Chapter I: Got Two Vields (2)

Zoo, wi' the ladder vrom the rick,
We stole towards the house,
An' crope in roun' behind en, lik'
A cat upon a mouse.
Then, lookèn roun', Dick whisper'd "How
Is theäse job to be done, min:
Why we do want a faggot now,
Vor stoppèn up the tun, min."

"Stan' still," I answer'd; "I'll teäke ceäre
O' that: why dussen zee
The little grindèn stwone out there,
Below the apple-tree?
Put up the ladder; in a crack
Shalt zee that I wull run, min,
An' teäke en up upon my back,
An' soon stop up the tun, min."

Zoo up I clomb upon the thatch,
An' clapp'd en on; an' slided
Right down ageän, an' run drough hatch,
Behind the hedge, an' hided.
The vier that wer clear avore,
Begun to spweil their fun, min;
The smoke all roll'd toward the door,
Vor I'd a-stopp'd the tun, min.

The maïdens cough'd or stopp'd their breath,
The men did hauk an' spet;
The wold vo'k bundled out from he'th
Wi' eyes a-runnèn wet.
"'T'ool choke us all," the wold man cried,
"Whatever's to be done, min?
Why zome'hat is a-vell inside
O' chimney drough the tun, min."

Then out they scamper'd all, vull run,
An' out cried Tom, "I think
The grindèn-stwone is up on tun,
Vor I can zee the wink.
This is some kindness that the vo'k
At Woodley have a-done, min;
I wish I had em here, I'd poke
Their numskulls down the tun, min."

Then off he zet, an' come so quick
'S a lamplighter, an' brote
The little ladder in vrom rick,
To clear the chimney's droat.
While I, a-chucklèn at the joke,
A-slided down, to run, min,
To hidelock, had a-left the vo'k
As bad as na'r a tun, min.

GRAMMER'S SHOES.

I do seem to zee Grammer as she did use
Vor to show us, at Chris'mas, her weddèn shoes,
An' her flat spreadèn bonnet so big an' roun'
As a girt pewter dish a-turn'd upside down;
When we all did draw near
In a cluster to hear
O' the merry wold soul how she did use
To walk an' to dance wi' her high-heel shoes.

She'd a gown wi' girt flowers lik' hollyhocks,
An' zome stockèns o' gramfer's a-knit wì' clocks,
An' a token she kept under lock an' key,--
A small lock ov his heäir off avore 't wer grey.
An' her eyes wer red,
An' she shook her head,
When we'd all a-look'd at it, an' she did use
To lock it away wi' her weddèn shoes.

She could tell us such teäles about heavy snows,
An' o' raïns an' o' floods when the waters rose
All up into the housen, an' carr'd awoy
All the bridge wi' a man an' his little bwoy;
An' o' vog an' vrost,
An' o' vo'k a-lost,
An' o' peärties at Chris'mas, when she did use
Vor to walk hwome wi' gramfer in high-heel shoes.

Ev'ry Chris'mas she lik'd vor the bells to ring,
An' to have in the zingers to heär em zing
The wold carols she heärd many years a-gone,
While she warm'd em zome cider avore the bron';
An' she'd look an' smile
At our dancèn, while
She did tell how her friends now a-gone did use
To reely wi' her in their high-heel shoes.

Ah! an' how she did like vor to deck wi' red
Holly-berries the window an' wold clock's head,
An' the clavy wi' boughs o' some bright green leaves,
An' to meäke twoast an' eäle upon Chris'mas eves;
But she's now, drough greäce,
In a better pleäce,
Though we'll never vorget her, poor soul, nor lose
Gramfer's token ov heäir, nor her weddèn shoes.

ZUNSHEEN IN THE WINTER.

The winter clouds, that long did hide
The zun, be all a-blown azide,
An' in the light, noo longer dim,
Do sheen the ivy that do clim'
The tower's zide an' elem's stim;
An' holmen bushes, in between
The leafless thorns, be bright an' green
To zunsheen o' the winter.

The trees, that yesterday did twist
In wind's a-drevèn raïn an' mist,
Do now drow sheädes out, long an' still;
But roarèn watervals do vill
Their whirlèn pools below the hill,
Where, wi' her païl upon the stile,
A-gwaïn a-milkèn Jeäne do smile
To zunsheen o' the winter.

The birds do sheäke, wi' plaÿsome skips,
The raïn-drops off the bushes' tips,
A-chirripèn wi' merry sound;
While over all the grassy ground
The wind's a-whirlèn round an' round
So softly, that the day do seem
Mwore lik' a zummer in a dream,
Than zunsheen in the winter.

The wold vo'k now do meet abrode,
An' tell o' winter's they've a-know'd;
When snow wer long above the groun',
Or floods broke all the bridges down,
Or wind unheal'd a half the town,--
The teäles o' wold times long a-gone,
But ever dear to think upon,
The zunsheen o' their winter.

Vor now to them noo brook can run,
Noo hill can feäce the winter zun,
Noo leaves can vall, noo flow'rs can feäde,
Noo snow can hide the grasses bleäde,
Noo vrost can whiten in the sheäde,
Noo day can come, but what do bring
To mind ageän their early spring,
That's now a-turn'd to winter.

THE WEEPEN LEADY.

When, leäte o' nights, above the green
By thik wold house, the moon do sheen,
A leädy there, a-hangèn low
Her head, 's a-walkèn to an' fro
In robes so white's the driven snow,
Wi' woone eärm down, while woone do rest
All lily-white athirt the breast
O' thik poor weepèn leädy.

The whirlèn wind an' whis'lèn squall
Do sheäke the ivy by the wall,
An' meäke the plyèn tree-tops rock,
But never ruffle her white frock;
An' slammèn door an' rattlèn lock,
That in thik empty house do sound,
Do never seem to meäke look round
Thik ever downcast leädy.

A leädy, as the teäle do goo,
That woonce liv'd there, an' lov'd too true,
Wer by a young man cast azide.
A mother sad, but not a bride;
An' then her father, in his pride
An' anger, offer'd woone o' two
Vull bitter things to undergoo
To thik poor weepèn leädy:

That she herzelf should leäve his door,
To darken it ageän noo mwore;
Or that her little plaÿsome chile,
A-zent away a thousand mile,
Should never meet her eyes to smile
An' plaÿ ageän; till she, in sheäme,
Should die an' leäve a tarnish'd neäme,
A sad vorseäken leädy.

"Let me be lost," she cried, "the while
I do but know vor my poor chile;"
An' left the hwome ov all her pride,
To wander drough the worold wide,
Wi' grief that vew but she ha' tried:
An' lik' a flow'r a blow ha' broke,
She wither'd wi' the deadly stroke,
An' died a weepèn leädy.

An' she do keep a-comèn on
To zee her father dead an' gone,
As if her soul could have noo rest
Avore her teäry cheäk's a-prest
By his vorgivèn kiss. Zoo blest
Be they that can but live in love,
An' vind a pleäce o' rest above
Unlik' the weepèn leädy.

THE HAPPY DAYS WHEN I WER YOUNG.

In happy days when I wer young,
An' had noo ho, an' laugh'd an' zung,
The maïd wer merry by her cow,
An' men wer merry wi' the plough;
But never talk'd, at hwome or out
O' doors, o' what's a-talk'd about
By many now,--that to despise
The laws o' God an' man is wise.
Wi' daïly health, an' daïly bread,
An' thatch above their shelter'd head,
They velt noo fear, an' had noo spite,
To keep their eyes awake at night;
But slept in peace wi' God on high
An' man below, an' fit to die.

O' grassy meäd an' woody nook,
An' waters o' the windèn brook,
That sprung below the vu'st dark sky
That raïn'd, to run till seas be dry;
An' hills a-stannèn on while all
The works o' man do rise an' vall;
An' trees the toddlèn child do vind
At vu'st, an' leäve at last behind;
I wish that you could now unvwold
The peace an' jäy o' times o' wold;
An' tell, when death do still my tongue,
O' happy days when I wer young.
Vrom where wer all this venom brought,
To kill our hope an' taïnt our thought?
Clear brook! thy water coulden bring
Such venom vrom thy rocky spring;
Nor could it come in zummer blights,
Or reävèn storms o' winter nights,
Or in the cloud an' viry stroke
O' thunder that do split the woak.

O valley dear! I wish that I
'D a-liv'd in former times, to die
Wi' all the happy souls that trod
Thy turf in peäce, an' died to God;
Or gone wi' them that laugh'd an' zung
In happy days when I wer young!

IN THE STILLNESS O' THE NIGHT.

Ov all the housen o' the pleäce,
There's woone where I do like to call
By day or night the best ov all,
To zee my Fanny's smilèn feäce;
An' there the steätely trees do grow,
A-rockèn as the win' do blow,
While she do sweetly sleep below,
In the stillness o' the night.

An' there, at evenèn, I do goo
A-hoppèn over geätes an' bars,
By twinklèn light o' winter stars,
When snow do clumper to my shoe;
An' zometimes we do slyly catch
A chat an hour upon the stratch,
An' peärt wi' whispers at the hatch
In the stillness o' the night.

An' zometimes she do goo to zome
Young naïghbours' housen down the pleäce,
An' I do get a clue to treäce
Her out, an' goo to zee her hwome;
An' I do wish a vield a mile,
As she do sweetly chat an' smile
Along the drove, or at the stile,
In the stillness o' the night.

THE SETTLE AN' THE GIRT WOOD VIRE.

Ah! naïghbour John, since I an' you
Wer youngsters, ev'ry thing is new.
My father's vires wer all o' logs
O' cleft-wood, down upon the dogs
Below our clavy, high, an' brode
Enough to teäke a cart an' lwoad,
Where big an' little all zot down
At bwoth zides, an' bevore, all roun'.
An' when I zot among em, I
Could zee all up ageän the sky
Drough chimney, where our vo'k did hitch
The zalt-box an' the beäcon-vlitch,
An' watch the smoke on out o' vier,
All up an' out o' tun, an' higher.
An' there wer beäcon up on rack,
An' pleätes an' dishes on the tack;
An' roun' the walls wer heärbs a-stowed
In peäpern bags, an' blathers blowed.
An' just above the clavy-bwoard
Wer father's spurs, an' gun, an' sword;
An' there wer then, our girtest pride,
The settle by the vier zide.
Ah! gi'e me, if I wer a squier,
The settle an' the girt wood vier.

But they've a-wall'd up now wi' bricks
The vier pleäce vor dogs an' sticks,
An' only left a little hole
To teäke a little greäte o' coal,
So small that only twos or drees
Can jist push in an' warm their knees.
An' then the carpets they do use,
B[=e]n't fit to tread wi' ouer shoes;
An' chairs an' couches be so neat,
You mussen teäke em vor a seat:
They be so fine, that vo'k mus' pleäce
All over em an' outer ceäse,
An' then the cover, when 'tis on,
Is still too fine to loll upon.
Ah! gi'e me, if I wer a squier,
The settle an' the girt wood vier.

Carpets, indeed! You coulden hurt
The stwone-vloor wi' a little dirt;
Vor what wer brought in doors by men,
The women soon mopp'd out ageän.
Zoo we did come vrom muck an' mire,
An' walk in straïght avore the vier;
But now, a man's a-kept at door
At work a pirty while, avore
He's screäp'd an' rubb'd, an' cleän and fit
To goo in where his wife do zit.
An' then if he should have a whiff
In there, 'twould only breed a miff:
He c[=a]nt smoke there, vor smoke woon't goo
'Ithin the footy little flue.
Ah! gi'e me, if I wer a squier,
The settle an' the girt wood vier.

THE CARTER.

O, I be a carter, wi' my whip
A-smackèn loud, as by my zide,
Up over hill, an' down the dip,
The heavy lwoad do slowly ride.

An' I do haul in all the crops,
An' I do bring in vuzz vrom down;
An' I do goo vor wood to copse,
An' car the corn an' straw to town.

An' I do goo vor lime, an' bring
Hwome cider wi' my sleek-heäir'd team,
An' smack my limber whip an' zing,
While all their bells do gaïly cheeme.

An' I do always know the pleäce
To gi'e the hosses breath, or drug;
An' ev'ry hoss do know my feäce,
An' mind my '_mether ho_! an' _whug_!

An' merry haÿ-meäkers do ride
Vrom vield in zummer wi' their prongs,
In my blue waggon, zide by zide
Upon the reäves, a-zingèn zongs.

An' when the vrost do catch the stream,
An' oves wi' icicles be hung,
My pantèn hosses' breath do steam
In white-grass'd vields, a-haulèn dung.

An' mine's the waggon fit vor lwoads,
An' mine be lwoads to cut a rout;
An' mine's a team, in routy rwoads,
To pull a lwoaded waggon out.

A zull is nothèn when do come
Behind their lags; an' they do teäke
A roller as they would a drum,
An' harrow as they would a reäke.

O! I be a carter, wi' my whip
A-smackèn loud, as by my zide,
Up over hill, an' down the dip,
The heavy lwoad do slowly ride.

CHRIS'MAS INVITATION.

Come down to-morrow night; an' mind,
Don't leäve thy fiddle-bag behind;
We'll sheäke a lag, an' drink a cup
O' eäle, to keep wold Chris'mas up.

An' let thy sister teäke thy eärm,
The walk won't do her any harm;
There's noo dirt now to spweil her frock,
The ground's a-vroze so hard's a rock.

You won't meet any stranger's feäce,
But only naïghbours o' the pleäce,
An' Stowe, an' Combe; an' two or dree
Vrom uncle's up at Rookery.

An' thou wu'lt vind a rwosy feäce,
An' peäir ov eyes so black as sloos,
The prettiest woones in all the pleäce,--
I'm sure I needen tell thee whose.

We got a back-bran', dree girt logs
So much as dree ov us can car;
We'll put em up athirt the dogs,
An' meäke a vier to the bar.

An' ev'ry woone shall tell his teäle,
An' ev'ry woone shall zing his zong,
An' ev'ry woone wull drink his eäle
To love an' frien'ship all night long.

We'll snap the tongs, we'll have a ball,
We'll sheäke the house, we'll lift the ruf,
We'll romp an' meäke the maïdens squall,
A catchèn o'm at blind-man's buff.

Zoo come to-morrow night; an' mind,
Don't leäve thy fiddle-bag behind;
We'll sheäke a lag, an' drink a cup
O' eäle, to keep wold Chris'mas up.

KEEPEN UP O' CHRIS'MAS.

An' zoo you didden come athirt,
To have zome fun last night: how wer't?
Vor we'd a-work'd wi' all our might
To scour the iron things up bright,
An' brush'd an' scrubb'd the house all drough;
An' brought in vor a brand, a plock
O' wood so big's an uppèn-stock,
An' hung a bough o' misseltoo,
An' ax'd a merry friend or two,
To keepèn up o' Chris'mas.

An' there wer wold an' young; an' Bill,
Soon after dark, stalk'd up vrom mill.
An' when he wer a-comèn near,
He whissled loud vor me to hear;
Then roun' my head my frock I roll'd,
An' stood in orcha'd like a post,
To meäke en think I wer a ghost.
But he wer up to't, an' did scwold
To vind me stannèn in the cwold,
A keepèn up o' Chris'mas.

We plaÿ'd at forfeits, an' we spun
The trencher roun', an' meäde such fun!
An' had a geäme o' dree-ceärd loo,
An' then begun to hunt the shoe.
An' all the wold vo'k zittèn near,
A-chattèn roun' the vier pleäce,
Did smile in woone another's feäce.
An' sheäke right hands wi' hearty cheer,
An' let their left hands spill their beer,
A keepèn up o' Chris'mas.

ZITTEN OUT THE WOLD YEAR.

Why, raïn or sheen, or blow or snow,
I zaid, if I could stand so's,
I'd come, vor all a friend or foe,
To sheäke ye by the hand, so's;
An' spend, wi' kinsvo'k near an' dear,
A happy evenèn, woonce a year,
A-zot wi' me'th
Avore the he'th
To zee the new year in, so's.

There's Jim an' Tom, a-grown the size
O' men, girt lusty chaps, so's,
An' Fanny wi' her sloo-black eyes,
Her mother's very dap's, so's;
An' little Bill, so brown's a nut,
An' Poll a gigglèn little slut,
I hope will shoot
Another voot
The year that's comèn in, so's.

An' there, upon his mother's knee,
So peärt do look about, so's,
The little woone ov all, to zee
His vu'st wold year goo out, so's
An' zoo mid God bless all o's still,
Gwaïn up or down along the hill,
To meet in glee
Ageän to zee
A happy new year in, so's.

The wold clock's han' do softly steal
Up roun' the year's last hour, so's;
Zoo let the han'-bells ring a peal,
Lik' them a-hung in tow'r, so's.
Here, here be two vor Tom, an' two
Vor Fanny, an' a peäir vor you;
We'll meäke em swing,
An' meäke em ring,
The merry new year in, so's.

Tom, mind your time there; you be wrong.
Come, let your bells all sound, so's:
A little clwoser, Poll; ding, dong!
There, now 'tis right all round, so's.
The clock's a-strikèn twelve, d'ye hear?
Ting, ting, ding, dong! Farewell, wold year!
'Tis gone, 'tis gone!--
Goo on, goo on,
An' ring the new woone in, so's!

WOAK WER GOOD ENOUGH WOONCE.

Ees: now mahogany's the goo,
An' good wold English woak won't do.
I wish vo'k always mid avvword
Hot meals upon a woakèn bwoard,
As good as thik that took my cup
An' trencher all my growèn up.
Ah! I do mind en in the hall,
A-reachèn all along the wall,
Wi' us at father's end, while tother
Did teäke the maïdens wi' their mother;
An' while the risèn steam did spread
In curlèn clouds up over head,
Our mouths did wag, an' tongues did run,
To meäke the maïdens laugh o' fun.

A woaken bedstead, black an' bright,
Did teäke my weary bwones at night,
Where I could stratch an' roll about
Wi' little fear o' vallèn out;
An' up above my head a peäir
Ov ugly heads a-carv'd did steäre,
An' grin avore a bright vull moon
A'most enough to frighten woone.
An' then we had, vor cwoats an' frocks,
Woak cwoffers wi' their rusty locks
An' neämes in naïls, a-left behind
By kinsvo'k dead an' out o' mind;
Zoo we did get on well enough
Wi' things a-meäde ov English stuff.
But then, you know, a woaken stick
Wer cheap, vor woaken trees wer thick.
When poor wold Gramfer Green wer young,
He zaid a squirrel mid a-sprung
Along the dell, vrom tree to tree,
Vrom Woodcomb all the way to Lea;
An' woak wer all vo'k did avvword,
Avore his time, vor bed or bwoard.

LULLABY.

The rook's nest do rock on the tree-top
Where vew foes can stand;
The martin's is high, an' is deep
In the steep cliff o' zand.
But thou, love, a-sleepèn where vootsteps
Mid come to thy bed,
Hast father an' mother to watch thee
An' shelter thy head.
Lullaby, Lilybrow. Lie asleep;
Blest be thy rest.

An' zome birds do keep under ruffèn
Their young vrom the storm,
An' zome wi' nest-hoodèns o' moss
And o' wool, do lie warm.
An' we wull look well to the houseruf
That o'er thee mid leäk,
An' the blast that mid beät on thy winder
Shall not smite thy cheäk.
Lullaby, Lilibrow. Lie asleep;
Blest be thy rest.

MEARY-ANN'S CHILD.

Meary-Ann wer alwone wi' her beäby in eärms,
In her house wi' the trees over head,
Vor her husban' wer out in the night an' the storms,
In his business a-tweilèn vor bread;
An' she, as the wind in the elems did roar,
Did grievy vor Robert all night out o' door.

An' her kinsvo'k an' naï'bours did zay ov her chile,
(Under the high elem tree),
That a prettier never did babble or smile
Up o' top ov a proud mother's knee;
An' his mother did toss en, an' kiss en, an' call
En her darlèn, an' life, an' her hope, an' her all.

But she vound in the evenèn the chile werden well,
(Under the dark elem tree),
An' she thought she could gi'e all the worold to tell,
Vor a truth what his aïlèn mid be;
An' she thought o'en last in her praÿers at night,
An' she look'd at en last as she put out the light.

An' she vound en grow wo'se in the dead o' the night,
(Under the dark elem tree),
An' she press'd en ageän her warm bosom so tight,
An' she rock'd en so sorrowfully;
An' there laid a-nestlèn the poor little bwoy,
Till his struggles grew weak, an' his cries died awoy.

An' the moon wer a-sheenèn down into the pleäce,
(Under the dark elem tree),
An' his mother could zee that his lips an' his feäce
Wer so white as cleän axen could be;
An' her tongue wer a-tied an' her still heart did zwell,
Till her senses come back wi' the vu'st tear that vell.

Never mwore can she veel his warm feäce in her breast,
(Under the green elem tree),
Vor his eyes be a-shut, an' his hands be at rest,
An' he's now vrom his païn a-zet free;
Vor his soul, we do know, is to heaven a-vled,
Where noo païn is a-known, an' noo tears be a-shed.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

FATHER COME HWOME.

_John, Wife, an' Child._

CHILD.

O mother, mother! be the teäties done?
Here's father now a-comèn down the track,
Hes got his nitch o' wood upon his back,
An' such a speäker in en! I'll be bound,
He's long enough to reach vrom ground
Up to the top ov ouer tun;
'Tis jist the very thing vor Jack an' I
To goo a-colepecksèn wi' by an' by.

WIFE.

The teäties must be ready pretty nigh;
Do teäke woone up upon the fork' an' try.
The ceäke upon the vier, too, 's a-burnèn,
I be afeärd: do run an' zee, an' turn en.

JOHN.

Well, mother! here I be woonce mwore, at hwome.

WIFE.

Ah! I be very glad you be a-come.
You be a-tired an' cwold enough, I s'pose;
Zit down an' rest your bwones, an' warm your nose.

JOHN.

Why I be nippy: what is there to eat?

WIFE.

Your supper's nearly ready. I've a got
Some teäties here a-doèn in the pot;
I wish wi' all my heart I had some meat.
I got a little ceäke too, here, a-beäken o'n
Upon the vier. 'Tis done by this time though.
He's nice an' moist; vor when I wer a-meäken o'n
I stuck some bits ov apple in the dough.

CHILD.

Well, father; what d'ye think? The pig got out
This mornèn; an' avore we zeed or heärd en,
He run about, an' got out into geärden,
An' routed up the groun' zoo wi' his snout!

JOHN.

Now only think o' that! You must contrive
To keep en in, or else he'll never thrive.

CHILD.

An' father, what d'ye think? I voun' to-day
The nest where thik wold hen ov our's do lay:
'Twer out in orcha'd hedge, an' had vive aggs.

WIFE.

Lo'k there: how wet you got your veet an' lags!
How did ye get in such a pickle, Jahn?

JOHN.

I broke my hoss, an' been a-fwo'ced to stan'
All's day in mud an' water vor to dig,
An' meäde myzelf so wetshod as a pig.

CHILD.

Father, teäke off your shoes, then come, and I
Will bring your wold woones vor ye, nice an' dry.

WIFE.

An' have ye got much hedgèn mwore to do?

JOHN.

Enough to last vor dree weeks mwore or zoo.

WIFE.

An' when y'ave done the job you be about,
D'ye think you'll have another vound ye out?

JOHN.

O ees, there'll be some mwore: vor after that,
I got a job o' trenchèn to goo at;
An' then zome trees to shroud, an' wood to vell,--
Zoo I do hope to rub on pretty well
Till zummer time; an' then I be to cut
The wood an' do the trenchèn by the tut.

CHILD.

An' nex' week, father, I'm a-gwaïn to goo
A-pickèn stwones, d'ye know, vor Farmer True.

WIFE.

An' little Jack, you know, 's a-gwaïn to eärn
A penny too, a-keepèn birds off corn.

JOHN.

O brave! What wages do 'e meän to gi'e?

WIFE.

She dreppence vor a day, an' twopence he.

JOHN.

Well, Polly; thou must work a little spracker
When thou bist out, or else thou wu'ten pick
A dungpot lwoad o' stwones up very quick.

CHILD.

Oh! yes I shall. But Jack do want a clacker:
An' father, wull ye teäke an' cut
A stick or two to meäke his hut.

JOHN.

You wench! why you be always up a-baggèn.
I be too tired now to-night, I'm sure,
To zet a-doèn any mwore:
Zoo I shall goo up out o' the way o' the waggon.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

A GHOST.

_Jem an' Dick._

JEM.

This is a darkish evenèn; b'ye a-feärd
O' zights? Theäse leäne's a-haunted, I've a heärd.

DICK.

No, I be'nt much a-feär'd. If vo'k don't strive
To over-reach me while they be alive,
I don't much think the dead wull ha' the will
To come back here to do me any ill.
An' I've a-been about all night, d'ye know,
Vrom candle-lightèn till the cock did crow;
But never met wi' nothèn bad enough
To be much wo'se than what I be myzuf;
Though I, lik' others, have a-heärd vo'k zay
The girt house is a-haunted, night an' day.

JEM.

Aye; I do mind woone winter 'twer a-zaid
The farmer's vo'k could hardly sleep a-bed,
They heärd at night such scuffèns an' such jumpèns,
Such ugly naïses an' such rottlèn thumpèns.

DICK.

Aye, I do mind I heärd his son, young Sammy,
Tell how the chairs did dance an' doors did slammy;
He stood to it--though zome vo'k woulden heed en--
He didden only hear the ghost, but zeed en;
An', hang me! if I han't a'most a-shook,
To hear en tell what ugly sheäpes it took.
Did zometimes come vull six veet high, or higher,
In white, he zaid, wi' eyes lik' coals o' vier;
An' zometimes, wi' a feäce so peäle as milk,
A smileless leädy, all a-deck'd in silk.
His heäir, he zaid, did use to stand upright,
So stiff's a bunch o' rushes, wi' his fright.

JEM.

An' then you know that zome'hat is a-zeed
Down there in leäne, an' over in the meäd,
A-comèn zometimes lik' a slinkèn hound,
Or rollèn lik' a vleece along the ground.
An' woonce, when gramfer wi' his wold grey meäre
Wer ridèn down the leäne vrom Shroton feäir,
It roll'd so big's a pack ov wool across
The road just under en, an' leäm'd his hoss.

DICK.

Aye; did ye ever hear--vo'k zaid 'twer true--
O' what bevell Jack Hine zome years agoo?
Woone vrosty night, d'ye know, at Chris'mas tide,
Jack, an' another chap or two bezide,
'D a-been out, zomewhere up at tother end
O' parish, to a naïghbour's house to spend
A merry hour, an' mid a-took a cup
Or two o' eäle a-keepèn Chris'mas up;
Zoo I do lot 'twer leäte avore the peärty
'D a-burnt their bron out; I do lot, avore
They thought o' turnèn out o' door
'Twer mornèn, vor their friendship then wer hearty.
Well; clwose ageän the vootpath that do leäd
Vrom higher parish over withy-meäd,
There's still a hollow, you do know: they tried there,
In former times, to meäke a cattle-pit,
But gie'd it up, because they coulden get
The water any time to bide there.
Zoo when the merry fellows got
Just overright theäse lwonesome spot,
Jack zeed a girt big house-dog wi' a collar,
A-stannèn down in thik there hollor.
Lo'k there, he zaïd, there's zome girt dog a-prowlèn:
I'll just goo down an' gi'e'n a goodish lick
Or two wi' theäse here groun'-ash stick,
An' zend the shaggy rascal hwome a-howlèn.
Zoo there he run, an' gi'ed en a good whack
Wi' his girt ashen stick a-thirt his back;
An', all at woonce, his stick split right all down
In vower pieces; an' the pieces vled
Out ov his hand all up above his head,
An' pitch'd in vower corners o' the groun'.
An' then he velt his han' get all so num',
He coulden veel a vinger or a thum';
An' after that his eärm begun to zwell,
An' in the night a-bed he vound
The skin o't peelèn off all round.
'Twer near a month avore he got it well.

JEM.

That wer vor hettèn [=o]'n. He should a let en
Alwone d'ye zee: 'twer wicked vor to het en.

SUNDRY PIECES.

A ZONG.

O Jenny, don't sobby! vor I shall be true;
Noo might under heaven shall peärt me vrom you.
My heart will be cwold, Jenny, when I do slight
The zwell o' thy bosom, thy eyes' sparklèn light.

My kinsvo'k would faïn zee me teäke vor my meäte
A maïd that ha' wealth, but a maïd I should heäte;
But I'd sooner leäbour wi' thee vor my bride,
Than live lik' a squier wi' any bezide.

Vor all busy kinsvo'k, my love will be still
A-zet upon thee lik' the vir in the hill;
An' though they mid worry, an' dreaten, an' mock,
My head's in the storm, but my root's in the rock.

Zoo, Jenny, don't sobby! vor I shall be true;
Noo might under heaven shall peärt me vrom you.
My heart will be cwold, Jenny, when I do slight
The zwell o' thy bosom, thy eyes' sparklèn light.

THE MAID VOR MY BRIDE.

Ah! don't tell o' maïdens! the woone vor my bride
Is little lik' too many maïdens bezide,--
Not brantèn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind
To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind.

She's straïght an' she's slender, but not over tall,
Wi' lim's that be lightsome, but not over small;
The goodness o' heaven do breathe in her feäce,
An' a queen, to be steätely, must walk wi' her peäce.

Her frocks be a-meäde all becomèn an' plaïn,
An' cleän as a blossom undimm'd by a staïn;
Her bonnet ha' got but two ribbons, a-tied
Up under her chin, or let down at the zide.

When she do speak to woone, she don't steäre an' grin;
There's sense in her looks, vrom her eyes to her chin,
An' her words be so kind, an' her speech is so meek,
As her eyes do look down a-beginnèn to speak.

Her skin is so white as a lily, an' each
Ov her cheäks is so downy an' red as a peach;
She's pretty a-zittèn; but oh! how my love
Do watch her to madness when woonce she do move.

An' when she do walk hwome vrom church drough the groun',
Wi' woone eärm in mine, an' wi' woone a-hung down,
I do think, an' do veel mwore o' sheäme than o' pride,
That do meäke me look ugly to walk by her zide.

Zoo don't talk o' maïden's! the woone vor my bride
Is but little lik' too many maïdens bezide,--
Not brantèn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind
To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind.

THE HWOMESTEAD.

If I had all the land my zight
Can overlook vrom Chalwell hill,
Vrom Sherborn left to Blanvord right,
Why I could be but happy still.
An' I be happy wi' my spot
O' freehold ground an' mossy cot,
An' shoulden get a better lot
If I had all my will.

My orcha'd's wide, my trees be young;
An' they do bear such heavy crops,
Their boughs, lik' onion-rwopes a-hung,
Be all a-trigg'd to year, wi' props.
I got some geärden groun' to dig,
A parrock, an' a cow an' pig;
I got zome cider vor to swig,
An' eäle o' malt an' hops.

I'm landlord o' my little farm,
I'm king 'ithin my little pleäce;
I don't break laws, an' don't do harm,
An' bent a-feär'd o' noo man's feäce.
When I'm a-cover'd wi' my thatch,
Noo man do deäre to lift my latch;
Where honest han's do shut the hatch,
There fear do leäve the pleäce.

My lofty elem trees do screen
My brown-ruf'd house, an' here below,
My geese do strut athirt the green,
An' hiss an' flap their wings o' snow;
As I do walk along a rank
Ov apple trees, or by a bank,
Or zit upon a bar or plank,
To see how things do grow.

THE FARMER'S WOLDEST D[=A]'TER.

No, no! I ben't a-runnèn down
The pretty maïden's o' the town,
Nor wishèn o'm noo harm;
But she that I would marry vu'st,
To sheäre my good luck or my crust,
'S a-bred up at a farm.
In town, a maïd do zee mwore life,
An' I don't under-reäte her;
But ten to woone the sprackest wife
'S a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter.

Vor she do veed, wi' tender ceäre,
The little woones, an' peärt their heäir,
An' keep em neat an' pirty;
An' keep the saucy little chaps
O' bwoys in trim wi' dreats an' slaps,
When they be wild an' dirty.
Zoo if you'd have a bus'lèn wife,
An' childern well look'd after,
The maïd to help ye all drough life
'S a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter.

An' she can iorn up an' vwold
A book o' clothes wï' young or wold,
An' zalt an' roll the butter;
An' meäke brown bread, an' elder wine,
An' zalt down meat in pans o' brine,
An' do what you can put her.
Zoo if you've wherewi', an' would vind
A wife wo'th lookèn [=a]'ter,
Goo an' get a farmer in the mind
To gi'e ye his woldest d[=a]'ter.

Her heart's so innocent an' kind,
She idden thoughtless, but do mind
Her mother an' her duty;
An' livèn blushes, that do spread
Upon her healthy feäce o' red,
Do heighten all her beauty;
So quick's a bird, so neat's a cat,
So cheerful in her neätur,
The best o' maïdens to come at
'S a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter.

UNCLE OUT O' DEBT AN' OUT O' DANGER.

Ees; uncle had thik small hwomestead,
The leäzes an' the bits o' mead,
Besides the orcha'd in his prime,
An' copse-wood vor the winter time.
His wold black meäre, that draw'd his cart,
An' he, wer seldom long apeärt;
Vor he work'd hard an' païd his woy,
An' zung so litsom as a bwoy,
As he toss'd an' work'd,
An' blow'd an' quirk'd,
"I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
An' I can feäce a friend or stranger;
I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peäir
Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meäre."

His meäre's long vlexy vetlocks grow'd
Down roun' her hoofs so black an' brode;
Her head hung low, her taïl reach'd down
A-bobbèn nearly to the groun'.
The cwoat that uncle mwostly wore
Wer long behind an' straïght avore,

An' in his shoes he had girt buckles,
An' breeches button'd round his huckles;
An' he zung wi' pride,
By's wold meäre's zide,
"I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
An' I can feäce a friend or stranger;
I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peäir
Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."

An' he would work,--an' lwoad, an' shoot,
An' spur his heaps o' dung or zoot;
Or car out haÿ, to sar his vew
Milch cows in corners dry an' lew;
Or dreve a zyve, or work a pick,
To pitch or meäke his little rick;
Or thatch en up wi' straw or zedge,
Or stop a shard, or gap, in hedge;
An' he work'd an' flung
His eärms, an' zung
"I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
An' I can feäce a friend or stranger;
I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peäir
Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."

An' when his meäre an' he'd a-done
Their work, an' tired ev'ry bwone,
He zot avore the vire, to spend
His evenèn wi' his wife or friend;
An' wi' his lags out-stratch'd vor rest,
An' woone hand in his wes'coat breast,
While burnèn sticks did hiss an' crack,
An' fleämes did bleäzy up the back,
There he zung so proud
In a bakky cloud,
"I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
An' I can feäce a friend or stranger;
I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peäir
Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."

From market how he used to ride,
Wi' pot's a-bumpèn by his zide
Wi' things a-bought--but not vor trust,
Vor what he had he païd vor vu'st;
An' when he trotted up the yard,
The calves did bleäry to be sar'd,
An' pigs did scoat all drough the muck,
An' geese did hiss, an' hens did cluck;
An' he zung aloud,
So pleased an' proud,
"I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
An' I can feäce a friend or stranger;
I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peäir
Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."

When he wer joggèn hwome woone night
Vrom market, after candle-light,
(He mid a-took a drop o' beer,
Or midden, vor he had noo fear,)
Zome ugly, long-lagg'd, herrèn ribs,
Jump'd out an' ax'd en vor his dibs;
But he soon gi'ed en such a mawlèn,
That there he left en down a-sprawlèn,
While he jogg'd along
Wi' his own wold zong,
"I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
An' I can feäce a friend or stranger;
I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peäir
Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."

THE CHURCH AN' HAPPY ZUNDAY.

Ah! ev'ry day mid bring a while
O' eäse vrom all woone's ceäre an' tweil,
The welcome evenèn, when 'tis sweet
Vor tired friends wi' weary veet,
But litsome hearts o' love, to meet;
An' yet while weekly times do roll,
The best vor body an' vor soul
'S the church an' happy Zunday.

Vor then our loosen'd souls do rise
Wi' holy thoughts beyond the skies,
As we do think o' _Him_ that shed
His blood vor us, an' still do spread
His love upon the live an' dead;
An' how He gi'ed a time an' pleäce
To gather us, an' gi'e us greäce,--
The church an' happy Zunday.

There, under leänen mossy stwones,
Do lie, vorgot, our fathers' bwones,
That trod this groun' vor years agoo,
When things that now be wold wer new;
An' comely maïdens, mild an' true,
That meäde their sweet-hearts happy brides,
An' come to kneel down at their zides
At church o' happy Zundays.

'Tis good to zee woone's naïghbours come
Out drough the churchyard, vlockèn hwome,
As woone do nod, an' woone do smile,
An' woone do toss another's chile;
An' zome be sheäken han's, the while
Poll's uncle, chuckèn her below
Her chin, do tell her she do grow,
At church o' happy Zundays.

Zoo while our blood do run in vaïns
O' livèn souls in theäsum plaïns,
Mid happy housen smoky round
The church an' holy bit o' ground;
An' while their weddèn bells do sound,
Oh! mid em have the meäns o' greäce,
The holy day an' holy pleäce,
The church an' happy Zunday.

THE WOLD WAGGON.

The girt wold waggon uncle had,
When I wer up a hardish lad,
Did stand, a-screen'd vrom het an' wet,
In zummer at the barken geäte,
Below the elems' spreädèn boughs,
A-rubb'd by all the pigs an' cows.
An' I've a-clom his head an' zides,
A-riggèn up or jumpèn down
A-plaÿèn, or in happy rides
Along the leäne or drough the groun',
An' many souls be in their greäves,
That rod' together on his reäves;
An' he, an' all the hosses too,
'V a-ben a-done vor years agoo.

Upon his head an' taïl wer pinks,
A-païnted all in tangled links;
His two long zides wer blue,--his bed
Bent slightly upward at the head;
His reäves rose upward in a bow
Above the slow hind-wheels below.
Vour hosses wer a-kept to pull
The girt wold waggon when 'twer vull;
The black meäre _Smiler_, strong enough
To pull a house down by herzuf,

So big, as took my widest strides
To straddle halfway down her zides;
An' champèn _Vi'let_, sprack an' light,
That foam'd an' pull'd wi' all her might:
An' _Whitevoot_, leäzy in the treäce,
Wi' cunnèn looks an' show-white feäce;
Bezides a baÿ woone, short-taïl _Jack_,
That wer a treäce-hoss or a hack.

How many lwoads o' vuzz, to scald
The milk, thik waggon have a-haul'd!
An' wood vrom copse, an' poles vor raïls.
An' bayèns wi' their bushy taïls;
An' loose-ear'd barley, hangèn down
Outzide the wheels a'móst to groun',
An' lwoads o' haÿ so sweet an' dry,
A-builded straïght, an' long, an' high;
An' haÿ-meäkers, a-zittèn roun'
The reäves, a-ridèn hwome vrom groun',
When Jim gi'ed Jenny's lips a-smack,
An' jealous Dicky whipp'd his back,
An' maïdens scream'd to veel the thumps
A-gi'ed by trenches an' by humps.
But he, an' all his hosses too,
'V a-ben a-done vor years agoo.

THE DRÈVEN O' THE COMMON.[B]

In the common by our hwome
There wer freely-open room,
Vor our litty veet to roam
By the vuzzen out in bloom.
That wi' prickles kept our lags
Vrom the skylark's nest ov aggs;
While the peewit wheel'd around
Wi' his cry up over head,
Or he sped, though a-limpèn, o'er the ground.

There we heärd the whickr'èn meäre
Wi' her vaïce a-quiv'rèn high;
Where the cow did loudly bleäre
By the donkey's vallèn cry.
While a-stoopèn man did zwing
His bright hook at vuzz or ling
Free o' fear, wi' wellglov'd hands,
O' the prickly vuzz he vell'd,
Then sweet-smell'd as it died in faggot bands.

When the haÿward drove the stock
In a herd to zome oone pleäce,
Thither vo'k begun to vlock,
Each to own his beästes feäce.
While the geese, bezide the stream,
Zent vrom gapèn bills a scream,
An' the cattle then avound,
Without right o' greäzen there,
Went to bleäre braÿ or whicker in the pound.

[Footnote B: The Driving of the Common was by the _Hayward_ who, whenever he thought fit, would drive all the cattle into a corner and impound all heads belonging to owners without a right of commonage for them, so that they had to ransom them by a fine.]

THE COMMON A-TOOK IN.

Oh! no, Poll, no! Since they've a-took
The common in, our lew wold nook
Don't seem a-bit as used to look
When we had runnèn room;
Girt banks do shut up ev'ry drong,
An' stratch wi' thorny backs along
Where we did use to run among
The vuzzen an' the broom.

Ees; while the ragged colts did crop
The nibbled grass, I used to hop
The emmet-buts, vrom top to top,
So proud o' my spry jumps:
Wi' thee behind or at my zide,
A-skippèn on so light an' wide
'S thy little frock would let thee stride,
Among the vuzzy humps.

Ah while the lark up over head
Did twitter, I did search the red
Thick bunch o' broom, or yollow bed
O' vuzzen vor a nest;
An' thou di'st hunt about, to meet
Wi' strawberries so red an' sweet,
Or clogs or shoes off hosses veet,
Or wild thyme vor thy breast;

Or when the cows did run about
A-stung, in zummer, by the stout,
Or when they plaÿ'd, or when they foüght,
Di'st stand a-lookèn on:
An' where white geese, wi' long red bills,
Did veed among the emmet-hills,
There we did goo to vind their quills
Alongzide o' the pon'.

What fun there wer among us, when
The haÿward come, wi' all his men,
To drève the common, an' to pen
Strange cattle in the pound;
The cows did bleäre, the men did shout
An' toss their eärms an' sticks about,
An' vo'ks, to own their stock, come out
Vrom all the housen round.

A WOLD FRIEND.

Oh! when the friends we us'd to know,
'V a-been a-lost vor years; an' when
Zome happy day do come, to show
Their feäzen to our eyes ageän,
Do meäke us look behind, John,
Do bring wold times to mind, John,
Do meäke hearts veel, if they be steel,
All warm, an' soft, an' kind, John.

When we do lose, still gaÿ an' young,
A vaïce that us'd to call woone's neäme,
An' after years ageän his tongue
Do sound upon our ears the seäme,
Do kindle love anew, John,
Do wet woone's eyes wi' dew, John,
As we do sheäke, vor friendship's seäke,
His vist an' vind en true, John.

What tender thoughts do touch woone's soul,
When we do zee a meäd or hill
Where we did work, or plaÿ, or stroll,
An' talk wi' vaïces that be still;
'Tis touchèn vor to treäce, John,
Wold times drough ev'ry pleäce, John;
But that can't touch woone's heart so much,
As zome wold long-lost feäce, John.

THE RWOSE THAT DECK'D HER BREAST.

Poor Jenny wer her Robert's bride
Two happy years, an' then he died;
An' zoo the wold vo'k meäde her come,
Vorseäken, to her maïden hwome.
But Jenny's merry tongue wer dum';
An' round her comely neck she wore
A murnèn kerchif, where avore
The rwose did deck her breast.

She walk'd alwone, wi' eye-balls wet,
To zee the flow'rs that she'd a-zet;
The lilies, white's her maïden frocks,
The spike, to put 'ithin her box,
Wi' columbines an' hollyhocks;
The jilliflow'r an' noddèn pink,
An' rwose that touch'd her soul to think
Ov woone that deck'd her breast.

Vor at her weddèn, just avore
Her maïden hand had yet a-wore
A wife's goold ring, wi' hangèn head
She walk'd along thik flower-bed,
Where stocks did grow, a-staïned wi' red,
An' meärygoolds did skirt the walk,
An' gather'd vrom the rwose's stalk
A bud to deck her breast.

An' then her cheäk, wi' youthvul blood
Wer bloomèn as the rwoses bud;
But now, as she wi' grief do pine,
'Tis peäle's the milk-white jessamine.
But Robert have a-left behine
A little beäby wi' his feäce,
To smile, an' nessle in the pleäce
Where the rwose did deck her breast.

NANNY'S COW.

Ov all the cows, among the rest
Wer woone that Nanny lik'd the best;
An' after milkèn us'd to stan'
A-veedèn o' her, vrom her han',
Wi' grass or haÿ; an' she know'd Ann,
An' in the evenèn she did come
The vu'st, a-beätèn üp roun' hwome
Vor Ann to come an' milk her.

Her back wer hollor as a bow,
Her lags wer short, her body low;
Her head wer small, her horns turn'd in
Avore Her feäce so sharp's a pin:
Her eyes wer vull, her ears wer thin,
An' she wer red vrom head to taïl,
An' didden start nor kick the païl,
When Nanny zot to milk her.

But losses zoon begun to vall
On Nanny's fàther, that wi' all
His tweil he voun', wi' breakèn heart,
That he mus' leäve his ground, an' peärt
Wi' all his beäst an' hoss an' cart;
An', what did touch en mwost, to zell
The red cow Nanny lik'd so well,
An' lik'd vor her to milk her.

Zalt tears did run vrom Nanny's eyes,
To hear her restless father's sighs.
But as vor me, she mid be sure
I wont vorzeäke her now she's poor,
Vor I do love her mwore an' mwore;
An' if I can but get a cow
An' parrock, I'll vulvil my vow,
An' she shall come an' milk her.

THE SHEP'ERD BWOY.

When the warm zummer breeze do blow over the hill,
An' the vlock's a-spread over the ground;
When the vaïce o' the busy wold sheep dog is still,
An' the sheep-bells do tinkle all round;
Where noo tree vor a sheäde but the thorn is a-vound,
There, a zingèn a zong,
Or a-whislèn among
The sheep, the young shep'erd do bide all day long.

When the storm do come up wi' a thundery cloud
That do shut out the zunlight, an' high
Over head the wild thunder do rumble so loud,
An' the lightnèn do flash vrom the sky,
Where noo shelter's a-vound but his hut, that is nigh,
There out ov all harm,
In the dry an' the warm,
The poor little shep'erd do smile at the storm.

When the cwold winter win' do blow over the hill,
An' the hore-vrost do whiten the grass,
An' the breath o' the no'th is so cwold, as to chill
The warm blood ov woone's heart as do pass;
When the ice o' the pond is so slipp'ry as glass,
There, a-zingèn a zong,
Or a-whislèn among
The sheep, the poor shep'erd do bide all day long.

When the shearèn's a-come, an' the shearers do pull
In the sheep, hangèn back a-gwaïn in,
Wi' their roun' zides a-heavèn in under their wool,
To come out all a-clipp'd to the skin;
When the feästèn, an' zingèn, an fun do begin,
Vor to help em, an' sheäre
All their me'th an' good feäre,
The poor little shep'erd is sure to be there.

HOPE A-LEFT BEHIND.

Don't try to win a maïden's heart,
To leäve her in her love,--'tis wrong:
'Tis bitter to her soul to peärt
Wi' woone that is her sweetheart long.
A maïd's vu'st love is always strong;
An' if do faïl, she'll linger on,
Wi' all her best o' pleasure gone,
An' hope a-left behind her.

Thy poor lost Jenny wer a-grow'd
So kind an' thoughtvul vor her years,
When she did meet wi' vo'k a-know'd
The best, her love did speak in tears.
She walk'd wi' thee, an' had noo fears
O' thy unkindness, till she zeed
Herzelf a-cast off lik' a weed,
An' hope a-left behind her.

Thy slight turn'd peäle her cherry lip;
Her sorrow, not a-zeed by eyes,
Wer lik' the mildew, that do nip
A bud by darksome midnight skies.
The day mid come, the zun mid rise,
But there's noo hope o' day nor zun;
The storm ha' blow'd, the harm's a-done,
An' hope's a-left behind her.

The time will come when thou wouldst gi'e
The worold vor to have her smile,
Or meet her by the parrock tree,
Or catch her jumpèn off the stile;
Thy life's avore thee vor a while,
But thou wilt turn thy mind in time,
An' zee the deèd as 'tis,--a crime,
An' hope a-left behind thee.

Zoo never win a maïden's heart,
But her's that is to be thy bride,
An' plaÿ drough life a manly peärt,
An' if she's true when time ha' tried
Her mind, then teäke her by thy zide.
True love will meäke thy hardships light,
True love will meäke the worold bright,
When hope's a-left behind thee.

A GOOD FATHER.

No; mind thy father. When his tongue
Is keen, he's still thy friend, John,
Vor wolder vo'k should warn the young
How wickedness will end, John;
An' he do know a wicked youth
Would be thy manhood's beäne,
An' zoo would bring thee back ageän
'Ithin the ways o' truth.

An' mind en still when in the end
His leäbour's all a-done, John,
An' let en vind a steadvast friend
In thee his thoughtvul son, John;
Vor he did win what thou didst lack
Avore couldst work or stand,
An' zoo, when time do num' his hand,
Then pay his leäbour back.

An' when his bwones be in the dust,
Then honour still his neäme, John;
An' as his godly soul wer just,
Let thine be voun' the seäme, John.
Be true, as he wer true, to men,
An' love the laws o' God;
Still tread the road that he've a-trod,
An' live wi' him ageän.

THE BEAM IN GRENLEY CHURCH.

In church at Grenley woone mid zee
A beam vrom wall to wall; a tree
That's longer than the church is wide,
An' zoo woone end o'n's drough outside,--
Not cut off short, but bound all round
Wi' lead, to keep en seäfe an' sound.

Back when the builders vu'st begun
The church,--as still the teäle do run,--
A man work'd wi' em; no man knew
Who 'twer, nor whither he did goo.
He wer as harmless as a chile,
An' work'd 'ithout a frown or smile,
Till any woaths or strife did rise
To overcast his sparklèn eyes:

An' then he'd call their minds vrom strife,
To think upon another life.
He wer so strong, that all alwone
He lifted beams an' blocks o' stwone,
That others, with the girtest païns,
Could hardly wag wi' bars an' chaïns;
An' yet he never used to staÿ
O' Zaturdays, to teäke his paÿ.