Chapter I: Know Who (4)

We zot bezide the leäfy wall,
Upon the bench at evenfall,
While aunt led off our minds vrom ceäre
Wi' veäiry teäles, I can't tell where:
An' vound us woone among her stock
O' feäbles, o' the girt Year-clock.
His feäce wer blue's the zummer skies,
An' wide's the zight o' lookèn eyes,
For hands, a zun wi' glowèn feäce,
An' peäler moon wi' swifter peäce,
Did wheel by stars o' twinklèn light,
By bright-wall'd day, an' dark-treed night;
An' down upon the high-sky'd land,
A-reachèn wide, on either hand,
Wer hill an' dell wi' win'-swaÿ'd trees,
An' lights a-zweepèn over seas,
An' gleamèn cliffs, an' bright-wall'd tow'rs,
Wi' sheädes a-markèn on the hours;
An' as the feäce, a-rollèn round,
Brought comely sheäpes along the ground.
The Spring did come in winsome steäte
Below a glowèn raïnbow geäte;
An' fan wi' aïr a-blowèn weak,
Her glossy heäir, an' rwosy cheäk,
As she did shed vrom oben hand,
The leäpèn zeed on vurrow'd land;
The while the rook, wi' heästy flight,
A-floatèn in the glowèn light,
Did bear avore her glossy breast
A stick to build her lofty nest,
An' strong-limb'd Tweil, wi' steady hands,
Did guide along the vallow lands
The heavy zull, wi' bright-sheär'd beam,
Avore the weäry oxen team,
Wi' Spring a-gone there come behind
Sweet Zummer, jaÿ ov ev'ry mind,
Wi' feäce a-beamèn to beguile
Our weäry souls ov ev'ry tweil.
While birds did warble in the dell
In softest aïr o' sweetest smell;
An' she, so winsome-feäir did vwold
Her comely limbs in green an' goold,
An' wear a rwosy wreath, wi' studs
O' berries green, an' new-born buds,
A-fring'd in colours vier-bright,
Wi' sheäpes o' buttervlees in flight.
When Zummer went, the next ov all
Did come the sheäpe o' brown-feäc'd Fall,
A-smilèn in a comely gown
O' green, a-shot wi' yellow-brown,
A-border'd wi' a goolden stripe
O' fringe, a-meäde o' corn-ears ripe,
An' up ageän her comely zide,
Upon her rounded eärm, did ride
A perty basket, all a-twin'd
O' slender stems wi' leaves an' rind,
A-vill'd wi' fruit the trees did shed,
All ripe, in purple, goold, an' red;
An' busy Leäbor there did come
A-zingèn zongs ov harvest hwome,
An' red-ear'd dogs did briskly run
Roun' cheervul Leisure wi' his gun,
Or stan' an' mark, wi' stedvast zight,
The speckled pa'tridge rise in flight.
An' next ageän to mild-feäc'd Fall
Did come peäle Winter, last ov all,
A-bendèn down, in thoughtvul mood,
Her head 'ithin a snow-white hood
A-deck'd wi' icy-jewels, bright
An' cwold as twinklèn stars o' night;
An' there wer weary Leäbor, slack
O' veet to keep her vrozen track,
A-lookèn off, wi' wistful eyes,
To reefs o' smoke, that there did rise
A-meltèn to the peäle-feäc'd zun,
Above the houses' lofty tun.
An' there the girt Year-clock did goo
By day an' night, vor ever true,
Wi' mighty wheels a-rollèn round
'Ithout a beät, 'ithout a sound.

NOT GOO HWOME TO-NIGHT.

No, no, why you've noo wife at hwome
Abidèn up till you do come,
Zoo leäve your hat upon the pin,
Vor I'm your waïter. Here's your inn,
Wi' chair to rest, an' bed to roost;
You have but little work to do
This vrosty time at hwome in mill,
Your vrozen wheel's a-stannèn still,
The sleepèn ice woont grind vor you.
No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night,
Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill.

As I come by, to-day, where stood
Wi' neäked trees, the purple wood,
The scarlet hunter's ho'ses veet
Tore up the sheäkèn ground, wind-fleet,
Wi' reachèn heads, an' pankèn hides;
The while the flat-wing'd rooks in vlock.
Did zwim a-sheenèn at their height;
But your good river, since last night,
Wer all a-vroze so still's a rock.
No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night,
Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill.

Zee how the hufflèn win' do blow,
A-whirlèn down the giddy snow:
Zee how the sky's a-weärèn dim,
Behind the elem's neäked lim'.
That there do leän above the leäne:
Zoo teäke your pleäce bezide the dogs,
An' sip a drop o' hwome-brew'd eäle,
An' zing your zong or tell your teäle,
While I do baït the vier wi' logs.
No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night,
Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill.

Your meäre's in steäble wi' her hocks
In straw above her vetterlocks,
A-reachèn up her meäney neck,
An' pullèn down good hay vrom reck,
A-meäkèn slight o' snow an' sleet;
She don't want you upon her back,
To vall upon the slippery stwones
On Hollyhül, an' break your bwones,
Or miss, in snow, her hidden track.
No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night,
Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill.

Here, Jenny, come pull out your key
An' hansel, wi' zome tidy tea,
The zilver pot that we do owe
To your prize butter at the show,
An' put zome bread upon the bwoard.
Ah! he do smile; now that 'ull do,
He'll stay. Here, Polly, bring a light,
We'll have a happy hour to-night,
I'm thankvul we be in the lew.
No, no, he woont goo hwome to-night,
Not Robin White, o' Craglin mill.

THE HUMSTRUM.

Why woonce, at Chris'mas-tide, avore
The wold year wer a-reckon'd out,
The humstrums here did come about,
A-soundèn up at ev'ry door.
But now a bow do never screäpe
A humstrum, any where all round,
An' zome can't tell a humstrum's sheäpe,
An' never heärd his jinglèn sound.
As _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string,
As _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang.

The strings a-tighten'd lik' to crack
Athirt the canister's tin zide,
Did reach, a glitt'rèn, zide by zide,
Above the humstrum's hollow back.
An' there the bwoy, wi' bended stick,
A-strung wi' heäir, to meäke a bow,
Did dreve his elbow, light'nèn quick,
Athirt the strings from high to low.
As _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string,
As _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang.

The mother there did stan' an' hush
Her child, to hear the jinglèn sound,
The merry maïd, a-scrubbèn round
Her white-steäv'd païl, did stop her brush.
The mis'ess there, vor wold time's seäke,
Had gifts to gi'e, and smiles to show,
An' meäster, too, did stan' an' sheäke
His two broad zides, a-chucklèn low,
While _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string,
While _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang.

The plaÿers' pockets wer a-strout,
Wi' wold brown pence, a-rottlèn in,
Their zwangèn bags did soon begin,
Wi' brocks an' scraps, to plim well out.
The childern all did run an' poke
Their heads vrom hatch or door, an' shout
A-runnèn back to wolder vo'k.
Why, here! the humstrums be about!
As _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string,
As _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang.

SHAFTESBURY FEÄIR.

When hillborne Paladore did show
So bright to me down miles below.
As woonce the zun, a-rollèn west,
Did brighten up his hill's high breast.
Wi' walls a-lookèn dazzlèn white,
Or yollow, on the grey-topp'd height
Of Paladore, as peäle day wore
Awaÿ so feäir.
Oh! how I wish'd that I wer there.

The pleäce wer too vur off to spy
The livèn vo'k a-passèn by;
The vo'k too vur vor aïr to bring
The words that they did speak or zing.
All dum' to me wer each abode,
An' empty wer the down-hill road
Vrom Paladore, as peäle day wore
Awaÿ so feäir;
But how I wish'd that I wer there.

But when I clomb the lofty ground
Where livèn veet an' tongues did sound,
At feäir, bezide your bloomèn feäce,
The pertiest in all the pleäce,
As you did look, wi' eyes as blue
As yonder southern hills in view,
Vrom Paladore--O Polly dear,
Wi' you up there,
How merry then wer I at feäir.

Since vu'st I trod thik steep hill-zide
My grievèn soul 'v a-been a-tried
Wi' païn, an' loss o' worldly geär,
An' souls a-gone I wanted near;
But you be here to goo up still,
An' look to Blackmwore vrom the hill
O' Paladore. Zoo, Polly dear,
We'll goo up there,
An' spend an hour or two at feäir.

The wold brown meäre's a-brought vrom grass,
An' rubb'd an' cwomb'd so bright as glass;
An' now we'll hitch her in, an' start
To feäir upon the new green cart,
An' teäke our little Poll between
Our zides, as proud's a little queen,
To Paladore. Aye, Poll a dear,
Vor now 'tis feäir,
An' she's a longèn to goo there.

While Paladore, on watch, do straïn
Her eyes to Blackmwore's blue-hill'd pläin,
While Duncliffe is the traveller's mark,
Or cloty Stour's a-rollèn dark;
Or while our bells do call, vor greäce,
The vo'k avore their Seävior's feäce,
Mid Paladore, an' Poll a dear,
Vor ever know
O' peäce an' plenty down below.

THE BEÄTEN PATH.

The beäten path where vo'k do meet
A-comèn on vrom vur an' near;
How many errands had the veet
That wore en out along so clear!
Where eegrass bleädes be green in meäd,
Where bennets up the leäze be brown,
An' where the timber bridge do leäd
Athirt the cloty brook to town,
Along the path by mile an' mile,
Athirt the yield, an' brook, an' stile,

There runnèn childern's hearty laugh
Do come an' vlee along--win' swift:
The wold man's glossy-knobbèd staff
Do help his veet so hard to lift;
The maïd do bear her basket by,
A-hangèn at her breäthèn zide;
An' ceäreless young men, straïght an' spry,
Do whissle hwome at eventide,
Along the path, a-reachèn by
Below tall trees an' oben sky.

There woone do goo to jaÿ a-head;
Another's jaÿ's behind his back.
There woone his vu'st long mile do tread,
An' woone the last ov all his track.
An' woone mid end a hopevul road,
Wi' hopeless grief a-teäkèn on,
As he that leätely vrom abroad
Come hwome to seek his love a-gone,
Noo mwore to tread, wi' comely eäse,
The beäten path athirt the leäze.

In tweilsome hardships, year by year,
He drough the worold wander'd wide,
Still bent, in mind, both vur an' near
To come an' meäke his love his bride.
An' passèn here drough evenèn dew
He heästen'd, happy, to her door,
But vound the wold vo'k only two,
Wi' noo mwore vootsteps on the vloor,
To walk ageän below the skies,
Where beäten paths do vall an' rise;

Vor she wer gone vrom e'thly eyes
To be a-kept in darksome sleep,
Until the good ageän do rise
A-jaÿ to souls they left to weep.
The rwose wer doust that bound her brow;
The moth did eat her Zunday ceäpe;
Her frock wer out o' fashion now;
Her shoes wer dried up out o' sheäpe--
The shoes that woonce did glitter black
Along the leäzes beäten track.

RUTH A-RIDÈN.

Ov all the roads that ever bridge
Did bear athirt a river's feäce,
Or ho'ses up an' down the ridge
Did wear to doust at ev'ry peäce,
I'll teäke the Stalton leäne to tread,
By banks wi' primrwose-beds bespread,
An' steätely elems over head,
Where Ruth do come a-ridèn.

An' I would rise when vields be grey
Wi' mornèn dew, avore 'tis dry,
An' beät the doust droughout the day
To bluest hills ov all the sky;
If there, avore the dusk o' night,
The evenèn zun, a-sheenèn bright,
Would pay my leäbors wi' the zight
O' Ruth--o' Ruth a-ridèn.

Her healthy feäce is rwosy feäir,
She's comely in her gaït an' lim',
An' sweet's the smile her feäce do wear,
Below her cap's well-rounded brim;
An' while her skirt's a-spreädèn wide,
In vwolds upon the ho'se's zide,
He'll toss his head, an' snort wi' pride,
To trot wi' Ruth a-ridèn.

An' as her ho'se's rottlèn peäce
Do slacken till his veet do beät
A slower trot, an' till her feäce
Do bloom avore the tollman's geäte;
Oh! he'd be glad to oben wide
His high-back'd geäte, an' stand azide,
A-givèn up his toll wi' pride,
Vor zight o' Ruth a-ridèn.

An' oh! that Ruth could be my bride,
An' I had ho'ses at my will,
That I mid teäke her by my zide,
A-ridèn over dell an' hill;
I'd zet wi' pride her litty tooe
'Ithin a stirrup, sheenèn new,
An' leäve all other jaÿs to goo
Along wi' Ruth a-ridèn.

If maïdens that be weäk an' peäle
A-mwopèn in the house's sheäde,
Would wish to be so blithe and heäle
As you did zee young Ruth a-meäde;
Then, though the zummer zun mid glow,
Or though the Winter win' mid blow,
They'd leäp upon the saddle's bow,
An' goo, lik' Ruth, a-ridèn.

While evenèn light do sof'ly gild
The moss upon the elem's bark,
Avore the zingèn bird's a-still'd,
Or woods be dim, or day is dark,
Wi' quiv'rèn grass avore his breast,
In cowslip beds, do lie at rest,
The ho'se that now do goo the best
Wi' rwosy Ruth a-ridèn.

BEAUTY UNDECKED.

The grass mid sheen when wat'ry beäds
O' dew do glitter on the meäds,
An' thorns be bright when quiv'rèn studs
O' raïn do hang upon their buds--
As jewels be a-meäde by art
To zet the plaïnest vo'k off smart.

But sheäkèn ivy on its tree,
An' low-bough'd laurel at our knee,
Be bright all daÿ, without the gleäre,
O' drops that duller leäves mid weär--
As Jeäne is feäir to look upon
In plaïnest gear that she can don.

MY LOVE IS GOOD.

My love is good, my love is feäir,
She's comely to behold, O,
In ev'rything that she do wear,
Altho' 'tis new or wold, O.
My heart do leäp to see her walk,
So straïght do step her veet, O,
My tongue is dum' to hear her talk,
Her vaïce do sound so sweet, O.
The flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green
Do bear but vew, so good an' true.

When she do zit, then she do seem
The feäirest to my zight, O,
Till she do stan' an' I do deem,
She's feäirest at her height, O.
An' she do seem 'ithin a room
The feäirest on a floor, O,
Till I ageän do zee her bloom
Still feäirer out o' door, O.
Where flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green
Do bear but vew, so good an' true.

An' when the deäisies be a-press'd
Below her vootsteps waïght, O,
Do seem as if she look'd the best
Ov all in walkèn gaït, O.
Till I do zee her zit upright
Behind the ho'ses neck, O,
A-holdèn wi' the raïn so tight
His tossèn head in check, O,
Where flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green
Do bear but vew, so good an' true.

I wish I had my own free land
To keep a ho'se to ride, O,
I wish I had a ho'se in hand
To ride en at her zide, O.
Vor if I wer as high in rank
As any duke or lord, O,
Or had the goold the richest bank
Can shovel from his horde, O,
I'd love her still, if even then
She wer a leäser in a glen.

HEEDLESS O' MY LOVE.

Oh! I vu'st know'd o' my true love,
As the bright moon up above,
Though her brightness wer my pleasure,
She wer heedless o' my love.
Tho' 'twer all gaÿ to my eyes,
Where her feäir feäce did arise,
She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts,
Than the high moon in the skies.

Oh! I vu'st heärd her a-zingèn,
As a sweet bird on a tree,
Though her zingèn wer my pleasure,
'Twer noo zong she zung to me.
Though her sweet vaïce that wer nigh,
Meäde my wild heart to beat high,
She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts,
Than the birds would passers by.

Oh! I vu'st know'd her a-weepèn,
As a raïn-dimm'd mornèn sky,
Though her teär-draps dimm'd her blushes,
They wer noo draps I could dry.
Ev'ry bright tear that did roll,
Wer a keen païn to my soul,
But noo heärt's pang she did then veel,
Wer vor my words to console.

But the wold times be a-vanish'd,
An' my true love is my bride.
An' her kind heart have a-meäde her.
As an angel at my zide;
I've her best smiles that mid plaÿ,
I've her me'th when she is gaÿ,
When her tear-draps be a-rollèn,
I can now wipe em awaÿ.

THE DO'SET MILITIA.

Hurrah! my lads, vor Do'set men!
A-muster'd here in red ageän;
All welcome to your ranks, a-spread
Up zide to zide, to stand, or wheel,
An' welcome to your files, to head
The steady march wi' tooe to heel;
Welcome to marches slow or quick!
Welcome to gath'rèns thin or thick;
God speed the Colonel on the hill,[D]
An' Mrs Bingham,[E] off o' drill.

When you've a-handled well your lock,
An' flung about your rifle stock
Vrom han' to shoulder, up an' down;
When you've a-lwoaded an' a-vired,
Till you do come back into town,
Wi' all your loppèn limbs a-tired,
An you be dry an' burnèn hot,
Why here's your tea an' coffee pot
At Mister Greenèn's penny till,
Wi' Mrs Bingham off o' drill.

Last year John Hinley's mother cried,
"Why my bwoy John is quite my pride!
Vor he've a-been so good to-year,
An' han't a-mell'd wi' any squabbles,
An' han't a-drown'd his wits in beer,
An' han't a-been in any hobbles.
I never thought he'd turn out bad,
He always wer so good a lad;
But now I'm sure he's better still,
Drough Mrs Bingham, off o' drill."

Jeäne Hart, that's Joey Duntley's chaïce,
Do praise en up wi' her sweet vaïce,
Vor he's so strait's a hollyhock
(Vew hollyhocks be up so tall),
An' he do come so true's the clock
To Mrs Bingham's coffee-stall;
An' Jeäne do write, an' brag o' Joe
To teäke the young recruits in tow,
An' try, vor all their good, to bring em,
A-come from drill, to Mrs Bingham.

God speed the Colonel, toppèn high,
An' officers wi' sworded thigh,
An' all the sargeants that do bawl
All day enough to split their droats,
An' all the corporals, and all
The band a-plaÿèn up their notes,
An' all the men vrom vur an' near
We'll gi'e em all a hearty cheer.
An' then another cheerèn still
Vor Mrs Bingham, off o' drill.

[Footnote D: Poundbury, Dorchester, the drill ground.]

[Footnote E: The colonel's wife, who opened a room with a coffee-stall, and entertainments for the men off drill.]

A DO'SET SALE.

WITH A MISTAKE.

(_Thomas and Mr Auctioneer._)

_T._ Well here, then, Mister auctioneer,
Be theäse the virs, I bought, out here?

_A._ The firs, the fir-poles, you bought? Who?
'Twas _furze_, not _firs_, I sold to you.

_T._ I bid vor _virs_, and not vor _vuzzen_,
Vor vir-poles, as I thought, two dozen.

_A._ Two dozen faggots, and I took
Your bidding for them. Here's the book.

_T._ I wont have what I diddèn buy.
I don't want _vuzzen_, now. Not I.
Why _firs_ an' _furze_ do sound the seäme.
Why don't ye gi'e a thing his neäme?
Aye, _firs_ and _furze_! Why, who can tell
Which 'tis that you do meän to zell?
No, no, be kind enough to call
Em _virs_, and _vuzzen_, then, that's all.

DON'T CEÄRE.

At the feäst, I do mind very well, all the vo'ks
Wer a-took in a happerèn storm,
But we chaps took the maïdens, an' kept em wi' clokes
Under shelter, all dry an' all warm;
An' to my lot vell Jeäne, that's my bride,
That did titter, a-hung at my zide;
Zaid her aunt, "Why the vo'k 'ull talk finely o' you,"
An', cried she, "I don't ceäre if they do."
When the time o' the feäst wer ageän a-come round,
An' the vo'k wer a-gather'd woonce mwore,
Why she guess'd if she went there, she'd soon be a-vound
An' a-took seäfely hwome to her door.
Zaid her mother, "'Tis sure to be wet."
Zaid her cousin, "'T'ull raïn by zunzet."
Zaid her aunt, "Why the clouds there do look black an' blue,"
An' zaid she, "I don't ceäre if they do."

An' at last, when she own'd I mid meäke her my bride,
Vor to help me, an' sheäre all my lot,
An' wi' faïthvulness keep all her life at my zide,
Though my waÿ mid be happy or not.
Zaid her naïghbours, "Why wedlock's a clog,
An' a wife's a-tied up lik' a dog."
Zaid her aunt, "You'll vind trials enough vor to rue,"
An', zaid she, "I don't ceäre if I do."

* * * * *

Now she's married, an' still in the midst ov her tweils
She's as happy's the daylight is long,
She do goo out abroad wi' her feäce vull o' smiles,
An' do work in the house wi' a zong.
An', zays woone, "She don't grieve, you can tell."
Zays another, "Why, don't she look well!"
Zays her aunt, "Why the young vo'k do envy you two,"
An', zays she, "I don't ceäre if they do."

Now vor me I can zing in my business abrode,
Though the storm do beät down on my poll,
There's a wife-brighten'd vier at the end o' my road,
An' her love vor the jaÿ o' my soul.
Out o' door I wi' rogues mid be tried:
Out o' door be brow-beäten wi' pride;
Men mid scowl out o' door, if my wife is but true--
Let em scowl, "I don't ceäre if they do."

CHANGES.

By time's a-brought the mornèn light,
By time the light do weäne;
By time's a-brought the young man's might,
By time his might do weäne;
The Winter snow do whitèn grass,
The zummer flow'rs do brightèn grass,
Vor zome things we do lose wi' païn,
We've mwore that mid be jaÿ to gaïn,
An' my dear life do seem the seäme
While at my zide
There still do bide
Your welcome feäce an' hwomely neäme.

Wï' ev'ry day that woonce come on
I had to choose a jaÿ,
Wi' many that be since a-gone
I had to lose a jaÿ.
Drough longsome years a-wanderèn,
Drough lwonesome rest a-ponderèn,
Woone peaceful daytime wer a-bro't
To heal the heart another smote;
But my dear life do seem the seäme
While I can hear,
A-soundèn near,
Your answ'rèn vaïce an' long-call'd neäme.

An' oh! that hope, when life do dawn,
Should rise to light our waÿ,
An' then, wi' weänèn het withdrawn,
Should soon benight our waÿ.
Whatever mid beval me still,
Wherever chance mid call me still,
Though leäte my evenèn tweil mid cease,
An' though my night mid lose its peace,
My life will seem to me the seäme
While you do sheäre
My daily ceäre,
An' answer to your long-call'd neäme.

KINDNESS.

Good Meäster Collins heärd woone day
A man a-talkèn, that did zay
It woulden answer to be kind,
He thought, to vo'k o' grov'lèn mind,
Vor they would only teäke it wrong,
That you be weak an' they be strong.
"No," cried the goodman, "never mind,
Let vo'k be thankless,--you be kind;
Don't do your good for e'thly ends
At man's own call vor man's amends.
Though souls befriended should remaïn
As thankless as the sea vor raïn,
On them the good's a-lost 'tis true,
But never can be lost to you.
Look on the cool-feäced moon at night
Wi' light-vull ring, at utmost height,
A-castèn down, in gleamèn strokes,
His beams upon the dim-bough'd woaks,
To show the cliff a-risèn steep,
To show the stream a-vallèn deep,
To show where windèn roads do leäd,
An' prickly thorns do ward the meäd.
While sheädes o' boughs do flutter dark
Upon the woak-trees' moon-bright bark.
There in the lewth, below the hill,
The nightèngeäle, wi' ringèn bill,
Do zing among the soft-aïr'd groves,
While up below the house's oves
The maïd, a-lookèn vrom her room
Drough window, in her youthvul bloom,
Do listen, wi' white ears among
Her glossy heäirlocks, to the zong.
If, then, the while the moon do lïght
The lwonesome zinger o' the night,
His cwold-beam'd light do seem to show
The prowlèn owls the mouse below.
What then? Because an evil will,
Ov his sweet good, mid meäke zome ill,
Shall all his feäce be kept behind
The dark-brow'd hills to leäve us blind?"

WITHSTANDERS.

When weakness now do strive wi' might
In struggles ov an e'thly trial,
Might mid overcome the right,
An' truth be turn'd by might's denial;
Withstanders we ha' mwost to feär,
If selfishness do wring us here,
Be souls a-holdèn in their hand,
The might an' riches o' the land.

But when the wicked, now so strong,
Shall stan' vor judgment, peäle as ashes,
By the souls that rued their wrong,
Wi' tears a-hangèn on their lashes--
Then wïthstanders they shall deäre
The leäst ov all to meet wi' there,
Mid be the helpless souls that now
Below their wrongvul might mid bow.

Sweet childern o' the dead, bereft
Ov all their goods by guile an' forgèn;
Souls o' driven sleäves that left
Their weäry limbs a-mark'd by scourgèn;
They that God ha' call'd to die
Vor truth ageän the worold's lie,
An' they that groan'd an' cried in vaïn,
A-bound by foes' unrighteous chaïn.

The maïd that selfish craft led on
To sin, an' left wi' hope a-blighted;
Starvèn workmen, thin an' wan,
Wi' hopeless leäbour ill requited;
Souls a-wrong'd, an' call'd to vill
Wi' dread, the men that us'd em ill.
When might shall yield to right as pliant
As a dwarf avore a giant.

When there, at last, the good shall glow
In starbright bodies lik' their Seäviour,
Vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show,
The marks o' man's unkind beheäviour:
Wi' speechless tongue, an' burnèn cheak,
The strong shall bow avore the weäk,
An' vind that helplessness, wi' right,
Is strong beyond all e'thly might.

DANIEL DWITHEN, THE WISE CHAP.

Dan Dwithen wer the chap to show
His naïghbours mwore than they did know,
Vor he could zee, wi' half a thought,
What zome could hardly be a-taught;
An' he had never any doubt
Whatever 'twer, but he did know't,
An' had a-reach'd the bottom o't,
Or soon could meäke it out.

Wi' narrow feäce, an' nose so thin
That light a'most shone drough the skin,
As he did talk, wi' his red peäir
O' lips, an' his vull eyes did steäre,
What nippy looks friend Daniel wore,
An' how he smiled as he did bring
Such reasons vor to clear a thing,
As dather'd vo'k the mwore!

When woonce there come along the road
At night, zome show-vo'k, wi' a lwoad
Ov half the wild outlandïsh things
That crawl'd, or went wi' veet, or wings;
Their elephant, to stratch his knees,
Walk'd up the road-zide turf, an' left
His tracks a-zunk wi' all his heft
As big's a vinny cheese.

An' zoo next mornèn zome vo'k vound
The girt round tracks upon the ground,
An' view'd em all wi' stedvast eyes,
An' wi' their vingers spann'd their size,
An' took their depth below the brink:
An' whether they mid be the tracks
O' things wi' witches on their backs,
Or what, they coulden think.

At last friend Dan come up, an' brought
His wit to help their dizzy thought,
An' lookèn on an' off the ea'th,
He cried, a-drawèn a vull breath,
Why, I do know; what, can't ye zee 't?
I'll bet a shillèn 'twer a deer
Broke out o' park, an' sprung on here,
Wi' quoits upon his veet.

TURNÈN THINGS OFF.

Upzides wi' Polly! no, he'd vind
That Poll would soon leäve him behind.
To turn things off! oh! she's too quick
To be a-caught by ev'ry trick.
Woone day our Jimmy stole down steäirs
On merry Polly unaweäres,
The while her nimble tongue did run
A-tellèn, all alive wi' fun,
To sister Anne, how Simon Heäre
Did hanker after her at feäir.
"He left," cried Polly, "cousin Jeäne,
An' kept wi' us all down the leäne,
An' which way ever we did leäd
He vollow'd over hill an' meäd;
An' wi' his head o' shaggy heäir,
An' sleek brown cwoat that he do weäre,
An' collar that did reach so high
'S his two red ears, or perty nigh,
He swung his täil, wi' steps o' pride,
Back right an' left, vrom zide to zide,
A-walkèn on, wi' heavy strides
A half behind, an' half upzides."
"Who's that?" cried Jimmy, all agog;
An' thought he had her now han'-pat,
"That's Simon Heäre," but no, "Who's that?"
Cried she at woonce, "Why Uncle's dog,
Wi' what have you a-been misled
I wonder. Tell me what I zaid."
Woone evenèn as she zot bezide
The wall the ranglèn vine do hide,
A-prattlèn on, as she did zend
Her needle, at her vinger's end.
On drough the work she had in hand,
Zome bran-new thing that she'd a-plann'd,
Jim overheärd her talk ageän
O' Robin Hine, ov Ivy Leäne,
"Oh! no, what he!" she cried in scorn,
"I wouldèn gie a penny vor'n;
The best ov him's outzide in view;
His cwoat is gaÿ enough, 'tis true,
But then the wold vo'k didden bring
En up to know a single thing,
An' as vor zingèn,--what do seem
His zingèn's nothèn but a scream."
"So ho!" cried Jim, "Who's that, then, Meäry,
That you be now a-talkèn o'?"
He thought to catch her then, but, no,
Cried Polly, "Oh! why Jeäne's caneäry,
Wi' what have you a-been misled,
I wonder. Tell me what I zaid."

THE GIANTS IN TREÄDES.

GRAMFER'S FEÄBLE.

(_How the steam engine come about._)

_Vier, Aïr, E'th, Water_, wer a-meäde
Good workers, each o'm in his treäde,
An' _Aïr_ an' _Water_, wer a-match
Vor woone another in a mill;
The giant _Water_ at a hatch,
An' _Aïr_ on the windmill hill.
Zoo then, when _Water_ had a-meäde
Zome money, _Äir_ begrudg'd his treäde,
An' come by, unaweäres woone night,
An' vound en at his own mill-head,
An' cast upon en, iron-tight,
An icy cwoat so stiff as lead.
An' there he wer so good as dead
Vor grindèn any corn vor bread.
Then _Water_ cried to _Vier_, "Alack!
Look, here be I, so stiff's a log,
Thik fellor _Aïr_ do keep me back
Vrom grindèn. I can't wag a cog.
If I, dear _Vier_, did ever souse
Your nimble body on a house,
When you wer on your merry pranks
Wi' thatch or refters, beams or planks,
Vorgi'e me, do, in pity's neäme,
Vor 'twerden I that wer to bleäme,
I never wagg'd, though I be'nt cringèn,
Till men did dreve me wi' their engine.
Do zet me free vrom theäse cwold jacket,
Vor I myzelf shall never crack it."
"Well come," cried _Vier_, "My vo'k ha' meäde
An engine that 'ull work your treäde.
If _E'th_ is only in the mood,
While I do work, to gi'e me food,
I'll help ye, an' I'll meäke your skill
A match vor Mister _Aïr's_ wold mill."
"What food," cried _E'th_, "'ull suit your bwoard?"
"Oh! trust me, I ben't over nice,"
Cried _Vier_, "an' I can eat a slice
Ov any thing you can avword."
"I've lots," cried _E'th_, "ov coal an' wood."
"Ah! that's the stuff," cried _Vier_, "that's good."
Zoo _Vier_ at woonce to _Water_ cried,
"Here, _Water_, here, you get inside
O' theäse girt bwoiler. Then I'll show
How I can help ye down below,
An' when my work shall woonce begin
You'll be a thousand times so strong,
An' be a thousand times so long
An' big as when you vu'st got in.
An' I wull meäke, as sure as death,
Thik fellor _Aïr_ to vind me breath,
An' you shall grind, an' pull, an' dreve,
An' zaw, an' drash, an' pump, an' heave,
An' get vrom _Aïr_, in time, I'll lay
A pound, the drevèn ships at sea."
An' zoo 'tis good to zee that might
Wull help a man a-wrong'd, to right.

THE LITTLE WOROLD.

My hwome wer on the timber'd ground
O' Duncombe, wi' the hills a-bound:
Where vew from other peärts did come,
An' vew did travel vur from hwome,
An' small the worold I did know;
But then, what had it to bestow
But Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir?
'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

In our deep hollow where the zun
Did eärly leäve the smoky tun,
An' all the meäds a-growèn dim,
Below the hill wi' zunny rim;
Oh! small the land the hills did bound,
But there did walk upon the ground
Young Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir:
'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

O' leäte upon the misty plaïn
I staÿ'd vor shelter vrom the raïn,
Where sharp-leav'd ashès' heads did twist
In hufflèn wind, an' driftèn mist,
An' small the worold I could zee;
But then it had below the tree
My Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir:
'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

An' I've a house wi' thatchen ridge,
Below the elems by the bridge:
Wi' small-peän'd windows, that do look
Upon a knap, an' ramblèn brook;
An' small's my house, my ruf is low,
But then who mid it have to show
But Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir?
'Tis fine enough if peace is there.

BAD NEWS.

I do mind when there broke bitter tidèns,
Woone day, on their ears,
An' their souls wer a-smote wi' a stroke
As the lightnèn do vall on the woak,
An' the things that wer bright all around em
Seem'd dim drough their tears.

Then unheeded wer things in their vingers,
Their grief wer their all.
All unheeded wer zongs o' the birds,
All unheeded the child's perty words,
All unheeded the kitten a-rollèn
The white-threaded ball.

Oh! vor their minds the daylight around em
Had nothèn to show.
Though it brighten'd their tears as they vell,
An' did sheen on their lips that did tell,
In their vaïces all thrillèn an' mwoansome,
O' nothèn but woe.

But they vound that, by Heavenly mercy,
The news werden true;
An' they shook, wi' low laughter, as quick
As a drum when his blows do vall thick,
An' wer eärnest in words o' thanksgivèn,
Vor mercies anew.

THE TURNSTILE.

Ah! sad wer we as we did peäce
The wold church road, wi' downcast feäce,
The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep
Above our child a-left asleep,
Wer now a-zingèn all alive
Wi' tother bells to meäke the vive.
But up at woone pleäce we come by,
'Twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry:
On Steän-cliff road, 'ithin the drong,
Up where, as vo'k do pass along,
The turnèn stile, a-païnted white,
Do sheen by day an' show by night.
Vor always there, as we did goo
To church, thik stile did let us drough,
Wi' spreadèn eärms that wheel'd to guide
Us each in turn to tother zide.
An' vu'st ov all the traïn he took
My wife, wi' winsome gaït an' look;
An' then zent on my little maïd,
A-skippèn onward, overjaÿ'd
To reach ageän the pleäce o' pride,
Her comely mother's left han' zide.
An' then, a-wheelèn roun', he took
On me, 'ithin his third white nook.
An' in the fourth, a-sheäkèn wild,
He zent us on our giddy child.
But eesterday he guided slow
My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe,
An' then my little maïd in black,
A-walkèn softly on her track;
An' after he'd a-turn'd ageän,
To let me goo along the leäne,
He had noo little bwoy to vill
His last white eärms, an' they stood still.

THE BETTER VOR ZEÈN O' YOU.

'Twer good what Meäster Collins spoke
O' spite to two poor spitevul vo'k,
When woone twold tother o' the two
"I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."
If soul to soul, as Christians should,
Would always try to do zome good,
"How vew," he cried, "would zee our feäce
A-brighten'd up wi' smiles o' greäce,
An' tell us, or could tell us true,
I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."

A man mus' be in evil ceäse
To live 'ithin a land o' greäce,
Wi' nothèn that a soul can read
O' goodness in his word or deed;
To still a breast a-heav'd wi' sighs,
Or dry the tears o' weepèn eyes;
To staÿ a vist that spite ha' wrung,
Or cool the het ov anger's tongue:
Or bless, or help, or gi'e, or lend;
Or to the friendless stand a friend,
An' zoo that all could tell en true,
"I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."

Oh! no, mid all o's try to spend
Our passèn time to zome good end,
An' zoo vrom day to day teäke heed,
By mind, an' han', by word or deed;
To lessen evil, and increase
The growth o' righteousness an' peäce,
A-speakèn words o' lovèn-kindness,
Openèn the eyes o' blindness;
Helpèn helpless striver's weakness,
Cheerèn hopeless grievers' meekness,
Meäkèn friends at every meetèn,
Veel the happier vor their greetèn;
Zoo that vew could tell us true,
"I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."
No, let us even try to win
Zome little good vrom sons o' sin,
An' let their evils warn us back
Vrom teäkèn on their hopeless track,
Where we mid zee so clear's the zun
That harm a-done is harm a-won,
An' we mid cry an' tell em true,
"I be even the better vor zeèn o' you."

PITY.

Good Meäster Collins! aye, how mild he spoke
Woone day o' Mercy to zome cruel vo'k.
"No, no. Have Mercy on a helpless head,
An' don't be cruel to a zoul," he zaid.
"When Babylon's king woonce cast 'ithin
The viery furnace, in his spite,
The vetter'd souls whose only sin
Wer praÿer to the God o' might,
He vound a fourth, 'ithout a neäme,
A-walkèn wi' em in the fleäme.

An' zoo, whenever we mid hurt,
Vrom spite, or vrom disdaïn,
A brother's soul, or meäke en smert
Wi' keen an' needless païn,
Another that we midden know
Is always wi' en in his woe.
Vor you do know our Lord ha' cried,
"By faïth my bretheren do bide
In me the livèn vine,
As branches in a livèn tree;
Whatever you've a-done to mine
Is all a-done to me.
Oh! when the new-born child, the e'th's new guest,
Do lie an' heave his little breast,
In pillow'd sleep, wi' sweetest breath
O' sinless days drough rwosy lips a-drawn;
Then, if a han' can smite en in his dawn
O' life to darksome death,
Oh! where can Pity ever vwold
Her wings o' swiftness vrom their holy flight,
To leäve a heart o' flesh an' blood so cwold
At such a touchèn zight?
An' zoo mid meek-soul'd Pity still
Be zent to check our evil will,
An' keep the helpless soul from woe,
An' hold the hardened heart vrom sin.
Vor they that can but mercy show
Shall all their Father's mercy win."

JOHN BLOOM IN LON'ON.

(_All true._)

John Bloom he wer a jolly soul,
A grinder o' the best o' meal,
Bezide a river that did roll,
Vrom week to week, to push his wheel.
His flour wer all a-meäde o' wheat;
An' fit for bread that vo'k mid eat;
Vor he would starve avore he'd cheat.
"'Tis pure," woone woman cried;
"Aye, sure," woone mwore replied;
"You'll vind it nice. Buy woonce, buy twice,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

Athirt the chest he wer so wide
As two or dree ov me or you.
An' wider still vrom zide to zide,
An' I do think still thicker drough.
Vall down, he coulden, he did lie
When he wer up on-zide so high
As up on-end or perty nigh.
"Meäke room," woone naïghbour cried;
"'Tis Bloom," woone mwore replied;
"Good morn t'ye all, bwoth girt an' small,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

Noo stings o' conscience ever broke
His rest, a-twitèn o'n wi' wrong,
Zoo he did sleep till mornèn broke,
An' birds did call en wi' their zong.
But he did love a harmless joke,
An' love his evenèn whiff o' smoke,
A-zittèn in his cheäir o' woak.
"Your cup," his daughter cried;
"Vill'd up," his wife replied;
"Aye, aye; a drap avore my nap,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

When Lon'on vok did meäke a show
O' their girt glassen house woone year,
An' people went, bwoth high an' low,
To zee the zight, vrom vur an' near,
"O well," cried Bloom, "why I've a right
So well's the rest to zee the zight;
I'll goo, an' teäke the raïl outright."
"Your feäre," the booker cried;
"There, there," good Bloom replied;
"Why this June het do meäke woone zweat,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller,

Then up the guard did whissle sh'ill,
An' then the engine pank'd a-blast,
An' rottled on so loud's a mill,
Avore the traïn, vrom slow to vast.
An' oh! at last how they did spank
By cuttèn deep, an' high-cast bank
The while their iron ho'se did pank.
"Do whizzy," woone o'm cried;
"I'm dizzy," woone replied;
"Aye, here's the road to hawl a lwoad,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

In Lon'on John zent out to call
A tidy trap, that he mid ride
To zee the glassen house, an' all
The lot o' things a-stow'd inside.
"Here, Boots, come here," cried he, "I'll dab
A sixpence in your han' to nab
Down street a tidy little cab."
"A feäre," the boots then cried;
"I'm there," the man replied.
"The glassen pleäce, your quickest peäce,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

The steps went down wi' rottlèn slap,
The zwingèn door went open wide:
Wide? no; vor when the worthy chap
Stepp'd up to teäke his pleäce inside,
Breast-foremost, he wer twice too wide
Vor thik there door. An' then he tried
To edge in woone an' tother zide.
"'Twont do," the drever cried;
"Can't goo," good Bloom replied;
"That you should bring theäse vooty thing!"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

"Come," cried the drever. "Pay your feäre
You'll teäke up all my time, good man."
"Well," answer'd Bloom, "to meäke that square,
You teäke up me, then, if you can."
"I come at call," the man did nod.
"What then?" cried Bloom, "I han't a-rod,
An' can't in thik there hodmadod."
"Girt lump," the drever cried;
"Small stump," good Bloom replied;
"A little mite, to meäke so light,
O' jolly Bloom the miller."

"You'd best be off now perty quick,"
Cried Bloom. "an' vind a lighter lwoad,
Or else I'll vetch my voot, an' kick
The vooty thing athirt the road."
"Who is the man?" they cried, "meäke room,"
"A halfstarv'd Do'set man," cried Bloom;
"You be?" another cried;
"Hee! Hee!" woone mwore replied.
"Aye, shrunk so thin, to bwone an' skin,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

A LOT O' MAÏDENS A-RUNNÈN THE VIELDS.[F]

"Come on. Be sprack, a-laggèn back."
"Oh! be there any cows to hook?"
"Lauk she's afraïd, a silly maïd,"
Cows? No, the cows be down by brook.
"O here then, oh! here is a lot."
"A lot o' what? what is it? what?"
"Why blackberries, as thick
As ever they can stick."
"I've dewberries, oh! twice
As good as they; so nice."
"Look here. Theäse boughs be all but blue
Wi' snags."
"Oh! gi'e me down a vew."
"Come here, oh! do but look."
"What's that? what is it now?"
"Why nuts a-slippèn shell."
"Hee! hee! pull down the bough."
"I wish I had a crook."
"There zome o'm be a-vell."
(_One sings_)
"I wish I was on Bimport Hill
I would zit down and cry my vill."
"Hee! hee! there's Jenny zomewhere nigh,
A-zingèn that she'd like to cry."

(_Jenny sings_)
"I would zit down and cry my vill
Until my tears would dreve a mill."
"Oh! here's an ugly crawlèn thing,
A sneäke." "A slooworm; he wont sting."
"Hee! hee! how she did squal an' hop,
A-spinnèn roun' so quick's a top."
"Look here, oh! quick, be quick."
"What is it? what then? where?"
"A rabbit." "No, a heäre."
"Ooh! ooh! the thorns do prick,"
"How he did scote along the ground
As if he wer avore a hound."
"Now mind the thistles." "Hee, hee, hee,
Why they be knapweeds."
"No." "They be."
"I've zome'hat in my shoe."
"Zit down, an' sheäke it out."
"Oh! emmets, oh! ooh, ooh,
A-crawlèn all about."
"What bird is that, O harken, hush.
How sweetly he do zing."
"A nightingeäle." "La! no, a drush."
"Oh! here's a funny thing."
"Oh! how the bull do hook,
An' bleäre, an' fling the dirt."
"Oh! wont he come athirt?"
"No, he's beyond the brook."
"O lauk! a hornet rose
Up clwose avore my nose."
"Oh! what wer that so white
Rush'd out o' thik tree's top?"
"An owl." "How I did hop,
How I do sheäke wi' fright."
"A musheroom." "O lau!
A twoadstool! Pwoison! Augh."
"What's that, a mouse?"
"O no,
Teäke ceäre, why 'tis a shrow."
"Be sure don't let en come
An' run athirt your shoe
He'll meäke your voot so numb
That you wont veel a tooe."[G]
"Oh! what wer that so loud
A-rumblèn?" "Why a clap
O' thunder. Here's a cloud
O' raïn. I veel a drap."
"A thunderstorm. Do raïn.
Run hwome wi' might an' main."
"Hee! hee! oh! there's a drop
A-trïckled down my back. Hee! hee!"
"My head's as wet's a mop."
"Oh! thunder," "there's a crack. Oh! Oh!"
"Oh! I've a-got the stitch, Oh!"
"Oh! I've a-lost my shoe, Oh!"
"There's Fanny into ditch, Oh!"
"I'm wet all drough an' drough, Oh!"

[Footnote F: The idea, though but little of the substance, of this poem, will be found in a little Italian poem called _Caccia_, written by Franco Sacchetti.]

[Footnote G: The folklore is, that if a shrew-mouse run over a person's foot, it will lame him.]

* * * * *

A LIST OF SOME DORSET WORDS

WITH A FEW HINTS ON DORSET WORD-SHAPES.

THE MAIN SOUNDS.

1. _ee_ in beet.
2. _e_ in Dorset (a sound between 1 and 3.)
3. _a_ in mate.
4. _i_ in birth.
5. _a_ in father.
6. _aw_ in awe.
7. _o_ in dote.
8. _oo_ in rood.

In Dorset words which are forms of book-English ones, the Dorset words differ from the others mainly by Grimm's law, that "likes shift into likes," and I have given a few hints by which the putting of an English heading for the Dorset one will give the English word. If the reader is posed by _dreaten_, he may try for _dr_, _thr_, which will bring out _threaten_. See _Dr_ under _D_.

A.

_a_ in father, and _au_ in daughter are, in "Blackmore," often _a_ = 3.
So king Alfred gives a legacy to his _yldsta dehter_--oldest daehter.
_a_ is a fore-eking to participles of a fore time, as _a-vound_;
also for the Anglo-Saxon _an_, _in_ or _on_,
as _a-huntèn_ for _an huntunge_.
_aï_, _aÿ_ (5, 1), Maïd, Maÿ.
(_Note_--The numbers (as 5, 1) refer to the foregiven table.)
_ag_, often for _eg_, as bag, agg, beg, egg.

_Anewst_, _Anighst_, very near, or nearly.

_A'r a_, ever a, as.

_A'r a dog_, ever a dog.

_Amper_, pus.

_A'r'n_, e'er a one.

_A-stooded_ (as a waggon), with wheels sunk fast into rotten ground.

_A-stogged_, _A-stocked_, with feet stuck fast in clay.

_A-strout_, stiff stretched.

_A-thirt_, athwart (_th_ soft).

_A-vore_, afore, before.

_Ax_, ask.

_Axan_, ashes (of fire).

_A-zew_, dry, milkless.

B.

_Backbran' (brand)_, _Backbron' (brond)_, A big brand or block of wood
put on the back of the fire.

_Ballywrag_, scold.

_Bandy_, a long stick with a bent end to beat abroad cow-dung.

_Barken_, _Barton_, a stack-yard or cow yard.

_Bavèn_, a faggot of long brushwood.

_Beä'nhan'_ (1, 3, 5), bear in hand, uphold or maintain, as an opinion
or otherwise.

_Beät_ (1, 4), _up_, to beat one's way up.

_Bennets_, flower-stalks of grass.

_Be'th_, birth.

_Bibber_, to shake with cold.
[This is a Friesic and not an Anglo-Saxon form of the word, and
Halbertsma, in his "Lexicon Frisicum," gives it, among others,
as a token that Frisians came into Wessex with the Saxons.
_See_ Eltrot.]

_Bissen_, thou bist not.

_Bittle_, a beetle.

_Blatch_, black stuff; smut.

_Blather_, a bladder.

_Bleäre_ (1, 3), to low as a cow.

_Blind-buck o' Davy_, blindman's buff.

_Bloodywarrior_, the ruddy Stock gilliflower.

_Blooèns_, blossoms.

_Blooth_, blossom in the main.

_Bluevinny_, blue mouldy.

_Brack_, a breach. "Neither brack nor crack in it."

_Bran'_, a brand.

_Brantèn_, brazen-faced.

_Bring-gwaïn_ (Bring-going), to bring one on his way.

_Brocks_, broken pieces (as of food).

_Bron'_, a brand.

_Bruckly_, _Bruckle_, brittle.

_Bundle_, to bound off; go away quickly.

_Bu'st_, burst.

C.

_Caddle_, a muddle; a puzzling plight amid untoward things, such that
a man knows not what to do first.

_Car_, to carry.

_Cassen_, _casn_, canst not.

_Chanker_, a wide chink.

_Charlick_, _charlock_, field-mustard; _Sinapis arvensis_.

_Charm_, a noise as of many voices.

_Choor_, _a chare_, a (weekly) job as of house work.

_Chuck_, to throw underhanded to a point, or for a catch.

_Clack_, _Clacker_, a bird-clacker; a bird-boy's clacking tool,
to fray away birds; also the tongue.

_Clavy_, _Clavy-bwoard_, the mantel-shelf.

_Clèden_, cleavers, goosegrass; _Galium aparine._

_Clips_, to clasp.

_Clitty_, clingy.

_Clocks_, ornaments on the ankles of stockings.

_Clom'_, clomb, climbed.

_Clote_, the yellow water-lily; _Nuphar lutea_.

_Clout_, a blow with the flat hand.

_Clum_, to handle clumsily.

_Cluster o' vive_ (cluster of five), the fist or hand with its five
fingers; wording taken from a cluster of nuts.

_Cockle_, _Cuckle_, the bur of the burdock.

_Cockleshell_, snail shell.

_Colepexy_, to glean the few apples left on the tree after intaking.

_Coll_ (7), to embrace the neck.

_Conker_, the hip, or hep; the fruit of the briar.

_Cothe_, _coath_ (_th_ soft), a disease of sheep, the
plaice or flook, a flat worm _Distoma nepaticum_ in the stomach.

_Cou'den_, could not.

_Coussen_, _Coossen_, _coosn_, couldest not.

_Craze_, to crack a little.

_Critch_, a big pitcher.

_Crock_, an iron cooking-pot.

_Croodle_, to crow softly.

_Croop_, _Croopy-down_, to bend down the body; to stoop very low.

_Crope_, crept.

_Crowshell_, shell of the fresh-water mussel, as taken out of the
river for food by crows.

_Cubby-hole_, _Cubby-house_, between the father's knees.

_Culver_, the wood pigeon.

_Cutty_, _Cut_, the kittywren.

_Cweïn_, _Cwoïn_, (4, 1) coin.

_Cwoffer_ (8, 4, 4), a coffer.

D.

_Dadder_, _dather_, _dudder_, to maze or bewilder.

_Dag_, _childag_, a chilblain.

_Dake_, to ding or push forth.

_Daps_, the very likeness, as that of a cast from the same mould.

_Dather_, see _Dadder_.

_Dent_, a dint.

_Dewberry_, a big kind of blackberry.

_Dibs_, coins; but truly, the small knee bones of a sheep used in the
game of Dibs.

_Didden (didn)_, did not.

_Do_, the _o_, when not under a strain of voice, is (4) as _e_ in 'the man'
or as _e_ in the French _le_.

_Dod_, a dump.

_Dogs_, andirons.

_Don_, to put on.

_Doust_, dust.

_dr_ for _thr_ in some words, as Drash, thresh.

_Drashel_, threshold.

_Dreaten_, threaten.

_Dree_, three.

_Dringe_, _Drunge_, to throng; push as in a throng.

_Droat_, throat.

_Drong_, throng; also a narrow way.

_Drough_, through.

_Drow_, throw.

_Drub_, throb.

_Drush_, thrush.

_Drust_, thrust.

_Drean_, _Drène_ (2), to drawl.

_Drève_ (2), drive.

_Duck_, a darkening, dusk.

_Dumbledore_, the humble bee.

_Dummet_, dusk.

_Dunch_, dull of hearing, or mind.

_Dunch-nettle_, the dead nettle, _Lamium_.

_Dunch-pudden_, pudding of bare dough.

_Dungpot_, a dungcart.

_Dunt_, to blunten as an edge or pain.

_Durns_, the side posts of a door.

E.

long itself alone has mostly the Dorset sound (2.)

_eä_ (1, 4) for _ea_, with the _a_ unsounded as lead, mead, leäd, meäd.

_eä_ (1, 3) for the long _a_, 3, as in lade, made, leäde, meäde.

_ea_ of one sound (2) as meat.

_e_ is put in before s after st, as nestes, nests, vistes, fists.

The two sundry soundings of _ea_ 2 and 3 do not go by our spelling
_ea_ for both, but have come from earlier forms of the words.

After a roof letter it may stay as it is, a roof letter, as madden,
madd'n; rotten, rott'n. So with _en_ for him, tell en, tell'n.

The _en_ sometimes at the end of words means not, as bisse'n, bist not;
coust'en, cous'n, could'st not; I didd'n, I did not; diss'n, didst not;
hadd'n, had not; muss'n, must not; midd'n, mid not;
should'n, should not; 'tis'n, 'tis not; would'n, would not.

_en_--not _èn_--in Dorset, as well as in book English, as an ending of
some kinds of words often, in running talk, loses the _e_, and in
some cases shifts into a sound of the kind of the one close before it.
After a lip-letter it becomes a lip-letter _m_, as Rub en, Rub-him;
rub'n, rub'm; oven, ov'm; open, op'n op'm, in Dorset mostly oben,
ob'n, ob'm. So after _f'_, deafen, deaf'n, deaf m, heaven, heav'n,
heav'm, in Dorset sometimes heab'm. zeven, zeb'n, zeb'm.
After a throat-letter it becomes a throat one, _ng_, as token,
tok'n, tok'ng.

_[=e]_ (2).

_Eegrass_, aftermath.

_Eltrot_, Eltroot, cowparsley (_Myrrhis_). [Elt is Freisic, robustus,
vegetus, as cowparsley is among other kinds.] _See_ Bibber.

_Emmet_, an ant.

_Emmetbut_, an anthill.

_En_, him; A.-Saxon, _hine_.

_Èn_, for ing, zingèn, singing.

_Eve_, to become wet as a cold stone floor from thickened steam in
some weather.

_Evet_, eft, newt.

_Exe_, an axle.

F.

_Fakket_, a faggot.

_Fall_, autumn; to fall down is _vall_.

_Faÿ_ (5, 1) to speed, succeed.

_Feäst_ (1, 4), a village wake or festival; _festa_.

_Flag_, a water plant.

_Flinders_, flying pieces of a body smashed; "Hit it all to flinders."

_Flounce_, a flying fall as into water.

_Flout_, a flinging, or blow of one.

_Flush_, fledged.

_Footy_, unhandily little.

G.

_Gally_, to frighten, fray.

_Gee_, _jee_, to go, fit, speed.

_Giddygander_, the meadow orchis.

_Gil'cup_, gilt cup, the buttercup.

_Girt_, great.

_Gl[=e]ne_ (2), to smile sneeringly.

_Glutch_, to swallow.

_Gnang_, to mock one with jaw waggings, and noisy sounds.

_Gnot_, a gnat.

_Goo_, go.

_Goocoo flower_, _Cardamine pratensis_.