Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 47

Why, his heart's lik' a popple, so hard as a stwone, Vor 'tis money, an' money's his ho, An' to handle an' reckon it up vor his own, Is the best o' the jas he do know.

Why, vor money he'd gi'e up his lags an' be leame, Or would peart wi' his zight an' be blind, Or would lose vo'k's good will, vor to have a bad neame, Or his peace, an' have trouble o' mind.

But wi' ev'ry good thing that his meanness mid bring, He'd pa vor his money, An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

He did whisper to me, "You do know that you stood By the Squier, wi' the vote that you had, You could ax en to help ye to zome'hat as good, Or to vind a good pleace vor your lad."

"Aye, aye, but if I wer beholden vor bread To another," I zaid, "I should bind All my body an' soul to the nod of his head, An' gi'e up all my freedom o' mind."

An' then, if my pan wer a-zet wi' my gan, I should pa vor my money, An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

Then, if my bit o' brook that do wind so vur round, Wer but his, why, he'd straghten his bed, An' the wold stunpole woak that do stan' in my ground, Shoudden long sheade the gra.s.s wi' his head.

But if I do vind ja where the leaves be a-shook On the limbs, wi' their sheades on the gra.s.s, Or below, in the bow o' the withy-bound nook, That the rock-washen water do pa.s.s, Then wi' they jas a-vled an' zome goold in their stead, I should pay vor my money, An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

No, be my lot good work, wi' the lungs well in pla, An' good rest when the body do tire, Vor the mind a good conscience, wi' hope or wi' ja, Vor the body, good lewth, an' good vire, There's noo good o' goold, but to buy what 'ull meake Vor our happiness here among men; An' who would gi'e happiness up vor the seake O' zome money to buy it agean?

Vor 'twould seem to the eyes ov a man that is wise, Lik' money vor money, Or zellen woone's honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

DOBBIN DEAD.

_Thomas_ (1) _an' John_ (2) _a-ta'en o't._

2. I do veel vor ye, Thomas, vor I be a-fear'd You've a-lost your wold meare then, by what I've a-heard.

1. Ees, my meare is a-gone, an' the cart's in the shed Wi' his wheelbonds a-rusten, an' I'm out o' bread; Vor what be my han's vor to earn me a croust, Wi' noo meare's vower legs vor to trample the doust.

2. Well, how did it happen? He vell vrom the brim Ov a cliff, as the teale is, an' broke ev'ry lim'.

1. Why, I gi'ed en his run, an' he shook his wold meane, An' he rambled a-veeden in Westergap Leane; An' there he must needs goo a-riggen, an' crope Vor a vew bleades o' gra.s.s up the wo'st o' the slope; Though I should ha' thought his wold head would ha' know'd That vor stiff lags, lik' his, the best pleace wer the road.

2. An' you hadden a-kept en so short, he must clim', Lik' a gwoat, vor a bleade, at the risk ov a lim'.

1. Noo, but there, I'm a-twold, he did clim' an' did slide, An' did screape, an' did slip, on the shelven bank-zide, An' at langth lost his vooten, an' roll'd vrom the top, Down, thump, kick, an' higgledly, piggledly, flop.

2. Dear me, that is bad! I do veel vor your loss, Vor a vew years agoo, Thomas, I lost my ho'se.

1. How wer't? If I heard it, I now ha' vorgot; Wer the poor thing bewitch'd or a-pweison'd, or what?

2. He wer out, an' a-meaken his way to the brink O' the stream at the end o' Church Leane, vor to drink; An' he met wi' zome yew-twigs the men had a-cast Vrom the yew-tree, in churchyard, the road that he past.

He wer pweison'd. (1.) O dear, 'tis a hard loss to bear, Vor a tranter's whole bread is a-lost wi' his meare; But ov all churches' yew-trees, I never zet eyes On a tree that would come up to thik woone vor size.

2. Noo, 'tis long years agone, but do linger as clear In my mind though as if I'd a-heard it to year.

When King George wer in Do'set, an' show'd us his feace By our very own doors, at our very own pleace, That he look'd at thik yew-tree, an' nodded his head, An' he zaid,--an' I'll tell ye the words that he zaid:-- "I'll be bound, if you'll sarch my dominions all drough.

That you woon't vind the fellow to thik there wold yew."

HAPPINESS.

Ah! you do seem to think the ground, Where happiness is best a-vound, Is where the high-peal'd park do reach Wi' elem-rows, or clumps o' beech; Or where the coach do stand avore The twelve-tunn'd house's lofty door, Or men can ride behin' their hounds Vor miles athirt their own wide grounds, An' seldom wi' the lowly; Upon the green that we do tread, Below the welsh-nut's wide-limb'd head, Or gra.s.s where apple trees do spread?

No, so's; no, no: not high nor low: 'Tis where the heart is holy.

'Tis true its veet mid tread the vloor, 'Ithin the marble-pillar'd door, Where day do cast, in high-ruf'd halls.

His light drough lofty window'd walls; An' wax-white han's do never tire Wi' strokes ov heavy work vor hire, An' all that money can avword Do lwoad the zilver-brighten'd bwoard: Or mid be wi' the lowly, Where turf's a-smwolderen avore The back, to warm the stwonen vloor An' love's at hwome 'ithin the door?

No, so's; no, no; not high nor low: 'Tis where the heart is holy.

An' ceare can come 'ithin a ring O' sworded guards, to smite a king, Though he mid hold 'ithin his hands The zwarmen vo'k o' many lands; Or goo in drough the iron-geate Avore the house o' lofty steate; Or reach the miser that do smile A-builden up his goolden pile; Or else mid smite the lowly, That have noo pow'r to loose or bind Another's body, or his mind, But only hands to help mankind.

If there is rest 'ithin the breast, 'Tis where the heart is holy.

GRUFFMOODY GRIM.

Aye, a sad life his wife must ha' led, Vor so snappish he's leately a-come, That there's nothen but anger or dread Where he is, abroad or at hwome; He do wreak all his spite on the bwones O' whatever do vlee, or do crawl; He do quarrel wi' stocks, an' wi' stwones, An' the ran, if do hold up or vall; There is nothen vrom mornen till night Do come right to Gruffmoody Grim.

Woone night, in his anger, he zwore At the vier, that didden burn free: An' he het zome o't out on the vloor, Vor a vlanker it cast on his knee.

Then he kicked it vor burnen the child, An' het it among the cat's hears; An' then beat the cat, a-run wild, Wi' a spark on her back up the stears: Vor even the vier an' fleame Be to bleame wi' Gruffmoody Grim.

Then he snarl'd at the tea in his cup, Vor 'twer all a-got cwold in the pot, But 'twer woo'se when his wife vill'd it up Vrom the vier, vor 'twer then scalden hot; Then he growl'd that the bread wer sich stuff As noo hammer in parish could crack, An' flung down the knife in a huff; Vor the edge o'n wer thicker'n the back.

Vor beakers an' meakers o' tools Be all fools wi' Gruffmoody Grim.

Oone day as he vish'd at the brook, He flung up, wi' a quick-handed knack, His long line, an' his high-vleen hook Wer a-hitch'd in zome briars at his back.

Then he zwore at the brembles, an' p.r.i.c.k'd His beare hand, as he pull'd the hook free; An' agean, in a rage, as he kick'd At the briars, wer a-scratch'd on the knee.

An' he wish'd ev'ry bremble an' briar Wer o' vier, did Gruffmoody Grim.

Oh! he's welcome, vor me, to breed dread Wherever his sheade mid alight, An' to live wi' noo me'th round his head, An' noo feace wi' a smile in his zight; But let vo'k be all merry an' zing At the he'th where my own logs do burn, An' let anger's wild vist never swing In where I have a door on his durn; Vor I'll be a happier man, While I can, than Gruffmoody Grim.

To zit down by the vier at night, Is my ja--vor I woon't call it pride,-- Wi' a brand on the bricks, all alight, An' a pile o' zome mwore at the zide.

Then tell me o' zome'hat that's droll, An' I'll laugh till my two zides do eache Or o' naghbours in sorrow o' soul, An' I'll tweil all the night vor their seake; An' show that to teake things amiss Idden bliss, to Gruffmoody Grim.

An' then let my child clim' my lag, An' I'll lift en, wi' love, to my chin; Or my mad come an' coax me to bag Vor a frock, an' a frock she shall win; Or, then if my wife do meake light O' whatever the bwoys mid ha' broke, It wull seem but so small in my zight, As a leaf a-het down vrom a woak An' not meake me ceaper an' froth Vull o' wrath, lik' Gruffmoody Grim.

THE TURN O' THE DAYS.

O the wings o' the rook wer a-glitteren bright, As he wheel'd on above, in the zun's evenen light, An' noo snow wer a-left, but in patches o' white, On the hill at the turn o' the days.

An' along on the slope wer the beare-timber'd copse, Wi' the dry wood a-sheaken, wi' red-twigged tops.

Vor the dry-flowen wind, had a-blow'd off the drops O' the ran, at the turn o' the days.

There the stream did run on, in the sheade o' the hill, So smooth in his flowen, as if he stood still, An' bright wi' the skylight, did slide to the mill, By the meads, at the turn o' the days.

An' up by the copse, down along the hill brow, Wer vurrows a-cut down, by men out at plough, So straght as the zunbeams, a-shot drough the bough O' the tree at the turn o' the days.

Then the boomen wold clock in the tower did mark His vive hours, avore the cool evenen wer dark, An' ivy did glitter a-clung round the bark O' the tree, at the turn o' the days.