Chapter I: Know Who (2)

Zoo when they took away the cloth,
In middle of their din, min,
An' cups o' eäle begun to froth,
Below their merry chin, min.
An' when the zong, by turn or chaïce,
Went roun' vrom tongue to tongue, min,
Then Gammon pitch'd his merry vaïce,
An' here's the zong he zung, min.

_Zong._

If you'll but let your clackers rest
Vrom jabberèn an' hootèn,
I'll teäke my turn, an' do my best,
To zing o' sparrow shootèn.
Since every woone mus' pitch his key,
An' zing a zong, in coo'se, lads,
Why sparrow heads shall be to-day
The heads o' my discoo'se, lads.

We'll zend abroad our viery haïl
Till ev'ry foe's a-vled, lads,
An' though the rogues mid all turn taïl,
We'll quickly show their head, lads.
In corn, or out on oben ground,
In bush, or up in tree, lads,
If we don't kill em, I'll be bound,
We'll meäke their veathers vlee, lads.

Zoo let the belted spwortsmen brag
When they've a-won a neäme, so's,
That they do vind, or they do bag,
Zoo many head o' geäme, so's;
Vor when our cwein is woonce a-won,
By heads o' sundry sizes,
Why, who can slight what we've a-done?
We've all a-won _head_ prizes.

Then teäke a drap vor harmless fun,
But not enough to quarrel;
Though where a man do like the gun,
He can't but need the barrel.
O' goodly feäre, avore we'll start,
We'll zit an' teäke our vill, min;
Our supper-bill can be but short,
'Tis but a sparrow-bill, min.

GAMMONY GA[:Y].

Oh! thik Gammony Gaÿ is so droll,
That if he's at hwome by the he'th,
Or wi' vo'k out o' door, he's the soul
O' the meetèn vor antics an' me'th;
He do cast off the thoughts ov ill luck
As the water's a-shot vrom a duck;
He do zing where his naïghbours would cry
He do laugh where the rest o's would sigh:
Noo other's so merry o' feäce,
In the pleäce, as Gammony Gaÿ.

An' o' workèn days, Oh! he do wear
Such a funny roun' hat,--you mid know't--
Wi' a brim all a-strout roun' his heäir,
An' his glissenèn eyes down below't;
An' a cwoat wi' broad skirts that do vlee
In the wind ov his walk, round his knee;
An' a peäir o' girt pockets lik' bags,
That do swing an' do bob at his lags:
While me'th do walk out drough the pleäce,
In the feäce o' Gammony Gaÿ.

An' if he do goo over groun'
Wi' noo soul vor to greet wi' his words,
The feäce o'n do look up an' down,
An' round en so quick as a bird's;
An' if he do vall in wi' vo'k,
Why, tidden vor want ov a joke,
If he don't zend em on vrom the pleäce
Wi' a smile or a grin on their feäce:
An' the young wi' the wold have a-heärd
A kind word vrom Gammony Gaÿ.

An' when he do whissel or hum,
'Ithout thinkèn o' what he's a-doèn,
He'll beät his own lags vor a drum,
An' bob his gaÿ head to the tuèn;
An' then you mid zee, 'etween whiles,
His feäce all alive wi' his smiles,
An' his gaÿ-breathèn bozom do rise,
An' his me'th do sheen out ov his eyes:
An' at last to have praïse or have bleäme,
Is the seäme to Gammony Gaÿ.

When he drove his wold cart out, an' broke
The nut o' the wheel at a butt.
There wer "woo'se things," he cried, wi' a joke.
"To grieve at than crackèn a nut."
An' when he tipp'd over a lwoad
Ov his reed-sheaves woone day on the rwoad,
Then he spet in his han's, out o' sleeves,
An' whissel'd, an' flung up his sheaves,
As very vew others can wag,
Eärm or lag, but Gammony Gaÿ.

He wer wi' us woone night when the band
Wer a-come vor to gi'e us a hop,
An' he pull'd Grammer out by the hand
All down drough the dance vrom the top;
An' Grammer did hobble an' squall,
Wi' Gammon a-leädèn the ball;
While Gammon did sheäke up his knee
An' his voot, an' zing "Diddle-ee-dee!"
An' we laugh'd ourzelves all out o' breath
At the me'th o' Gammony Gaÿ.

When our tun wer' o' vier he rod
Out to help us, an' meäde us sich fun,
Vor he clomb up to dreve in a wad
O' wet thorns, to the he'th, vrom the tun;
An' there he did stamp wi' his voot,
To push down the thorns an' the zoot,
Till at last down the chimney's black wall
Went the wad, an' poor Gammon an' all:
An' seäfe on the he'th, wi' a grin
On his chin pitch'd Gammony Gaÿ.

All the house-dogs do waggle their taïls,
If they do but catch zight ov his feäce;
An' the ho'ses do look over raïls,
An' do whicker to zee'n at the pleäce;
An' he'll always bestow a good word
On a cat or a whisselèn bird;
An' even if culvers do coo,
Or an owl is a-cryèn "Hoo, hoo,"
Where he is, there's always a joke
To be spoke, by Gammony Gaÿ.

THE HEARE.

(_Dree o'm a-ta'kèn o't._)

(1) There be the greyhounds! lo'k! an' there's the heäre!
(2) What houn's, the squier's, Thomas? where, then, where?

(1) Why, out in Ash Hill, near the barn, behind
Thik tree. (3) The pollard? (1) Pollard! no, b'ye blind?
(2) There, I do zee em over-right thik cow.
(3) The red woone? (1) No, a mile beyand her now.
(3) Oh! there's the heäre, a-meäkèn for the drong.
(2) My goodness! How the dogs do zweep along,
A-pokèn out their pweinted noses' tips.
(3) He can't allow hizzelf much time vor slips!
(1) They'll hab'en, after all, I'll bet a crown.
(2) Done vor a crown. They woon't! He's gwäin to groun'.
(3) He is! (1) He idden! (3) Ah! 'tis well his tooes
Ha' got noo corns, inside o' hobnaïl shoes.
(1) He's geäme a runnèn too. Why, he do mwore
Than eärn his life. (3) His life wer his avore.
(1) There, now the dogs wull turn en. (2) No! He's right.
(1) He idden! (2) Ees he is! (3) He's out o' zight.
(1) Aye, aye. His mettle wull be well a-tried
Agwaïn down Verny Hill, o' tother zide.
They'll have en there. (3) O no! a vew good hops
Wull teäke en on to Knapton Lower Copse.
(2) An' that's a meesh that he've a-took avore.
(3) Ees, that's his hwome. (1) He'll never reach his door.
(2) He wull. (1) He woon't. (3) Now, hark, d'ye heär em now?
(2) O! here's a bwoy a-come athirt the brow
O' Knapton Hill. We'll ax en. (1) Here, my bwoy!
Can'st tell us where's the heäre? (4) He's got awoy.
(2) Ees, got awoy, in coo'se, I never zeed
A heäre a-scotèn on wi' half his speed.
(1) Why, there, the dogs be wold, an' half a-done.
They can't catch anything wi' lags to run.
(2) Vrom vu'st to last they had but little chance
O' catchèn o'n. (3) They had a perty dance.
(1) No, catch en, no! I little thought they would;
He know'd his road too well to Knapton Wood.
(3) No! no! I wish the squier would let me feäre
On rabbits till his hounds do catch thik heäre.

NANNY GILL.

Ah! they wer times, when Nanny Gill
Went so'jerèn ageänst her will,
Back when the King come down to view
His ho'se an' voot, in red an' blue,
An' they did march in rows,
An' wheel in lines an' bows,
Below the King's own nose;
An' guns did pwoint, an' swords did gleäre,
A-fightèn foes that werden there.

Poor Nanny Gill did goo to zell
In town her glitt'rèn macarel,
A-pack'd wi' ceäre, in even lots,
A-ho'seback in a peäir o' pots.
An' zoo when she did ride
Between her panniers wide,
Red-cloked in all her pride,
Why, who but she, an' who but broke
The road avore her scarlet cloke!

But Nanny's ho'se that she did ride,
Woonce carr'd a sword ageän his zide,
An' had, to prick en into rank,
A so'jer's spurs ageän his flank;
An' zoo, when he got zight
O' swords a-gleamèn bright,
An' men agwaïn to fight,
He set his eyes athirt the ground,
An' prick'd his ears to catch the sound.

Then Nanny gi'ed his zide a kick,
An' het en wi' her limber stick;
But suddenly a horn did sound,
An' zend the ho'semen on vull bound;
An' her ho'se at the zight
Went after em, vull flight,
Wi' Nanny in a fright,
A-pullèn, wi' a scream an' grin,
Her wold brown raïns to hold en in.

But no! he went away vull bound,
As vast as he could tear the ground,
An' took, in line, a so'jer's pleäce,
Vor Nanny's cloke an' frighten'd feäce;
While vo'k did laugh an' shout
To zee her cloke stream out,
As she did wheel about,
A-cryèn, "Oh! la! dear!" in fright,
The while her ho'se did plaÿ sham fight.

MOONLIGHT ON THE DOOR.

A-swaÿèn slow, the poplar's head,
Above the slopèn thatch did ply,
The while the midnight moon did shed
His light below the spangled sky.
An' there the road did reach avore
The hatch, all vootless down the hill;
An' hands, a-tired by day, wer still,
Wi' moonlight on the door.

A-boomèn deep, did slowly sound
The bell, a-tellèn middle night;
The while the quiv'rèn ivy, round
The tree, did sheäke in softest light.
But vootless wer the stwone avore
The house where I, the maïdens guest,
At evenèn, woonce did zit at rest
By moonlight on the door.

Though till the dawn, where night's a-meäde
The day, the laughèn crowds be gaÿ,
Let evenèn zink wi' quiet sheäde,
Where I do hold my little swaÿ.
An' childern dear to my heart's core,
A-sleep wi' little heavèn breast,
That pank'd by day in plaÿ, do rest
Wi' moonlight on the door.

But still 'tis good, woonce now an' then
To rove where moonlight on the land
Do show in vaïn, vor heedless men,
The road, the vield, the work in hand.
When curtains be a-hung avore
The glitt'rèn windows, snowy white,
An' vine-leaf sheädes do sheäke in light
O' moonlight on the door.

MY LOVE'S GUARDIAN ANGEL.

As in the cool-aïr'd road I come by,
--in the night,
Under the moon-clim'd height o' the sky,
--in the night,
There by the lime's broad lim's as I staÿ'd,
Dark in the moonlight, bough's sheädows plaÿ'd
Up on the window-glass that did keep
Lew vrom the wind, my true love asleep,
--in the night.

While in the grey-wall'd height o' the tow'r,
--in the night,
Sounded the midnight bell wi' the hour,
--in the night,
There lo! a bright-heäir'd angel that shed
Light vrom her white robe's zilvery thread,
Put her vore-vinger up vor to meäke
Silence around lest sleepers mid weäke,
--in the night.

"Oh! then," I whisper'd, do I behold
--in the night.
Linda, my true-love, here in the cwold,
--in the night?"
"No," she meäde answer, "you do misteäke:
She is asleep, but I that do weäke,
Here be on watch, an' angel a-blest,
Over her slumber while she do rest,
--in the night."

"Zee how the winds, while here by the bough,
--in the night,
They do pass on, don't smite on her brow,
in the night;
Zee how the cloud-sheädes naïseless do zweep
Over the house-top where she's asleep.
You, too, goo by, in times that be near,
You too, as I, mid speak in her ear
--in the night."

LEEBURN MILL,

Ov all the meäds wi' shoals an' pools,
Where streams did sheäke the limber zedge,
An' milkèn vo'k did teäke their stools,
In evenèn zun-light under hedge:
Ov all the wears the brook did vill,
Or all the hatches where a sheet
O' foam did leäp below woone's veet,
The pleäce vor me wer Leeburn Mill.

An' while below the mossy wheel
All day the foamèn stream did roar,
An' up in mill the floatèn meal
Did pitch upon the sheäkèn vloor.
We then could vind but vew han's still,
Or veet a-restèn off the ground,
An' seldom hear the merry sound
O' geämes a-play'd at Leeburn Mill.

But when they let the stream goo free,
Bezide the drippèn wheel at rest,
An' leaves upon the poplar-tree
Wer dark avore the glowèn west;
An' when the clock, a-ringèn sh'ill,
Did slowly beät zome evenèn hour,
Oh! then 'ithin the leafy bow'r
Our tongues did run at Leeburn Mill.

An' when November's win' did blow,
Wi' hufflèn storms along the plaïn,
An' blacken'd leaves did lie below
The neäked tree, a-zoak'd wi' raïn,
I werden at a loss to vill
The darkest hour o' raïny skies,
If I did vind avore my eyes
The feäces down at Leeburn Mill.

PRAISE O' DO'SET.

We Do'set, though we mid be hwomely,
Be'nt asheäm'd to own our pleäce;
An' we've zome women not uncomely;
Nor asheäm'd to show their feäce:
We've a meäd or two wo'th mowèn,
We've an ox or two we'th showèn,
In the village,
At the tillage,
Come along an' you shall vind
That Do'set men don't sheäme their kind.
Friend an' wife,
Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers,
Happy, happy, be their life!
Vor Do'set dear,
Then gi'e woone cheer;
D'ye hear? woone cheer!

If you in Do'set be a-roamèn,
An' ha' business at a farm,
Then woont ye zee your eäle a-foamèn!
Or your cider down to warm?
Woont ye have brown bread a-put ye,
An' some vinny cheese a-cut ye?
Butter?--rolls o't!
Cream?--why bowls o't!
Woont ye have, in short, your vill,
A-gi'ed wi' a right good will?
Friend an' wife,
Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers.
Happy, happy, be their life!
Vor Do'set dear,
Then gi'e woone cheer;
D'ye hear? woone cheer!

An' woont ye have vor ev'ry shillèn,
Shillèn's wo'th at any shop,
Though Do'set chaps be up to zellèn,
An' can meäke a tidy swop?
Use em well, they'll use you better;
In good turns they woont be debtor.
An' so comely,
An' so hwomely,
Be the maïdens, if your son
Took woone o'm, then you'd cry "Well done!"
Friend an' wife,
Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers,
Happy, happy, be their life!
Vor Do'set dear,
Then gi'e woone cheer;
D'ye hear? woone cheer!

If you do zee our good men travel,
Down a-voot, or on their meäres,
Along the windèn leänes o' gravel,
To the markets or the feäirs,--
Though their ho'ses cwoats be ragged,
Though the men be muddy-laggèd,
Be they roughish,
Be they gruffish,
They be sound, an' they will stand
By what is right wi' heart an' hand.
Friend an' wife,
Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers,
Happy, happy, be their life!
Vor Do'set dear,
Then gi'e woone cheer;
D'ye hear? woone cheer!

POEMS OF RURAL LIFE.

THIRD COLLECTION.

WOONE SMILE MWORE.

O! Meäry, when the zun went down,
Woone night in Spring, wi' vi'ry rim,
Behind thik nap wi' woody crown,
An' left your smilèn feäce so dim;
Your little sister there, inside,
Wi' bellows on her little knee,
Did blow the vier, a-glearèn wide
Drough window-peänes, that I could zee,--
As you did stan' wi' me, avore
The house, a-peärten,--woone smile mwore.

The chatt'rèn birds, a-risèn high,
An' zinkèn low, did swiftly vlee
Vrom shrinkèn moss, a-growèn dry,
Upon the leänèn apple tree.
An' there the dog, a-whippèn wide
His heäiry taïl, an' comèn near,
Did fondly lay ageän your zide
His coal-black nose an' russet ear:
To win what I'd a-won avore,
Vrom your gaÿ feäce, his woone smile mwore.

An' while your mother bustled sprack,
A-gettèn supper out in hall,
An' cast her sheäde, a-whiv'rèn black
Avore the vier, upon the wall;
Your brother come, wi' easy peäce,
In drough the slammèn geäte, along
The path, wi' healthy-bloomèn feäce,
A-whis'lèn shrill his last new zong;
An' when he come avore the door,
He met vrom you his woone smile mwore.

Now you that wer the daughter there,
Be mother on a husband's vloor,
An' mid ye meet wi' less o' ceäre
Than what your hearty mother bore;
An' if abroad I have to rue
The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed,
Mid I come hwome to sheäre wi' you
What's needvul free o' pinchèn need:
An' vind that you ha' still in store,
My evenèn meal, an' woone smile mwore.

THE ECHO.

About the tow'r an' churchyard wall,
Out nearly overright our door,
A tongue ov wind did always call
Whatever we did call avore.
The vaïce did mock our neämes, our cheers,
Our merry laughs, our hands' loud claps,
An' mother's call "Come, come, my dears"
--_my dears_;
Or "Do as I do bid, bad chaps"
--_bad chaps_.

An' when o' Zundays on the green,
In frocks an' cwoats as gaÿ as new,
We walk'd wi' shoes a-meäde to sheen
So black an' bright's a vull-ripe slooe
We then did hear the tongue ov aïr
A-mockèn mother's vaïce so thin,
"Come, now the bell do goo vor praÿ'r"
--_vor pray'r_;
"'Tis time to goo to church; come in"
--_come in_.

The night when little Anne, that died,
Begun to zickèn, back in Maÿ,
An' she, at dusk ov evenèn-tide,
Wer out wi' others at their plaÿ,
Within the churchyard that do keep
Her little bed, the vaïce o' thin
Dark aïr, mock'd mother's call "To sleep"
--_to sleep_;
"'Tis bed time now, my love, come in"
--_come in_.

An' when our Jeäne come out so smart
A-married, an' we help'd her in
To Henry's newly-païnted cart,
The while the wheels begun to spin,
An' her gaÿ nods, vor all she smil'd,
Did sheäke a tear-drop vrom each eye,
The vaïce mock'd mother's call, "Dear child"
--_dear child_;
"God bless ye evermwore; good bye"
--_good bye_.

VULL A MAN.

No, I'm a man, I'm vull a man,
You beät my manhood, if you can.
You'll be a man if you can teäke
All steätes that household life do meäke.
The love-toss'd child, a-croodlèn loud,
The bwoy a-screamèn wild in plaÿ,
The tall grown youth a-steppèn proud,
The father staïd, the house's staÿ.
No; I can boast if others can,
I'm vull a man.

A young-cheäk'd mother's tears mid vall,
When woone a-lost, not half man-tall,
Vrom little hand, a-called vrom plaÿ,
Do leäve noo tool, but drop a taÿ,
An' die avore he's father-free
To sheäpe his life by his own plan;
An' vull an angel he shall be,
But here on e'th not vull a man,
No; I could boast if others can,
I'm vull a man.

I woonce, a child, wer father-fed,
An' I've a vound my childern bread;
My eärm, a sister's trusty crook,
Is now a faïthvul wife's own hook;
An' I've a-gone where vo'k did zend,
An' gone upon my own free mind,
An' of'en at my own wits' end.
A-led o' God while I wer blind.
No; I could boast if others can
I'm vull a man.

An' still, ov all my tweil ha' won,
My lovèn maïd an' merry son,
Though each in turn's a jaÿ an' ceäre,
'Ve a-had, an' still shall have, their sheäre:
An' then, if God should bless their lives,
Why I mid zend vrom son to son
My life, right on drough men an' wives,
As long, good now, as time do run.
No; I could boast if others can,
I'm vull a man.

NAIGHBOUR PLA[:Y]MEÄTES.

O jaÿ betide the dear wold mill,
My naïghbour plaÿmeätes' happy hwome,
Wi' rollèn wheel, an' leäpèn foam,
Below the overhangèn hill,
Where, wide an' slow,
The stream did flow,
An' flags did grow, an' lightly vlee
Below the grey-leav'd withy tree,
While clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,
Wi' whirlèn stwone, an' streamèn flour,
Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.

An' there in geämes by evenèn skies,
When Meäry zot her down to rest,
The broach upon her pankèn breast,
Did quickly vall an' lightly rise,
While swans did zwim
In steätely trim.
An' swifts did skim the water, bright
Wi' whirlèn froth, in western light;
An' clack, clack, clack, that happy hour,
Wi' whirlèn stwone, an' streamèn flour,
Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.

Now mortery jeints, in streaks o' white,
Along the geärdèn wall do show
In Maÿ, an' cherry boughs do blow,
Wi' bloomèn tutties, snowy white,
Where rollèn round,
Wi' rumblèn sound,
The wheel woonce drown'd the vaïce so dear
To me. I faïn would goo to hear
The clack, clack, clack, vor woone short hour,
Wi' whirlèn stwone, an' streamèn flour,
Bezide the mill on cloty Stour.

But should I vind a-heavèn now
Her breast wi' aïr o' thik dear pleäce?
Or zee dark locks by such a brow,
Or het o' plaÿ on such a feäce?
No! She's now staïd,
An' where she plaÿ'd,
There's noo such maïd that now ha' took
The pleäce that she ha' long vorsook,
Though clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,
Wi' whirlèn stwone an' streamèn flour,
Do goo the mill by cloty Stour.

An' still the pulley rwope do heist
The wheat vrom red-wheeled waggon beds.
An' ho'ses there wi' lwoads of grist,
Do stand an' toss their heavy heads;
But on the vloor,
Or at the door,
Do show noo mwore the kindly feäce
Her father show'd about the pleäce,
As clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,
Wi' whirlèn stwone, an' streamèn flour,
Did goo his mill by cloty Stour.

THE LARK.

As I, below the mornèn sky,
Wer out a workèn in the lew
O' black-stemm'd thorns, a-springèn high,
Avore the worold-boundèn blue,
A-reäkèn, under woak tree boughs,
The orts a-left behin' by cows.

Above the grey-grow'd thistle rings,
An' deäisy-buds, the lark, in flight,
Did zing a-loft, wi' flappèn wings,
Tho' mwore in heärèn than in zight;
The while my bwoys, in plaÿvul me'th,
Did run till they wer out o' breath.

Then woone, wi' han'-besheäded eyes,
A-stoppèn still, as he did run,
Look'd up to zee the lark arise
A-zingèn to the high-gone zun;
The while his brother look'd below
Vor what the groun' mid have to show

Zoo woone did watch above his head
The bird his hands could never teäke;
An' woone, below, where he did tread,
Vound out the nest within the breäke;
But, aggs be only woonce a-vound,
An' uncaught larks ageän mid sound.

THE TWO CHURCHES.

A happy day, a happy year.
A zummer Zunday, dazzlèn clear,
I went athirt vrom Lea to Noke.
To goo to church wi' Fanny's vo'k:
The sky o' blue did only show
A cloud or two, so white as snow,
An' aïr did swaÿ, wi' softest strokes,
The eltrot roun' the dark-bough'd woaks.
O day o' rest when bells do toll!
O day a-blest to ev'ry soul!
How sweet the zwells o' Zunday bells.

An' on the cowslip-knap at Creech,
Below the grove o' steätely beech,
I heärd two tow'rs a-cheemèn clear,
Vrom woone I went, to woone drew near,
As they did call, by flow'ry ground,
The bright-shod veet vrom housen round,
A-drownèn wi' their holy call,
The goocoo an' the water-vall.
Die off, O bells o' my dear pleäce,
Ring out, O bells avore my feäce,
Vull sweet your zwells, O ding-dong bells.

Ah! then vor things that time did bring
My kinsvo'k, _Lea_ had bells to ring;
An' then, ageän, vor what bevell
My wife's, why _Noke_ church had a bell;
But soon wi' hopevul lives a-bound
In woone, we had woone tower's sound,
Vor our high jaÿs all vive bells rung
Our losses had woone iron tongue.
Oh! ring all round, an' never mwoän
So deep an' slow woone bell alwone,
Vor sweet your swells o' vive clear bells.

WOAK HILL.

When sycamore leaves wer a-spreadèn,
Green-ruddy, in hedges,
Bezide the red doust o' the ridges,
A-dried at Woak Hill;

I packed up my goods all a-sheenèn
Wi' long years o' handlèn,
On dousty red wheels ov a waggon,
To ride at Woak Hill.

The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellèn,
I then wer a-leävèn,
Had shelter'd the sleek head o' Meäry,
My bride at Woak Hill.

But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall
'S a-lost vrom the vloorèn.
Too soon vor my jaÿ an' my childern,
She died at Woak Hill.

But still I do think that, in soul,
She do hover about us;
To ho vor her motherless childern,
Her pride at Woak Hill.

Zoo--lest she should tell me hereafter
I stole off 'ithout her,
An' left her, uncall'd at house-riddèn,
To bide at Woak Hill--

I call'd her so fondly, wi' lippèns
All soundless to others,
An' took her wi' aïr-reachèn hand,
To my zide at Woak Hill.

On the road I did look round, a-talkèn
To light at my shoulder,
An' then led her in at the door-way,
Miles wide vrom Woak Hill.

An' that's why vo'k thought, vor a season,
My mind wer a-wandrèn
Wi' sorrow, when I wer so sorely
A-tried at Woak Hill.

But no; that my Meäry mid never
Behold herzelf slighted,
I wanted to think that I guided
My guide vrom Woak Hill.

THE HEDGER.

Upon the hedge theäse bank did bear,
Wi' lwonesome thought untwold in words,
I woonce did work, wi' noo sound there
But my own strokes, an' chirpèn birds;
As down the west the zun went wan,
An' days brought on our Zunday's rest,
When sounds o' cheemèn bells did vill
The aïr, an' hook an' axe wer stïll.

Along the wold town-path vo'k went,
An' met unknown, or friend wi' friend,
The maïd her busy mother zent,
The mother wi' noo maïd to zend;
An' in the light the gleäzier's glass,
As he did pass, wer dazzlèn bright,
Or woone went by wï' down-cast head,
A wrapp'd in blackness vor the dead.

An' then the bank, wi' risèn back,
That's now a-most a-troddèn down,
Bore thorns wi' rind o' sheeny black,
An' meäple stems o' ribby brown;
An' in the lewth o' theäse tree heads,
Wer primrwose beds a-sprung in blooth,
An' here a geäte, a-slammèn to,
Did let the slow-wheel'd plough roll drough.

Ov all that then went by, but vew
Be now a-left behine', to beät
The mornèn flow'rs or evenèn dew,
Or slam the woakèn vive-bar'd geäte;
But woone, my wife, so litty-stepp'd,
That have a-kept my path o' life,
Wi' her vew errands on the road,
Where woonce she bore her mother's lwoad.

IN THE SPRING.

My love is the maïd ov all maïdens,
Though all mid be comely,
Her skin's lik' the jessamy blossom
A-spread in the Spring.

Her smile is so sweet as a beäby's
Young smile on his mother,
Her eyes be as bright as the dew drop
A-shed in the Spring.

O grey-leafy pinks o' the geärden,
Now bear her sweet blossoms;
Now deck wi' a rwose-bud, O briar.
Her head in the Spring.

O light-rollèn wind blow me hither,
The väice ov her talkèn,
Or bring vrom her veet the light doust,
She do tread in the Spring.

O zun, meäke the gil'cups all glitter,
In goold all around her;
An' meäke o' the deäisys' white flowers
A bed in the Spring.

O whissle gaÿ birds, up bezide her,
In drong-waÿ, an' woodlands,
O zing, swingèn lark, now the clouds,
Be a-vled in the Spring.

An' who, you mid ax, be my praïses
A-meäkèn so much o',
An' oh! 'tis the maïd I'm a-hopèn
To wed in the Spring.

THE FLOOD IN SPRING.

Last night below the elem in the lew
Bright the sky did gleam
On water blue, while aïr did softly blow
On the flowèn stream,
An' there wer gil'cups' buds untwold,
An' deäisies that begun to vwold
Their low-stemm'd blossoms vrom my zight
Ageän the night, an' evenèn's cwold.

But, oh! so cwold below the darksome cloud
Soon the night-wind roar'd,
Wi' raïny storms that zent the zwollèn streams
Over ev'ry vword.
The while the drippèn tow'r did tell
The hour, wi' storm-be-smother'd bell,
An' over ev'ry flower's bud
Roll'd on the flood, 'ithin the dell.

But when the zun arose, an' lik' a rwose
Shone the mornèn sky;
An' roun' the woak, the wind a-blowèn weak,
Softly whiver'd by.
Though drown'd wer still the deaïsy bed
Below the flood, its feäce instead
O' flow'ry grown', below our shoes
Show'd feäirest views o' skies o'er head.

An' zoo to try if all our faïth is true
Jaÿ mid end in tears,
An' hope, woonce feäir, mid saddèn into fear,
Here in e'thly years.
But He that tried our soul do know
To meäke us good amends, an' show
Instead o' things a-took awaÿ,
Some higher jaÿ that He'll bestow.

COMEN HWOME.

As clouds did ride wi' heästy flight.
An' woods did swäy upon the height,
An' bleädes o' grass did sheäke, below
The hedge-row bremble's swingèn bow,
I come back hwome where winds did zwell,
In whirls along the woody gleädes,
On primrwose beds, in windy sheädes,
To Burnley's dark-tree'd dell.

There hills do screen the timber's bough,
The trees do screen the leäze's brow,
The timber-sheäded leäze do bear
A beäten path that we do wear.
The path do stripe the leäze's zide,
To willows at the river's edge.
Where hufflèn winds did sheäke the zedge
An' sparklèn weäves did glide.

An' where the river, bend by bend,
Do dräin our meäd, an' mark its end,
The hangèn leäze do teäke our cows,
An' trees do sheäde em wi' their boughs,
An' I the quicker beät the road,
To zee a-comèn into view,
Still greener vrom the sky-line's blue,
Wold Burnley our abode.

GRAMMER A-CRIPPLED.

"The zunny copse ha' birds to zing,
The leäze ha' cows to low,
The elem trees ha' rooks on wing,
The meäds a brook to flow,
But I can walk noo mwore, to pass
The drashel out abrode,
To wear a path in theäse year's grass
Or tread the wheelworn road,"
Cried Grammer, "then adieu,
O runnèn brooks,
An' vleèn rooks,
I can't come out to you.
If 'tis God's will, why then 'tis well,
That I should bide 'ithin a wall."

An' then the childern, wild wi' fun,
An' loud wi' jaÿvul sounds,
Sprung in an' cried, "We had a run,
A-plaÿèn heäre an' hounds;
But oh! the cowslips where we stopt
In Maÿcreech, on the knap!"
An' vrom their little han's each dropt
Some cowslips in her lap.
Cried Grammer, "Only zee!
I can't teäke strolls,
An' little souls
Would bring the vields to me.
Since 'tis God's will, an' mus' be well
That I should bide 'ithin a wall."

"Oh! there be prison walls to hold
The han's o' lawless crimes,
An' there be walls arear'd vor wold
An' zick in tryèn times;
But oh! though low mid slant my ruf,
Though hard my lot mid be,
Though dry mid come my daily lwoaf,
Mid mercy leäve me free!"
Cried Grammer, "Or adieu
To jaÿ; O grounds,
An' bird's gaÿ sounds
If I mus' gi'e up you,
Although 'tis well, in God's good will,
That I should bide 'ithin a wall."

"Oh! then," we answer'd, "never fret,
If we shall be a-blest,
We'll work vull hard drough het an' wet
To keep your heart at rest:
To woaken chair's vor you to vill,
For you shall glow the coal,
An' when the win' do whissle sh'ill
We'll screen it vrom your poll."
Cried Grammer, "God is true.
I can't but feel
He smote to heal
My wounded heart in you;
An' zoo 'tis well, if 'tis His will,
That I be here 'ithin a wall."

THE CASTLE RUINS.

A happy day at Whitsuntide,
As soon's the zun begun to vall,
We all stroll'd up the steep hill-zide
To Meldon, girt an' small;
Out where the castle wall stood high
A-mwoldrèn to the zunny sky.

An' there wi' Jenny took a stroll
Her youngest sister, Poll, so gaÿ,
Bezide John Hind, ah! merry soul,
An' mid her wedlock faÿ;
An' at our zides did play an' run
My little maïd an' smaller son.

Above the beäten mwold upsprung
The driven doust, a-spreadën light,
An' on the new-leav'd thorn, a-hung,
Wer wool a-quiv'rèn white;
An' corn, a sheenèn bright, did bow,
On slopèn Meldon's zunny brow.

There, down the rufless wall did glow
The zun upon the grassy vloor,
An' weakly-wandrèn winds did blow,
Unhinder'd by a door;
An' smokeless now avore the zun
Did stan' the ivy-girded tun.

My bwoy did watch the daws' bright wings
A-flappèn vrom their ivy bow'rs;
My wife did watch my maïd's light springs,
Out here an' there vor flow'rs;
And John did zee noo tow'rs, the pleäce
Vor him had only Polly's feäce.

An' there, of all that pried about
The walls, I overlook'd em best,
An' what o' that? Why, I meäde out
Noo mwore than all the rest:
That there wer woonce the nest of zome
That wer a-gone avore we come.

When woonce above the tun the smoke
Did wreathy blue among the trees,
An' down below, the livèn vo'k,
Did tweil as brisk as bees;
Or zit wi' weary knees, the while
The sky wer lightless to their tweil.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

JOHN, JEALOUS AT SHROTON FEÄIR.

_Jeäne; her Brother; John, her Sweetheart; and Racketèn Joe_

JEÄNE.

I'm thankvul I be out o' that
Thick crowd, an' not asquot quite flat.
That ever we should plunge in where the vo'k do drunge
So tight's the cheese-wring on the veät!
I've sca'ce a thing a-left in pleäce.
'Tis all a-tore vrom pin an' leäce.
My bonnet's like a wad, a-beät up to a dod,
An' all my heäir's about my feäce.

HER BROTHER.

Here, come an' zit out here a bit,
An' put yourzelf to rights.

JOHN.

No, Jeäne; no, no! Now you don't show
The very wo'st o' plights.

HER BROTHER.

Come, come, there's little harm adone;
Your hoops be out so roun's the zun.

JOHN.

An' there's your bonnet back in sheäpe.

HER BROTHER.

An' there's your pin, and there's your ceäpe.

JOHN.

An' there your curls do match, an' there
'S the vittiest maïd in all the feäir.

JEÄNE.

Now look, an' tell us who's a-spied
Vrom Sturminster, or Manston zide.

HER BROTHER.

There's rantèn Joe! How he do stalk,
An' zwang his whip, an' laugh, an' talk!

JOHN.

An' how his head do wag, avore his steppèn lag.
Jist like a pigeon's in a walk!

HER BROTHER.

Heigh! there, then, Joey, ben't we proud

JEÄNE.

He can't hear you among the crowd.

HER BROTHER.

Why, no, the thunder peals do drown the sound o' wheels.
His own pipe is a-pitched too loud.
What, you here too?

RACKETÈN JOE.

Yes, Sir, to you.
All o' me that's a-left.

JEÄNE.

A body plump's a goodish lump
Where reämes ha' such a heft.

JOHN.

Who lost his crown a-racèn?

RACKETÈN JOE.

Who?
Zome silly chap abackèn you.
Well, now, an' how do vo'k treat Jeäne?

JEÄNE.

Why not wi' feärèns.

RACKETÈN JOE.

What d'ye meän,
When I've a-brought ye such a bunch
O' theäse nice ginger-nuts to crunch?
An' here, John, here! you teäke a vew.

JOHN.

No, keep em all vor Jeäne an' you!

RACKETÈN JOE.

Well, Jeäne, an' when d'ye meän to come
An' call on me, then, up at hwome.
You han't a-come athirt, since I'd my voot a-hurt,
A-slippèn vrom the tree I clomb.

JEÄNE.

Well, if so be that you be stout
On voot ageän, you'll vind me out.

JOHN.

Aye, better chaps woont goo, not many steps vor you,
If you do hawk yourzelf about.

RACKETÈN JOE.

Wull John, come too?

JOHN.

No, thanks to you.
Two's company, dree's nwone.

HER BROTHER.

There don't be stung by his mad tongue,
'Tis nothèn else but fun.

JEÄNE.

There, what d'ye think o' my new ceäpe?

JOHN.

Why, think that 'tis an ugly sheäpe.

JEÄNE.

Then you should buy me, now theäse feäir,
A mwore becomèn woone to wear.

JOHN.

I buy your ceäpe! No; Joe wull screäpe
Up dibs enough to buy your ceäpe.
As things do look, to meäke you fine
Is long Joe's business mwore than mine.

JEÄNE.

Lauk, John, the mwore that you do pout
The mwore he'll gl[=e]ne.

JOHN.

A yelpèn lout.

EARLY PLA[:Y]MEÄTE.

After many long years had a-run,
The while I wer a-gone vrom the pleäce,
I come back to the vields, where the zun
Ov her childhood did show me her feäce.
There her father, years wolder, did stoop.
An' her brother, wer now a-grow'd staïd,
An' the apple tree lower did droop.
Out in the orcha'd where we had a-plaÿ'd,
There wer zome things a-seemèn the seäme,
But Meäry's a-married awaÿ.

There wer two little childern a-zent,
Wi' a message to me, oh! so feaïr
As the mother that they did zoo ment,
When in childhood she plaÿ'd wi' me there.
Zoo they twold me that if I would come
Down to Coomb, I should zee a wold friend,
Vor a plaÿmeäte o' mine wer at hwome,
An' would staÿ till another week's end.
At the dear pworchèd door, could I dare
To zee Meäry a-married awaÿ!

On the flower-not, now all a-trod
Stwony hard, the green grass wer a-spread,
An' the long-slighted woodbine did nod
Vrom the wall, wi' a loose-hangèn head.
An' the martin's clay nest wer a-hung
Up below the brown oves, in the dry,
An' the rooks had a-rock'd broods o' young
On the elems below the Maÿ sky;
But the bud on the bed, coulden bide,
Wi' young Meäry a-married awaÿ.

There the copse-wood, a-grow'd to a height,
Wer a-vell'd, an' the primrwose in blooth,
Among chips on the ground a-turn'd white,
Wer a-quiv'rèn, all beäre ov his lewth.
The green moss wer a-spread on the thatch,
That I left yollow reed, an' avore
The small green, there did swing a new hatch,
Vor to let me walk into the door.
Oh! the rook did still rock o'er the rick,
But wi' Meäry a-married awaÿ.

PICKEN O' SCROFF.

Oh! the wood wer a-vell'd in the copse,
An' the moss-bedded primrwose did blow;
An' vrom tall-stemmèd trees' leafless tops,
There did lie but slight sheädes down below.
An' the sky wer a-showèn, in drough
By the tree-stems, the deepest o' blue,
Wi' a light that did vall on an' off
The dry ground, a-strew'd over wi' scroff.

There the hedge that wer leätely so high,
Wer a-plush'd, an' along by the zide,
Where the waggon 'd a-haul'd the wood by,
There did reach the deep wheelrouts, a-dried.
An' the groun' wi' the sticks wer bespread,
Zome a-cut off alive, an' zome dead.
An' vor burnèn, well wo'th reäkèn off,
By the childern a-pickèn o' scroff.

In the tree-studded leäze, where the woak
Wer a-spreadèn his head out around,
There the scrags that the wind had a-broke,
Wer a-lyèn about on the ground
Or the childern, wi' little red hands,
Wer a-tyèn em up in their bands;
Vor noo squier or farmer turn'd off
Little childern a-pickèn o' scroff.

There wer woone bloomèn child wi' a cloak
On her shoulders, as green as the ground;
An' another, as gray as the woak,
Wi' a bwoy in a brown frock, a-brown'd.
An' woone got up, in plaÿ, vor to taït,
On a woak-limb, a-growèn out straïght.
But she soon wer a-taïted down off,
By her meätes out a-pickèn o' scroff.

When they childern do grow to staïd vo'k,
An' goo out in the worold, all wide
Vrom the copse, an' the zummerleäze woak,
Where at last all their elders ha' died,
They wull then vind it touchèn to bring,
To their minds, the sweet springs o' their spring,
Back avore the new vo'k did turn off
The poor childern a-pickèn o' scroff.

GOOD NIGHT.

While down the meäds wound slow,
Water vor green-wheel'd mills,
Over the streams bright bow,
Win' come vrom dark-back'd hills.
Birds on the win' shot along down steep
Slopes, wi' a swift-swung zweep.
Dim weän'd the red streak'd west
Lim'-weary souls "Good rest."

Up on the plough'd hill brow,
Still wer the zull's wheel'd beam,
Still wer the red-wheel'd plough,
Free o' the strong limb'd team,
Still wer the shop that the smith meäde ring,
Dark where the sparks did spring;
Low shot the zun's last beams.
Lim'-weary souls "Good dreams."

Where I vrom dark bank-sheädes
Turn'd up the west hill road,
Where all the green grass bleädes
Under the zunlight glow'd.
Startled I met, as the zunbeams play'd
Light, wi' a zunsmote maïd,
Come vor my day's last zight,
Zun-brighten'd maïd "Good night."

WENT HWOME.

Upon the slope, the hedge did bound
The yield wi' blossom-whited zide,
An' charlock patches, yollow-dyed,
Did reach along the white-soil'd ground,
An' vo'k, a-comèn up vrom meäd,
Brought gil'cup meal upon the shoe;
Or went on where the road did leäd,
Wi' smeechy doust from heel to tooe.
As noon did smite, wi' burnèn light,
The road so white, to Meldonley.

An' I did tramp the zun-dried ground,
By hedge-climb'd hills, a-spread wi' flow'rs,
An' watershootèn dells, an' tow'rs,
By elem-trees a-hemm'd all round,
To zee a vew wold friends, about
Wold Meldon, where I still ha' zome,
That bid me speed as I come out,
An' now ha' bid me welcome hwome,
As I did goo, while skies wer blue,
Vrom view to view, to Meldonley.

An' there wer timber'd knaps, that show'd
Cool sheädes, vor rest, on grassy ground,
An' thatch-brow'd windows, flower-bound,
Where I could wish wer my abode.
I pass'd the maïd avore the spring,
An' shepherd by the thornèn tree;
An' heärd the merry dréver zing,
But met noo kith or kin to me,
Till I come down, vrom Meldon's crown
To rufs o' brown, at Meldonley.

THE HOLLOW WOAK.

The woaken tree, so hollow now,
To souls ov other times wer sound,
An' reach'd on ev'ry zide a bough
Above their heads, a-gather'd round,
But zome light veet
That here did meet
In friendship sweet, vor rest or jaÿ,
Shall be a-miss'd another Maÿ.

My childern here, in plaÿvul pride
Did zit 'ithin his wooden walls,
A-mentèn steätely vo'k inside
O' castle towers an' lofty halls.
But now the vloor
An' mossy door
That woonce they wore would be too small
To teäke em in, so big an' tall.

Theäse year do show, wi' snow-white cloud,
An' deäsies in a sprinkled bed,
An' green-bough birds a-whislèn loud,
The looks o' zummer days a-vled;
An' grass do grow,
An' men do mow,
An' all do show the wold times' feäce
Wi' new things in the wold things' pleäce.

CHILDERN'S CHILDERN.

Oh! if my ling'rèn life should run,
Drough years a-reckoned ten by ten,
Below the never-tirèn zun,
Till beäbes ageän be wives an' men;
An' stillest deafness should ha' bound
My ears, at last, vrom ev'ry sound;
Though still my eyes in that sweet light,
Should have the zight o' sky an' ground:
Would then my steäte
In time so leäte,
Be jaÿ or païn, be païn or jaÿ?

When Zunday then, a-weänèn dim,
As theäse that now's a-clwosèn still,
Mid lose the zun's down-zinkèn rim,
In light behind the vier-bound hill;
An' when the bells' last peal's a-rung,
An' I mid zee the wold an' young
A-vlockèn by, but shoulden hear,
However near, a voot or tongue:
Mid zuch a zight,
In that soft light
Be jaÿ or païn, be païn or jaÿ.

If I should zee among em all,
In merry youth, a-glidèn by,
My son's bwold son, a-grown man-tall,
Or daughter's daughter, woman-high;
An' she mid smile wi' your good feäce,
Or she mid walk your comely peäce,
But seem, although a-chattèn loud,
So dumb's a cloud, in that bright pleäce:
Would youth so feäir,
A-passèn there,
Be jaÿ or païn, be païn or jaÿ.

'Tis seldom strangth or comeliness
Do leäve us long. The house do show
Men's sons wi' mwore, as they ha' less,
An' daughters brisk, vor mothers slow.
A dawn do clear the night's dim sky,
Woone star do zink, an' woone goo high,
An' livèn gifts o' youth do vall,
Vrom girt to small, but never die:
An' should I view,
What God mid do,
Wi' jaÿ or païn, wi' païn or jaÿ?

THE RWOSE IN THE DARK.

In zummer, leäte at evenèn tide,
I zot to spend a moonless hour
'Ithin the window, wi' the zide
A-bound wi' rwoses out in flow'r,
Bezide the bow'r, vorsook o' birds,
An' listen'd to my true-love's words.

A-risèn to her comely height,
She push'd the swingèn ceäsement round;
And I could hear, beyond my zight,
The win'-blow'd beech-tree softly sound,
On higher ground, a-swayèn slow,
On drough my happy hour below.

An' tho' the darkness then did hide
The dewy rwose's blushèn bloom,
He still did cast sweet aïr inside
To Jeäne, a-chattèn in the room;
An' though the gloom did hide her feäce,
Her words did bind me to the pleäce.

An' there, while she, wi' runnèn tongue,
Did talk unzeen 'ithin the hall,
I thought her like the rwose that flung
His sweetness vrom his darken'd ball,
'Ithout the wall, an' sweet's the zight
Ov her bright feäce by mornèn light.

COME.

Wull ye come in eärly Spring,
Come at Easter, or in Maÿ?
Or when Whitsuntide mid bring
Longer light to show your waÿ?
Wull ye come, if you be true,
Vor to quicken love anew.
Wull ye call in Spring or Fall?
Come now soon by zun or moon?
Wull ye come?

Come wi' vaïce to vaïce the while
All their words be sweet to hear;
Come that feäce to feäce mid smile,
While their smiles do seem so dear;
Come within the year to seek
Woone you have sought woonce a week?
Come while flow'rs be on the bow'rs.
And the bird o' zong's a-heärd.
Wull ye come?

Ees come _to_ ye, an' come _vor_ ye, is my word,
I wull come.

ZUMMER WINDS.

Let me work, but mid noo tie
Hold me vrom the oben sky,
When zummer winds, in plaÿsome flight,
Do blow on vields in noon-day light,
Or ruslèn trees, in twilight night.
Sweet's a stroll,
By flow'ry knowl, or blue-feäcèd pool
That zummer win's do ruffle cool.

When the moon's broad light do vill
Plaïns, a-sheenèn down the hill;
A-glitterèn on window glass,
O then, while zummer win's do pass
The rippled brook, an' swaÿèn grass,
Sweet's a walk,
Where we do talk, wi' feäces bright,
In whispers in the peacevul night.

When the swaÿèn men do mow
Flow'ry grass, wi' zweepèn blow,
In het a-most enough to dry
The flat-spread clote-leaf that do lie
Upon the stream a-stealèn by,
Sweet's their rest,
Upon the breast o' knap or mound
Out where the goocoo's vaïce do sound.

Where the sleek-heäir'd maïd do zit
Out o' door to zew or knit,
Below the elem where the spring
'S a-runnèn, an' the road do bring
The people by to hear her zing,
On the green,
Where she's a-zeen, an' she can zee,
O gaÿ is she below the tree.

Come, O zummer wind, an' bring
Sounds o' birds as they do zing,
An' bring the smell o' bloomèn maÿ,
An' bring the smell o' new-mow'd haÿ;
Come fan my feäce as I do straÿ,
Fan the heäir
O' Jessie feäir; fan her cool,
By the weäves o' stream or pool.

THE NEÄME LETTERS.

When high-flown larks wer on the wing,
A warm-aïr'd holiday in Spring,
We stroll'd, 'ithout a ceäre or frown,
Up roun' the down at Meldonley;
An' where the hawthorn-tree did stand
Alwone, but still wi' mwore at hand,
We zot wi' sheädes o' clouds on high
A-flittèn by, at Meldonley.

An' there, the while the tree did sheäde
Their gigglèn heads, my knife's keen bleäde
Carved out, in turf avore my knee,
J. L., *T. D., at Meldonley.
'Twer Jessie Lee J. L. did meän,
T. D. did stan' vor Thomas Deäne;
The "L" I scratch'd but slight, vor he
Mid soon be D, at Meldonley.

An' when the vields o' wheat did spread
Vrom hedge to hedge in sheets o' red.
An' bennets wer a-sheäkèn brown.
Upon the down at Meldonley,
We stroll'd ageän along the hill,
An' at the hawthorn-tree stood still,
To zee J. L. vor Jessie Lee,
An' my T. D., at Meldonley.

The grey-poll'd bennet-stems did hem
Each half-hid letter's zunken rim,
By leädy's-vingers that did spread
In yollow red, at Meldonley.
An' heärebells there wi' light blue bell
Shook soundless on the letter L,
To ment the bells when L vor Lee
Become a D at Meldonley.

Vor Jessie, now my wife, do strive
Wi' me in life, an' we do thrive;
Two sleek-heäired meäres do sprackly pull
My waggon vull, at Meldonley;
An' small-hoof'd sheep, in vleeces white,
Wi' quickly-pankèn zides, do bite
My thymy grass, a-mark'd vor me
In black, T. D., at Meldonley.

THE NEW HOUSE A-GETTÈN WOLD.

Ah! when our wedded life begun,
Theäse clean-wall'd house of ours wer new;
Wi' thatch as yollor as the zun
Avore the cloudless sky o' blue;
The sky o' blue that then did bound
The blue-hilled worold's flow'ry ground.

An' we've a-vound it weather-brown'd,
As Spring-tide blossoms oben'd white,
Or Fall did shed, on zunburnt ground,
Red apples from their leafy height:
Their leafy height, that Winter soon
Left leafless to the cool-feäced moon.

An' raïn-bred moss ha' staïn'd wi' green
The smooth-feäced wall's white-morter'd streaks,
The while our childern zot between
Our seats avore the fleäme's red peaks:
The fleäme's red peaks, till axan white
Did quench em vor the long-sleep'd night.

The bloom that woonce did overspread
Your rounded cheäk, as time went by,
A-shrinkèn to a patch o' red,
Did feäde so soft's the evenèn sky:
The evenèn sky, my faithful wife,
O' days as feäir's our happy life.

ZUNDAY.

In zummer, when the sheädes do creep
Below the Zunday steeple, round
The mossy stwones, that love cut deep
Wi' neämes that tongues noo mwore do sound,
The leäne do lose the stalkèn team,
An' dry-rimm'd waggon-wheels be still,
An' hills do roll their down-shot stream
Below the restèn wheel at mill.
O holy day, when tweil do ceäse,
Sweet day o' rest an' greäce an' peäce!

The eegrass, vor a while unwrung
By hoof or shoe, 's a sheenèn bright,
An' clover flowers be a-sprung
On new-mow'd knaps in beds o' white,
An' sweet wild rwoses, up among
The hedge-row boughs, do yield their smells.
To aïer that do bear along
The loud-rung peals o' Zunday bells,
Upon the day o' days the best,
The day o' greäce an' peäce an' rest.

By brightshod veet, in peäir an' peäir,
Wi' comely steps the road's a-took
To church, an' work-free han's do beär
Woone's walkèn stick or sister's book;
An' there the bloomèn niece do come
To zee her aunt, in all her best;
Or married daughter do bring hwome
Her vu'st sweet child upon her breast,
As she do seek the holy pleäce,
The day o' rest an' peäce an' greäce.

THE PILLAR'D GEÄTE.

As I come by, zome years agoo,
A-burnt below a sky o' blue,
'Ithin the pillar'd geäte there zung
A vaïce a-soundèn sweet an' young,
That meäde me veel awhile to zwim
In weäves o' jaÿ to hear its hymn;
Vor all the zinger, angel-bright,
Wer then a-hidden vrom my zight,
An' I wer then too low
To seek a meäte to match my steäte
'Ithin the lofty-pillar'd geäte,
Wi' stwonèn balls upon the walls:
Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

Another time as I come by
The house, below a dark-blue sky,
The pillar'd geäte wer oben wide,
An' who should be a-show'd inside,
But she, the comely maïd whose hymn
Woonce meäde my giddy braïn to zwim,
A-zittèn in the sheäde to zew,
A-clad in robes as white as snow.
What then? could I so low
Look out a meäte ov higher steäte
So gaÿ 'ithin a pillar'd geäte,
Wi' high walls round the smooth-mow'd ground?
Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

Long years stole by, a-glidèn slow,
Wi' winter cwold an' zummer glow,
An' she wer then a widow, clad
In grey; but comely, though so sad;
Her husband, heartless to his bride,
Spent all her store an' wealth, an' died,
Though she noo mwore could now rejaïce,
Yet sweet did sound her zongless vaïce.
But had she, in her woe,
The higher steäte she had o' leäte
'Ithin the lofty pillar'd geäte,
Wi' stwonèn balls upon the walls?
Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

But while she vell, my Meäker's greäce
Led me to teäke a higher pleäce,
An' lighten'd up my mind wi' lore,
An' bless'd me wi' a worldly store;
But still noo winsome feäce or vaïce,
Had ever been my wedded chaïce;
An' then I thought, why do I mwope
Alwone without a jaÿ or hope?
Would she still think me low?
Or scorn a meäte, in my feäir steäte,
In here 'ithin a pillar'd geäte,
A happy pleäce wi' her kind feäce?
Oh, no! my hope, no, no.

I don't stand out 'tis only feäte
Do gi'e to each his wedded meäte;
But eet there's woone above the rest,
That every soul can like the best.
An' my wold love's a-kindled new,
An' my wold dream's a-come out true;
But while I had noo soul to sheäre
My good an' ill, an' jäy an ceäre,
Should I have bliss below,
In gleämèn pleäte an' lofty steäte
'Ithin the lofty pillar'd geäte,
Wi' feäirest flow'rs, an' ponds an' tow'rs?
Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

ZUMMER STREAM.