Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 58

An' gil'cups quiver'd quick, As ar did pa.s.s, An' deaisies huddled thick Among the gra.s.s.

The while my earms did swing Wi' work I had on hand, The quick-wing'd lark did zing Above the green-tree'd land, An' bwoys below me chafed The dog vor fun, An' he, vor all they laef'd, Did meake em run.

The south zide o' the hill, My own tun-smoke rose blue,-- In North Coomb, near the mill, My mother's wer in view-- Where woonce her vier vor all Ov us did burn, As I have childern small Round mine in turn.

An' zoo I still wull cheer Her life wi' my small store, As she do drop a tear Bezide her lwonesome door.

The love that I do owe Her ruf, I'll pa, An' then zit down below My own wi' ja.

OBEN VIELDS.

Well, you mid keep the town an' street, Wi' gra.s.sless stwones to beat your veet, An' zunless windows where your brows Be never cooled by swaen boughs; An' let me end, as I begun, My days in oben ar an' zun, Where zummer win's a-blowen sweet, Wi' blooth o' trees as white's a sheet; Or swaen boughs, a-benden low Wi' rip'nen apples in a row, An' we a-risen rathe do meet The bright'nen dawn wi' dewy veet, An' leave, at night, the vootless groves, To rest 'ithin our thatchen oves.

An' here our childern still do bruise The deaisy buds wi' tiny shoes, As we did meet avore em, free Vrom ceare, in play below the tree.

An' there in me'th their lively eyes Do glissen to the zunny skies, As ar do blow, wi' leazy peace To cool, in sheade, their burnen feace.

Where leaves o' spreaden docks do hide The zawpit's timber-lwoaded zide, An' trees do lie, wi' scraggy limbs, Among the deaisy's crimson rims.

An' they, so proud, wi' earms a-spread To keep their balance good, do tread Wi' ceareful steps o' tiny zoles The narrow zides o' trees an' poles.

An' zoo I'll leave vor your light veet The peavement o' the zunless street, While I do end, as I begun, My days in oben ar an' zun.

WHAT JOHN WER A-TELLeN HIS MIS'ESS OUT IN THE CORN GROUND.

Ah! mam! you woonce come here the while The zun, long years agoo, did shed His het upon the wheat in hile, Wi' yollow hau'm an' ears o' red, Wi' little shoes too thin vor walks Upon the scratchen stubble-stalks; You hardly reach'd wi' glossy head, The vore wheel's top o' dousty red.

How time's a-vled! How years do vlee!

An' there you went an' zot inzide A hile, in ar a-streamen cool, As if 'ithin a room, vull wide An' high, you zot to guide an' rule.

You leaz'd about the stubbly land, An' soon vill'd up your small left hand Wi' ruddy ears your right hand vound, An' tral'd the stalks along the ground.

How time's a-gone! How years do goo!

Then in the waggon you did teake A ride, an' as the wheels vell down Vrom ridge to vurrow, they did sheake On your small head your poppy crown, An' now your little mad, a dear, Your childhood's very daps, is here, Zoo let her sta, that her young feace Mid put a former year in pleace.

How time do run! How years do roll!

SHEaDES.

Come here an' zit a while below Thease tower, grey and ivy-bound, In sheade, the while the zun do glow So hot upon the flow'ry ground; An' winds in flight, Do briskly smite The blossoms bright, upon the gleade, But never stir the sleepen sheade.

As when you stood upon the brink O' yonder brook, wi' back-zunn'd head, Your zunny-grounded sheade did zink Upon the water's grav'lly bed, Where weaves could zweep Away, or keep, The gravel heap that they'd a-meade, But never wash away the sheade.

An' zoo, when you can woonce vulvil What's feair, a-tried by heaven's light, Why never fear that evil will Can meake a wrong o' your good right.

The right wull stand, Vor all man's hand, Till streams on zand, an' wind in gleades, Can zweep awa the zuncast sheades.

TIMES O' YEAR.

Here did sway the eltrot flow'rs, When the hours o' night wer vew, An' the zun, wi' early beams Brighten'd streams, an' dried the dew, An' the goocoo there did greet Pa.s.sers by wi' dousty veet.

There the milkmad hung her brow By the cow, a-sheenen red; An' the dog, wi' upward looks, Watch'd the rooks above his head, An' the brook, vrom bow to bow, Here went swift, an' there wer slow.

Now the cwolder-blowen blast, Here do cast vrom elems' heads Feaded leaves, a-whirlen round, Down to ground, in yollow beds, Ruslen under milkers' shoes, When the day do dry the dews.

Soon shall gra.s.s, a-vrosted bright, Glisten white instead o' green, An' the wind shall smite the cows, Where the boughs be now their screen.

Things do change as years do vlee; What ha' years in store vor me?

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

RACKETeN JOE.

_Racketen Joe; his Sister; his Cousin f.a.n.n.y; and the Dog._

RACKETeN JOE.

Heigh! heigh! here. Who's about?

HIS SISTER.

Oh! lauk! Here's Joe, a ranten lout,

A-meaken his wild randy-rout.

RACKETeN JOE.

Heigh! f.a.n.n.y! How d'ye do? (_slaps her._)

f.a.n.n.y.

Oh! fie; why all the woo'se vor you A-slappen o' me, black an' blue, My back!

HIS SISTER.

A whack! you loose-earm'd chap, To gi'e your cousin sich a slap!

f.a.n.n.y.