Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 55

If I should zee among em all, In merry youth, a-gliden by, My son's bwold son, a-grown man-tall, Or daughter's daughter, woman-high; An' she mid smile wi' your good feace, Or she mid walk your comely peace, But seem, although a-chatten loud, So dumb's a cloud, in that bright pleace: Would youth so feair, A-pa.s.sen there, Be ja or pan, be pan or ja.

'Tis seldom strangth or comeliness Do leave us long. The house do show Men's sons wi' mwore, as they ha' less, An' daughters brisk, vor mothers slow.

A dawn do clear the night's dim sky, Woone star do zink, an' woone goo high, An' liven gifts o' youth do vall, Vrom girt to small, but never die: An' should I view, What G.o.d mid do, Wi' ja or pan, wi' pan or ja?

THE RWOSE IN THE DARK.

In zummer, leate at evenen tide, I zot to spend a moonless hour 'Ithin the window, wi' the zide A-bound wi' rwoses out in flow'r, Bezide the bow'r, vorsook o' birds, An' listen'd to my true-love's words.

A-risen to her comely height, She push'd the swingen ceas.e.m.e.nt round; And I could hear, beyond my zight, The win'-blow'd beech-tree softly sound, On higher ground, a-swayen slow, On drough my happy hour below.

An' tho' the darkness then did hide The dewy rwose's blushen bloom, He still did cast sweet ar inside To Jeane, a-chatten in the room; An' though the gloom did hide her feace, Her words did bind me to the pleace.

An' there, while she, wi' runnen tongue, Did talk unzeen 'ithin the hall, I thought her like the rwose that flung His sweetness vrom his darken'd ball, 'Ithout the wall, an' sweet's the zight Ov her bright feace by mornen light.

COME.

Wull ye come in early Spring, Come at Easter, or in Ma?

Or when Whitsuntide mid bring Longer light to show your wa?

Wull ye come, if you be true, Vor to quicken love anew.

Wull ye call in Spring or Fall?

Come now soon by zun or moon?

Wull ye come?

Come wi' vace to vace the while All their words be sweet to hear; Come that feace to feace mid smile, While their smiles do seem so dear; Come within the year to seek Woone you have sought woonce a week?

Come while flow'rs be on the bow'rs.

And the bird o' zong's a-heard.

Wull ye come?

Ees come _to_ ye, an' come _vor_ ye, is my word, I wull come.

ZUMMER WINDS.

Let me work, but mid noo tie Hold me vrom the oben sky, When zummer winds, in plasome flight, Do blow on vields in noon-day light, Or ruslen trees, in twilight night.

Sweet's a stroll, By flow'ry knowl, or blue-feaced pool That zummer win's do ruffle cool.

When the moon's broad light do vill Plans, a-sheenen down the hill; A-glitteren on window gla.s.s, O then, while zummer win's do pa.s.s The rippled brook, an' swaen gra.s.s, Sweet's a walk, Where we do talk, wi' feaces bright, In whispers in the peacevul night.

When the swaen men do mow Flow'ry gra.s.s, wi' zweepen blow, In het a-most enough to dry The flat-spread clote-leaf that do lie Upon the stream a-stealen by, Sweet's their rest, Upon the breast o' knap or mound Out where the goocoo's vace do sound.

Where the sleek-heair'd mad do zit Out o' door to zew or knit, Below the elem where the spring 'S a-runnen, an' the road do bring The people by to hear her zing, On the green, Where she's a-zeen, an' she can zee, O ga is she below the tree.

Come, O zummer wind, an' bring Sounds o' birds as they do zing, An' bring the smell o' bloomen ma, An' bring the smell o' new-mow'd ha; Come fan my feace as I do stra, Fan the heair O' Jessie feair; fan her cool, By the weaves o' stream or pool.

THE NEaME LETTERS.

When high-flown larks wer on the wing, A warm-ar'd holiday in Spring, We stroll'd, 'ithout a ceare or frown, Up roun' the down at Meldonley; An' where the hawthorn-tree did stand Alwone, but still wi' mwore at hand, We zot wi' sheades o' clouds on high A-flitten by, at Meldonley.

An' there, the while the tree did sheade Their gigglen heads, my knife's keen bleade Carved out, in turf avore my knee, J. L., *T. D., at Meldonley.

'Twer Jessie Lee J. L. did mean, T. D. did stan' vor Thomas Deane; The "L" I scratch'd but slight, vor he Mid soon be D, at Meldonley.

An' when the vields o' wheat did spread Vrom hedge to hedge in sheets o' red.

An' bennets wer a-sheaken brown.

Upon the down at Meldonley, We stroll'd agean along the hill, An' at the hawthorn-tree stood still, To zee J. L. vor Jessie Lee, An' my T. D., at Meldonley.

The grey-poll'd bennet-stems did hem Each half-hid letter's zunken rim, By leady's-vingers that did spread In yollow red, at Meldonley.

An' hearebells there wi' light blue bell Shook soundless on the letter L, To ment the bells when L vor Lee Become a D at Meldonley.

Vor Jessie, now my wife, do strive Wi' me in life, an' we do thrive; Two sleek-heaired meares do sprackly pull My waggon vull, at Meldonley; An' small-hoof'd sheep, in vleeces white, Wi' quickly-panken zides, do bite My thymy gra.s.s, a-mark'd vor me In black, T. D., at Meldonley.

THE NEW HOUSE A-GETTeN WOLD.

Ah! when our wedded life begun, Thease clean-wall'd house of ours wer new; Wi' thatch as yollor as the zun Avore the cloudless sky o' blue; The sky o' blue that then did bound The blue-hilled worold's flow'ry ground.

An' we've a-vound it weather-brown'd, As Spring-tide blossoms oben'd white, Or Fall did shed, on zunburnt ground, Red apples from their leafy height: Their leafy height, that Winter soon Left leafless to the cool-feaced moon.

An' ran-bred moss ha' stan'd wi' green The smooth-feaced wall's white-morter'd streaks, The while our childern zot between Our seats avore the fleame's red peaks: The fleame's red peaks, till axan white Did quench em vor the long-sleep'd night.

The bloom that woonce did overspread Your rounded cheak, as time went by, A-shrinken to a patch o' red, Did feade so soft's the evenen sky: The evenen sky, my faithful wife, O' days as feair's our happy life.

ZUNDAY.

In zummer, when the sheades do creep Below the Zunday steeple, round The mossy stwones, that love cut deep Wi' neames that tongues noo mwore do sound, The leane do lose the stalken team, An' dry-rimm'd waggon-wheels be still, An' hills do roll their down-shot stream Below the resten wheel at mill.

O holy day, when tweil do cease, Sweet day o' rest an' greace an' peace!

The eegra.s.s, vor a while unwrung By hoof or shoe, 's a sheenen bright, An' clover flowers be a-sprung On new-mow'd knaps in beds o' white, An' sweet wild rwoses, up among The hedge-row boughs, do yield their smells.