THE MAID VOR MY BRIDE.
Ah! don't tell o' maïdens! the woone vor my bride
Is little lik' too many maïdens bezide,—
Not brantèn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind
To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind.
She's straïght an' she's slender, but not over tall,
Wi' lim's that be lightsome, but not over small;
The goodness o' heaven do breathe in her feäce,
An' a queen, to be steätely, must walk wi' her peäce.
Her frocks be a-meäde all becomèn an' plaïn,
An' cleän as a blossom undimm'd by a staïn;
Her bonnet ha' got but two ribbons, a-tied
Up under her chin, or let down at the zide.
When she do speak to woone, she don't steäre an' grin;
There's sense in her looks, vrom her eyes to her chin,
An' her words be so kind, an' her speech is so meek,
As her eyes do look down a-beginnèn to speak.
Her skin is so white as a lily, an' each
Ov her cheäks is so downy an' red as a peach;
She's pretty a-zittèn; but oh! how my love
Do watch her to madness when woonce she do move.
An' when she do walk hwome vrom church drough the groun',
Wi' woone eärm in mine, an' wi' woone a-hung down,
I do think, an' do veel mwore o' sheäme than o' pride,
That do meäke me look ugly to walk by her zide.
Zoo don't talk o' maïden's! the woone vor my bride
Is but little lik' too many maïdens bezide,—
Not brantèn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind
To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind.
THE HWOMESTEAD.
If I had all the land my zight
Can overlook vrom Chalwell hill,
Vrom Sherborn left to Blanvord right,
Why I could be but happy still.
An' I be happy wi' my spot
O' freehold ground an' mossy cot,
An' shoulden get a better lot
If I had all my will.
My orcha'd's wide, my trees be young;
An' they do bear such heavy crops,
Their boughs, lik' onion-rwopes a-hung,
Be all a-trigg'd to year, wi' props.
I got some geärden groun' to dig,
A parrock, an' a cow an' pig;
I got zome cider vor to swig,
An' eäle o' malt an' hops.
I'm landlord o' my little farm,
I'm king 'ithin my little pleäce;
I don't break laws, an' don't do harm,
An' bent a-feär'd o' noo man's feäce.
When I'm a-cover'd wi' my thatch,
Noo man do deäre to lift my latch;
Where honest han's do shut the hatch,
There fear do leäve the pleäce.
My lofty elem trees do screen
My brown-ruf'd house, an' here below,
My geese do strut athirt the green,
An' hiss an' flap their wings o' snow;
As I do walk along a rank
Ov apple trees, or by a bank,
Or zit upon a bar or plank,
To see how things do grow.
THE FARMER'S WOLDEST DĀ'TER.
No, no! I ben't a-runnèn down
The pretty maïden's o' the town,
Nor wishèn o'm noo harm;
But she that I would marry vu'st,
To sheäre my good luck or my crust,
'S a-bred up at a farm.
In town, a maïd do zee mwore life,
An' I don't under-reäte her;
But ten to woone the sprackest wife
'S a farmer's woldest dā'ter.
Vor she do veed, wi' tender ceäre,
The little woones, an' peärt their heäir,
An' keep em neat an' pirty;
An' keep the saucy little chaps
O' bwoys in trim wi' dreats an' slaps,
When they be wild an' dirty.
Zoo if you'd have a bus'lèn wife,
An' childern well look'd after,
The maïd to help ye all drough life
'S a farmer's woldest dā'ter.
An' she can iorn up an' vwold
A book o' clothes wï' young or wold,
An' zalt an' roll the butter;
An' meäke brown bread, an' elder wine,
An' zalt down meat in pans o' brine,
An' do what you can put her.
Zoo if you've wherewi', an' would vind
A wife wo'th lookèn ā'ter,
Goo an' get a farmer in the mind
To gi'e ye his woldest dā'ter.
Her heart's so innocent an' kind,
She idden thoughtless, but do mind
Her mother an' her duty;
An' livèn blushes, that do spread
Upon her healthy feäce o' red,
Do heighten all her beauty;
So quick's a bird, so neat's a cat,
So cheerful in her neätur,
The best o' maïdens to come at
'S a farmer's woldest dā'ter.
UNCLE OUT O' DEBT AN' OUT O' DANGER.
Ees; uncle had thik small hwomestead,
The leäzes an' the bits o' mead,
Besides the orcha'd in his prime,
An' copse-wood vor the winter time.
His wold black meäre, that draw'd his cart,
An' he, wer seldom long apeärt;
Vor he work'd hard an' païd his woy,
An' zung so litsom as a bwoy,
As he toss'd an' work'd,
An' blow'd an' quirk'd,
"I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
An' I can feäce a friend or stranger;
I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peäir
Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meäre.
His meäre's long vlexy vetlocks grow'd
Down roun' her hoofs so black an' brode;
Her head hung low, her taïl reach'd down
A-bobbèn nearly to the groun'.
The cwoat that uncle mwostly wore
Wer long behind an' straïght avore,
[page 138]An' in his shoes he had girt buckles,
An' breeches button'd round his huckles;
An' he zung wi' pride,
By's wold meäre's zide,
"I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
An' I can feäce a friend or stranger;
I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peäir
Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."
An' he would work,—an' lwoad, an' shoot,
An' spur his heaps o' dung or zoot;
Or car out haÿ, to sar his vew
Milch cows in corners dry an' lew;
Or dreve a zyve, or work a pick,
To pitch or meäke his little rick;
Or thatch en up wi' straw or zedge,
Or stop a shard, or gap, in hedge;
An' he work'd an' flung
His eärms, an' zung
"I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
An' I can feäce a friend or stranger;
I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peäir
Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."
An' when his meäre an' he'd a-done
Their work, an' tired ev'ry bwone,
He zot avore the vire, to spend
His evenèn wi' his wife or friend;
An' wi' his lags out-stratch'd vor rest,
An' woone hand in his wes'coat breast,
While burnèn sticks did hiss an' crack,
An' fleämes did bleäzy up the back,
There he zung so proud
In a bakky cloud,
"I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
An' I can feäce a friend or stranger;
[page 139]I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peäir
Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."
From market how he used to ride,
Wi' pot's a-bumpèn by his zide
Wi' things a-bought—but not vor trust,
Vor what he had he païd vor vu'st;
An' when he trotted up the yard,
The calves did bleäry to be sar'd,
An' pigs did scoat all drough the muck,
An' geese did hiss, an' hens did cluck;
An' he zung aloud,
So pleased an' proud,
"I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
An' I can feäce a friend or stranger;
I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peäir
Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."
When he wer joggèn hwome woone night
Vrom market, after candle-light,
(He mid a-took a drop o' beer,
Or midden, vor he had noo fear,)
Zome ugly, long-lagg'd, herrèn ribs,
Jump'd out an' ax'd en vor his dibs;
But he soon gi'ed en such a mawlèn,
That there he left en down a-sprawlèn,
While he jogg'd along
Wi' his own wold zong,
"I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger,
An' I can feäce a friend or stranger;
I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peäir
Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."
THE CHURCH AN' HAPPY ZUNDAY.
Ah! ev'ry day mid bring a while
O' eäse vrom all woone's ceäre an' tweil,
The welcome evenèn, when 'tis sweet
Vor tired friends wi' weary veet,
But litsome hearts o' love, to meet;
An' yet while weekly times do roll,
The best vor body an' vor soul
'S the church an' happy Zunday.
Vor then our loosen'd souls do rise
Wi' holy thoughts beyond the skies,
As we do think o' Him that shed
His blood vor us, an' still do spread
His love upon the live an' dead;
An' how He gi'ed a time an' pleäce
To gather us, an' gi'e us greäce,—
The church an' happy Zunday.
There, under leänen mossy stwones,
Do lie, vorgot, our fathers' bwones,
That trod this groun' vor years agoo,
When things that now be wold wer new;
An' comely maïdens, mild an' true,
That meäde their sweet-hearts happy brides,
An' come to kneel down at their zides
At church o' happy Zundays.
'Tis good to zee woone's naïghbours come
Out drough the churchyard, vlockèn hwome,
As woone do nod, an' woone do smile,
An' woone do toss another's chile;
An' zome be sheäken han's, the while
Poll's uncle, chuckèn her below
Her chin, do tell her she do grow,
At church o' happy Zundays.
Zoo while our blood do run in vaïns
O' livèn souls in theäsum plaïns,
Mid happy housen smoky round
The church an' holy bit o' ground;
An' while their weddèn bells do sound,
Oh! mid em have the meäns o' greäce,
The holy day an' holy pleäce,
The church an' happy Zunday.
THE WOLD WAGGON.
The girt wold waggon uncle had,
When I wer up a hardish lad,
Did stand, a-screen'd vrom het an' wet,
In zummer at the barken geäte,
Below the elems' spreädèn boughs,
A-rubb'd by all the pigs an' cows.
An' I've a-clom his head an' zides,
A-riggèn up or jumpèn down
A-plaÿèn, or in happy rides
Along the leäne or drough the groun',
An' many souls be in their greäves,
That rod' together on his reäves;
An' he, an' all the hosses too,
'V a-ben a-done vor years agoo.
Upon his head an' taïl wer pinks,
A-païnted all in tangled links;
His two long zides wer blue,—his bed
Bent slightly upward at the head;
His reäves rose upward in a bow
Above the slow hind-wheels below.
Vour hosses wer a-kept to pull
The girt wold waggon when 'twer vull;
The black meäre Smiler, strong enough
To pull a house down by herzuf,
[page 142]So big, as took my widest strides
To straddle halfway down her zides;
An' champèn Vi'let, sprack an' light,
That foam'd an' pull'd wi' all her might:
An' Whitevoot, leäzy in the treäce,
Wi' cunnèn looks an' show-white feäce;
Bezides a baÿ woone, short-taïl Jack,
That wer a treäce-hoss or a hack.
How many lwoads o' vuzz, to scald
The milk, thik waggon have a-haul'd!
An' wood vrom copse, an' poles vor raïls.
An' bayèns wi' their bushy taïls;
An' loose-ear'd barley, hangèn down
Outzide the wheels a'móst to groun',
An' lwoads o' haÿ so sweet an' dry,
A-builded straïght, an' long, an' high;
An' haÿ-meäkers, a-zittèn roun'
The reäves, a-ridèn hwome vrom groun',
When Jim gi'ed Jenny's lips a-smack,
An' jealous Dicky whipp'd his back,
An' maïdens scream'd to veel the thumps
A-gi'ed by trenches an' by humps.
But he, an' all his hosses too,
'V a-ben a-done vor years agoo.
THE DRÈVEN O' THE COMMON.*
In the common by our hwome
There wer freely-open room,
Vor our litty veet to roam
By the vuzzen out in bloom.
That wi' prickles kept our lags
Vrom the skylark's nest ov aggs;
[page 143]While the peewit wheel'd around
Wi' his cry up over head,
Or he sped, though a-limpèn, o'er the ground.
There we heärd the whickr'èn meäre
Wi' her vaïce a-quiv'rèn high;
Where the cow did loudly bleäre
By the donkey's vallèn cry.
While a-stoopèn man did zwing
His bright hook at vuzz or ling
Free o' fear, wi' wellglov'd hands,
O' the prickly vuzz he vell'd,
Then sweet-smell'd as it died in faggot bands.
When the haÿward drove the stock
In a herd to zome oone pleäce,
Thither vo'k begun to vlock,
Each to own his beästes feäce.
While the geese, bezide the stream,
Zent vrom gapèn bills a scream,
An' the cattle then avound,
Without right o' greäzen there,
Went to bleäre braÿ or whicker in the pound.
*The Driving of the Common was by the Hayward who,
whenever he thought fit, would drive all the cattle into a
corner and impound all heads belonging to owners
without a right of commonage for them, so that they
had to ransom them by a fine.
THE COMMON A-TOOK IN.
Oh! no, Poll, no! Since they've a-took
The common in, our lew wold nook
Don't seem a-bit as used to look
When we had runnèn room;
Girt banks do shut up ev'ry drong,
An' stratch wi' thorny backs along
Where we did use to run among
The vuzzen an' the broom.
Ees; while the ragged colts did crop
The nibbled grass, I used to hop
The emmet-buts, vrom top to top,
So proud o' my spry jumps:
Wi' thee behind or at my zide,
A-skippèn on so light an' wide
'S thy little frock would let thee stride,
Among the vuzzy humps.
Ah while the lark up over head
Did twitter, I did search the red
Thick bunch o' broom, or yollow bed
O' vuzzen vor a nest;
An' thou di'st hunt about, to meet
Wi' strawberries so red an' sweet,
Or clogs or shoes off hosses veet,
Or wild thyme vor thy breast;
Or when the cows did run about
A-stung, in zummer, by the stout,
Or when they plaÿ'd, or when they foüght,
Di'st stand a-lookèn on:
An' where white geese, wi' long red bills,
Did veed among the emmet-hills,
There we did goo to vind their quills
Alongzide o' the pon'.
What fun there wer among us, when
The haÿward come, wi' all his men,
To drève the common, an' to pen
Strange cattle in the pound;
The cows did bleäre, the men did shout
An' toss their eärms an' sticks about,
An' vo'ks, to own their stock, come out
Vrom all the housen round.
A WOLD FRIEND.
Oh! when the friends we us'd to know,
'V a-been a-lost vor years; an' when
Zome happy day do come, to show
Their feäzen to our eyes ageän,
Do meäke us look behind, John,
Do bring wold times to mind, John,
Do meäke hearts veel, if they be steel,
All warm, an' soft, an' kind, John.
When we do lose, still gaÿ an' young,
A vaïce that us'd to call woone's neäme,
An' after years ageän his tongue
Do sound upon our ears the seäme,
Do kindle love anew, John,
Do wet woone's eyes wi' dew, John,
As we do sheäke, vor friendship's seäke,
His vist an' vind en true, John.
What tender thoughts do touch woone's soul,
When we do zee a meäd or hill
Where we did work, or plaÿ, or stroll,
An' talk wi' vaïces that be still;
'Tis touchèn vor to treäce, John,
Wold times drough ev'ry pleäce, John;
But that can't touch woone's heart so much,
As zome wold long-lost feäce, John.
THE RWOSE THAT DECK'D HER BREAST.
Poor Jenny wer her Robert's bride
Two happy years, an' then he died;
An' zoo the wold vo'k meäde her come,
Vorseäken, to her maïden hwome.
[page 146]But Jenny's merry tongue wer dum';
An' round her comely neck she wore
A murnèn kerchif, where avore
The rwose did deck her breast.
She walk'd alwone, wi' eye-balls wet,
To zee the flow'rs that she'd a-zet;
The lilies, white's her maïden frocks,
The spike, to put 'ithin her box,
Wi' columbines an' hollyhocks;
The jilliflow'r an' noddèn pink,
An' rwose that touch'd her soul to think
Ov woone that deck'd her breast.
Vor at her weddèn, just avore
Her maïden hand had yet a-wore
A wife's goold ring, wi' hangèn head
She walk'd along thik flower-bed,
Where stocks did grow, a-staïned wi' red,
An' meärygoolds did skirt the walk,
An' gather'd vrom the rwose's stalk
A bud to deck her breast.
An' then her cheäk, wi' youthvul blood
Wer bloomèn as the rwoses bud;
But now, as she wi' grief do pine,
'Tis peäle's the milk-white jessamine.
But Robert have a-left behine
A little beäby wi' his feäce,
To smile, an' nessle in the pleäce
Where the rwose did deck her breast.
NANNY'S COW.
Ov all the cows, among the rest
Wer woone that Nanny lik'd the best;
An' after milkèn us'd to stan'
A-veedèn o' her, vrom her han',
Wi' grass or haÿ; an' she know'd Ann,
An' in the evenèn she did come
The vu'st, a-beätèn üp roun' hwome
Vor Ann to come an' milk her.
Her back wer hollor as a bow,
Her lags wer short, her body low;
Her head wer small, her horns turn'd in
Avore Her feäce so sharp's a pin:
Her eyes wer vull, her ears wer thin,
An' she wer red vrom head to taïl,
An' didden start nor kick the païl,
When Nanny zot to milk her.
But losses zoon begun to vall
On Nanny's fàther, that wi' all
His tweil he voun', wi' breakèn heart,
That he mus' leäve his ground, an' peärt
Wi' all his beäst an' hoss an' cart;
An', what did touch en mwost, to zell
The red cow Nanny lik'd so well,
An' lik'd vor her to milk her.
Zalt tears did run vrom Nanny's eyes,
To hear her restless father's sighs.
But as vor me, she mid be sure
I wont vorzeäke her now she's poor,
Vor I do love her mwore an' mwore;
An' if I can but get a cow
An' parrock, I'll vulvil my vow,
An' she shall come an' milk her.
THE SHEP'ERD BWOY.
When the warm zummer breeze do blow over the hill,
An' the vlock's a-spread over the ground;
When the vaïce o' the busy wold sheep dog is still,
An' the sheep-bells do tinkle all round;
Where noo tree vor a sheäde but the thorn is a-vound,
There, a zingèn a zong,
Or a-whislèn among
The sheep, the young shep'erd do bide all day long.
When the storm do come up wi' a thundery cloud
That do shut out the zunlight, an' high
Over head the wild thunder do rumble so loud,
An' the lightnèn do flash vrom the sky,
Where noo shelter's a-vound but his hut, that is nigh,
There out ov all harm,
In the dry an' the warm,
The poor little shep'erd do smile at the storm.
When the cwold winter win' do blow over the hill,
An' the hore-vrost do whiten the grass,
An' the breath o' the no'th is so cwold, as to chill
The warm blood ov woone's heart as do pass;
When the ice o' the pond is so slipp'ry as glass,
There, a-zingèn a zong,
Or a-whislèn among
The sheep, the poor shep'erd do bide all day long.
When the shearèn's a-come, an' the shearers do pull
In the sheep, hangèn back a-gwaïn in,
Wi' their roun' zides a-heavèn in under their wool,
To come out all a-clipp'd to the skin;
When the feästèn, an' zingèn, an fun do begin,
Vor to help em, an' sheäre
All their me'th an' good feäre,
The poor little shep'erd is sure to be there.
HOPE A-LEFT BEHIND.
Don't try to win a maïden's heart,
To leäve her in her love,—'tis wrong:
'Tis bitter to her soul to peärt
Wi' woone that is her sweetheart long.
A maïd's vu'st love is always strong;
An' if do faïl, she'll linger on,
Wi' all her best o' pleasure gone,
An' hope a-left behind her.
Thy poor lost Jenny wer a-grow'd
So kind an' thoughtvul vor her years,
When she did meet wi' vo'k a-know'd
The best, her love did speak in tears.
She walk'd wi' thee, an' had noo fears
O' thy unkindness, till she zeed
Herzelf a-cast off lik' a weed,
An' hope a-left behind her.
Thy slight turn'd peäle her cherry lip;
Her sorrow, not a-zeed by eyes,
Wer lik' the mildew, that do nip
A bud by darksome midnight skies.
The day mid come, the zun mid rise,
But there's noo hope o' day nor zun;
The storm ha' blow'd, the harm's a-done,
An' hope's a-left behind her.
The time will come when thou wouldst gi'e
The worold vor to have her smile,
Or meet her by the parrock tree,
Or catch her jumpèn off the stile;
Thy life's avore thee vor a while,
But thou wilt turn thy mind in time,
An' zee the deèd as 'tis,—a crime,
An' hope a-left behind thee.
never win a maïden's heart,
But her's that is to be thy bride,
An' plaÿ drough life a manly peärt,
An' if she's true when time ha' tried
Her mind, then teäke her by thy zide.
True love will meäke thy hardships light,
True love will meäke the worold bright,
When hope's a-left behind thee.
A GOOD FATHER.
No; mind thy father. When his tongue
Is keen, he's still thy friend, John,
Vor wolder vo'k should warn the young
How wickedness will end, John;
An' he do know a wicked youth
Would be thy manhood's beäne,
An' zoo would bring thee back ageän
'Ithin the ways o' truth.
An' mind en still when in the end
His leäbour's all a-done, John,
An' let en vind a steadvast friend
In thee his thoughtvul son, John;
Vor he did win what thou didst lack
Avore couldst work or stand,
An' zoo, when time do num' his hand,
Then pay his leäbour back.
An' when his bwones be in the dust,
Then honour still his neäme, John;
An' as his godly soul wer just,
Let thine be voun' the seäme, John.
Be true, as he wer true, to men,
An' love the laws o' God;
Still tread the road that he've a-trod,
An' live wi' him ageän.
THE BEAM IN GRENLEY CHURCH.
In church at Grenley woone mid zee
A beam vrom wall to wall; a tree
That's longer than the church is wide,
An' zoo woone end o'n's drough outside,—
Not cut off short, but bound all round
Wi' lead, to keep en seäfe an' sound.
Back when the builders vu'st begun
The church,—as still the teäle do run,—
A man work'd wi' em; no man knew
Who 'twer, nor whither he did goo.
He wer as harmless as a chile,
An' work'd 'ithout a frown or smile,
Till any woaths or strife did rise
To overcast his sparklèn eyes:
An' then he'd call their minds vrom strife,
To think upon another life.
He wer so strong, that all alwone
He lifted beams an' blocks o' stwone,
That others, with the girtest païns,
Could hardly wag wi' bars an' chaïns;
An' yet he never used to staÿ
O' Zaturdays, to teäke his paÿ.
Woone day the men wer out o' heart,
To have a beam a-cut too short;
An' in the evenèn, when they shut
Off work, they left en where 'twer put;
An' while dumb night went softly by
Towárds the vi'ry western sky,
A-lullèn birds, an' shuttèn up
The deäisy an' the butter cup,
[page 152]They went to lay their heavy heads
An' weary bwones upon their beds.
An' when the dewy mornèn broke,
An' show'd the worold, fresh awoke,
Their godly work ageän, they vound
The beam they left upon the ground
A-put in pleäce, where still do bide,
An' long enough to reach outzide.
But he unknown to tother men
Wer never there at work ageän:
Zoo whether he mid be a man
Or angel, wi' a helpèn han',
Or whether all o't wer a dream,
They didden deäre to cut the beam.
THE VAÏCES THAT BE GONE.
When evenèn sheädes o' trees do hide
A body by the hedge's zide,
An' twitt'rèn birds, wi' plaÿsome flight,
Do vlee to roost at comèn night,
Then I do saunter out o' zight
In orcha'd, where the pleäce woonce rung
Wi' laughs a-laugh'd an' zongs a-zung
By vaïces that be gone.
There's still the tree that bore our swing,
An' others where the birds did zing;
But long-leav'd docks do overgrow
The groun' we trampled heäre below,
Wi' merry skippèns to an' fro
Bezide the banks, where Jim did zit
A-plaÿèn o' the clarinit
To vaïces that be gone.
How mother, when we us'd to stun
Her head wi' all our naïsy fun,
Did wish us all a-gone vrom hwome:
An' now that zome be dead, an' zome
A-gone, an' all the pleäce is dum',
How she do wish, wi' useless tears,
To have ageän about her ears
The vaïces that be gone.
Vor all the maïdens an' the bwoys
But I, be marri'd off all woys,
Or dead an' gone; but I do bide
At hwome, alwone, at mother's zide,
An' often, at the evenèn-tide,
I still do saunter out, wi' tears,
Down drough the orcha'd, where my ears
Do miss the vaïces gone.
POLL.
When out below the trees, that drow'd
Their scraggy lim's athirt the road,
While evenèn zuns, a'móst a-zet,
Gi'ed goolden light, but little het,
The merry chaps an' maïdens met,
An' look'd to zomebody to neäme
Their bit o' fun, a dance or geäme,
'Twer Poll they cluster'd round.
An' after they'd a-had enough
O' snappèn tongs, or blind-man's buff,
O' winter nights, an' went an' stood
Avore the vire o' bleäzen wood,
Though there wer maïdens kind an' good,
Though there wer maïdens feäir an' tall,
'Twer Poll that wer the queen o'm all,
An' Poll they cluster'd round.
An' when the childern used to catch
A glimpse o' Poll avore the hatch,
The little things did run to meet
Their friend wi' skippèn tott'rèn veet
An' thought noo other kiss so sweet
As hers; an' nwone could vind em out
Such geämes to meäke em jump an' shout,
As Poll they cluster'd round.
An' now, since she've a-left em, all
The pleäce do miss her, girt an' small.
In vaïn vor them the zun do sheen
Upon the lwonesome rwoad an' green;
Their zwing do hang vorgot between
The leänen trees, vor they've a-lost
best o' maïdens, to their cost,
The maïd they cluster'd round.
LOOKS A-KNOW'D AVORE.
While zome, a-gwaïn from pleäce to pleäce,
Do daily meet wi' zome new feäce,
When my day's work is at an end,
Let me zit down at hwome, an' spend
A happy hour wi' zome wold friend,
An' by my own vire-zide rejaïce
In zome wold naïghbour's welcome vaïce,
An' looks I know'd avore, John.
Why is it, friends that we've a-met
By zuns that now ha' long a-zet,
Or winter vires that bleäzed for wold
An' young vo'k, now vor ever cwold,
Be met wi' jaÿ that can't be twold?
Why, 'tis because they friends have all
Our youthvul spring ha' left our fall,—
The looks we know'd avore, John.
'Tis lively at a feäir, among
The chattèn, laughèn, shiften drong,
When wold an' young, an' high an' low,
Do streamy round, an' to an' fro;
But what new feäce that we don't know,
Can ever meäke woone's warm heart dance
Among ten thousan', lik' a glance
O' looks we know'd avore, John.
How of'en have the wind a-shook
The leaves off into yonder brook,
Since vu'st we two, in youthvul strolls,
Did ramble roun' them bubblèn shoals!
An' oh! that zome o' them young souls,
That we, in jaÿ, did plaÿ wi' then
Could come back now, an' bring ageän
The looks we know'd avore, John.
So soon's the barley's dead an' down,
The clover-leaf do rise vrom groun',
An' wolder feäzen do but goo
To be a-vollow'd still by new;
But souls that be a-tried an' true
Shall meet ageän beyond the skies,
An' bring to woone another's eyes
The looks they know'd avore, John.
THE MUSIC O' THE DEAD.
When music, in a heart that's true,
Do kindle up wold loves anew,
An' dim wet eyes, in feäirest lights,
Do zee but inward fancy's zights;
When creepèn years, wi' with'rèn blights,
'V a-took off them that wer so dear,
How touchèn 'tis if we do hear
The tuèns o' the dead, John.
When I, a-stannèn in the lew
O' trees a storm's a-beätèn drough,
Do zee the slantèn mist a-drove
By spitevul winds along the grove,
An' hear their hollow sounds above
My shelter'd head, do seem, as I
Do think o' zunny days gone by.
Lik' music vor the dead, John.
Last night, as I wer gwaïn along
The brook, I heärd the milk-maïd's zong
A-ringèn out so clear an' shrill
Along the meäds an' roun' the hill.
I catch'd the tuèn, an' stood still
To hear 't; 'twer woone that Jeäne did zing
A-vield a-milkèn in the spring,—
Sweet music o' the dead, John.
Don't tell o' zongs that be a-zung
By young chaps now, wi' sheämeless tongue:
Zing me wold ditties, that would start
The maïden's tears, or stir my heart
To teäke in life a manly peärt,—
The wold vo'k's zongs that twold a teäle,
An' vollow'd round their mugs o' eäle,
The music o' the dead, John.
THE PLEÄCE A TEÄLE'S A-TWOLD O'.
Why tidden vields an' runnèn brooks,
Nor trees in Spring or fall;
An' tidden woody slopes an' nooks,
Do touch us mwost ov all;
An' tidden ivy that do cling
By housen big an' wold, O,
But this is, after all, the thing,—
The pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'.
At Burn, where mother's young friends know'd
The vu'st her maïden neäme,
The zunny knaps, the narrow road
An' green, be still the seäme;
The squier's house, an' ev'ry ground
That now his son ha' zwold, O,
An' ev'ry wood he hunted round
'S a pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'.
The maïd a-lov'd to our heart's core,
The dearest of our kin,
Do meäke us like the very door
Where they went out an' in.
'Tis zome'hat touchèn that bevel
Poor flesh an' blood o' wold, O,
Do meäke us like to zee so well
The pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'.
When blushèn Jenny vu'st did come
To zee our Poll o' nights,
An' had to goo back leätish hwome,
Where vo'k did zee the zights,
A-chattèn loud below the sky
So dark, an' winds so cwold, O,
How proud wer I to zee her by
The pleäce the teäle's a-twold o'.
Zoo whether 'tis the humpy ground
That wer a battle viel',
Or mossy house, all ivy-bound,
An' vallèn down piece-meal;
Or if 'tis but a scraggy tree,
Where beauty smil'd o' wold, O,
How dearly I do like to zee
The pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'.
AUNT'S TANTRUMS.
Why ees, aunt Anne's a little staïd,
But kind an' merry, poor wold maïd!
If we don't cut her heart wi' slights,
She'll zit an' put our things to rights,
Upon a hard day's work, o' nights;
But zet her up, she's jis' lik' vier,
An' woe betide the woone that's nigh 'er.
When she is in her tantrums.
She'll toss her head, a-steppèn out
Such strides, an' fling the païls about;
An' slam the doors as she do goo,
An' kick the cat out wi' her shoe,
Enough to het her off in two.
The bwoys do bundle out o' house,
A-lassen they should get a towse,
When aunt is in her tantrums.
She whurr'd, woone day, the wooden bowl
In such a veag at my poor poll;
It brush'd the heäir above my crown,
An' whizz'd on down upon the groun',
An' knock'd the bantam cock right down,
But up he sprung, a-teäkèn flight
Wi' tothers, cluckèn in a fright,
Vrom aunt in such a tantrum!
But Dick stole in, an' reach'd en down
The biggest blather to be voun',
An' crope an' put en out o' zight
Avore the vire, an' plimm'd en tight
An crack'd en wi' the slice thereright
She scream'd, an' bundled out o' house,
An' got so quiet as a mouse,—
It frighten'd off her tantrum.
THE STWONÈN PWORCH.
A new house! Ees, indeed! a small
Straïght, upstart thing, that, after all,
Do teäke in only half the groun'
The wold woone did avore 'twer down;
Wi' little windows straïght an' flat,
Not big enough to zun a-cat,
An' dealèn door a-meäde so thin,
A puff o' wind would blow en in,
Where woone do vind a thing to knock
So small's the hammer ov a clock,
That wull but meäke a little click
About so loud's a clock do tick!
Gi'e me the wold house, wi' the wide
An' lofty-lo'ted rooms inside;
An' wi' the stwonèn pworch avore
The naïl-bestudded woaken door,
That had a knocker very little
Less to handle than a bittle,
That het a blow that vled so loud
Drough house as thunder drough a cloud.
An' meäde the dog behind the door
Growl out so deep's a bull do roar.
In all the house, o' young an' wold,
There werden woone but could a-twold
When he'd noo wish to seek abrode
Mwore jaÿ than thik wold pworch bestow'd!
For there, when yollow evenèn shed
His light ageän the elem's head,
An' gnots did whiver in the zun,
An' uncle's work wer all a-done,
His whiffs o' meltèn smoke did roll
Above his bendèn pipe's white bowl,
[page 160]While he did chat, or, zittèn dumb,
Injaÿ his thoughts as they did come.
An' Jimmy, wi' his crowd below
His chin, did dreve his nimble bow
In tuèns vor to meäke us spring
A-reelèn, or in zongs to zing,
An' there, between the dark an' light,
Zot Poll by Willy's zide at night
A-whisp'rèn, while her eyes did zwim
In jaÿ avore the twilight dim;
An' when (to know if she wer near)
Aunt call'd, did cry, "Ees, mother; here."
No, no; I woulden gi'e thee thanks
Vor fine white walls an' vloors o' planks,
Nor doors a-päinted up so fine.
If I'd a wold grey house o' mine,
Gi'e me vor all it should be small,
A stwonèn pworch instead ō't all.