Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect

Last week the Browns ax'd nearly all

The naïghbours to a randy,

An' left us out o't, girt an' small,

Vor all we liv'd so handy;

An' zoo I zaid to Dick, "We'll trudge,

When they be in their fun, min;

An' car up zome'hat to the rudge,

An' jis' stop up the tun, min."

Zoo, wi' the ladder vrom the rick,

We stole towards the house,

An' crope in roun' behind en, lik'

A cat upon a mouse.

Then, lookèn roun', Dick whisper'd "How

Is theäse job to be done, min:

Why we do want a faggot now,

Vor stoppèn up the tun, min."

"Stan' still," I answer'd; "I'll teäke ceäre

O' that: why dussen zee

The little grindèn stwone out there,

Below the apple-tree?

Put up the ladder; in a crack

Shalt zee that I wull run, min,

An' teäke en up upon my back,

An' soon stop up the tun, min."

Zoo up I clomb upon the thatch,

An' clapp'd en on; an' slided

Right down ageän, an' run drough hatch,

Behind the hedge, an' hided.

The vier that wer clear avore,

Begun to spweil their fun, min;

The smoke all roll'd toward the door,

Vor I'd a-stopp'd the tun, min.

The maïdens cough'd or stopp'd their breath,

The men did hauk an' spet;

The wold vo'k bundled out from he'th

Wi' eyes a-runnèn wet.

"'T'ool choke us all," the wold man cried,

"Whatever's to be done, min?

Why zome'hat is a-vell inside

O' chimney drough the tun, min."

Then out they scamper'd all, vull run,

An' out cried Tom, "I think

The grindèn-stwone is up on tun,

Vor I can zee the wink.

This is some kindness that the vo'k

At Woodley have a-done, min;

I wish I had em here, I'd poke

Their numskulls down the tun, min."

Then off he zet, an' come so quick

'S a lamplighter, an' brote

The little ladder in vrom rick,

To clear the chimney's droat.

While I, a-chucklèn at the joke,

A-slided down, to run, min,

To hidelock, had a-left the vo'k

As bad as na'r a tun, min.

I do seem to zee Grammer as she did use

Vor to show us, at Chris'mas, her weddèn shoes,

An' her flat spreadèn bonnet so big an' roun'

As a girt pewter dish a-turn'd upside down;

When we all did draw near

In a cluster to hear

O' the merry wold soul how she did use

To walk an' to dance wi' her high-heel shoes.

She'd a gown wi' girt flowers lik' hollyhocks,

An' zome stockèns o' gramfer's a-knit wì' clocks,

An' a token she kept under lock an' key,—

A small lock ov his heäir off avore 't wer grey.

An' her eyes wer red,

An' she shook her head,

When we'd all a-look'd at it, an' she did use

To lock it away wi' her weddèn shoes.

She could tell us such teäles about heavy snows,

An' o' raïns an' o' floods when the waters rose

All up into the housen, an' carr'd awoy

All the bridge wi' a man an' his little bwoy;

An' o' vog an' vrost,

An' o' vo'k a-lost,

An' o' peärties at Chris'mas, when she did use

Vor to walk hwome wi' gramfer in high-heel shoes.

Ev'ry Chris'mas she lik'd vor the bells to ring,

An' to have in the zingers to heär em zing

The wold carols she heärd many years a-gone,

While she warm'd em zome cider avore the bron';

An' she'd look an' smile

At our dancèn, while

She did tell how her friends now a-gone did use

To reely wi' her in their high-heel shoes.

Ah! an' how she did like vor to deck wi' red

Holly-berries the window an' wold clock's head,

An' the clavy wi' boughs o' some bright green leaves,

An' to meäke twoast an' eäle upon Chris'mas eves;

But she's now, drough greäce,

In a better pleäce,

Though we'll never vorget her, poor soul, nor lose

Gramfer's token ov heäir, nor her weddèn shoes.

The winter clouds, that long did hide

The zun, be all a-blown azide,

An' in the light, noo longer dim,

Do sheen the ivy that do clim'

The tower's zide an' elem's stim;

An' holmen bushes, in between

The leafless thorns, be bright an' green

To zunsheen o' the winter.

The trees, that yesterday did twist

In wind's a-drevèn raïn an' mist,

Do now drow sheädes out, long an' still;

But roarèn watervals do vill

Their whirlèn pools below the hill,

Where, wi' her païl upon the stile,

A-gwaïn a-milkèn Jeäne do smile

To zunsheen o' the winter.

The birds do sheäke, wi' plaÿsome skips,

The raïn-drops off the bushes' tips,

A-chirripèn wi' merry sound;

While over all the grassy ground

The wind's a-whirlèn round an' round

So softly, that the day do seem

Mwore lik' a zummer in a dream,

Than zunsheen in the winter.

The wold vo'k now do meet abrode,

An' tell o' winter's they've a-know'd;

When snow wer long above the groun',

Or floods broke all the bridges down,

Or wind unheal'd a half the town,—

The teäles o' wold times long a-gone,

But ever dear to think upon,

The zunsheen o' their winter.

Vor now to them noo brook can run,

Noo hill can feäce the winter zun,

Noo leaves can vall, noo flow'rs can feäde,

Noo snow can hide the grasses bleäde,

Noo vrost can whiten in the sheäde,

Noo day can come, but what do bring

To mind ageän their early spring,

That's now a-turn'd to winter.

When, leäte o' nights, above the green

By thik wold house, the moon do sheen,

A leädy there, a-hangèn low

Her head, 's a-walkèn to an' fro

In robes so white's the driven snow,

Wi' woone eärm down, while woone do rest

All lily-white athirt the breast

O' thik poor weepèn leädy.

The whirlèn wind an' whis'lèn squall

Do sheäke the ivy by the wall,

An' meäke the plyèn tree-tops rock,

But never ruffle her white frock;

An' slammèn door an' rattlèn lock,

That in thik empty house do sound,

Do never seem to meäke look round

Thik ever downcast leädy.

A leädy, as the teäle do goo,

That woonce liv'd there, an' lov'd too true,

Wer by a young man cast azide.

A mother sad, but not a bride;

An' then her father, in his pride

An' anger, offer'd woone o' two

Vull bitter things to undergoo

To thik poor weepèn leädy:

That she herzelf should leäve his door,

To darken it ageän noo mwore;

Or that her little plaÿsome chile,

A-zent away a thousand mile,

Should never meet her eyes to smile

An' plaÿ ageän; till she, in sheäme,

Should die an' leäve a tarnish'd neäme,

A sad vorseäken leädy.

"Let me be lost," she cried, "the while

I do but know vor my poor chile;"

An' left the hwome ov all her pride,

To wander drough the worold wide,

Wi' grief that vew but she ha' tried:

An' lik' a flow'r a blow ha' broke,

She wither'd wi' the deadly stroke,

An' died a weepèn leädy.

An' she do keep a-comèn on

To zee her father dead an' gone,

As if her soul could have noo rest

Avore her teäry cheäk's a-prest

By his vorgivèn kiss. Zoo blest

Be they that can but live in love,

An' vind a pleäce o' rest above

Unlik' the weepèn leädy.

In happy days when I wer young,

An' had noo ho, an' laugh'd an' zung,

The maïd wer merry by her cow,

An' men wer merry wi' the plough;

But never talk'd, at hwome or out

O' doors, o' what's a-talk'd about

By many now,—that to despise

The laws o' God an' man is wise.

Wi' daïly health, an' daïly bread,

An' thatch above their shelter'd head,

They velt noo fear, an' had noo spite,

To keep their eyes awake at night;

But slept in peace wi' God on high

An' man below, an' fit to die.

O valley dear! I wish that I

'D a-liv'd in former times, to die

Wi' all the happy souls that trod

Thy turf in peäce, an' died to God;

Or gone wi' them that laugh'd an' zung

In happy days when I wer young!

Ah! naïghbour John, since I an' you

Wer youngsters, ev'ry thing is new.

My father's vires wer all o' logs

O' cleft-wood, down upon the dogs

Below our clavy, high, an' brode

Enough to teäke a cart an' lwoad,

Where big an' little all zot down

At bwoth zides, an' bevore, all roun'.

An' when I zot among em, I

Could zee all up ageän the sky

Drough chimney, where our vo'k did hitch

The zalt-box an' the beäcon-vlitch,

An' watch the smoke on out o' vier,

All up an' out o' tun, an' higher.

An' there wer beäcon up on rack,

An' pleätes an' dishes on the tack;

An' roun' the walls wer heärbs a-stowed

In peäpern bags, an' blathers blowed.

An' just above the clavy-bwoard

Wer father's spurs, an' gun, an' sword;

An' there wer then, our girtest pride,

The settle by the vier zide.

Ah! gi'e me, if I wer a squier,

The settle an' the girt wood vier.

Carpets, indeed! You coulden hurt

The stwone-vloor wi' a little dirt;

Vor what wer brought in doors by men,

The women soon mopp'd out ageän.

Zoo we did come vrom muck an' mire,

An' walk in straïght avore the vier;

But now, a man's a-kept at door

At work a pirty while, avore

He's screäp'd an' rubb'd, an' cleän and fit

To goo in where his wife do zit.

An' then if he should have a whiff

In there, 'twould only breed a miff:

He cānt smoke there, vor smoke woon't goo

'Ithin the footy little flue.

Ah! gi'e me, if I wer a squier,

The settle an' the girt wood vier.

O, I be a carter, wi' my whip

A-smackèn loud, as by my zide,

Up over hill, an' down the dip,

The heavy lwoad do slowly ride.

An' I do haul in all the crops,

An' I do bring in vuzz vrom down;

An' I do goo vor wood to copse,

An' car the corn an' straw to town.

An' I do goo vor lime, an' bring

Hwome cider wi' my sleek-heäir'd team,

An' smack my limber whip an' zing,

While all their bells do gaïly cheeme.

An' I do always know the pleäce

To gi'e the hosses breath, or drug;

An' ev'ry hoss do know my feäce,

An' mind my 'mether ho! an' whug!

An' merry haÿ-meäkers do ride

Vrom vield in zummer wi' their prongs,

In my blue waggon, zide by zide

Upon the reäves, a-zingèn zongs.

An' when the vrost do catch the stream,

An' oves wi' icicles be hung,

My pantèn hosses' breath do steam

In white-grass'd vields, a-haulèn dung.

An' mine's the waggon fit vor lwoads,

An' mine be lwoads to cut a rout;

An' mine's a team, in routy rwoads,

To pull a lwoaded waggon out.

A zull is nothèn when do come

Behind their lags; an' they do teäke

A roller as they would a drum,

An' harrow as they would a reäke.

O! I be a carter, wi' my whip

A-smackèn loud, as by my zide,

Up over hill, an' down the dip,

The heavy lwoad do slowly ride.

Come down to-morrow night; an' mind,

Don't leäve thy fiddle-bag behind;

We'll sheäke a lag, an' drink a cup

O' eäle, to keep wold Chris'mas up.

An' let thy sister teäke thy eärm,

The walk won't do her any harm;

There's noo dirt now to spweil her frock,

The ground's a-vroze so hard's a rock.

You won't meet any stranger's feäce,

But only naïghbours o' the pleäce,

An' Stowe, an' Combe; an' two or dree

Vrom uncle's up at Rookery.

An' thou wu'lt vind a rwosy feäce,

An' peäir ov eyes so black as sloos,

The prettiest woones in all the pleäce,—

I'm sure I needen tell thee whose.

We got a back-bran', dree girt logs

So much as dree ov us can car;

We'll put em up athirt the dogs,

An' meäke a vier to the bar.

An' ev'ry woone shall tell his teäle,

An' ev'ry woone shall zing his zong,

An' ev'ry woone wull drink his eäle

To love an' frien'ship all night long.

We'll snap the tongs, we'll have a ball,

We'll sheäke the house, we'll lift the ruf,

We'll romp an' meäke the maïdens squall,

A catchèn o'm at blind-man's buff.

Zoo come to-morrow night; an' mind,

Don't leäve thy fiddle-bag behind;

We'll sheäke a lag, an' drink a cup

O' eäle, to keep wold Chris'mas up.

An' zoo you didden come athirt,

To have zome fun last night: how wer't?

Vor we'd a-work'd wi' all our might

To scour the iron things up bright,

An' brush'd an' scrubb'd the house all drough;

An' brought in vor a brand, a plock

O' wood so big's an uppèn-stock,

An' hung a bough o' misseltoo,

An' ax'd a merry friend or two,

To keepèn up o' Chris'mas.

An' there wer wold an' young; an' Bill,

Soon after dark, stalk'd up vrom mill.

An' when he wer a-comèn near,

He whissled loud vor me to hear;

Then roun' my head my frock I roll'd,

An' stood in orcha'd like a post,

To meäke en think I wer a ghost.

But he wer up to't, an' did scwold

To vind me stannèn in the cwold,

A keepèn up o' Chris'mas.

Why, raïn or sheen, or blow or snow,

I zaid, if I could stand so's,

I'd come, vor all a friend or foe,

To sheäke ye by the hand, so's;

An' spend, wi' kinsvo'k near an' dear,

A happy evenèn, woonce a year,

A-zot wi' me'th

Avore the he'th

To zee the new year in, so's.

There's Jim an' Tom, a-grown the size

O' men, girt lusty chaps, so's,

An' Fanny wi' her sloo-black eyes,

Her mother's very dap's, so's;

An' little Bill, so brown's a nut,

An' Poll a gigglèn little slut,

I hope will shoot

Another voot

The year that's comèn in, so's.

An' there, upon his mother's knee,

So peärt do look about, so's,

The little woone ov all, to zee

His vu'st wold year goo out, so's

An' zoo mid God bless all o's still,

Gwaïn up or down along the hill,

To meet in glee

Ageän to zee

A happy new year in, so's.

The wold clock's han' do softly steal

Up roun' the year's last hour, so's;

Zoo let the han'-bells ring a peal,

Lik' them a-hung in tow'r, so's.

Here, here be two vor Tom, an' two

Vor Fanny, an' a peäir vor you;

We'll meäke em swing,

An' meäke em ring,

The merry new year in, so's.

Tom, mind your time there; you be wrong.

Come, let your bells all sound, so's:

A little clwoser, Poll; ding, dong!

There, now 'tis right all round, so's.

The clock's a-strikèn twelve, d'ye hear?

Ting, ting, ding, dong! Farewell, wold year!

'Tis gone, 'tis gone!—

Goo on, goo on,

An' ring the new woone in, so's!

Ees: now mahogany's the goo,

An' good wold English woak won't do.

I wish vo'k always mid avvword

Hot meals upon a woakèn bwoard,

As good as thik that took my cup

An' trencher all my growèn up.

Ah! I do mind en in the hall,

A-reachèn all along the wall,

Wi' us at father's end, while tother

Did teäke the maïdens wi' their mother;

An' while the risèn steam did spread

In curlèn clouds up over head,

Our mouths did wag, an' tongues did run,

To meäke the maïdens laugh o' fun.

A woaken bedstead, black an' bright,

Did teäke my weary bwones at night,

Where I could stratch an' roll about

Wi' little fear o' vallèn out;

An' up above my head a peäir

Ov ugly heads a-carv'd did steäre,

An' grin avore a bright vull moon

A'most enough to frighten woone.

An' then we had, vor cwoats an' frocks,

Woak cwoffers wi' their rusty locks

An' neämes in naïls, a-left behind

By kinsvo'k dead an' out o' mind;

Zoo we did get on well enough

Wi' things a-meäde ov English stuff.

But then, you know, a woaken stick

Wer cheap, vor woaken trees wer thick.

When poor wold Gramfer Green wer young,

He zaid a squirrel mid a-sprung

Along the dell, vrom tree to tree,

Vrom Woodcomb all the way to Lea;

An' woak wer all vo'k did avvword,

Avore his time, vor bed or bwoard.

The rook's nest do rock on the tree-top

Where vew foes can stand;

The martin's is high, an' is deep

In the steep cliff o' zand.

But thou, love, a-sleepèn where vootsteps

Mid come to thy bed,

Hast father an' mother to watch thee

An' shelter thy head.

Lullaby, Lilybrow.    Lie asleep;

Blest be thy rest.

An' zome birds do keep under ruffèn

Their young vrom the storm,

An' zome wi' nest-hoodèns o' moss

And o' wool, do lie warm.

An' we wull look well to the houseruf

That o'er thee mid leäk,

An' the blast that mid beät on thy winder

Shall not smite thy cheäk.

Lullaby, Lilibrow.    Lie asleep;

Blest be thy rest.

Meary-Ann wer alwone wi' her beäby in eärms,

In her house wi' the trees over head,

Vor her husban' wer out in the night an' the storms,

In his business a-tweilèn vor bread;

An' she, as the wind in the elems did roar,

Did grievy vor Robert all night out o' door.

An' her kinsvo'k an' naï'bours did zay ov her chile,

(Under the high elem tree),

That a prettier never did babble or smile

Up o' top ov a proud mother's knee;

An' his mother did toss en, an' kiss en, an' call

En her darlèn, an' life, an' her hope, an' her all.

But she vound in the evenèn the chile werden well,

(Under the dark elem tree),

An' she thought she could gi'e all the worold to tell,

Vor a truth what his aïlèn mid be;

An' she thought o'en last in her praÿers at night,

An' she look'd at en last as she put out the light.

An' the moon wer a-sheenèn down into the pleäce,

(Under the dark elem tree),

An' his mother could zee that his lips an' his feäce

Wer so white as cleän axen could be;

An' her tongue wer a-tied an' her still heart did zwell,

Till her senses come back wi' the vu'st tear that vell.

Never mwore can she veel his warm feäce in her breast,

(Under the green elem tree),

Vor his eyes be a-shut, an' his hands be at rest,

An' he's now vrom his païn a-zet free;

Vor his soul, we do know, is to heaven a-vled,

Where noo païn is a-known, an' noo tears be a-shed.