Chapter I: Know Who (1)

Aye, aye, vull rathe the zun mus' rise
To meäke us tired o' zunny skies,
A-sheenèn on the whole day drough,
From mornèn's dawn till evenèn's dew.
When trees be brown an' meäds be green,
An' skies be blue, an' streams do sheen,
An' thin-edg'd clouds be snowy white
Above the bluest hills in zight;
But I can let the daylight goo,
When I've a-met wi'--I know who.

In Spring I met her by a bed
O' laurels higher than her head;
The while a rwose hung white between
Her blushes an' the laurel's green;
An' then in Fall, I went along
The row of elems in the drong,
An' heärd her zing bezide the cows,
By yollow leaves o' meäple boughs;
But Fall or Spring is feäir to view
When day do bring me--I know who.

An' when, wi' wint'r a-comèn roun',
The purple he'th's a-feädèn brown,
An' hangèn vern's a-sheäkèn dead,
Bezide the hill's besheäded head:
An' black-wing'd rooks do glitter bright
Above my head, in peäler light;
Then though the birds do still the glee
That sounded in the zummer tree,
My heart is light the winter drough,
In me'th at night, wi'--I know who.

JESSIE LEE.

Above the timber's bendèn sh'ouds,
The western wind did softly blow;
An' up avore the knap, the clouds
Did ride as white as driven snow.
Vrom west to east the clouds did zwim
Wi' wind that plied the elem's lim';
Vrom west to east the stream did glide,
A-sheenèn wide, wi' windèn brim.

How feäir, I thought, avore the sky
The slowly-zwimmèn clouds do look;
How soft the win's a-streamèn by;
How bright do roll the weävy brook:
When there, a-passèn on my right,
A-waikèn slow, an' treadèn light,
Young Jessie Lee come by, an' there
Took all my ceäre, an' all my zight.

Vor lovely wer the looks her feäce
Held up avore the western sky:
An' comely wer the steps her peäce
Did meäke a-walkèn slowly by:
But I went east, wi' beätèn breast,
Wi' wind, an' cloud, an' brook, vor rest,
Wi' rest a-lost, vor Jessie gone
So lovely on, toward the west.

Blow on, O winds, athirt the hill;
Zwim on, O clouds; O waters vall,
Down mæshy rocks, vrom mill to mill;
I now can overlook ye all.
But roll, O zun, an' bring to me
My day, if such a day there be,
When zome dear path to my abode
Shall be the road o' Jessie Lee.

TRUE LOVE.

As evenèn aïr, in green-treed Spring,
Do sheäke the new-sprung pa'sley bed,
An' wither'd ash-tree keys do swing
An' vall a-flutt'rèn roun' our head:
There, while the birds do zing their zong
In bushes down the ash-tree drong,
Come Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleäce
Your vaïce an' feäce can meäke vor me.

Below the buddèn ashes' height
We there can linger in the lew,
While boughs, a-gilded by the light,
Do sheen avore the sky o' blue:
But there by zettèn zun, or moon
A-risèn, time wull vlee too soon
Wi' Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleäce
Her vaïce an' feäce can meäke vor me.

Down where the darksome brook do flow,
Below the bridge's archèd wall,
Wi' alders dark, a-leanèn low,
Above the gloomy watervall;
There I've a-led ye hwome at night,
Wi' noo feäce else 'ithin my zight
But yours so feäir, an' sweet's the pleäce
Your vaïce an' feäce ha' meäde me there.

An' oh! when other years do come,
An' zettèn zuns, wi' yollow gleäre,
Drough western window-peänes, at hwome,
Do light upon my evenèn chair:
While day do weäne, an' dew do vall,
Be wi' me then, or else in call,
As time do vlee, vor sweet's the pleäce
Your vaïce an' feäce do meäke vor me.

Ah! you do smile, a-thinkèn light
O' my true words, but never mind;
Smile on, smile on, but still your flight
Would leäve me little jaÿ behind:
But let me not be zoo a-tried
Wi' you a-lost where I do bide,
O Jessie Lee, in any pleäce
Your vaïce an' feäce ha' blest vor me.

I'm sure that when a soul's a-brought
To this our life ov aïr an' land,
Woone mwore's a-mark'd in God's good thought,
To help, wi' love, his heart an' hand.
An' oh! if there should be in store
An angel here vor my poor door,
'Tis Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleäce
Her vaïce an' feace can meäke vor me.

THE BEAN VIELD.

'Twer where the zun did warm the lewth,
An' win' did whiver in the sheäde,
The sweet-aïr'd beäns were out in blooth,
Down there 'ithin the elem gleäde;
A yollow-banded bee did come,
An' softly-pitch, wi' hushèn hum,
Upon a beän, an' there did sip,
Upon a swaÿèn blossom's lip:
An' there cried he, "Aye, I can zee,
This blossom's all a-zent vor me."

A-jilted up an' down, astride
Upon a lofty ho'se a-trot,
The meäster then come by wi' pride,
To zee the beäns that he'd a-got;
An' as he zot upon his ho'se,
The ho'se ageän did snort an' toss
His high-ear'd head, an' at the zight
Ov all the blossom, black an' white:
"Ah! ah!" thought he, the seäme's the bee,
"Theäse beäns be all a-zent vor me."

Zoo let the worold's riches breed
A strife o' claïms, wi' weak and strong,
Vor now what cause have I to heed
Who's in the right, or in the wrong;
Since there do come drough yonder hatch,
An' bloom below the house's thatch,
The best o' maïdens, an' do own
That she is mine, an' mine alwone:
Zoo I can zee that love do gi'e
The best ov all good gifts to me.

Vor whose be all the crops an' land
A-won an' lost, an' bought, an zwold
Or whose, a-roll'd vrom hand to hand,
The highest money that's a-twold?
Vrom man to man a passèn on,
'Tis here to-day, to-morrow gone.
But there's a blessèn high above
It all--a soul o' stedvast love:
Zoo let it vlee, if God do gi'e
Sweet Jessie vor a gift to me.

WOLD FRIENDS A-MET.

Aye, vull my heart's blood now do roll,
An' gaÿ do rise my happy soul,
An' well they mid, vor here our veet
Avore woone vier ageän do meet;
Vor you've avoun' my feäce, to greet
Wi' welcome words my startlèn ear.
An' who be you, but John o' Weer,
An' I, but William Wellburn.

Here, light a candle up, to shed
Mwore light upon a wold friend's head,
An' show the smile, his feäce woonce mwore
Ha' brought us vrom another shore.
An' I'll heave on a brand avore
The vier back, to meäke good cheer,
O' roarèn fleämes, vor John o' Weer
To chat wi' William Wellburn.

Aye, aye, it mid be true that zome,
When they do wander out vrom hwome,
Do leäve their nearest friends behind,
Bwoth out o' zight, an' out o' mind;
But John an' I ha' ties to bind
Our souls together, vur or near,
For, who is he but John o' Weer.
An' I, but William Wellburn.

Look, there he is, with twinklèn eyes,
An' elbows down upon his thighs.
A-chucklèn low, wi' merry grin.
Though time ha' roughen'd up his chin,
'Tis still the seäme true soul 'ithin,
As woonce I know'd, when year by year,
Thik very chap, thik John o' Weer,
Did plaÿ wi' William Wellburn.

Come, John, come; don't be dead-alive
Here, reach us out your clust'r o' vive.
Oh! you be happy. Ees, but that
Woon't do till you can laugh an' chat.
Don't blinky, lik' a purrèn cat,
But leäp an' laugh, an' let vo'k hear
What's happen'd, min, that John o' Weer
Ha' met wi' William Wellburn.

Vor zome, wi' selfishness too strong
Vor love, do do each other wrong;
An' zome do wrangle an' divide
In hets ov anger, bred o' pride;
But who do think that time or tide
Can breed ill-will in friends so dear,
As William wer to John o' Weer,
An' John to William Wellburn?

If other vo'ks do gleen to zee
How lovèn an' how glad we be,
What, then, poor souls, they had but vew
Sich happy days, so long agoo,
As they that I've a-spent wi' you;
But they'd hold woone another dear,
If woone o' them wer John o' Weer,
An' tother William Wellburn.

FIFEHEAD.

'Twer where my fondest thoughts do light,
At Fifehead, while we spent the night;
The millwheel's restèn rim wer dry,
An' houn's held up their evenèn cry;
An' lofty, drough the midnight sky,
Above the vo'k, wi' heavy heads,
Asleep upon their darksome beds,
The stars wer all awake, John.

Noo birds o' day wer out to spread
Their wings above the gully's bed,
An' darkness roun' the elem-tree
'D a-still'd the charmy childern's glee.
All he'ths wer cwold but woone, where we
Wer gaÿ, 'tis true, but gaÿ an' wise,
An' laugh'd in light o' maïden's eyes,
That glissen'd wide awake, John.

An' when we all, lik' loosen'd hounds,
Broke out o' doors, wi' merry sounds,
Our friends among the plaÿsome team,
All brought us gwäin so vur's the stream.
But Jeäne, that there, below a gleam
O' light, watch'd woone o's out o' zight;
Vor willènly, vor his "Good night,"
She'd longer bide awake, John.

An' while up _Leighs_ we stepp'd along
Our grassy path, wi' joke an' zong,
There _Plumber_, wi' its woody ground,
O' slopèn knaps a-screen'd around,
Rose dim 'ithout a breath o' sound,
The wold abode o' squiers a-gone,
Though while they lay a-sleepèn on,
Their stars wer still awake, John.

IVY HALL.

If I've a-stream'd below a storm,
An' not a-velt the raïn,
An' if I ever velt me warm,
In snow upon the plaïn,
'Twer when, as evenèn skies wer dim,
An' vields below my eyes wer dim,
I went alwone at evenèn-fall,
Athirt the vields to Ivy Hall.

I voun' the wind upon the hill,
Last night, a-roarèn loud,
An' rubbèn boughs a-creakèn sh'ill
Upon the ashes' sh'oud;
But oh! the reelèn copse mid groan;
An' timber's lofty tops mid groan;
The hufflèn winds be music all,
Bezide my road to Ivy Hall.

A sheädy grove o' ribbèd woaks,
Is Wootton's shelter'd nest,
An' woaks do keep the winter's strokes
Vrom Knapton's evenèn rest.
An' woaks ageän wi' bossy stems,
An' elems wi' their mossy stems,
Do rise to screen the leafy wall
An' stwonèn ruf ov Ivy Hall.

The darksome clouds mid fling their sleet.
An' vrost mid pinch me blue,
Or snow mid cling below my veet,
An' hide my road vrom view.
The winter's only jaÿ ov heart,
An' storms do meäke me gaÿ ov heart,
When I do rest, at evenèn-fall,
Bezide the he'th ov Ivy Hall.

There leafy stems do clim' around
The mossy stwonèn eaves;
An' there be window-zides a-bound
Wi' quiv'rèn ivy-leaves.
But though the sky is dim 'ithout,
An' feäces mid be grim 'ithout,
Still I ha' smiles when I do call,
At evenèn-tide, at Ivy Hall.

FALSE FRIENDS-LIKE.

When I wer still a bwoy, an' mother's pride,
A bigger bwoy spoke up to me so kind-like,
"If you do like, I'll treat ye wi' a ride
In theäse wheel-barrow here." Zoo I wer blind-like
To what he had a-workèn in his mind-like,
An' mounted vor a passenger inside;
An' comèn to a puddle, perty wide,
He tipp'd me in, a-grinnèn back behind-like.
Zoo when a man do come to me so thick-like,
An' sheäke my hand, where woonce he pass'd me by,
An' tell me he would do me this or that,
I can't help thinkèn o' the big bwoy's trick-like.
An' then, vor all I can but wag my hat
An' thank en, I do veel a little shy.

THE BACHELOR.

No! I don't begrudge en his life,
Nor his goold, nor his housen, nor lands;
Teäke all o't, an' gi'e me my wife,
A wife's be the cheapest ov hands.
Lie alwone! sigh alwone! die alwone!
Then be vorgot.
No! I be content wi' my lot.

Ah! where be the vingers so feäir,
Vor to pat en so soft on the feäce,
To mend ev'ry stitch that do tear,
An' keep ev'ry button in pleäce?
Crack a-tore! brack a-tore! back a-tore!
Buttons a-vled!
Vor want ov a wife wi' her thread.

Ah! where is the sweet-perty head
That do nod till he's gone out o' zight?
An' where be the two eärms a-spread,
To show en he's welcome at night?
Dine alwone! pine alwone! whine alwone!
Oh! what a life!
I'll have a friend in a wife.

An' when vrom a meetèn o' me'th
Each husban' do leäd hwome his bride,
Then he do slink hwome to his he'th,
Wi' his eärm a-hung down his cwold zide.
Slinkèn on! blinkèn on! thinkèn on!
Gloomy an' glum;
Nothèn but dullness to come.

An' when he do onlock his door,
Do rumble as hollow's a drum,
An' the veäries a-hid roun' the vloor,
Do grin vor to see en so glum.
Keep alwone! sleep alwone! weep alwone!
There let en bide,
I'll have a wife at my zide.

But when he's a-laid on his bed
In a zickness, O, what wull he do!
Vor the hands that would lift up his head,
An' sheäke up his pillor anew.
Ills to come! pills to come! bills to come!
Noo soul to sheäre
The trials the poor wratch must bear.

MARRIED PEÄIR'S LOVE WALK.

Come let's goo down the grove to-night;
The moon is up, 'tis all so light
As day, an' win' do blow enough
To sheäke the leaves, but tiddèn rough.
Come, Esther, teäke, vor wold time's seäke,
Your hooded cloke, that's on the pin,
An' wrap up warm, an' teäke my eärm,
You'll vind it better out than in.
Come, Etty dear; come out o' door,
An' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

How charmèn to our very souls,
Wer woonce your evenèn maïden strolls,
The while the zettèn zunlight dyed
Wi' red the beeches' western zide,
But back avore your vinger wore
The weddèn ring that's now so thin;
An' you did sheäre a mother's ceäre,
To watch an' call ye eärly in.
Come, Etty dear; come out o' door,
An' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

An' then ageän, when you could slight
The clock a-strikèn leäte at night,
The while the moon, wi' risèn rim,
Did light the beeches' eastern lim'.
When I'd a-bound your vinger round
Wi' thik goold ring that's now so thin,
An' you had nwone but me alwone
To teäke ye leäte or eärly in.
Come, Etty dear; come out o' door,
An' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

But often when the western zide
O' trees did glow at evenèn-tide,
Or when the leäter moon did light
The beeches' eastern boughs at night,
An' in the grove, where vo'k did rove
The crumpled leaves did vlee an' spin,
You couldèn sheäre the pleasure there:
Your work or childern kept ye in.
Come, Etty dear, come out o' door,
An' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

But ceäres that zunk your oval chin
Ageän your bosom's lily skin,
Vor all they meäde our life so black,
Be now a-lost behind our back.
Zoo never mwope, in midst of hope,
To slight our blessèns would be sin.
Ha! ha! well done, now this is fun;
When you do like I'll bring ye in.
Here, Etty dear; here, out o' door,
We'll teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

A WIFE A-PRAÏS'D.

'Twer Maÿ, but ev'ry leaf wer dry
All day below a sheenèn sky;
The zun did glow wi' yollow gleäre,
An' cowslips blow wi' yollow gleäre,
Wi' grægles' bells a-droopèn low,
An' bremble boughs a-stoopèn low;
While culvers in the trees did coo
Above the vallèn dew.

An' there, wi' heäir o' glossy black,
Bezide your neck an' down your back,
You rambled gaÿ a-bloomèn feäir;
By boughs o' maÿ a-bloomèn feäir;
An' while the birds did twitter nigh,
An' water weäves did glitter nigh,
You gather'd cowslips in the lew,
Below the vallèn dew.

An' now, while you've a-been my bride
As years o' flow'rs ha' bloom'd an' died,
Your smilèn feäce ha' been my jaÿ;
Your soul o' greäce ha' been my jaÿ;
An' wi' my evenèn rest a-come,
An' zunsheen to the west a-come,
I'm glad to teäke my road to you
Vrom vields o' vallèn dew.

An' when the raïn do wet the maÿ,
A-bloomèn where we woonce did straÿ,
An' win' do blow along so vast,
An' streams do flow along so vast;
Ageän the storms so rough abroad,
An' angry tongues so gruff abroad,
The love that I do meet vrom you
Is lik' the vallèn dew.

An' you be sprack's a bee on wing,
In search ov honey in the Spring:
The dawn-red sky do meet ye up;
The birds vu'st cry do meet ye up;
An' wi' your feäce a-smilèn on,
An' busy hands a-tweilèn on,
You'll vind zome useful work to do
Until the vallèn dew.

THE WIFE A-LOST.

Since I noo mwore do zee your feäce,
Up steäirs or down below,
I'll zit me in the lwonesome pleäce,
Where flat-bough'd beech do grow:
Below the beeches' bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't look to meet ye now,
As I do look at hwome.

Since you noo mwore be at my zide,
In walks in zummer het,
I'll goo alwone where mist do ride,
Drough trees a-drippèn wet:
Below the raïn-wet bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I do grieve at home.

Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard
Your vaïce do never sound,
I'll eat the bit I can avword,
A-vield upon the ground;
Below the darksome bough, my love,
Where you did never dine,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I at hwome do pine.

Since I do miss your vaïce an' feäce
In praÿer at eventide,
I'll praÿ wi' woone said vaïce vor greäce
To goo where you do bide;
Above the tree an' bough, my love,
Where you be gone avore,
An' be a-waïtèn vor me now,
To come vor evermwore.

THE THORNS IN THE GEÄTE.

Ah! Meäster Collins overtook
Our knot o' vo'k a-stannèn still,
Last Zunday, up on Ivy Hill,
To zee how strong the corn did look.
An' he stay'd back awhile an' spoke
A vew kind words to all the vo'k,
Vor good or joke, an' wi' a smile
Begun a-plaÿèn wi' a chile.

The zull, wi' iron zide awry,
Had long a-vurrow'd up the vield;
The heavy roller had a-wheel'd
It smooth vor showers vrom the sky;
The bird-bwoy's cry, a-risèn sh'ill,
An' clacker, had a-left the hill,
All bright but still, vor time alwone
To speed the work that we'd a-done.

Down drough the wind, a-blowèn keen,
Did gleäre the nearly cloudless sky,
An' corn in bleäde, up ancle-high,
'lthin the geäte did quiver green;
An' in the geäte a-lock'd there stood
A prickly row o' thornèn wood
Vor vo'k vor food had done their best,
An' left to Spring to do the rest.

"The geäte," he cried, "a-seal'd wi' thorn
Vrom harmvul veet's a-left to hold
The bleäde a-springèn vrom the mwold,
While God do ripen it to corn.
An' zoo in life let us vulvil
Whatever is our Meäker's will,
An' then bide still, wi' peacevul breast,
While He do manage all the rest."

ANGELS BY THE DOOR.

Oh! there be angels evermwore,
A-passèn onward by the door,
A-zent to teäke our jaÿs, or come
To bring us zome--O Meärianne.
Though doors be shut, an' bars be stout,
Noo bolted door can keep em out;
But they wull leäve us ev'ry thing
They have to bring--My Meärianne.

An' zoo the days a-stealèn by,
Wi' zuns a-ridèn drough the sky,
Do bring us things to leäve us sad,
Or meäke us glad--O Meärianne.
The day that's mild, the day that's stern,
Do teäke, in stillness, each his turn;
An' evils at their worst mid mend,
Or even end--My Meärianne.

But still, if we can only bear
Wi' faïth an' love, our païn an' ceäre,
We shan't vind missèn jaÿs a-lost,
Though we be crost--O Meärianne.
But all a-took to heav'n, an' stow'd
Where we can't weäste em on the road,
As we do wander to an' fro,
Down here below--My Meärianne.

But there be jaÿs I'd soonest choose
To keep, vrom them that I must lose;
Your workzome hands to help my tweil,
Your cheerful smile--O Meärianne.
The Zunday bells o' yonder tow'r,
The moonlight sheädes o' my own bow'r,
An' rest avore our vier-zide,
At evenèn-tide--My Meärianne.

VO'K A-COMÈN INTO CHURCH.

The church do zeem a touchèn zight,
When vo'k, a-comèn in at door,
Do softly tread the long-aïl'd vloor
Below the pillar'd arches' height,
Wi' bells a-pealèn,
Vo'k a-kneelèn,
Hearts a-healèn, wi' the love
An' peäce a-zent em vrom above.

An' there, wi' mild an' thoughtvul feäce,
Wi' downcast eyes, an' vaïces dum',
The wold an' young do slowly come,
An' teäke in stillness each his pleäce,
A-zinkèn slowly,
Kneelèn lowly,
Seekèn holy thoughts alwone,
In praÿ'r avore their Meäker's throne.

An' there be sons in youthvul pride,
An' fathers weak wi' years an' païn,
An' daughters in their mother's traïn.
The tall wi' smaller at their zide;
Heads in murnèn
Never turnèn,
Cheäks a-burnèn, wi' the het
O' youth, an' eyes noo tears do wet.

There friends do settle, zide by zide,
The knower speechless to the known;
Their vaïce is there vor God alwone
To flesh an' blood their tongues be tied.
Grief a-wringèn,
Jaÿ a-zingèn,
Pray'r a-bringèn welcome rest
So softly to the troubled breast.

WOONE RULE.

An' while I zot, wi' thoughtvul mind,
Up where the lwonesome Coombs do wind,
An' watch'd the little gully slide
So crookèd to the river-zide;
I thought how wrong the Stour did zeem
To roll along his ramblèn stream,
A-runnèn wide the left o' south,
To vind his mouth, the right-hand zide.

But though his stream do teäke, at mill.
An' eastward bend by Newton Hill,
An' goo to lay his welcome boon
O' daïly water round Hammoon,
An' then wind off ageän, to run
By Blanvord, to the noonday zun,
'Tis only bound by woone rule all,
An' that's to vall down steepest ground.

An' zoo, I thought, as we do bend
Our waÿ drough life, to reach our end,
Our God ha' gi'ed us, vrom our youth,
Woone rule to be our guide--His truth.
An' zoo wi' that, though we mid teäke
Wide rambles vor our callèns' seäke,
What is, is best, we needen fear,
An' we shall steer to happy rest.

GOOD MEÄSTER COLLINS.

Aye, Meäster Collins wer a-blest
Wi' greäce, an' now's a-gone to rest;
An' though his heart did beät so meek
'S a little child's, when he did speak,
The godly wisdom ov his tongue
Wer dew o' greäce to wold an' young.

'Twer woonce, upon a zummer's tide,
I zot at Brookwell by his zide,
Avore the leäke, upon the rocks,
Above the water's idle shocks,
As little plaÿsome weäves did zwim
Ageän the water's windy brim,
Out where the lofty tower o' stwone
Did stan' to years o' wind an' zun;
An' where the zwellèn pillars bore
A pworch above the heavy door,
Wi' sister sheädes a-reachèn cool
Athirt the stwones an' sparklèn pool.

I spoke zome word that meäde en smile,
O' girt vo'k's wealth an' poor vo'k's tweil,
As if I pin'd, vor want ov greäce,
To have a lord's or squier's pleäce.
"No, no," he zaid, "what God do zend
Is best vor all o's in the end,
An' all that we do need the mwost
Do come to us wi' leäst o' cost;--
Why, who could live upon the e'th
'Ithout God's gïft ov aïr vor breath?
Or who could bide below the zun
If water didden rise an' run?
An' who could work below the skies
If zun an' moon did never rise?
Zoo aïr an' water, an' the light,
Be higher gifts, a-reckon'd right,
Than all the goold the darksome claÿ
Can ever yield to zunny daÿ:
But then the aïr is roun' our heads,
Abroad by day, or on our beds;
Where land do gi'e us room to bide,
Or seas do spread vor ships to ride;
An' He do zend his waters free,
Vrom clouds to lands, vrom lands to sea:
An' mornèn light do blush an' glow,
'Ithout our tweil--'ithout our ho.

"Zoo let us never pine, in sin,
Vor gifts that ben't the best to win;
The heaps o' goold that zome mid pile,
Wi' sleepless nights an' peaceless tweil;
Or manor that mid reach so wide
As Blackmwore is vrom zide to zide,
Or kingly swaÿ, wi' life or death,
Vor helpless childern ov the e'th:
Vor theäse ben't gifts, as He do know,
That He in love should vu'st bestow;
Or else we should have had our sheäre
O'm all wi' little tweil or ceäre.

"Ov all His choicest gifts, His cry
Is, 'Come, ye moneyless, and buy.'
Zoo blest is he that can but lift
His prayer vor a happy gift."

HERRENSTON.

Zoo then the leädy an' the squier,
At Chris'mas, gather'd girt an' small,
Vor me'th, avore their roarèn vier,
An! roun' their bwoard, 'ithin the hall;
An' there, in glitt'rèn rows, between
The roun'-rimm'd pleätes, our knives did sheen,
Wi' frothy eäle, an' cup an' can,
Vor maïd an' man, at Herrenston.

An' there the jeints o' beef did stand,
Lik' cliffs o' rock, in goodly row;
Where woone mid quarry till his hand
Did tire, an' meäke but little show;
An' after we'd a-took our seat,
An' greäce had been a-zaid vor meat,
We zet to work, an' zoo begun
Our feäst an' fun at Herrenston.

An' mothers there, bezide the bwoards,
Wi' little childern in their laps,
Did stoop, wi' lovèn looks an' words,
An' veed em up wi' bits an' draps;
An' smilèn husbands went in quest
O' what their wives did like the best;
An' you'd ha' zeed a happy zight,
Thik merry night, at Herrenston.

An' then the band, wi' each his leaf
O' notes, above us at the zide,
Play'd up the praïse ov England's beef
An' vill'd our hearts wi' English pride;
An' leafy chaïns o' garlands hung,
Wi' dazzlèn stripes o' flags, that swung
Above us, in a bleäze o' light,
Thik happy night, at Herrenston.

An' then the clerk, avore the vier,
Begun to lead, wi' smilèn feäce,
A carol, wi' the Monkton quire,
That rung drough all the crowded pleäce.
An' dins' o' words an' laughter broke
In merry peals drough clouds o' smoke;
Vor hardly wer there woone that spoke,
But pass'd a joke, at Herrenston.

Then man an' maïd stood up by twos,
In rows, drough passage, out to door,
An' gaïly beät, wi' nimble shoes,
A dance upon the stwonèn floor.
But who is worthy vor to tell,
If she that then did bear the bell,
Wer woone o' Monkton, or o' Ceäme,
Or zome sweet neäme ov Herrenston.

Zoo peace betide the girt vo'k's land,
When they can stoop, wi' kindly smile,
An' teäke a poor man by the hand,
An' cheer en in his daily tweil.
An' oh! mid He that's vur above
The highest here, reward their love,
An' gi'e their happy souls, drough greäce,
A higher pleäce than Herrenston.

OUT AT PLOUGH.

Though cool avore the sheenèn sky
Do vall the sheädes below the copse,
The timber-trees, a-reachèn high,
Ha' zunsheen on their lofty tops,
Where yonder land's a-lyèn plow'd,
An' red, below the snow-white cloud,
An' vlocks o' pitchèn rooks do vwold
Their wings to walk upon the mwold.
While floods be low,
An' buds do grow,
An' aïr do blow, a-broad, O.

But though the aïr is cwold below
The creakèn copses' darksome screen,
The truest sheäde do only show
How strong the warmer zun do sheen;
An' even times o' grief an' païn,
Ha' good a-comèn in their traïn,
An' 'tis but happiness do mark
The sheädes o' sorrow out so dark.
As tweils be sad,
Or smiles be glad,
Or times be bad, at hwome, O

An' there the zunny land do lie
Below the hangèn, in the lew,
Wi' vurrows now a-crumblèn dry,
Below the plowman's dousty shoe;
An' there the bwoy do whissel sh'ill,
Below the skylark's merry bill,
Where primrwose beds do deck the zides
O' banks below the meäple wrides.
As trees be bright
Wi' bees in flight,
An' weather's bright, abroad, O.

An' there, as sheenèn wheels do spin
Vull speed along the dousty rwoad,
He can but stan', an' wish 'ithin
His mind to be their happy lwoad,
That he mid gaïly ride, an' goo
To towns the rwoad mid teäke en drough,
An' zee, for woonce, the zights behind
The bluest hills his eyes can vind,
O' towns, an' tow'rs,
An' downs, an' flow'rs,
In zunny hours, abroad, O.

But still, vor all the weather's feäir,
Below a cloudless sky o' blue,
The bwoy at plough do little ceäre
How vast the brightest day mid goo;
Vor he'd be glad to zee the zun
A-zettèn, wi' his work a-done,
That he, at hwome, mid still injaÿ
His happy bit ov evenèn plaÿ,
So light's a lark
Till night is dark,
While dogs do bark, at hwome, O.

THE BWOAT.

Where cows did slowly seek the brink
O' _Stour_, drough zunburnt grass, to drink;
Wi' vishèn float, that there did zink
An' rise, I zot as in a dream.
The dazzlèn zun did cast his light
On hedge-row blossom, snowy white,
Though nothèn yet did come in zight,
A-stirrèn on the straÿèn stream;

Till, out by sheädy rocks there show'd,
A bwoat along his foamy road,
Wi' thik feäir maïd at mill, a-row'd
Wi' Jeäne behind her brother's oars.
An' steätely as a queen o' vo'k,
She zot wi' floatèn scarlet cloak,
An' comèn on, at ev'ry stroke,
Between my withy-sheäded shores.

The broken stream did idly try
To show her sheäpe a-ridèn by,
The rushes brown-bloom'd stems did ply,
As if they bow'd to her by will.
The rings o' water, wi' a sock,
Did break upon the mossy rock,
An' gi'e my beätèn heart a shock,
Above my float's up-leapèn quill.

Then, lik' a cloud below the skies,
A-drifted off, wi' less'nèn size,
An' lost, she floated vrom my eyes,
Where down below the stream did wind;
An' left the quiet weäves woonce mwore
To zink to rest, a sky-blue'd vloor,
Wi' all so still's the clote they bore,
Aye, all but my own ruffled mind.

THE PLEÄCE OUR OWN AGEÄN.

Well! thanks to you, my faïthful Jeäne,
So worksome wi' your head an' hand,
We seäved enough to get ageän
My poor vorefather's plot o' land.
'Twer folly lost, an' cunnèn got,
What should ha' come to me by lot.
But let that goo; 'tis well the land
Is come to hand, by be'th or not.

An' there the brook, a-windèn round
The parrick zide, do run below
The grey-stwon'd bridge wi' gurglèn sound,
A-sheäded by the arches' bow;
Where former days the wold brown meäre,
Wi' father on her back, did wear
Wi' heavy shoes the grav'ly leäne,
An' sheäke her meäne o' yollor heäir.

An' many zummers there ha' glow'd,
To shrink the brook in bubblèn shoals,
An' warm the doust upon the road,
Below the trav'ller's burnèn zoles.
An' zome ha' zent us to our bed
In grief, an' zome in jaÿ ha' vled;
But vew ha' come wi' happier light
Than what's now bright, above our head.

The brook did peärt, zome years agoo,
Our Grenley meäds vrom Knapton's Ridge
But now you know, between the two,
A-road's a-meäde by Grenley Bridge.
Zoo why should we shrink back at zight
Ov hindrances we ought to slight?
A hearty will, wi' God our friend,
Will gaïn its end, if 'tis but right.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

_John an' Thomas._

THOMAS.

How b'ye, then, John, to-night; an' how
Be times a-waggèn on w' ye now?
I can't help slackenèn my peäce
When I do come along your pleäce,
To zee what crops your bit o' groun'
Do bear ye all the zummer roun'.
'Tis true you don't get fruit nor blooth,
'Ithin the glassèn houses' lewth;
But if a man can rear a crop
Where win' do blow an' raïn can drop,
Do seem to come, below your hand,
As fine as any in the land.

JOHN.

Well, there, the geärden stuff an' flow'rs
Don't leäve me many idle hours;
But still, though I mid plant or zow,
'Tis Woone above do meäke it grow.

THOMAS.

Aye, aye, that's true, but still your strip
O' groun' do show good workmanship:
You've onions there nine inches round,
An' turmits that would waïgh a pound;
An' cabbage wi' its hard white head,
An' teäties in their dousty bed,
An' carrots big an' straïght enough
Vor any show o' geärden stuff;
An' trees ov apples, red-skinn'd balls
An' purple plums upon the walls,
An' peas an' beäns; bezides a store
O' heärbs vor ev'ry païn an' zore.

JOHN.

An' over hedge the win's a-heärd,
A ruslèn drough my barley's beard;
An' swaÿen wheat do overspread
Zix ridges in a sheet o' red;
An' then there's woone thing I do call
The girtest handiness ov all:
My ground is here at hand, avore
My eyes, as I do stand at door;
An' zoo I've never any need
To goo a mile to pull a weed.

THOMAS.

No, sure, a miël shoulden stratch
Between woone's geärden an' woone's hatch.
A man would like his house to stand
Bezide his little bit o' land.

JOHN.

Ees. When woone's groun' vor geärden stuff
Is roun' below the house's ruf,
Then woone can spend upon woone's land
Odd minutes that mid lie on hand,
The while, wi' night a-comèn on,
The red west sky's a-wearèn wan;
Or while woone's wife, wi' busy hands,
Avore her vier o' burnèn brands,
Do put, as best she can avword,
Her bit o' dinner on the bwoard.
An' here, when I do teäke my road,
At breakfast-time, agwaïn abrode,
Why, I can zee if any plot
O' groun' do want a hand or not;
An' bid my childern, when there's need,
To draw a reäke or pull a weed,
Or heal young beäns or peas in line,
Or tie em up wi' rods an' twine,
Or peel a kindly withy white
To hold a droopèn flow'r upright.

THOMAS.

No. Bits o' time can zeldom come
To much on groun' a mile vrom hwome.
A man at hwome should have in view
The jobs his childern's hands can do,
An' groun' abrode mid teäke em all
Beyond their mother's zight an' call,
To get a zoakèn in a storm,
Or vall, i' may be, into harm.

JOHN.

Ees. Geärden groun', as I've a-zed,
Is better near woone's bwoard an' bed.

PENTRIDGE BY THE RIVER.

Pentridge!--oh! my heart's a-zwellèn
Vull o' jaÿ wi' vo'k a-tellèn
Any news o' thik wold pleäce,
An' the boughy hedges round it,
An' the river that do bound it
Wi' his dark but glis'nèn feäce.
Vor there's noo land, on either hand,
To me lik' Pentridge by the river.

Be there any leaves to quiver
On the aspen by the river?
Doo he sheäde the water still,
Where the rushes be a-growèn,
Where the sullen Stour's a-flowèn
Drough the meäds vrom mill to mill?
Vor if a tree wer dear to me,
Oh! 'twer thik aspen by the river.

There, in eegrass new a-shootèn,
I did run on even vootèn,
Happy, over new-mow'd land;
Or did zing wi' zingèn drushes
While I plaïted, out o' rushes,
Little baskets vor my hand;
Bezide the clote that there did float,
Wi' yollow blossoms, on the river.

When the western zun's a vallèn,
What sh'ill vaïce is now a-callèn
Hwome the deäiry to the païls;
Who do dreve em on, a-flingèn
Wide-bow'd horns, or slowly zwingèn
Right an' left their tufty taïls?
As they do goo a-huddled drough
The geäte a-leädèn up vrom river.

Bleäded grass is now a-shootèn
Where the vloor wer woonce our vootèn,
While the hall wer still in pleäce.
Stwones be looser in the wallèn;
Hollow trees be nearer vallèn;
Ev'ry thing ha' chang'd its feäce.
But still the neäme do bide the seäme--
'Tis Pentridge--Pentridge by the river.

WHEAT.

In brown-leav'd Fall the wheat a-left
'Ithin its darksome bed,
Where all the creakèn roller's heft
Seal'd down its lowly head,
Sprung sheäkèn drough the crumblèn mwold,
Green-yollow, vrom below,
An' bent its bleädes, a-glitt'rèn cwold,
At last in winter snow.
Zoo luck betide
The upland zide,
Where wheat do wride,
In corn-vields wide,
By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

An' while the screamèn bird-bwoy shook
Wi' little zun-burnt hand,
His clacker at the bright-wing'd rook,
About the zeeded land;
His meäster there did come an' stop
His bridle-champèn meäre,
Wi' thankvul heart, to zee his crop
A-comèn up so feäir.
As there awhile
By geäte or stile,
He gi'ed the chile
A cheerèn smile,
By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

At last, wi' eärs o' darksome red,
The yollow stalks did ply,
A-swaÿèn slow, so heavy 's lead,
In aïr a-blowèn by;
An' then the busy reapers laid
In row their russlèn grips,
An' sheäves, a-leänèn head by head,
Did meäke the stitches tips.
Zoo food's a-vound,
A-comèn round,
Vrom zeed in ground,
To sheaves a-bound,
By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

An' now the wheat, in lofty lwoads,
Above the meäres' broad backs,
Do ride along the cracklèn rwoads,
Or dousty waggon-tracks.
An' there, mid every busy pick,
Ha' work enough to do;
An' where, avore, we built woone rick,
Mid theäse year gi'e us two;
Wi' God our friend,
An' wealth to spend,
Vor zome good end,
That times mid mend,
In towns, an' Do'set Downs, O.

Zoo let the merry thatcher veel
Fine weather on his brow,
As he, in happy work, do kneel
Up roun' the new-built mow,
That now do zwell in sich a size,
An' rise to sich a height,
That, oh! the miller's wistful eyes
Do sparkle at the zight
An' long mid stand,
A happy band,
To till the land,
Wi' head an' hand,
By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

THE MEÄD IN JUNE.

Ah! how the looks o' sky an' ground
Do change wi' months a-stealèn round,
When northern winds, by starry night,
Do stop in ice the river's flight;
Or brooks in winter raïns do zwell,
Lik' rollèn seas athirt the dell;
Or trickle thin in zummer-tide;
Among the mossy stwones half dried;
But still, below the zun or moon,
The feàrest vield's the meäd in June.

An' I must own, my heart do beät
Wi' pride avore my own blue geäte,
Where I can bid the steätely tree
Be cast, at langth, avore my knee;
An' clover red, an' deäzies feaïr,
An' gil'cups wi' their yollow gleäre,
Be all a-match'd avore my zight
By wheelèn buttervlees in flight,
The while the burnèn zun at noon
Do sheen upon my meäd in June.

An' there do zing the swingèn lark
So gaÿ's above the finest park,
An' day do sheäde my trees as true
As any steätely avenue;
An' show'ry clouds o' Spring do pass
To shed their raïn on my young grass,
An' aïr do blow the whole day long,
To bring me breath, an' teäke my zong,
An' I do miss noo needvul boon
A-gi'ed to other meäds in June.

An' when the bloomèn rwose do ride
Upon the boughy hedge's zide,
We haymeäkers, in snow-white sleeves,
Do work in sheädes o' quiv'rèn leaves,
In afternoon, a-liftèn high
Our reäkes avore the viery sky,
A-reäken up the hay a-dried
By day, in lwongsome weäles, to bide
In chilly dew below the moon,
O' shorten'd nights in zultry June.

An' there the brook do softly flow
Along, a-bendèn in a bow,
An' vish, wi' zides o' zilver-white,
Do flash vrom shoals a dazzlèn light;
An' alders by the water's edge,
Do sheäde the ribbon-bleäded zedge,
An' where, below the withy's head,
The zwimmèn clote-leaves be a-spread,
The angler is a-zot at noon
Upon the flow'ry bank in June.

Vor all the aiër that do bring
My little meäd the breath o' Spring,
By day an' night's a-flowèn wide
Above all other vields bezide;
Vor all the zun above my ground
'S a-zent vor all the naïghbours round,
An' raïn do vall, an' streams do flow,
Vor lands above, an' lands below,
My bit o' meäd is God's own boon,
To me alwone, vrom June to June.

EARLY RISÈN.

The aïr to gi'e your cheäks a hue
O' rwosy red, so feaïr to view,
Is what do sheäke the grass-bleädes gray
At breäk o' day, in mornèn dew;
Vor vo'k that will be rathe abrode,
Will meet wi' health upon their road.

But bidèn up till dead o' night,
When han's o' clocks do stan' upright,
By candle-light, do soon consume
The feäce's bloom, an' turn it white.
An' light a-cast vrom midnight skies
Do blunt the sparklèn ov the eyes.

Vor health do weäke vrom nightly dreams
Below the mornèn's eärly beams,
An' leäve the dead-aïr'd houses' eaves,
Vor quiv'rèn leaves, an' bubblèn streams,
A-glitt'rèn brightly to the view,
Below a sky o' cloudless blue.

ZELLEN WOONE'S HONEY TO BUY ZOME'HAT SWEET.

Why, his heart's lik' a popple, so hard as a stwone,
Vor 'tis money, an' money's his ho,
An' to handle an' reckon it up vor his own,
Is the best o' the jaÿs he do know.
Why, vor money he'd gi'e up his lags an' be leäme,
Or would peärt wi' his zight an' be blind,
Or would lose vo'k's good will, vor to have a bad neäme,
Or his peace, an' have trouble o' mind.
But wi' ev'ry good thing that his meänness mid bring,
He'd paÿ vor his money,
An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

He did whisper to me, "You do know that you stood
By the Squier, wi' the vote that you had,
You could ax en to help ye to zome'hat as good,
Or to vind a good pleäce vor your lad."
"Aye, aye, but if I wer beholdèn vor bread
To another," I zaid, "I should bind
All my body an' soul to the nod of his head,
An' gi'e up all my freedom o' mind."
An' then, if my païn wer a-zet wi' my gaïn,
I should paÿ vor my money,
An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

Then, if my bit o' brook that do wind so vur round,
Wer but his, why, he'd straïghten his bed,
An' the wold stunpole woak that do stan' in my ground,
Shoudden long sheäde the grass wi' his head.
But if I do vind jaÿ where the leaves be a-shook
On the limbs, wi' their sheädes on the grass,
Or below, in the bow o' the withy-bound nook,
That the rock-washèn water do pass,
Then wi' they jaÿs a-vled an' zome goold in their stead,
I should pay vor my money,
An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

No, be my lot good work, wi' the lungs well in plaÿ,
An' good rest when the body do tire,
Vor the mind a good conscience, wi' hope or wi' jaÿ,
Vor the body, good lewth, an' good vire,
There's noo good o' goold, but to buy what 'ull meäke
Vor our happiness here among men;
An' who would gi'e happiness up vor the seäke
O' zome money to buy it ageän?
Vor 'twould seem to the eyes ov a man that is wise,
Lik' money vor money,
Or zellèn woone's honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

DOBBIN DEAD.

_Thomas_ (1) _an' John_ (2) _a-ta'èn o't._

2. I do veel vor ye, Thomas, vor I be a-feär'd
You've a-lost your wold meäre then, by what I've a-heärd.

1. Ees, my meäre is a-gone, an' the cart's in the shed
Wi' his wheelbonds a-rustèn, an' I'm out o' bread;
Vor what be my han's vor to eärn me a croust,
Wi' noo meäre's vower legs vor to trample the doust.

2. Well, how did it happen? He vell vrom the brim
Ov a cliff, as the teäle is, an' broke ev'ry lim'.

1. Why, I gi'ed en his run, an' he shook his wold meäne,
An' he rambled a-veedèn in Westergap Leäne;
An' there he must needs goo a-riggèn, an' crope
Vor a vew bleädes o' grass up the wo'st o' the slope;
Though I should ha' thought his wold head would ha' know'd
That vor stiff lags, lik' his, the best pleäce wer the road.

2. An' you hadden a-kept en so short, he must clim',
Lik' a gwoat, vor a bleäde, at the risk ov a lim'.

1. Noo, but there, I'm a-twold, he did clim' an' did slide,
An' did screäpe, an' did slip, on the shelvèn bank-zide,
An' at langth lost his vootèn, an' roll'd vrom the top,
Down, thump, kick, an' higgledly, piggledly, flop.

2. Dear me, that is bad! I do veel vor your loss,
Vor a vew years agoo, Thomas, I lost my ho'se.

1. How wer't? If I heärd it, I now ha' vorgot;
Wer the poor thing bewitch'd or a-pweison'd, or what?

2. He wer out, an' a-meäkèn his way to the brink
O' the stream at the end o' Church Leäne, vor to drink;
An' he met wi' zome yew-twigs the men had a-cast
Vrom the yew-tree, in churchyard, the road that he past.
He wer pweison'd. (1.) O dear, 'tis a hard loss to bear,
Vor a tranter's whole bread is a-lost wi' his meäre;
But ov all churches' yew-trees, I never zet eyes
On a tree that would come up to thik woone vor size.

2. Noo, 'tis long years agone, but do linger as clear
In my mind though as if I'd a-heärd it to year.
When King George wer in Do'set, an' show'd us his feäce
By our very own doors, at our very own pleäce,
That he look'd at thik yew-tree, an' nodded his head,
An' he zaid,--an' I'll tell ye the words that he zaid:--
"I'll be bound, if you'll sarch my dominions all drough.
That you woon't vind the fellow to thik there wold yew."

HAPPINESS.

Ah! you do seem to think the ground,
Where happiness is best a-vound,
Is where the high-peäl'd park do reach
Wi' elem-rows, or clumps o' beech;
Or where the coach do stand avore
The twelve-tunn'd house's lofty door,
Or men can ride behin' their hounds
Vor miles athirt their own wide grounds,
An' seldom wi' the lowly;
Upon the green that we do tread,
Below the welsh-nut's wide-limb'd head,
Or grass where apple trees do spread?
No, so's; no, no: not high nor low:
'Tis where the heart is holy.

'Tis true its veet mid tread the vloor,
'Ithin the marble-pillar'd door,
Where day do cast, in high-ruf'd halls.
His light drough lofty window'd walls;
An' wax-white han's do never tire
Wi' strokes ov heavy work vor hire,
An' all that money can avword
Do lwoad the zilver-brighten'd bwoard:
Or mid be wi' the lowly,
Where turf's a-smwolderèn avore
The back, to warm the stwonèn vloor
An' love's at hwome 'ithin the door?
No, so's; no, no; not high nor low:
'Tis where the heart is holy.

An' ceäre can come 'ithin a ring
O' sworded guards, to smite a king,
Though he mid hold 'ithin his hands
The zwarmèn vo'k o' many lands;
Or goo in drough the iron-geäte
Avore the house o' lofty steäte;
Or reach the miser that do smile
A-buildèn up his goolden pile;
Or else mid smite the lowly,
That have noo pow'r to loose or bind
Another's body, or his mind,
But only hands to help mankind.
If there is rest 'ithin the breast,
'Tis where the heart is holy.

GRUFFMOODY GRIM.

Aye, a sad life his wife must ha' led,
Vor so snappish he's leätely a-come,
That there's nothèn but anger or dread
Where he is, abroad or at hwome;
He do wreak all his spite on the bwones
O' whatever do vlee, or do crawl;
He do quarrel wi' stocks, an' wi' stwones,
An' the raïn, if do hold up or vall;
There is nothèn vrom mornèn till night
Do come right to Gruffmoody Grim.

Woone night, in his anger, he zwore
At the vier, that didden burn free:
An' he het zome o't out on the vloor,
Vor a vlanker it cast on his knee.
Then he kicked it vor burnèn the child,
An' het it among the cat's heaïrs;
An' then beät the cat, a-run wild,
Wi' a spark on her back up the steaïrs:
Vor even the vier an' fleäme
Be to bleäme wi' Gruffmoody Grim.

Then he snarl'd at the tea in his cup,
Vor 'twer all a-got cwold in the pot,
But 'twer woo'se when his wife vill'd it up
Vrom the vier, vor 'twer then scaldèn hot;
Then he growl'd that the bread wer sich stuff
As noo hammer in parish could crack,
An' flung down the knife in a huff;
Vor the edge o'n wer thicker'n the back.
Vor beäkers an' meäkers o' tools
Be all fools wi' Gruffmoody Grim.

Oone day as he vish'd at the brook,
He flung up, wi' a quick-handed knack,
His long line, an' his high-vleèn hook
Wer a-hitch'd in zome briars at his back.
Then he zwore at the brembles, an' prick'd
His beäre hand, as he pull'd the hook free;
An' ageän, in a rage, as he kick'd
At the briars, wer a-scratch'd on the knee.
An' he wish'd ev'ry bremble an' briar
Wer o' vier, did Gruffmoody Grim.

Oh! he's welcome, vor me, to breed dread
Wherever his sheäde mid alight,
An' to live wi' noo me'th round his head,
An' noo feäce wi' a smile in his zight;
But let vo'k be all merry an' zing
At the he'th where my own logs do burn,
An' let anger's wild vist never swing
In where I have a door on his durn;
Vor I'll be a happier man,
While I can, than Gruffmoody Grim.

To zit down by the vier at night,
Is my jaÿ--vor I woon't call it pride,--
Wi' a brand on the bricks, all alight,
An' a pile o' zome mwore at the zide.
Then tell me o' zome'hat that's droll,
An' I'll laugh till my two zides do eäche
Or o' naïghbours in sorrow o' soul,
An' I'll tweil all the night vor their seäke;
An' show that to teäke things amiss
Idden bliss, to Gruffmoody Grim.

An' then let my child clim' my lag,
An' I'll lift en, wi' love, to my chin;
Or my maïd come an' coax me to bag
Vor a frock, an' a frock she shall win;
Or, then if my wife do meäke light
O' whatever the bwoys mid ha' broke,
It wull seem but so small in my zight,
As a leaf a-het down vrom a woak
An' not meäke me ceäper an' froth
Vull o' wrath, lik' Gruffmoody Grim.

THE TURN O' THE DAYS.

O the wings o' the rook wer a-glitterèn bright,
As he wheel'd on above, in the zun's evenèn light,
An' noo snow wer a-left, but in patches o' white,
On the hill at the turn o' the days.
An' along on the slope wer the beäre-timber'd copse,
Wi' the dry wood a-sheäkèn, wi' red-twiggèd tops.
Vor the dry-flowèn wind, had a-blow'd off the drops
O' the raïn, at the turn o' the days.

There the stream did run on, in the sheäde o' the hill,
So smooth in his flowèn, as if he stood still,
An' bright wi' the skylight, did slide to the mill,
By the meäds, at the turn o' the days.
An' up by the copse, down along the hill brow,
Wer vurrows a-cut down, by men out at plough,
So straïght as the zunbeams, a-shot drough the bough
O' the tree at the turn o' the days.

Then the boomèn wold clock in the tower did mark
His vive hours, avore the cool evenèn wer dark,
An' ivy did glitter a-clung round the bark
O' the tree, at the turn o' the days.
An' womèn a-fraïd o' the road in the night,
Wer a-heästenèn on to reach hwome by the light,
A-castèn long sheädes on the road, a-dried white,
Down the hill, at the turn o' the days.

The father an' mother did walk out to view
The moss-bedded snow-drop, a-sprung in the lew,
An' hear if the birds wer a-zingèn anew,
In the boughs, at the turn o' the days.
An' young vo'k a-laughèn wi' smooth glossy feäce,
Did hie over vields, wi' a light-vooted peäce,
To friends where the tow'r did betoken a pleäce
Among trees, at the turn o' the days.

THE SPARROW CLUB.

Last night the merry farmers' sons,
Vrom biggest down to leäst, min,
Gi'ed in the work of all their guns,
An' had their sparrow feäst, min.
An' who vor woone good merry soul
Should goo to sheäre their me'th, min,
But Gammon Gaÿ, a chap so droll,
He'd meäke ye laugh to death, min.

Vor heads o' sparrows they've a-shot
They'll have a prize in cwein, min,
That is, if they can meäke their scot,
Or else they'll paÿ a fine, min.
An' all the money they can teäke
'S a-gather'd up there-right, min,
An' spent in meat an' drink, to meäke
A supper vor the night, min.