below, My bit o' mead is G.o.d's own boon, To me alwone, vrom June to June.

EARLY RISeN.

The ar to gi'e your cheaks a hue O' rwosy red, so fear to view, Is what do sheake the gra.s.s-bleades gray At break o' day, in mornen dew; Vor vo'k that will be rathe abrode, Will meet wi' health upon their road.

But biden up till dead o' night, When han's o' clocks do stan' upright, By candle-light, do soon consume The feace's bloom, an' turn it white.

An' light a-cast vrom midnight skies Do blunt the sparklen ov the eyes.

Vor health do weake vrom nightly dreams Below the mornen's early beams, An' leave the dead-ar'd houses' eaves, Vor quiv'ren leaves, an' bubblen streams, A-glitt'ren brightly to the view, Below a sky o' cloudless blue.

ZELLEN WOONE'S HONEY TO BUY ZOME'HAT SWEET.