Chapter V (1)

[The V is often substituted for f, as _vor_, for, _veo_, few, &c.]

Vage, Vaze. _s_. A voyage; but more commonly applied to the distance employed to increase the intensity of motion or action from a given point.

To Vang. _v. a._ To receive; to earn.

Varden. _s._ Farthing.

Vare. _s._ A species of weasel.

To Vare. _v. n._ To bring forth young: applied to pigs and some other animals.

Var'miut. _s._ A vermin.

Vaught. _part._ Fetched.

_Vur vaught, And dear a-bought._

(i.e.) Far-fetched, and dear bought.

Vawth. _s._ A bank of dung or earth prepared for manure.

To Vay. _v. n._ To succeed; to turn out well; to go. This word is, most probably, derived from _vais_, part of the French verb _aller_, to go.

_It don't_ vay; it does not go on well. To Vaze. _v. n._ To move about a room, or a house, so as to agitate the air.

Veel'vare. _s._ A fieldfare.

Veel. _s._ A field; corn land unenclosed.

To Veel. _v._ To feel.

Yeel'd. _part._ Felt.

Vell. _s._ The salted stomach of a calf used for making cheese; a membrane.

Veö. _adj._ Few, little.

Ver'di, Ver'dit. _s._ Opinion.

To Ves'sy. _v. n._ When two or more persons read verses alternately, they are said to _vessy_.

Ves'ter. _s._ A pin or wire to point out the letters to children to read; a fescue.

Viër. _s._ Fire. Some of our old writers make this word of two syllables: "_Fy-er_."

Vin'e. _v._ Find.

Vine. _adj._ Fine.

Vin'ned. _adj._ Mouldy; humoursome; affected.

Vist, Vice. _s._ [_i_ long.] The Fist.

Vitious. _adj._ Spiteful; revengeful.

Vitten. _s._ See Fitten.

Vit'ty. _adv._ Properly, aptly.

Vlare. _v. n._ To burn wildly; to flare.

Vleër. _s._ A flea.

Vlan'nin. _s._ Flannel.

Vleng'd. _part._ Flung.

Vloth'er. _s._ Incoherent talk; nonsense.

Voc'ating. _part._ Going about from place to place in an idle manner. From _voco_, Latin. The verb to _voc'ate_, to go about from place to place in an idle manner, is also occasionally used.

Voke. _s._ Folk.

To Vol'ly. _v. a._ To follow.

Vol'lier. _s._ Something which follows; a follower.

Vooäth. _adv._ Forth; out. _To goo vooäth_, is to go out.

To Vooäse. _v. a._ To force.

Vorad. _adv. adj._ Forward.

Vor'n. _pron._ For him.

Voreright. _adj._ Blunt; candidly rude.

Voun. Found.

Vouse. _adj._ Strong, nervous, forward.

Vroäst. _s._ Frost.

To Vug. _v. a._ To strike with the elbow.

Vug. _s._ A thrust or blow with the elbow.

Vur. _adv._ Far.

Vur'der. _adv._ Farther.

Vurdest. _adv._ Farthest.

Vur'vooäth. _adv._ Far-forth.

Vust. _adj._ First.

W.

To Wal'lup. _v. a._ To beat. Walnut. _s._ The _double_ large walnut. The ordinary walnuts are called French nuts_.

To Wam'mel, To Wamble. _v. n._ To move to and fro in an irregular and awkward manner; to move out of a regular course or motion.

Applied chiefly to mechanical operations.

War. _interj._ Beware! take care! _War-whing_! Take care of yourself.

War. _v._ This is used for the preterite of the verb _to be_, in almost all the persons, as _I war, he war, we war,_ &c.

To Ward. _v. n._ To wade.

To Warnt. To Warnd. _a._ To warrant.

Wash-dish, _s._ The bird called wagtail.

To Way-zalt. _v. n._ [To weigh salt.] To play at the game of wayzaltin. _See the next article._

Way-zaltin. _s._ A game, or exercise, in which two persons stand back to back, with their arms interlaced, and lift each other up alternately.

Weepy. _adj._ Abounding with springs; moist.

Well-apaid. _adj._ Appeased; satisfied.

Well-at-ease, Well-at-eased. _adj._ Hearty. healthy.

Wetshod. _adj._ Wet in the feet.

Wev'et. _s._ A spider'_s._web.

To Whack. _v. a._ To beat with violence.

Whack. _s._ A loud blow.

Whatsomiver. _pron_. Whatsoever.

Whaur. _adv_. Where.

To Whec'ker. _v. n_. To laugh in a low vulgar manner; to neigh.

Where. _adv_. Whether.

Wherewi'. _s_. Property, estate; money.

Whim. _s_. Home.

Whing. _s_. Wing.

Whipper-snapper. _adj_. Active, nimble, sharp.

Whipswhile. _s._ A short time; the time between the strokes of a whip.

Whir'ra. _See_ WORRA.

Whister-twister. _s_. A smart blow on the side of the head.

To Whiv'er. _v. n_. To hover.

Whiz'bird. _s_. A term of reproach.

To Whop. _v.a._ To strike with heavy blows.

Whop. _s._ A heavy blow.

Who'say, or Hoosay. _s_. A wandering report; an observation of no weight.

Whot. _adj_. Hot.

Whun. _adv_. When.

Wi'. With ye.

Wid'ver. _s_. A widower.

Willy. _s_. A term applied to baskets of various sizes, but generally to those holding about a bushel. So called from their being made commonly of _willow_: sometimes called also _willy-basket_.

To Wim. _v. a._ To winnow. Wim-sheet, Wimmin-sheet. _s_. A sheet upon which corn is winnowed.

Wimmin-dust. _s_. Chaff.

Win'dor. _s_. A window.

Wine. _s_. Wind.

With'er. _pron_. Other.

With'erguess. _adj_. Different.

With'y-wine. _s_. The plant bindweed: _convolvulus_.

Witt. _adj_. Fit.

With'erwise. _adj_. Otherwise.

Wock. _s_. Oak.

Wocks. _s_. _pl_. The cards called _clubs_; most probably from having the shape of an oak leaf: _oaks_.

Wont. _s_. A Mole.

Wont-heave, _s_. A mole-hill.

Wont-snap, _s_. A mole-trap.

Wont-wriggle, _s_. The sinuous path made by moles under ground.

Wood-quist. _s_. A wood-pigeon.

Wordle. _s_. World. [Transposition of _l_ and _d_.]

Wor'ra. _s_. A small round moveable nut or pinion, with grooves in it, and having a hole in its centre, through which the end of a round stick or _spill_ may be thrust. The _spill and worra_ are attached to the common spinning-wheel, which, with those and the _turn-string_, form the apparatus for spinning wool, &c. Most probably this word, as well as whir'on, is used for _whir_, to turn round rapidly with a noise.

Wrassly. Wrestle.

To Wride. _v. n._ To spread abroad; to expand.

Wriggle. _s._ Any narrow, sinuous hole.

Wrine. _s._ A mark occasioned by wringing cloth, or by folding it in an irregular manner.

Wring, _s._ A. Press. A _cyder-wring_, a cyder-press.

To Wrumple. _v. a._ To discompose: to rumple.

Wrumple. _s._ A rumple.

Wust. _adj._ Worst.

Y.

Yack'er. _s._ An acre.

Yal. _s._ Ale.

Yaller. _adj._ Yellow.

Yal'house. _s._ An ale-house.

Yap'ern. _s._ An apron.

Yarly. _adj._ Early.

Yarm. _s._ Arm.

Yarth. _s._ Earth.

Yel. _s._ An eel.

Yel-spear. _s._ An instrument for catching eels.

Yes. _s._ An earthworm.

Yezy. _adj._ Easy.

Yokes. _s. pl._ Hiccups.

Yourn. _pron._ Yours.

Z.

See the observations which precede the letter S, relative to the change of that letter to Z.

Za. _adv._ So.

Zâ. _v._ Say.

Zât. _adj._ Soft.

Za'tenfare. _adj._ Softish: applied to the intellect_s._

To Zam. _v. a._ To heat for some time over the fire, but not to boil.

Zam'zod, Zam'zodden. _adj._ Any thing heated for a long time time in a low heat so as to be in part spoiled, is said to be zamzodden.

Conjecture, in etymology, may be always busy. It is not improbable that this word is a compound of _semi_, Latin, half; and to _seethe_, to boil: so that Zamzodden will then mean, literally, _half-boiled_.

Zand. _s._ Sand.

Zandy. _adj._ Sandy.

Zand-tot. _s._ A sand-hill.

To Zee. _v. a. pret._ and _part. Zid, Zeed._ To see.

Zeeäd. _s._ Seed. Zeeäd-lip. _See_ SEED-LIP.

Zel. _pron._ Self.

Zen'vy. _s._ Wild mustard.

The true etymology will be seen at once in _sénevé_, French, from _sinapi_, Latin, contracted and corrupted into _Zenvy_, Somersetian.

Zil'ker. _See_ SILKER.

Zim, Zim'd. _v._ Seem, seemed.

Zitch. _adj._ Such.

Zooäp. _s._ Soap.

Zog. _s._ Soft, boggy land; moist land.

Zog'gy. _adj._ Boggy; wet.

Zoon'er. _adv._ Rather.

To Zound, To Zoun'dy. _v. n._ To swoon.

To Zuf'fy. _v. n._ See TO SUFFY.

Zug'gers! _'_ This is a word, like others of the same class, the precise meaning of which it is not easy to define. I dare say it is a composition of two, or more words, greatly corrupted in pronunciation.

Zull. _s._ The instrument used for ploughing land; a plough.

Zum. _pron._ Some.

Zum'met. _pron._ Somewhat; something.

Zunz. _adv._ Since.

To Zwail. _v. n._ To move about with the arms extended, and up and down.

To Zwang. _v. n._ and _v. n._ To swing; to move to and fro.

Zwang. _s._ A swing.

To Zwell. _v. a._ To swell; to swallow. See TO SWELL.

Zwird. _s._ Sword.

Zwod'der. _s._ A drowsy and stupid state of body or mind.

Derived, most probably, from _sudor_, Latin, a sweat.

POEMS AND OTHER PIECES EXEMPLIFYING THE DIALECT OF THE

County of Somersetshire.

Notwithstanding the Author has endeavoured, in the Observations on the Dialects of the West, and in The Glossary, to obviate the difficulties under which strangers to the dialect of Somersetshire may, very possibly, labour in the perusal of the following Poems, it may be, perhaps, useful here to remind the reader, that many mere inversions of sound, and differences in pronunciation, are not noted in the Glossary. That it did not appear necessary to explain such words as_ wine, _wind;_ zâ, _say;_ qut, _coat;_ bwile, _boil_; hoss, _horse;_ hirches, _riches; and many others, which it is presumed the_ context, _the_ Observations, _or the_ Glossary, _will sufficiently explain. The Author, therefore, trusts, that by a careful attention to these, the reader will soon become_ au fait _at the interpretation of these West-country_ LIDDENS.

GOOD BWYE TA THEE COT!

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha dâs o' my childhood Glaw'd bright as tha zun in a mornin o' mâ; When tha dumbledores hummin, craup out o' tha cobwâll, An' shakin ther whings, thâ vleed vooäth an' awâ. [Footnote: The humble-bee, _bombilius major_, or _dumbledore_, makes holes very commonly in mud walls, in which it deposits a kind of farina: in this bee will be found, on dissection, a considerable portion of honey, although it never deposits any.]

Good bwye ta the Cot!--on thy drashel, a-mâ-be,
I niver naw moor sholl my voot again zet;
Tha jessamy awver thy porch zweetly bloomin,
Whauriver I goo, I sholl niver vorget.

Tha rawzes, tha lillies, that blaw in tha borders--
The gilawfers, too, that I us'd ta behawld--
Tha trees, wi' tha honeyzucks ranglin âll awver,
I âlways sholl think o' nif I shood be awld.

Tha tutties that oten I pick'd on a zunday,
And stickt in my qut--thâ war thawted za fine:
Aw how sholl I tell o'm--vor âll pirty maidens
When I pass'd 'em look'd back--ther smill rawze on tha wine.

Good bwye ta thee Ash! which my Father beforne me,
A planted, wi' pleasure, tha dâ I was born;
Zâ, oolt thou drap a tear when I cease to behawld thee,
An wander awâ droo tha wordle vorlorn.

Good bwye ta thee Tree! an thy cawld shade in zummer;
Thy apples, aw who ool be lotted ta shake?
When tha wine, mangst thy boughs sifes at Milemas in sorrow,
Zâ oolt thou sife for me, or one wild wish awake?

Good bwye ye dun Elves! who, on whings made o'leather,
Still roun my poorch whiver an' whiver at night;
Aw mâ naw hord-horted, unveelin disturber,
Destrây your snug nests, an your plâ by moonlight.

Good bwye ta thee Bower!--ta thy moss an thy ivy--
To tha flowers that aroun thee all blossomin graw;
When I'm gwon, oolt thou grieve?--bit 'tis foolish to ax it;
What is ther that's shower in this wordle belaw?

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur my mother za thoughtvul,
As zumtimes she war droo er care vor us âll,
Er lessins wi' kindness, wi' tenderness gid us;
An ax'd, war she dead, what ood us bevâll.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha nightingale's music,
In tha midnight o' Mâ-time, rawze loud on the ear;
Whaur tha colley awâk'd, wi' tha zun, an a zingin
A went, wi' tha dirsh, in a voice vull and clear.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! I must goo ta tha city.
Whaur, I'm tawld, that the smawk makes it dork at noon dâ;
Bit nif it is true, I'm afeard that I âlways
And iver sholl thenk on tha cot thatch'd wi' strâ.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! there is One that râins awver,
An wâtches tha wordle, wi' wisdom divine;
Than why shood I mang, wi' tha many, my ma-bes;
Bin there's readship in Him, an to him I resign.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! shood I niver behauld thee
Again; still I thank thee vor âll that is past!
Thy friendly ruf shelter'd--while mother wâtch'd awver.
An haw'd vor my comfort vrom vust unto last.

Good bwye ta thee Cot; vor the time mâ be longful
Beforn I on thy drashall again zet my eye;
Thy tutties ool blossom, an daver an blossom
Again and again--zaw good bwye, an good bwye!

FANNY FEAR

The melancholy incident related in the following story, actually occurred a few years ago at Shapwick.

Good Gennel-vawk! an if you please
To lissen to my storry,
A mâ-be 'tis a jitch a one,
Ool make ye zummet zorry.

'Tis not a hoozay tale of grief,
A put wi' ort together,
That where you cry, or where you laugh,
Da matter not a veather;

Bit 'tis a tale vor sartin true,
Wi' readship be it spawken;
I knaw it all, begummers! well,
By tale, eese, an by tawken.

The maid's right name war FANNY FEAR,
A tidy body lookin;
An she cood brew, and she cood bake,
An dumplins bwile, and skimmer cake;
An all the like o' cookin.

Upon a Zunday âternoon,
Beforne the door a stanin,
To zee er chubby cheaks za hird,
An whitist lilies roun 'em spird,
A damas rawze her han in,

Ood do your hort good; an er eyes,
Dork, vull, an bright, an sporklin;
Tha country lads could not goo by,
Bit look thâ must--she iver shy,
Ood blish--tha timid lorklin!

Her dame war to her desperd kind;
She knaw'd er well dezarvin:
She gid her good advice an claws,
At which she niver toss'd her naws,
As zum ool, thawf pon starvin.

She oten yarly upp'd to goo
A milkin o' tha dairy;
The meads ring'd loudly wi' er zong;
Aw how she birshed the grass along,
As lissom as a vairy!

She war as happy as a prince;
Naw princess moor o' pleasure
When well-at-eased cood iver veel;
She ly'd her head upon her peel,
An vound athin a treasure.

There war a dessent comly youth,
Who took'd to her a likin;
An when a don'd in zunday claws,
You'd thenk en zummet I suppaws,
A look'd so desperd strikin.

His vace war like a zummer dâ,
When âll the birds be zingin;
Smiles an good nature dimplin stood,
An moor besides, an âll za good,
Much pleasant promise bringin.

Now Jan war sawber, and afeard
Nif he in haste shood morry,
That he mid long repent thereof;
An zo a thwart 'twar best not, thawf
To stâ mid make en zorry.

Jan oten pâss'd the happy door,
There Fanny stood a scrubbin;
An Fanny hired hiz pleasant voice,
An thawt--"An if she had er choice!"
An veel'd athin a drubbin.

Bit Jan did'n hulder long iz thawts;
Vor thorough iv'ry cranny,
Hirn'd of iz Lort tha warm hird tide;
An a cood na moor iz veelins bide,
Bit tell 'em must to Fanny.

To Fanny, than, one Whitsun eve,
A tawld er how a lov'd er;
Naw dove, a zed to er cood be
Moor faithvul than to her ood he;
His hort had long appruv'd er.

Wi' timourous blishin, Fanny zed,
"A maid mist not believe ye;
Vor men ool tell ther lovin tale,
And awver seely maids prevail--
Bit I dwont like ta grieve ye:

Vor nif za be you now zâ true--
That you've for I a fancy:
(Aw Jan! I dwont veel desperd well,
An what's tha câze, I cannot tell),
You'll zâ na moor to Nancy."

Twar zaw begin'd their zweetortin;
Booäth still liv'd in their places;
Zometimes thâ met bezides tha stile;
Wi' pleasant look an tender smile
Gaz'd in each wither's faces.

In spreng-time oten on tha nap
Ood Jan and Fanny linger;
An when war vooäs'd to zâ "good bwye,"
Ood meet again, wi' draps in eye,
While haup ood pwint er vinger.

Zo pass'd tha dâs--tha moons awâ,
An haup still whiver'd nigh;
Nif Fanny's dreams high pleasures vill,
Of her Jan's thawts the lidden still,
An oten too the zigh.

Bit still Jan had not got wherewi'
To venter eet to morry;
Alas-a-dâ! when poor vawk love,
How much restraint how many pruv;
How zick zum an how zorry.

Aw you who live in houzen grate,
An wherewi' much possessin,
You knaw not, mâ-be, care not you,
What pangs jitch tender horts pursue,
How grate nor how distressin.

Jan sar'd a varmer vour long years,
An now iz haups da brighten:
A gennelman of high degree
Choos'd en iz hunsman vor to be;
His Fanny's hort da lighten!

"Now, Fan," zed he, "nif I da live,
Nex zummer thee bist mine;
Sir John ool gee me wauges good,
Amâ-be too zum viër ood!"
His Fan's dork eyes did shine.

"To haw vor thee, my Fan," a cried,
"I iver sholl delight;
Thawf I be poor, 'tool be my pride
To ha my Fan vor a buxom bride--
My lidden dâ an night."

A took er gently in iz orms
An kiss'd er za zweetly too;
His Fan, vor jay, not a word cood speak,
Bit a big roun tear rawl'd down er cheak,
It zimm'd as thawf er hort ood break--
She cood hordly thenk it true.

To zee our hunsman goo abroad,
His houns behind en volly;
His tossel'd cap--his whip's smort smack,
His hoss a prancin wi' tha crack,
His whissle, horn, an holler, back!
Ood cure âll malancholy.

It happ'd on a dork an wintry night,
Tha stormy wine a blawin;
Tha houns made a naise an a dismal yell;
Jitch as zum vawk zâ da death vaurtell,
The cattle loud war lawin.

Tha hunsman wâkid an down a went;
A thawt ta keep 'em quiet;
A niver stopped izzel ta dress,
Bit a went in iz shirt vor readiness
A voun a dirdful riot.

Bit âll thic night a did not come back;
All night tha dogs did raur;
In tha mornin thâ look'd on tha kannel stwons
An zeed 'em cover'd wi' gaur an bwons,
The vlesh âll vrom 'em a taur.

His head war left--the head o' Jan
Who lov'd hiz Fanny za well;
An a bizzy gossip, as gossips be
Who've work o' ther awn bit vrom it vlee,
To Fanny went ta tell.

She hirn'd, she vleed ta meet tha man
Who corr'd er dear Jan's head:
An when she zeed en âll blood an gaur,
She drapp'd down speechless jist avaur,
As thauf she had bin dead.

Poor Fanny com'd ta erzel again,
Bit her senses left her vor iver!
An all she zed, ba dâ or night--
Vor sleep it left her eye-lids quite--
War, "why did he goo in the cawld ta shiver?--
Niver, O Jan! sholl I zee the, niver!"

[Footnote: See a letter by Edward Band, on this subject, in the prose pieces.]

JERRRY NUTTY; OR THE MAN OF MORK.

Awa wi' âll yer tales o' grief,
An dismal storry writin;

A mâ-be zumthin I mâ zing
Ool be as much delightin.

Zumtime agoo, bevaur tha moors
War tin'd in, lived at Mork
One JERRY NUTTY--spry a war;
A upp'd avaur the lork.

Iz vather in a little cot
Liv'd, auver-right tha moor,
An thaw a kipt a vlock o' geese,
A war a thoughted poor.

A niver teach'd tha cris-cross-lain
Ta any of his bways,
An Jerry, mangst the rest o'm, did
Not much appruv his ways.

Vor Jerry zumtimes went ta church
Ta hire tha Pâson preach,
An thawt what pity that ta read
Izzel a cood'n teach.

Vor than, a zunday âternoon,
Tha Bible, or good book
Would be companion vit vor'm âll
Who choos'd therein ta look.

Bit Jerry than tha naise o' geese
Bit little moor could hire;

An dâly goose-aggs ta pick up
Droo-out tha moor did tire.

A ôten look'd upon tha hills
An stickle mountains roun,
An wished izzel upon their taps:
What zights a ood be bóun!

Bit what did mooäst iz fancy strick
War Glassenberry Torr:
A âlways zeed it when tha zun
Gleam'd wi' tha mornin stor.

O' Well's grate church a ôten hired,
Iz fancy war awake;
An zaw a thawt that zoon a ood
A journey ta it make.

An Glassenberry's Torr, an Thorn
The hawly blowth of which
A hired from one and tother too;
Tha like war never jitch!

Bit moor o' this I need not zâ,
Vor off went Jerry Nutty,
In hiz right hon a wâkin stick,
An in hiz qut a tutty.

Now, lock-y-zee! in whimly dress
Trudg'd chearful Jerry on;

Bit on tha moor not vur a went--
A made a zudden ston.

Which wâ ta goo a cood not thenk,
Vor there war many a wâ;
A put upright iz walking stick;
A vâll'd ta tha zon o' dâ.

Ta tha suthard than iz wâ a took
Athert tha turfy moors,
An zoon o' blissom Cuzziton,
[Footnote: Cossington.]
A pass'd tha cottage doors.

Tha maidens o' tha cottages,
Not us'd strange vawk to zee,
Com'd vooäth and stood avaur tha door;
Jer wonder'd what cood be.

Zum smil'd, zum whecker'd, zum o'm blish'd.
"Od dang it!" Jerry zed,
"What do tha think that I be like?"
An nodded to 'm iz head.

"Which is tha wâ to Glassenberry?
I've hired tha hawly thorn
War zet there by zum hawly hons
Zoon âter Christ war born;

An I've a mine ta zee it too,
An o' tha blowth ta take."
"An how can you, a seely man,
Jitch seely journey make?

"What! dwont ye knaw that now about
It is the midst o' June?
Tha hawly thorn at Kirsmas blaws--
You be zix months too zoon.

Goo whim again, yea gâwky! goo!"
Zaw zed a damsel vair
As dewy mornin late in Mâ;
An Jerry wide did stare.

"Lord Miss!" zed he, "I niver thawt,
O' Kirsmas!--while I've shoes,
To goo back now I be zet out,
Is what I sholl not choose.

I'll zee the Torr an hawly thorn,
An Glassenberry too;
An, nif you'll put me in tha wâ,
I'll gee grate thanks ta you."

Goo droo thic veel an up thic lane,
An take tha lift hon path,
Than droo Miss Crossman's backzid strait,
Ool bring ye up ta Wrath.

Now mine, whaur you do turn again
At varmer Veal's long yacker,
Clooäse whaur Jan Lide, tha cobler, lives
Who makes tha best o' tacker;

You mist turn short behine tha house
An goo right droo tha shord,
An than you'll pass a zummer lodge,
A builded by tha lord.

Tha turnpick than is jist belaw,
An Cock-hill strait avaur ye."
Za Jerry doff'd his hat an bow'd,
An thank'd er vor er storry.

Bit moor o' this I need not zâ,
Vor off went Jerry Nutty;
In his right hand a wâkin stick,
An in hiz qut a tutty.

Bit I vorgot to zâ that Jer
A zatchel wi' en took
To hauld zum bird an cheese ta ate;--
Iz drink war o' tha brook.

Za when a got upon Cock-hill
Upon a linch a zawt;
The zun had climmer'd up tha sky;
A voun it very hot.

An, as iz stomick war za good,
A made a horty meal;
An werry war wi' wâkin, zaw
A sleepid zoon did veel.

That blessed power o' bâmy sleep,
Which auver ivery sense
Da wi' wild whiverin whings extend
A happy influence;

Now auver Jerry Nutty drow'd
Er lissom mantle wide;
An down a drapp'd in zweetest zleep,
Iz zatchel by iz zide.

Not all tha nasty stouts could wâke
En vrom iz happy zleep,
Nor emmets thick, nor vlies that buz,
An on iz hons da creep.

Naw dreams a had; or nif a had
Mooäst pleasant dreams war thâ:
O' geese an goose-aggs, ducks and jitch;
Or Mally, vur awâ,

Zum gennelmen war dreavin by
In a gilded cawch za gâ;
Thâ zeed en lyin down asleep;
Thâ bid the cawchman stâ.

Thâ bâll'd thâ hoop'd--a niver wâk'd;
Naw houzen there war handy;
Zed one o'm, "Nif you like, my bways,
"We'll ha a little randy!"

"Jist put en zâtly in tha cawch
An dreav en ta Bejwâter;
An as we âll can't g'in wi'n here,
I'll come mysel zoon âter."

Twar done at once: vor norn o'm car'd
A strâ vor wine or weather;
Than gently rawl'd the cawch along,
As zât as any veather.

Bit Jerry snaur'd za loud, tha naise
Tha gennelmen did gally;
Thâ'd hâf a mind ta turn en out;
A war dreamin o' his Mally!

It war the morkit dâ as rawl'd
Tha cawch athin Bejwâter;
Thâ drauv tip ta the Crown-Inn door,
Ther Mâ-game man com'd âter.

"Here Maester Wâter! Lock-y-zee!
A-mâ-be you mid thenk
Thic mon a snauren in tha cawch
Is auvercome wi' drenk.

Bit 'tis not not jitchy theng we knaw;
A is a cunjerin mon,
Vor on Cock-hill we vound en ly'd
Iz stick stif in his hon.

Iz vace war cover'd thick wi' vlies
An bloody stouts a plenty;
Nif he'd o pumple voot bezide,
An a brumstick vor'n to zit ascride,
O' wizards a mid be thawt tha pride,
Amangst a kit o' twenty."

"Lord zur! an why d'ye bring en here
To gally âll tha people?
Why zuggers! nif we frunt en than,
He'll auver-dro tha steeple.

I bag ye, zur, to take en vooäth;
There! how iz teeth da chatter;
Lawk zur! vor Christ--look there again!
A'll witchify Bejwâter!"

Tha gennelman stood by an smiled
To zee tha bussle risin:
Yor zoon, droo-out tha morkit wide
Tha news wor gwon saprisin.

An round about tha cawch thâ dring'd--
Tha countryman and townsman;
An young an awld, an man an maid--
Wi' now an tan, an here an there,
Amang tha crowd to gape an stare,
A doctor and a gownsman.

Jitch naise an bother wâkid zoon
Poor hormless Jerry Nutty,
A look'd astunn'd;--a cood'n speak!
An daver'd war iz tutty.

A niver in his life avaur
'ad been athin Bejwâter;
A thawt, an if a war alive,
That zummet war tha matter.

Tha houzen cling'd together zaw!
Tha gennelmen an ladies!
Tha blacksmith's, brazier's hammers too!
An smauk whauriver trade is.

Bit how a com'd athin a cawch
A war amaz'd at thenkin;
A thawt, vor sartin, a must be
A auvercome wi' drenkin.

Thâ ax'd en nif a'd please to g'out
An ta tha yalhouse g'in;
Bit thâ zo clooäse about en dring'd
A cood'n goo athin.

Ta g'under 'em or g'auver 'em
A try'd booâth grate and smâll;
Bit g'under, g'auver, g'in, or g'out,
A cood'n than at âll.

"Lord bless ye! gennel-vawk!" zed he,
I'm come to Glassenberry
To zee tha Torr an Hawly Thorn;
What makes ye look za merry?"

"Why mister wizard? dwont ye knaw,
Theäse town is câll'd Bejwâter!"
Cried out a whipper-snapper man:
Thâ all bust out in lâughter.

"I be'nt a wizard, zur!" a zed;
"Bit I'm a little titch'd; [Footnote: Touched.]
"Or, witherwise, you mid well thenk
I'm, zure anow, bewitch'd!"

Thaw Jerry war, vor âll tha wordle,
Like very zel o' quiet,
A veel'd iz blood ta bwile athin
At jitchy zort o' riot;

Za out a jump'd amangst 'em âll!
A made a desperd bussle;
Zum hirn'd awâ--zum made a ston;
Wi' zum a had a tussle.

Iz stick now sar'd 'em justice good;
It war a tough groun ash;
Upon ther heads a plâ'd awâ,
An round about did drash.

Thâ belg'd, thâ raur'd, thâ scamper'd âll.
A zoon voun rum ta stoory;
A thawt a'd be reveng'd at once,
Athout a judge or jury.

An, thaw a brawk navy-body's bwons,
A gid zum bloody nawzes;
Tha pirty maids war fainty too;
Hirn'd vrom ther cheaks tha rawzes.

Thinks he, me gennelmen! when nex
I goo to Glassenbery,
Yea shant ha jitch a rig wi' I,
Nor at my cost be merry.

Zaw, havin clear'd izzel a wâ.
Right whim went Jerry Nutty;
A flourished roun iz wâkin stick;
An vleng'd awâ iz tutty.

A LEGEND OF GLASTONBURY.

[First Printed in "Graphic Illustrator, p. 124.]

I cannot do better than introduce here "_A Legend of Glastonbury_," made up, not from books, but from oral tradition once very prevalent in and near Glastonbury, which had formerly one of the richest Abbeys in England; the ruins are still attractive.

Who hath not hir'd o' _Avalon?_
[Footnote: "The Isle of ancient Avelon."--Drayton.]
'Twar talked o' much an long agon,--
Tha wonders o' tha _Holy Thorn_,
Tha "wich, zoon âter Christ war born,
Here a planted war by _Arimathé_,
Thic Joseph that com'd auver sea,
An planted Kirstianity.
Thâ zâ that whun a landed vust,
(Zich plazen war in God's own trust)
A stuck iz staff into tha groun
An auver iz shoulder lookin roun,
Whatever mid iz lot bevâll,
A cried aloud "_Now, weary all_!"
Tha staff het budded an het grew,
An at Kirsmas bloom'd tha whol dâ droo.
An still het blooms at Kirsmas bright,
But best thâ zâ at dork midnight,
A pruf o' this nif pruf you will.
Iz voun in tha name o' _Weary-all-hill!_
Let tell _Pumparles_ or lazy _Brue_.
That what iz tauld iz vor sartin true!

["The story of the Holy Thorn was a long time credited by the vulgar and credulous. There is a species of White Thorn which blossoms about Christmas; it is well known to naturalists so as to excite no surprise."]

MR. GUY.

The incident on which this story is founded, occurred in the early part of the last century; hence the allusion to making a _will_ before making a journey to the metropolis.

Mr. Guywar a gennelman
O' Huntspill, well knawn
As a grazier, a hirch one,
Wi' lons o' hiz awn.

A ôten went ta Lunnun
Hiz cattle vor ta zill;
All tha horses that a rawd
Niver minded hadge or hill.

A war afeard o' naw one;
A niver made hiz will,
Like wither vawk, avaur a went
His cattle vor ta zill.

One time a'd bin ta Lunnun
An zawld iz cattle well;
A brought awâ a power o' gawld,
As I've a hired tell.

As late at night a rawd along
All droo a unket ood,
A ooman rawze vrom off tha groun
An right avaur en stood:

She look'd za pitis Mr. Guy
At once hiz hoss's pace
Stapt short, a wonderin how, at night,
She com'd in jitch a place.

A little trunk war in her hon;
She zim'd vur gwon wi' chile.
She ax'd en nif a'd take her up
And cor her a veo mile.

Mr. Guy, a man o' veelin
For a ooman in distress,
Than took er up behind en:
A cood'n do na less.

A corr'd er trunk avaur en,
An by hiz belt o' leather
A bid er hawld vast; on thâ rawd,
Athout much tâk, together.

Not vur thâ went avaur she gid
A whissle loud an long;
Which Mr. Guy, thawt very strange;
Er voice too zim'd za strong!

She'd lost er dog, she zed; an than
Another whissle blaw'd,
That stortled Mr. Guy;--a stapt
Hiz hoss upon tha rawd.

Goo on, zed she; bit Mr. Guy
Zum rig beginn'd ta fear:
Vor voices rawze upon tha wine,
An zim'd a comin near.

Again thâ rawd along; again
She whissled. Mr. Guy
Whipt out hiz knife an cut tha belt,
Then push'd er off!--Vor why?

Tha ooman he took up behine,
Begummers, war a _man!_
Tha rubbers zaw ad lâd ther plots
Our grazier to trepan.

I shall not stap ta tell what zed
Tha man in ooman's clawze;
Bit he, and all o'm jist behine,
War what you mid suppawze.

Thâ cust, thâ swaur, thâ dreaten'd too,
An ater Mr. Guy
Thâ gallop'd all; 'twar niver-tha-near:
Hiz hoss along did vly.

Auver downs, droo dales, awâ a went,
'Twar dâ-light now amawst,
Till at an inn a stapt, at last,
Ta thenk what he'd a lost.

A lost?--why, nothin--but hiz belt!--
A zummet moor ad gain'd:
Thic little trunk a corr'd awâ--
It gawld g'lore contain'd!

Nif Mr. Guy war hirch avaur,
A now war hircher still:
Tha plunder o' tha highwâmen
Hiz coffers went ta vill.

In sâfety Mr. Guy rawd whim;
A ôten tawld tha storry.
Ta meet wi' jitch a rig myzel
I shood'n, soce, be zorry.

THE ROOKERY.

The rook, _corvus frugilegus_, is a bird of considerable intelligence, and is, besides, extremely useful in destroying large quantities of worms and larvæ of destructive insects. It will, it is true, if not watched, pick out, after they are dibbled, both pease and beans from the holes with a precision truly astonishing: a very moderate degree of care is, however, sufficient to prevent this evil, which is greatly overbalanced by the positive good which it effects in the destruction of insects. It is a remarkable fact, and not, perhaps, generally known, that this bird rarely roosts at the rookery, except for a few months during the period of incubation, and rearing its young. In the winter season it more commonly takes flights of no ordinary length, to roost on the trees of some remote and sequestered wood. The _Elm_ is its favorite, on which it usually builds; but such is its attachment to locality that since the incident alluded to in the following Poem took place the Rooks have, many of them, built in _fir_ trees at a little distance from their former habitation. The habits of the Rook are well worthy the attention of all who delight in the study of Natural History.

My zong is o' tha ROOKERY,
Not jitch as I a zeed
On stunted trees wi' leaves a veo,
A very veo indeed,

In thic girt place thâ _Lunnun_ câll;--
Tha Tower an tha Pork
Hâ booäth a got a Rookery,
Althaw thâ han't a Lork.

I zeng not o' jitch Rookeries,
Jitch plazen, pump or banners;
Bit town-berd Rooks, vor âll that, hâ,
I warnt ye, curious _manners_.

My zong is o' a Rookery
My Father's cot bezide,
Avaur, years âter, I war born
'Twar long tha porish pride.

Tha elms look'd up like giants tâll
Ther branchy yarms aspread;
An green plumes wavin wi' tha wine,
Made gâ each lofty head.

Ta drâ tha pectur out--ther war
At distance, zid between
Tha trees, a thatch'd Form-house, an geese
A cacklin on tha green.

A river, too, clooäse by tha trees,
Its stickle coose on slid,
Whaur yells an trout an wither fish
Mid ôtentimes be zid.

Tha rooks voun this a pleasant place--
A whim ther young ta rear;
An I a ôten pleas'd a bin
Ta wâtch 'em droo tha year.

'Tis on tha dâ o' Valentine
Or there or thereabout,
Tha rooks da vast begin ta build,
An cawin, make a rout.

Bit aw! when May's a come, ta zee
Ther young tha gunner's shut
Vor SPOORT, an bin, as zum da zâ,
(Naw readship in't I put)

_That nif thâ did'n shut tha, rooks
Thâ'd zoon desert tha trees!_
Wise vawk! Thic reason vor ther SPOORT
Gee thâ mid nif thâ please!

Still zeng I o' tha Rookery,
Vor years it war tha pride
Of all thâ place, bit 'twor ta I
A zumthin moor bezide.

A hired tha Rooks avaur I upp'd;
I hired 'em droo tha dâ;
I hired ther young while gittin flush
An ginnin jist ta câ.

I hired 'em when my mother gid
Er lessins kind ta I,
In jitch a wâ when I war young,
That I war fit ta cry.

I hired 'em at tha cottage door,
When mornin, in tha spreng,
Wâk'd vooäth in youth an beauty too,
An birds beginn'd ta zeng.

I hired 'em in tha winter-time
When, roustin vur awâ,
Thâ visited tha Rookery
A whiverin by dâ.

My childhood, youth, and manood too,
My Father's cot recâll
Thic Rookery. Bit I mist now
Tell what it did bevâll.

'Twar Mâ-time--heavy vi' tha nests
War laden âll tha trees;
An to an fraw, wi' creekin loud,
Thâ sway'd ta iv'ry breeze.

One night tha wine--a thundrin wine,
Jitch as war hired o' nivor,
Blaw'd two o' thic girt giant trees
Flat down into tha river.

Nests, aggs, an young uns, âll awâ
War zweept into tha wâter
An zaw war spwiled tha Rookery
Vor iver and iver âter.

I visited my Father's cot:
Tha Rooks war âll a gwon;
Whaur stood tha trees in lofty pride
I zid there norra one.

My Father's cot war desolate;
An âll look'd wild, vorlorn;
Tha Ash war stunted that war zet
Tha dâ that I war born.

My Father, Mother, Rooks, âll gwon!
My Charlotte an my Lizzy!--
Tha gorden wi' tha tutties too!--
Jitch thawts why be za bizzy!--

Behawld tha wâ o' human thengs!
Rooks, lofty trees, an Friends--
A kill'd, taur up, like leaves drap off!--
Zaw feaver'd bein ends.

TOM GOOL, AND LUCK IN THA BAG.

"Luck, Luck in tha Bag! Good Luck!
Put in an try yer fortin;
Come, try yer luck in tha Lucky Bag!
You'll git a prize vor sartin."

Mooäst plazen hâ their customs
Ther manners an ther men;
We too a got our customs,
Our manners and our men.

He who a bin ta Huntspill Fâyer
Or Highbridge--Pawlet Revel--
Or Burtle Sassions, whaur thâ plâ
Zumtimes tha very devil,

Mist mine once a man well
That war a câll'd TOM GOOL;
Zum thawt en mazed, while withers thawt
En moor a knave than fool.

At all tha fâyers an revels too
TOM GOOL war shower ta be,
A tâkin vlother vast awâ,--
A hoopin who bit he.

Vor' âll that a had a zoort o' wit
That zet tha vawk a laughin;
An mooäst o' that, when ho tha yal
Ad at tha fâyer bin quaffin.

A corr'd a kit o' pedlar's waur, Like awld _Joannah Martin_; [Footnote: This Lady, who was for many years known in Somersetshire as an itinerant dealer in earthenware, rags, &c., and occasionally a _fortune-teller_, died a few years since at Huntspill, where she had resided for the greater part of a century. She was extremely illiterate, so much so, as not to be able to write, and, I think, could scarcely read. She lived for some years in a house belonging to my father, and while a boy, I was very often her gratuitous amanuensis, in writing letters for her to her children. She possessed, however, considerable shrewdness, energy, and perseverance, and amassed property to the amount of several hundred pounds. She had three husbands; the name of the first was, I believe, _Gool_ or _Gould_, a relation of _Thomas Gool_, the subject of the above Poem; the name of the second was _Martin_, of the third _Pain_; but as the last lived a short time only after having married her, she always continued to be called Joannah Martin.

_Joannah_ was first brought into public notice by the Rev. Mr. WARNER, in his _Walks through the Western Counties_, published in 1800, in which work will be found a lively and interesting description of her; but she often said that she should wish me to write her life, as I was, of course, more intimately acquainted with it than any casual inquirer could possibly be. An additional notice of Joannah was inserted by me in the _Monthly Magazine_, for Nov. 1816, page 310. I had among my papers, the _original song composed_ by her, which I copied from her dictation many years ago,--the only, copy in existence; I regret that I cannot lay my hand upon it; as it contains much of the Somersetshire idiom. I have more than once heard her sing this song, which was satirical, and related to the conduct of a female, one of her neighbours, who had become a thief.

Such was JOANNAH MARTIN, a woman whose name (had she moved in a sphere where her original talents could have been improved by education,) might have been added to the list of distinguished female worthies of our country.

[The MS. song was never, that I am aware of, discovered
after my relative's death.--Editor, J. K. J.]]
An nif yon hân't a hired o' her,
You zumtime sholl vor sartin.

"Luck, Luck in tha Bag!" TOM, cried
"Put in and try yer fortin;
Come try yer luck in tha lucky bag;
You'll git a prize vor sartin.

All prizes, norra blank,
Norra blank, âll prizes!
A waiter--knife--or scissis sheer--
A splat o' pins--put in my dear!--
Whitechapel nills âll sizes.

Luck, Luck in tha Bag!--only a penny vor a venter--you mid get, a- ma-be, a girt prize--a _Rawman waiter!_--I can avoord it as cheep as thic that stawl it--I a bote it ta trust, an niver intend to pâ vor't. Luck, Luck in tha bag! âll prizes; norra blank!

Luck, Luck in tha Bag! Good Luck!
Put in an try yer fortin;
Come, try yer luck in tha lucky bag!
You'll git a prize vor sartin.

Come, niver mine tha single-sticks,
Tha whoppin or tha stickler,
You dwon't want now a brawken head,
"Nor jitchy zoort o' tickler!

Now Lady! yer prize is--'A SNUFF-BOX,'
A treble-japann'd Pontypool!
You'll shower come again ta my luck in tha bag,
Or niver trust me--TOMMY GOOL.

Luck, Luck in tha bag! Good Luck!
Put in an try yer fortin;
Come, try yer luck in tha lucky bag!
You'll git a prize for sartin!

TEDDY BAND.

"The short and simple annals of the poor." GRAY.

_Miss Hanson to Miss Mortimer. Ashcot, July_ 21st.

My Dear Jane.

Will you do me the favour to amuse yourself and your friends with the enclosed epistle? it is certainly an original--written in the dialect of the County. You will easily understand it, and, I do not doubt, the "moril" too.

Edward Band, or as he is more commonly called here, Teddy Band, is a poor, but honest and industrious cottager, but I am, nevertheless, disposed to think that "if ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."

My dear Jane, affectionately yours,

MARIA HANSON.

_Teddy Band to Miss Hanson._

Mâm,

I da thenk you'll smile at theeäzam here veo lains that I write ta you, bin I be naw scholard; vor vather coud'n avoord ta put I ta school. Bit nif you'll vorgee me vor my bauldniss, a-mâ-be, I mid not be afeard ta zâ zummet ta you that you, mâm yourzell mid like ta hire. Bit how be I ta knaw that? I knaw that you be a goodhorted Lady, an da like ta zee poor vawk well-at-eased an happy. You axt I tother dâ ta zing a zong: now I dwont much like zum o' thâ zongs that I hired thic night at squire Reevs's when we made an end o' Hâ-corrin: vor, zim ta I, there war naw moril to 'em. I like zongs wi' a moril to 'em. Tha nawtes, ta be shower, war zât anow, bit, vor âll that, I war looking vor tha moril, mâm. Zo, when I cum'd whim, I tawld our Pall, that you axt I ta zing: an I war zorry âterward that I did'n, bin you be âlways zo desperd good ta poor vowk. Bit I thawt, a-mâ-be, you mid be angry wi' my country lidden. Why Teddy, zed Pall, dwontye zend Miss Hanson thic zong which ye made yerzel; I thenk ther is a moril in thic. An zo, mâm, nif you please, I a zent tha zong. I haup you'll vorgee me.

Mâm, your humble sarvant,

TEDDY BAND.

ZONG.

I have a cot o' Cob-wâll
Roun which tha ivy clims;
My Pally at tha night-vâll
Er crappin viër trims.

A comin vrom tha plow-veel
I zee tha blankers rise,
Wi' blue smauk cloudy curlin,
An whivering up tha skies.

When tha winter wines be crousty,
An snaws dreav vast along,
I hurry whim--tha door tine,
An cheer er wi' a zong.

When spreng, adresst in tutties,
Câlls âll tha birds abroad;
An wrans an robin-riddicks,
Tell âll the cares o' God,

I zit bezides my cot-door
After my work is done,
While Pally, bizzy knittin,
Looks at tha zottin zun.

When zummertime is passin,
An narras dâs be vine,
I drenk tha sporklin cider,
An wish naw wither wine.

How zweet tha smill o' clawver,
How zweet tha smill o' hâ;
How zweet is haulsom labour, ^
Bit zweeter Pall than thâ.

An who d'ye thenk I envy?--
Tha nawbles o' tha land?
Thâ can't be moor than happy,
An that is Teddy Band.

Mister Ginnins;

I a red thic ballet o' yourn called Fanny Fear, an, zim ta I, there's naw moril to it. Nif zaw be you da thenk zo well o't, I'll gee one.

I dwont want to frunt any ov the gennelmen o' tha country, bit I âlways a thawt it desperd odd, that dogs should be keept in a kannel, and keept a hungered too, zaw that thâ mid be moor eager to hunt thic poor little theng câlled a hare. I dwon' naw, bit I da thenk, nif I war a gennelman, that I'd vine better spoort than huntin; bezides, zim ta I 'tis desperd wicked to hunt animals vor one's spoort. Now, jitch a horrid blanscue as what happened at Shapick, niver could a bin but vor tha hungry houns. I haup that gennelmen ool thenk o't oten; an when thâ da hire tha yell o' tha houns thâ'll not vorgit Fanny Fear; a-mâ-be thâ mid be zummet tha wiser an better vor't; I'm shower jitch a storry desarves ta be remimbered. This is the moril.

I am, sur, your sarvant,

TEDDY BAND.

THE CHURCHWARDEN.

Upon a time, naw matter whaur,
Jitch plazen there be many a scaur
In Zummerzet's girt gorden;
(Ive hir'd 'twar handy ta tha zea,
Not vur vrom whaur tha zantots be)
There liv'd a young churchwarden.

A zim'd delighted when put in.
An zaw a thawt a ood begin
Ta do hiz office duly:
Bit zum o'm, girt vawk in ther wâ--
Tha _Porish_ o'ten câlled,--a girt bell sheep
Or two that lead the rest an quiet keep--
Put vooäth ther hons iz coose to stâ,
Which made en quite unruly.

A went, of coose, ta Visitâtion
Ta be sworn in;--an than 'twar nâtion
Hord that a man his power should doubt,--
An moor--ta try ta turn en out!
"Naw, Naw!" exclaim'd our young churchwarden,
I dwon't care vor ye âll a copper varden!"

Tha church war durty.--Wevets here
Hang'd danglin vrom tha ruf; an there
Tha plaisterin shaw'd a crazy wâll;

Tha âltar-piece war dim and dowsty too,
That Peter's maricle thâ scase cood view.
Tha Ten Commandments nawbody cood rade; [Footnote: Read]
Tha Lord's Prayer ad nuthin in't bit "Brade;" [Footnote: Bread]
Nor had tha Creed
A lain or letter parfit, grate or smâll.
'Twar time vor zum one ta renew 'em âll.

I've tawld o' wevets--zum o'm odd enow;
Thâ look'd tha colour of a dork dun cow,
An like a skin war stratched across tha corners;
Tha knitters o' tha porish tâk'd o knittin
Stocking wi' 'em!--Bit aw, how unbevittin
All tâk like this!--aw fie, tha wicked scorners!

Ta work went tha Churchwarden; wevets tummel'd
Down by tha bushel, an tha pride o' dowst war hummel'd.
Tha wâlls once moor look'd bright.
Tha Painter, fags, a war a Plummer
An Glazier too,
Put vooäth his powers,
(His workin made naw little scummer!)
In zentences, in flourishes, and flowers.
Tha chancel, church and âll look'd new,
An war well suited to avoord delight.

Tha Ten Commandments glitter'd wi' tha vornish;
Compleat now, tha Lord's Prayer, what cood tornish.

As vor tha Creed 'twar made bran new
Vrom top ta bottom; I tell ye true!
Tha âltar piece wi' Peter war now naw libel
Upon tha church,
Which booäth athin an, tower an all, athout
Look'd like a well-dressed maid in pride about;
Tha walls rejâic'd wi' texts took vrom tha Bible.
Bit vor all that, thâ left en in tha lurch; I bag your pardon.
I mean, of âll tha expense thâ ood'n pâ a varden.

Jitch zweepin, birshin, paintin, scrubbin;
Tha tuts ad niver jitch a drubbin;
Jitch white-washin and jitch brought gwâin
A power of money--Tha Painter's bill
Made of itzel a pirty pill,
Ta zwell which âll o'm tried in vain!
Ther stomicks turn'd, ther drawts were norry; [Footnote: Narrow]
Jitch gillded pills thâ cood'n corry.
An when our young churchwarden ax'd em why,
Thâ laugh'd at en, an zed, ther drawts war dry.

Tha keeper o' tha church war wrong;
(Churchwarden still the burden o' my zong)
A should at vust
A câll'd a Vestry: vor 'tis hord ta trust
To Porish generasity; an zaw
A voun it: I dwon' knaw

Whaur or who war his advisers;
Zum zed a Lâyer gid en bad advice;
A-mâ-be saw; jitch vawk ben't always nice.
Lâyers o' advice be seltimes misers
Nif there's wherewi' ta pâ;
Or, witherwise, good bwye ta Lâyers an tha Lâ.

A Vestry than at last war cried--
A Vestry's power let noäne deride--
When tha church war auver tha clork bal'd out,
_Aw eese! aw eese! aw eese!_
All wonder'd what cood be about,
An stratch'd ther necks like a vlock o' geese;
Why--_ta make a Rate
Vor tha church's late
Repairâtion_.
A grate norâtion,
A nâtion naise tha nawtice made,
About tha cost ta be defray'd
Vor tha church's _repairâtion_.

Tha Vestry met, âll naise an bother;
One ood'n wait ta hire tha tuther.
When thâ war tir'd o' jitch a gabble,
Ta bâl na moor not one war yable,
A man, a little zâtenfare,
Got up hiz verdi ta delcare.
Now Soce, zed he, why we be gwâin
Ta meet in Vestry here in vâin.

Let's come to some determination,
An not tâk âll in jitch a fashion.
Let's zee tha 'counts. A snatch'd tha book
Vrom tha Churchwarden in't ta look.
_Tha, book war chain'd clooäse to his wrist;_
A gid en slily jitch a twist!
That the young Churchwarden loud raur'd out,
"You'll break my yarm!--what be about?"

Tha man a little zâtenfare,
An âll tha Vestry wide did stare!
Bit Soce, zed he again, I niver zeed
Money brought gwâin zaw bad. What need
War ther tha âltar-piece ta titch?
What good war paintin, vornishin, an jitch?
What good war't vor'n ta mend
Tha Ten Commandments?--Why did he
Mell o' tha Lord's Prayer? Lockyzee!
Ther war naw need
To mell or make wi' thic awld Creed.
I'm zorry vor'n; eesse zorry as a friend;
Bit can't conzent our wherewi' zaw ta spend,

Thâ âll, wi one accord,
At tha little zâtenfare's word,
Agreed, that, not one varden,
By Rate,
Should be collected vor tha late Repairâtion
Of tha church by tha young Churchwarden.

THE FISHERMAN AND THE PLAYERS.

Now who is ther that han't a hir'd
O' one young TOM CAME?
A Fisherman of Huntspill,
An a well-knawn name.

A knaw'd much moor o' fishin
Than many vawk bezides;
An a knaw'd much moor than mooäst about
Tha zea an âll tha tides.

A knaw'd well how ta make buts,
An hullies too an jitch,
An up an down tha river whaur
Tha best place vor ta pitch.

A knaw'd âll about tha stake-hangs
Tha zâlmon vor ta catch;--
Tha pitchin an tha dippin net,--
Tha Slime an tha Mud-Batch.
[Footnote: Two islands well known in the River Parret, near its
mouth. Several words will be found in this Poem which I have not
placed in the _Glossary_, because they seem too local and
technical to deserve a place there: they shall be here explained,

_To Pitch, v.n._ To fish with a boat and a pitchin-net in a proper position across the current so that the fish may be caught.

_Pitchin-net. s._ A large triangular net attached to two poles, and used with a boat for the purpose, chiefly, of catching salmon.--The fishing boats in the Parret, are _flat- bottomed_, in length about seventeen feet, about four feet and a half wide, and pointed at both ends: they are easily managed by _one_ person, and rarely, if ever, known to overturn.

_Dippen-net. s._ A small net somewhat semicircular, and attached to two round sticks for sides, and a long pole for a handle. It is used for the purpose of _dipping salmon_ and some other fish, as the _shad_, out of water.

_Gad. s._ A long pole, having an iron point to it, so that it may be easily thrust into the ground. Two gads are used for each boats. Their uses are to keep the boat steady across the current in order that the net may be in a proper position.]

A handled too iz gads well
His paddle and iz oor;
[Footnote: Oar.]
A war âlways bawld an fearless--
A, when upon tha Goor.
[Footnote: The Gore. Dangerous sands so called, at the mouth of
the River Parret, in the Bristol Channel.]

O' heerins, sprats, an porpuses--
O' âll fish a cood tell;
Who bit he amangst tha Fishermen--
A âlways bear'd tha bell.

Tommy Came ad hired o' Plâyers,
Bit niver zeed 'em plâ;
Thâ war actin at Bejwâter;
There a went wi' Sally Dâ.

When tha curtain first drâw'd up, than
Sapriz'd war Tommy Came;
A'd hâf a mine ta him awâ,
Bit stapp'd vor very shame.

Tha vust act bein auver
Tha zecond jist begun,
Tommy Came still wonder'd grately,
Ta him it war naw fun.

Zaw âter lookin on zumtime,
Ta understand did strive;
_There now_, zed he, _I'll gee my woth_
[Footnote: Oath.]
_That thâ be all alive!_

MARY RAMSEY'S CRUTCH.