Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 9

There we could zee green vields at hand, Avore a hunderd on beyand, An' rows o' trees in hedges roun'

Green meads, an' zummerleazes brown, An' thorns upon the zunny down, While aer, vrom the rocken zedge In brook, did come along the hedge, Where we did keep our flagon.

There laughen chaps did try in pla To bury madens up in ha, As gigglen madens tried to roll The chaps down into zome deep hole, Or sting wi' nettles woone o'm's poll; While John did hele out each his drap O' eale or cider, in his lap Where he did keep the flagon.

Woone day there spun a whirlwind by Where Jenny's clothes wer out to dry; An' off vled frocks, a'most a-catch'd By smock-frocks wi' their sleeves outstratch'd, An' caps a-frill'd an' eaperns patch'd; An' she a-stearen in a fright, Wer glad enough to zee em light Where we did keep our flagon.

An' when white clover wer a-sprung Among the eegra.s.s, green an' young, An' elder-flowers wer a-spread Among the rwosen white an' red, An' honeyzucks wi' hangen head,-- O' Zunday evenens we did zit To look all roun' the grounds a bit, Where we'd a-kept our flagon.

WEEK'S END IN ZUMMER, IN THE WOLD VO'K'S TIME.

His aunt an' uncle,--ah! the kind Wold souls be often in my mind: A better couple never stood In shoes, an' vew be voun' so good.

_She_ cheer'd the work-vo'k in ther tweils Wi' timely bits an' draps, an' smiles; An' _he_ pad all o'm at week's end, Their money down to goo an' spend.

In zummer, when week's end come roun'

The ha-meakers did come vrom groun', An' all zit down, wi' weary bwones, Within the yard a-peaved wi' stwones, Along avore the peales, between The yard a-stean'd an' open green.

There women zot wi' bare-neck'd chaps, An' madens wi' their sleeves an' flaps To screen vrom het their earms an' polls.

An' men wi' beards so black as coals: Girt stocky Jim, an' lanky John, An' poor wold Betty dead an' gone; An' clean-grown Tom so spry an' strong, An' Liz the best to pitch a zong, That now ha' nearly half a score O' childern zwarmen at her door; An' whindlen Ann, that cried wi' fear To hear the thunder when 'twer near,-- A zickly mad, so peale's the moon, That voun' her zun goo down at noon; An' blushen Jeane so shy an' meek, That seldom let us hear her speak, That wer a-coorted an' undone By Farmer Woodley's woldest son; An' after she'd a-been vorzook, Wer voun' a-drown'd in Longmead brook.

An' zoo, when _he_'d a-been all roun', An' pad em all their wages down, _She_ us'd to bring vor all, by teale A cup o' cider or ov eale, An' then a tutty meade o' lots O' blossoms vrom her flower-nots, To wear in bands an' b.u.t.ton-holes At church, an' in their evenen strolls.

The pea that rangled to the oves, An' columbines an' pinks an' cloves, Sweet rwosen vrom the p.r.i.c.kly tree, An' jilliflow'rs, an' jessamy; An' short-liv'd pinies, that do shed Their leaves upon a early bed.

She didden put in honeyzuck: She'd nwone, she zad, that she could pluck Avore wild honeyzucks, a-vound In ev'ry hedge ov ev'ry ground.

Zoo mad an' woman, bwoy an' man, Went off, while zunzet ar did fan Their merry zunburnt feazen; zome Down leane, an' zome drough parrocks hwome.

Ah! who can tell, that ha'nt a-vound, The sweets o' week's-end comen round!

When Zadurday do bring woone's mind Sweet thoughts o' Zunday clwose behind; The day that's all our own to spend Wi' G.o.d an' wi' an e'thly friend.

The worold's girt vo'k, wi' the best O' worldly goods mid be a-blest; But Zunday is the poor man's peart, To seave his soul an' cheer his heart.

THE MEAD A-MOW'D.

When sheades do vall into ev'ry hollow, An' reach vrom trees half athirt the groun'; An' banks an' walls be a-looken yollow, That be a-turn'd to the zun gwan down; Drough ha in c.o.c.k, O, We all do vlock, O, Along our road vrom the mead a-mow'd.

An' when the last swaen lwoad's a-started Up hill so slow to the lofty rick, Then we so weary but merry-hearted, Do shoulder each [=o]'s a reake an' pick, Wi' empty flagon, Behind the waggon, To teake our road vrom the mead a-mow'd.

When church is out, an' we all so slowly About the knap be a-spreaden wide, How ga the paths be where we do strolly Along the leane an' the hedge's zide; But nwone's a voun', O, Up hill or down, O, So ga's the road drough the mead a-mow'd.

An' when the visher do come, a-drowen His flutt'ren line over bleady zedge, Drough groun's wi' red thissle-heads a-blowen, An' watchen o't by the water's edge; Then he do love, O, The best to rove, O, Along his road drough the mead a-mow'd.

THE SKY A-CLEAREN.

The dreven scud that overcast The zummer sky is all a-past, An' softer ar, a-blowen drough The quiv'ren boughs, do sheake the vew Last ran drops off the leaves lik' dew; An' peaviers, now a-getten dry, Do steam below the zunny sky That's now so vast a-clearen.

The sheades that wer a-lost below The stormy cloud, agean do show Their mocken sheapes below the light; An' house-walls be a-looken white, An' vo'k do stir woonce mwore in zight, An' busy birds upon the wing Do whiver roun' the boughs an' zing, To zee the sky a-clearen.

Below the hill's an ash; below The ash, white elder-flow'rs do blow: Below the elder is a bed O' robinhoods o' blushen red; An' there, wi' nunches all a-spread, The ha-meakers, wi' each a cup O' drink, do smile to zee hold up The ran, an' sky a-clearen.

'Mid blushen madens, wi' their zong, Still draw their white-stemm'd reakes among The long-back'd weales an' new-meade pooks, By brown-stemm'd trees an' cloty brooks; But have noo call to spweil their looks By work, that G.o.d could never meake Their weaker han's to underteake, Though skies mid be a-clearen.

'Tis wrong vor women's han's to clips The zull an' reap-hook, speades an' whips; An' men abroad, should leave, by right, Woone fathful heart at hwome to light Their bit o' vier up at night, An' hang upon the hedge to dry Their snow-white linen, when the sky In winter is a-clearen.

THE EVENeN STAR O' ZUMMER.

When vu'st along thease road vrom mill, I zeed ye hwome all up the hill, The poplar tree, so straght an' tall, Did rustle by the watervall; An' in the leaze the cows wer all A-lyen down to teake their rest An' slowly zunk toward the west The evenen star o' zummer.

In parrock there the ha did lie In weale below the elems, dry; An' up in hwome-groun' Jim, that know'd We all should come along thik road, D a-tied the gra.s.s in knots that drow'd Poor Poll, a-watchen in the West Woone brighter star than all the rest,-- The evenen star o' zummer.

The stars that still do zet an' rise, Did sheen in our forefather's eyes; They glitter'd to the vu'st men's zight, The last will have em in their night; But who can vind em half so bright As I thought thik peale star above My smilen Jeane, my zweet vu'st love, The evenen star o' zummer.

How sweet's the mornen fresh an' new, Wi' sparklen brooks an' glitt'ren dew; How sweet's the noon wi' sheades a-drow'd Upon the groun' but leately mow'd, An' bloomen flowers all abrode; But sweeter still, as I do clim', Thease woody hill in evenen dim 'S the evenen star o' zummer.

THE CLOTE.

_(Water-lily.)_

O zummer clote! when the brook's a-gliden So slow an' smooth down his zedgy bed, Upon thy broad leaves so seafe a-riden The water's top wi' thy yollow head, By alder's heads, O, An' bulrush beds, O.

Thou then dost float, goolden zummer clote!

The grey-bough'd withy's a-leanen lowly Above the water thy leaves do hide; The benden bulrush, a-swaen slowly, Do skirt in zummer thy river's zide; An' perch in shoals, O, Do vill the holes, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

Oh! when thy brook-drinken flow'r's a-blowen, The burnen zummer's a-zetten in; The time o' greenness, the time o' mowen, When in the ha-vield, wi' zunburnt skin, The vo'k do drink, O, Upon the brink, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

Wi' earms a-spreaden, an' cheaks a-blowen, How proud wer I when I vu'st could zwim Athirt the pleace where thou bist a-growen, Wi' thy long more vrom the bottom dim; While cows, knee-high, O, In brook, wer nigh, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

Ov all the brooks drough the meads a-winden, Ov all the meads by a river's brim, There's nwone so feair o' my own heart's vinden, As where the madens do zee thee swim, An' stan' to teake, O, Wi' long-stemm'd reake, O, Thy flow'r afloat, goolden zummer clote!