FARMER'S SONS.
Ov all the chaps a-burnt so brown
By zunny hills an' hollors,
Ov all the whindlèn chaps in town
Wi' backs so weak as rollers,
There's narn that's half so light o' heart,
(I'll bet, if thou't zay "done," min,)
An' narn that's half so strong an' smart,
'S a merry farmer's son, min.
He'll fling a stwone so true's a shot,
He'll jump so light's a cat;
He'll heave a waïght up that would squot
A weakly fellow flat.
[page 161]He wont gi'e up when things don't faÿ,
But turn em into fun, min;
An' what's hard work to zome, is plaÿ
Avore a farmer's son, min.
His bwony eärm an' knuckly vist
('Tis best to meäke a friend o't)
Would het a fellow, that's a-miss'd,
Half backward wi' the wind o't.
Wi' such a chap at hand, a maïd
Would never goo a nun, min;
She'd have noo call to be afraïd
Bezide a farmer's son, min.
He'll turn a vurrow, drough his langth,
So straïght as eyes can look,
Or pitch all day, wi' half his strangth,
At ev'ry pitch a pook;
An' then goo vower mile, or vive,
To vind his friends in fun, min,
Vor maïden's be but dead alive
'Ithout a farmer's son, min.
Zoo jaÿ be in his heart so light,
An' manly feäce so brown;
An' health goo wi' en hwome at night,
Vrom meäd, or wood, or down.
O' rich an' poor, o' high an' low,
When all's a-said an' done, min,
The smartest chap that I do know,
'S a workèn farmer's son, min.
JEÄNE.
We now mid hope vor better cheer,
My smilèn wife o' twice vive year.
Let others frown, if thou bist near
Wi' hope upon thy brow, Jeäne;
[page 162]Vor I vu'st lov'd thee when thy light
Young sheäpe vu'st grew to woman's height;
I loved thee near, an' out o' zight,
An' I do love thee now, Jeäne.
An' we've a-trod the sheenèn bleäde
Ov eegrass in the zummer sheäde,
An' when the leäves begun to feäde
Wi' zummer in the weäne, Jeäne;
An' we've a-wander'd drough the groun'
O' swayèn wheat a-turnèn brown,
An' we've a-stroll'd together roun'
The brook an' drough the leäne, Jeane.
An' nwone but I can ever tell
Ov all thy tears that have a-vell
When trials meäde thy bosom zwell,
An' nwone but thou o' mine, Jeäne;
An' now my heart, that heav'd wi' pride
Back then to have thee at my zide,
Do love thee mwore as years do slide,
An' leäve them times behine, Jeäne.
THE DREE WOAKS.
By the brow o' thik hangèn I spent all my youth,
In the house that did peep out between
The dree woaks, that in winter avworded their lewth,
An' in zummer their sheäde to the green;
An' there, as in zummer we play'd at our geämes,
We ēach own'd a tree,
Vor we wer but dree,
An' zoo the dree woaks wer a-call'd by our neämes.
An' two did grow scraggy out over the road,
An' they wer call'd Jimmy's an' mine;
An' tother wer Jeännet's, much kindlier grow'd,
Wi' a knotless an' white ribbèd rine.
An' there, o' fine nights avore gwäin in to rest,
We did dance, vull o' life,
To the sound o' the fife,
Or plaÿ at some geäme that poor Jeännet lik'd best.
Zoo happy wer we by the woaks o' the green,
Till we lost sister Jeännet, our pride;
Vor when she wer come to her last blushèn teen,
She suddenly zicken'd an' died.
An' avore the green leaves in the fall wer gone by,
The lightnèn struck dead
Her woaken tree's head,
An' left en a-stripp'd to the wintery sky.
But woone ov his eäcorns, a-zet in the Fall,
Come up the Spring after, below
The trees at her head-stwone 'ithin the church-wall,
An' mother, to see how did grow,
Shed a tear; an' when father an' she wer bwoth dead,
There they wer laid deep,
Wi' their Jeännet, to sleep,
Wi' her at his zide, an' her tree at her head.
An' vo'k do still call the wold house the dree woaks,
Vor thik is a-reckon'd that's down,
As mother, a-neämèn her childern to vo'ks,
Meäde dree when but two wer a-voun';
An' zaid that hereafter she knew she should zee
Why God, that's above,
Vound fit in his love
To strike wi' his han' the poor maïd an' her tree.
THE HWOMESTEAD A-VELL INTO HAND.
The house where I wer born an' bred,
Did own his woaken door, John,
When vu'st he shelter'd father's head,
An' gramfer's long avore, John.
An' many a ramblèn happy chile,
An' chap so strong an' bwold,
An' bloomèn maïd wi' plaÿsome smile,
Did call their hwome o' wold
Thik ruf so warm,
A kept vrom harm
By elem trees that broke the storm.
An' in the orcha'd out behind,
The apple-trees in row, John,
Did swaÿ wi' moss about their rind
Their heads a-noddèn low, John.
An' there, bezide zome groun' vor corn,
Two strips did skirt the road;
In woone the cow did toss her horn,
While tother wer a-mow'd,
In June, below
The lofty row
Ov trees that in the hedge did grow.
A-workèn in our little patch
O' parrock, rathe or leäte, John,
We little ho'd how vur mid stratch
The squier's wide esteäte, John.
Our hearts, so honest an' so true,
Had little vor to fear;
Vor we could pay up all their due
An' gi'e a friend good cheer
At hwome, below
The lofty row
O' trees a-swaÿèn to an' fro.
An' there in het, an' there in wet,
We tweil'd wi' busy hands, John;
Vor ev'ry stroke o' work we het,
Did better our own lands, John.
But after me, ov all my kin,
Not woone can hold em on;
Vor we can't get a life put in
Vor mine, when I'm a-gone
Vrom thik wold brown
Thatch ruf, a-boun'
By elem trees a-growèn roun'.
Ov eight good hwomes, where, I can mind
Vo'k liv'd upon their land, John,
But dree be now a-left behind;
The rest ha' vell in hand, John,
An' all the happy souls they ved
Be scatter'd vur an' wide.
An' zome o'm be a-wantèn bread,
Zome, better off, ha' died,
Noo mwore to ho,
Vor homes below
The trees a-swaÿen to an' fro.
An' I could leäd ye now all round
The parish, if I would, John,
An' show ye still the very ground
Where vive good housen stood, John
In broken orcha'ds near the spot,
A vew wold trees do stand;
But dew do vall where vo'k woonce zot
About the burnèn brand
In housen warm,
A-kept vrom harm
By elems that did break the storm.
THE GUIDE POST.
Why thik wold post so long kept out,
Upon the knap, his eärms astrout,
A-zendèn on the weary veet
By where the dree cross roads do meet;
An' I've a-come so much thik woy,
Wi' happy heart, a man or bwoy,
That I'd a-meäde, at last, a'móst
A friend o' thik wold guidèn post.
An' there, wi' woone white eärm he show'd,
Down over bridge, the Leyton road;
Wi' woone, the leäne a-leädèn roun'
By Bradlinch Hill, an' on to town;
An' wi' the last, the way to turn
Drough common down to Rushiburn,—
The road I lik'd to goo the mwost
Ov all upon the guidèn post.
The Leyton road ha' lofty ranks
Ov elem trees upon his banks;
The woone athirt the hill do show
Us miles o' hedgy meäds below;
An' he to Rushiburn is wide
Wi' strips o' green along his zide,
An' ouer brown-ruf'd house a-móst
In zight o' thik wold guidèn post.
An' when the haÿ-meäkers did zwarm
O' zummer evenèns out vrom farm.
The merry maïdens an' the chaps,
A-peärtèn there wi' jokes an' slaps,
[page 167]Did goo, zome woone way off, an' zome
Another, all a-zingèn hwome;
Vor vew o'm had to goo, at mwost,
A mile beyond the guidèn post.
Poor Nanny Brown, woone darkish night,
When he'd a-been a-païnted white,
Wer frighten'd, near the gravel pits,
So dead's a hammer into fits,
A-thinkèn 'twer the ghost she know'd
Did come an' haunt the Leyton road;
Though, after all, poor Nanny's ghost
Turn'd out to be the guidèn post.
GWAIN TO FEÄIR.
To morrow stir so brisk's you can,
An' get your work up under han';
Vor I an' Jim, an' Poll's young man,
Shall goo to feäir; an' zoo,
If you wull let us gi'e ye a eärm
Along the road, or in the zwarm
O' vo'k, we'll keep ye out o' harm,
An' gi'e ye a feäirèn too.
We won't stay leäte there, I'll be boun';
We'll bring our sheädes off out o' town
A mile, avore the zun is down,
If he's a sheenèn clear.
Zoo when your work is all a-done,
Your mother can't but let ye run
An' zee a little o' the fun,
There's nothèn there to fear.
JEÄNE O' GRENLEY MILL.
When in happy times we met,
Then by look an' deed I show'd,
How my love wer all a-zet
In the smiles that she bestow'd.
She mid have, o' left an' right,
Maïdens feäirest to the zight;
I'd a-chose among em still,
Pretty Jeäne o' Grenley Mill.
She wer feäirer, by her cows
In her work-day frock a-drest,
Than the rest wi' scornvul brows
All a-flantèn in their best.
Gaÿ did seem, at feäst or feäir,
Zights that I had her to sheäre;
Gaÿ would be my own heart still,
But vor Jeäne o' Grenley Mill.
Jeäne—a-checkèn ov her love—
Leän'd to woone that, as she guess'd,
Stood in worldly wealth above
Me she know'd she lik'd the best.
He wer wild, an' soon run drough
All that he'd a-come into,
Heartlessly a-treatèn ill
Pretty Jeäne o' Grenley Mill.
Oh! poor Jenny! thou'st a tore
Hopèn love vrom my poor heart,
Losèn vrom thy own small store,
All the better, sweeter peärt.
Hearts a-slighted must vorseäke
Slighters, though a-doom'd to break;
I must scorn, but love thee still,
Pretty Jeäne o' Grenley Mill.
Oh! if ever thy soft eyes
Could ha' turn'd vrom outward show,
To a lover born to rise
When a higher woone wer low;
If thy love, when zoo a-tried,
Could ha' stood ageän thy pride,
How should I ha' lov'd thee still,
Pretty Jeäne o' Grenley Mill.
THE BELLS OV ALDERBURNHAM.
While now upon the win' do zwell
The church-bells' evenèn peal, O,
Along the bottom, who can tell
How touch'd my heart do veel, O.
To hear ageän, as woonce they rung
In holidays when I wer young,
Wi' merry sound
A-ringèn round,
The bells ov Alderburnham.
Vor when they rung their gaÿest peals
O' zome sweet day o' rest, O,
We all did ramble drough the viels,
A-dress'd in all our best, O;
An' at the bridge or roarèn weir,
Or in the wood, or in the gleäre
Ov open ground,
Did hear ring round
The bells ov Alderburnham.
They bells, that now do ring above
The young brides at church-door, O,
Woonce rung to bless their mother's love,
When they were brides avore, O.
[page 170]An' sons in tow'r do still ring on
The merry peals o' fathers gone,
Noo mwore to sound,
Or hear ring round,
The bells ov Alderburnham.
Ov happy peäirs, how soon be zome
A-wedded an' a-peärted!
Vor woone ov jaÿ, what peals mid come
To zome o's broken-hearted!
The stronger mid the sooner die,
The gaÿer mid the sooner sigh;
An' who do know
What grief's below
The bells ov Alderburnham!
But still 'tis happiness to know
That there's a God above us;
An' he, by day an' night, do ho
Vor all ov us, an' love us,
An' call us to His house, to heal
Our hearts, by his own Zunday peal
Ov bells a-rung
Vor wold an' young,
The bells ov Alderburnham.
THE GIRT WOLD HOUSE O' MOSSY STWONE.
The girt wold house o' mossy stwone,
Up there upon the knap alwone,
Had woonce a bleäzèn kitchèn-vier,
That cook'd vor poor-vo'k an' a squier.
The very last ov all the reäce
That liv'd the squier o' the pleäce,
Died off when father wer a-born,
An' now his kin be all vorlorn
[page 171]Vor ever,—vor he left noo son
To teäke the house o' mossy stwone.
An' zoo he vell to other hands,
An' gramfer took en wi' the lands:
An' there when he, poor man, wer dead,
My father shelter'd my young head.
An' if I wer a squier, I
Should like to spend my life, an' die
In thik wold house o' mossy stwone,
Up there upon the knap alwone.
Don't talk ov housen all o' brick,
Wi' rockèn walls nine inches thick,
A-trigg'd together zide by zide
In streets, wi' fronts a straddle wide,
Wi' yards a-sprinkled wi' a mop,
Too little vor a vrog to hop;
But let me live an' die where I
Can zee the ground, an' trees, an' sky.
The girt wold house o' mossy stwone
Had wings vor either sheäde or zun:
Woone where the zun did glitter drough,
When vu'st he struck the mornèn dew;
Woone feäced the evenèn sky, an' woone
Push'd out a pworch to zweaty noon:
Zoo woone stood out to break the storm,
An' meäde another lew an' warm.
An' there the timber'd copse rose high,
Where birds did build an' heäres did lie,
An' beds o' grægles in the lew,
Did deck in Maÿ the ground wi' blue.
An' there wer hills an' slopèn grounds,
That they did ride about wi' hounds;
An' drough the meäd did creep the brook
Wi' bushy bank an' rushy nook,
[page 172]Where perch did lie in sheädy holes
Below the alder trees, an' shoals
O' gudgeon darted by, to hide
Theirzelves in hollows by the zide.
An' there by leänes a-windèn deep,
Wer mossy banks a-risèn steep;
An' stwonèn steps, so smooth an' wide,
To stiles an' vootpaths at the zide.
An' there, so big's a little ground,
The geärden wer a-wall'd all round:
An' up upon the wall wer bars
A-sheäped all out in wheels an' stars,
Vor vo'k to walk, an' look out drough
Vrom trees o' green to hills o' blue.
An' there wer walks o' peävement, broad
Enough to meäke a carriage-road,
Where steätely leädies woonce did use
To walk wi' hoops an' high-heel shoes,
When yonder hollow woak wer sound,
Avore the walls wer ivy-bound,
Avore the elems met above
The road between em, where they drove
Their coach all up or down the road
A-comèn hwome or gwaïn abroad.
The zummer aïr o' theäse green hill
'V a-heav'd in bosoms now all still,
An' all their hopes an' all their tears
Be unknown things ov other years.
But if, in heaven, souls be free
To come back here; or there can be
An e'thly pleäce to meäke em come
To zee it vrom a better hwome,—
Then what's a-twold us mid be right,
That still, at dead o' tongueless night,
Their gauzy sheäpes do come an' glide
By vootways o' their youthvul pride.
An' while the trees do stan' that grow'd
Vor them, or walls or steps they know'd
Do bide in pleäce, they'll always come
To look upon their e'thly hwome.
Zoo I would always let alwone
The girt wold house o' mossy stwone:
I woulden pull a wing o'n down,
To meäke ther speechless sheädes to frown;
Vor when our souls, mid woonce become
Lik' their's, all bodiless an' dumb,
How good to think that we mid vind
Zome thought vrom them we left behind,
An' that zome love mid still unite
The hearts o' blood wi' souls o' light.
Zoo, if 'twer mine, I'd let alwone
The girt wold house o' mossy stwone.
A WITCH.
There's thik wold hag, Moll Brown, look zee, jus' past!
I wish the ugly sly wold witch
Would tumble over into ditch;
I woulden pull her out not very vast.
No, no. I don't think she's a bit belied,
No, she's a witch, aye, Molly's evil-eyed.
Vor I do know o' many a-withrèn blight
A-cast on vo'k by Molly's mutter'd spite;
She did, woone time, a dreadvul deäl o' harm
To Farmer Gruff's vo'k, down at Lower Farm.
Vor there, woone day, they happened to offend her,
An' not a little to their sorrow,
Because they woulden gi'e or lend her
Zome'hat she come to bag or borrow;
An' zoo, they soon began to vind
That she'd agone an' left behind
[page 174]Her evil wish that had such pow'r,
That she did meäke their milk an' eäle turn zour,
An' addle all the aggs their vowls did lay;
They coulden vetch the butter in the churn,
An' all the cheese begun to turn
All back ageän to curds an' whey;
The little pigs, a-runnèn wi' the zow,
Did zicken, zomehow, noobody know'd how,
An' vall, an' turn their snouts towárd the sky.
An' only gi'e woone little grunt, and die;
An' all the little ducks an' chickèn
Wer death-struck out in yard a-pickèn
Their bits o' food, an' vell upon their head,
An' flapp'd their little wings an' drapp'd down dead.
They coulden fat the calves, they woulden thrive;
They coulden seäve their lambs alive;
Their sheep wer all a-coath'd, or gi'ed noo wool;
The hosses vell away to skin an' bwones,
An' got so weak they coulden pull
A half a peck o' stwones:
The dog got dead-alive an' drowsy,
The cat vell zick an' woulden mousy;
An' every time the vo'k went up to bed,
They wer a-hag-rod till they wer half dead.
They us'd to keep her out o' house, 'tis true,
A-naïlèn up at door a hosses shoe;
An' I've a-heärd the farmer's wife did try
To dawk a needle or a pin
In drough her wold hard wither'd skin,
An' draw her blood, a-comèn by:
But she could never vetch a drap,
For pins would ply an' needless snap
Ageän her skin; an' that, in coo'se,
Did meäke the hag bewitch em woo'se.
Eclogue.
THE TIMES.
John an' Tom.
JOHN.
Well, Tom, how be'st? Zoo thou'st a-got thy neäme
Among the leaguers, then, as I've a heärd.
TOM.
Aye, John, I have, John; an' I ben't afeärd
To own it. Why, who woulden do the seäme?
We shant goo on lik' this long, I can tell ye.
Bread is so high an' wages be so low,
That, after workèn lik' a hoss, you know,
A man can't eärn enough to vill his belly.
JOHN.
Ah! well! Now there, d'ye know, if I wer sure
That theäsem men would gi'e me work to do
All drough the year, an' always pay me mwore
Than I'm a-eärnèn now, I'd jein em too.
If I wer sure they'd bring down things so cheap,
That what mid buy a pound o' mutton now
Would buy the hinder quarters, or the sheep,
Or what wull buy a pig would buy a cow:
In short, if they could meäke a shillèn goo
In market just so vur as two,
Why then, d'ye know, I'd be their man;
But, hang it! I don't think they can.
TOM.
Why ees they can, though you don't know't,
An' theäsem men can meäke it clear.
Why vu'st they'd zend up members ev'ry year
To Parli'ment, an' ev'ry man would vote;
Vor if a fellow midden be a squier,
He mid be just so fit to vote, an' goo
To meäke the laws at Lon'on, too,
As many that do hold their noses higher.
Why shoulden fellows meäke good laws an' speeches
A-dressed in fusti'n cwoats an' cord'roy breeches?
Or why should hooks an' shovels, zives an' axes,
Keep any man vrom votèn o' the taxes?
An' when the poor've a-got a sheäre
In meäkèn laws, they'll teäke good ceäre
To meäke some good woones vor the poor.
Do stan' by reason, John; because
The men that be to meäke the laws,
Will meäke em vor theirzelves, you mid be sure.
JOHN.
Ees, that they wull. The men that you mid trust
To help you, Tom, would help their own zelves vu'st.
TOM.
Aye, aye. But we would have a better plan
O' votèn, than the woone we got. A man,
As things be now, d'ye know, can't goo an' vote
Ageän another man, but he must know't.
We'll have a box an' balls, vor votèn men
To pop their hands 'ithin, d'ye know; an' then,
If woone don't happen vor to lik' a man,
He'll drop a little black ball vrom his han',
An' zend en hwome ageän. He woon't be led
To choose a man to teäke away his bread.
JOHN.
But if a man you midden like to 'front,
Should chance to call upon ye, Tom, zome day,
An' ax ye vor your vote, what could ye zay?
Why if you woulden answer, or should grunt
Or bark, he'd know you'd meän "I won't."
To promise woone a vote an' not to gi'e't,
Is but to be a liar an' a cheat.
An' then, bezides, when he did count the balls,
An' vind white promises a-turn'd half black;
Why then he'd think the voters all a pack
O' rogues together,—ev'ry woone o'm false.
An' if he had the power, very soon
Perhaps he'd vall upon em, ev'ry woone.
The times be pinchèn me, so well as you,
But I can't tell what ever they can do.
TOM.
Why meäke the farmers gi'e their leäbourèn men
Mwore wages,—half or twice so much ageän
As what they got.
JOHN.
But, Thomas, you can't meäke
A man pay mwore away than he can teäke.
If you do meäke en gi'e, to till a vield,
So much ageän as what the groun' do yield,
He'll shut out farmèn—or he'll be a goose—
An' goo an' put his money out to use.
Wages be low because the hands be plenty;
They mid be higher if the hands wer skenty.
Leäbour, the seäme's the produce o' the yield,
Do zell at market price—jist what 'till yield.
Thou wouldsten gi'e a zixpence, I do guess,
Vor zix fresh aggs, if zix did zell for less.
[page 178]If theäsem vo'k could come an' meäke mwore lands,
If they could teäke wold England in their hands
An' stratch it out jist twice so big ageän,
They'd be a-doèn some'hat vor us then.
TOM.
But if they wer a-zent to Parli'ment
To meäke the laws, dost know, as I've a-zaid,
They'd knock the corn-laws on the head;
An' then the landlards must let down their rent,
An' we should very soon have cheaper bread:
Farmers would gi'e less money vor their lands.
JOHN.
Aye, zoo they mid, an' prices mid be low'r
Vor what their land would yield; an' zoo their hands
Would be jist where they wer avore.
An' if theäse men wer all to hold together,
They coulden meäke new laws to change the weather!
They ben't so mighty as to think o' frightenèn
The vrost an' raïn, the thunder an' the lightenèn!
An' as vor me, I don't know what to think
O' them there fine, big-talkèn, cunnèn,
Strange men, a-comèn down vrom Lon'on.
Why they don't stint theirzelves, but eat an' drink
The best at public-house where they do staÿ;
They don't work gratis, they do get their paÿ.
They woulden pinch theirzelves to do us good,
Nor gi'e their money vor to buy us food.
D'ye think, if we should meet em in the street
Zome day in Lon'on, they would stand a treat?
TOM.
They be a-païd, because they be a-zent
By corn-law vo'k that be the poor man's friends,
To tell us all how we mid gaïn our ends,
A-zendèn peäpers up to Parli'ment.
JOHN.
Ah! teäke ceäre how dost trust em. Dost thou know
The funny feäble o' the pig an' crow?
Woone time a crow begun to strut an' hop
About some groun' that men'd a-been a-drillèn
Wi' barley or some wheat, in hopes o' villèn
Wi' good fresh corn his empty crop.
But lik' a thief, he didden like the païns
O' workèn hard to get en a vew graïns;
Zoo while the sleeky rogue wer there a-huntèn,
Wi' little luck, vor corns that mid be vound
A-peckèn vor, he heärd a pig a-gruntèn
Just tother zide o' hedge, in tother ground.
"Ah!" thought the cunnèn rogue, an' gi'ed a hop,
"Ah! that's the way vor me to vill my crop;
Aye, that's the plan, if nothèn don't defeät it.
If I can get thik pig to bring his snout
In here a bit an' turn the barley out,
Why, hang it! I shall only have to eat it."
Wi' that he vled up straïght upon a woak,
An' bowèn, lik' a man at hustèns, spoke:
"My friend," zaid he, "that's poorish livèn vor ye
In thik there leäze. Why I be very zorry
To zee how they hard-hearted vo'k do sarve ye.
You can't live there. Why! do they meän to starve ye?"
"Ees," zaid the pig, a-gruntèn, "ees;
What wi' the hosses an' the geese,
There's only docks an' thissles here to chaw.
Instead o' livèn well on good warm straw,
I got to grub out here, where I can't pick
Enough to meäke me half an ounce o' flick."
"Well," zaid the crow, "d'ye know, if you'll stan' that,
You mussen think, my friend, o' gettèn fat.
D'ye want some better keep? Vor if you do,
Why, as a friend, I be a-come to tell ye,
[page 180]That if you'll come an' jus' get drough
Theäse gap up here, why you mid vill your belly.
Why, they've a-been a-drillèn corn, d'ye know,
In theäse here piece o' groun' below;
An' if you'll just put in your snout,
An' run en up along a drill,
Why, hang it! you mid grub it out,
An' eat, an' eat your vill.
Their idden any fear that vo'k mid come,
Vor all the men be jist a-gone in hwome."
The pig, believèn ev'ry single word
That wer a-twold en by the cunnèn bird
Wer only vor his good, an' that 'twer true,
Just gi'ed a grunt, an' bundled drough,
An' het his nose, wi' all his might an' maïn,
Right up a drill, a-routèn up the graïn;
An' as the cunnèn crow did gi'e a caw
A-praisèn ō'n, oh! he did veel so proud!
An' work'd, an' blow'd, an' toss'd, an' ploughed
The while the cunnèn crow did vill his maw.
An' after workèn till his bwones
Did eäche, he soon begun to veel
That he should never get a meal,
Unless he dined on dirt an' stwones.
"Well," zaid the crow, "why don't ye eat?"
"Eat what, I wonder!" zaid the heäiry plougher.
A-brislèn up an' lookèn rather zour;
"I don't think dirt an' flints be any treat."
"Well," zaid the crow, "why you be blind.
What! don't ye zee how thick the corn do lie
Among the dirt? An' don't ye zee how I
Do pick up all that you do leäve behind?
I'm zorry that your bill should be so snubby."
"No," zaid the pig, "methinks that I do zee
My bill will do uncommon well vor thee,
Vor thine wull peck, an' mine wull grubby."
[page 181]An' just wi' this a-zaid by mister Flick
To mister Crow, wold John the farmer's man
Come up, a-zwingèn in his han'
A good long knotty stick,
An' laid it on, wi' all his might,
The poor pig's vlitches, left an' right;
While mister Crow, that talk'd so fine
O' friendship, left the pig behine,
An' vled away upon a distant tree,
Vor pigs can only grub, but crows can vlee.
TOM.
Aye, thik there teäle mid do vor childern's books:
But you wull vind it hardish for ye
To frighten me, John, wi' a storry
O' silly pigs an' cunnèn rooks.
If we be grubbèn pigs, why then, I s'pose,
The farmers an' the girt woones be the crows.
JOHN.
'Tis very odd there idden any friend
To poor-vo'k hereabout, but men mus' come
To do us good away from tother end
Ov England! Han't we any frien's near hwome?
I mus' zay, Thomas, that 'tis rather odd
That strangers should become so very civil,—
That ouer vo'k be childern o' the Devil,
An' other vo'k be all the vo'k o' God!
If we've a-got a friend at all,
Why who can tell—I'm sure thou cassen—
But that the squier, or the pa'son,
Mid be our friend, Tom, after all?
The times be hard, 'tis true! an' they that got
His blessèns, shoulden let theirzelves vorget
How 'tis where the vo'k do never zet
A bit o' meat within their rusty pot.
[page 182]The man a-zittèn in his easy chair
To flesh, an' vowl, an' vish, should try to speäre
The poor theäse times, a little vrom his store;
An' if he don't, why sin is at his door.
TOM.
Ah! we won't look to that; we'll have our right,—
If not by feäir meäns, then we wull by might.
We'll meäke times better vor us; we'll be free
Ov other vo'k an' others' charity.
JOHN.
Ah! I do think you mid as well be quiet;
You'll meäke things wo'se, i'-ma'-be, by a riot.
You'll get into a mess, Tom, I'm afeärd;
You'll goo vor wool, an' then come hwome a-sheär'd.
POEMS OF RURAL LIFE.
SECOND COLLECTION.
BLACKMWORE MAIDENS.
The primrwose in the sheäde do blow,
The cowslip in the zun,
The thyme upon the down do grow,
The clote where streams do run;
An' where do pretty maïdens grow
An' blow, but where the tow'r
Do rise among the bricken tuns,
In Blackmwore by the Stour.
If you could zee their comely gaït,
An' prettÿ feäces' smiles,
A-trippèn on so light o' waïght,
An' steppèn off the stiles;
A-gwaïn to church, as bells do swing
An' ring 'ithin the tow'r,
You'd own the pretty maïdens' pleäce
Is Blackmwore by the Stour.
If you vrom Wimborne took your road,
To Stower or Paladore,
An' all the farmers' housen show'd
Their daughters at the door;
You'd cry to bachelors at hwome—
"Here, come: 'ithin an hour
You'll vind ten maïdens to your mind,
In Blackmwore by the Stour."
An' if you look'd 'ithin their door,
To zee em in their pleäce,
[page 186]A-doèn housework up avore
Their smilèn mother's feäce;
You'd cry—"Why, if a man would wive
An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r,
Then let en look en out a wife
In Blackmwore by the Stour."
As I upon my road did pass
A school-house back in Maÿ,
There out upon the beäten grass
Wer maïdens at their plaÿ;
An' as the pretty souls did tweil
An' smile, I cried, "The flow'r
O' beauty, then, is still in bud
In Blackmwore by the Stour."
MY ORCHA'D IN LINDEN LEA.
'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleäded,
By the woak tree's mossy moot,
The sheenèn grass-bleädes, timber-sheäded,
Now do quiver under voot;
An' birds do whissle over head,
An' water's bubblèn in its bed,
An' there vor me the apple tree
Do leän down low in Linden Lea.
When leaves that leätely wer a-springèn
Now do feäde 'ithin the copse,
An' païnted birds do hush their zingèn
Up upon the timber's tops;
An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnèn red,
In cloudless zunsheen, over head,
Wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree
Do leän down low in Linden Lea.
Let other vo'k meäke money vaster
In the aïr o' dark-room'd towns,
I don't dread a peevish meäster;
Though noo man do heed my frowns,
I be free to goo abrode,
Or teäke ageän my hwomeward road
To where, vor me, the apple tree
Do leän down low in Linden Lea.
BISHOP'S CAUNDLE.
At peace day, who but we should goo
To Caundle vor an' hour or two:
As gaÿ a day as ever broke
Above the heads o' Caundle vo'k,
Vor peace, a-come vor all, did come
To them wi' two new friends at hwome.
Zoo while we kept, wi' nimble peäce,
The wold dun tow'r avore our feäce,
The aïr, at last, begun to come
Wi' drubbèns ov a beäten drum;
An' then we heärd the horns' loud droats
Plaÿ off a tuen's upper notes;
An' then ageän a-risèn cheärm
Vrom tongues o' people in a zwarm:
An' zoo, at last, we stood among
The merry feäces o' the drong.
An' there, wi' garlands all a-tied
In wreaths an' bows on every zide,
An' color'd flags, a fluttrèn high
An' bright avore the sheenèn sky,
The very guide-post wer a-drest
Wi' posies on his eärms an' breast.
At last, the vo'k zwarm'd in by scores
An' hundreds droo the high barn-doors,
To dine on English feäre, in ranks,
A-zot on chairs, or stools, or planks,
By bwoards a-reachèn, row an' row,
Wi' cloths so white as driven snow.
An' while they took, wi' merry cheer,
Their pleäces at the meat an' beer,
The band did blow an' beät aloud
Their merry tuèns to the crowd;
An' slowly-zwingèn flags did spread
Their hangèn colors over head.
An' then the vo'k, wi' jaÿ an' pride,
Stood up in stillness, zide by zide,
Wi' downcast heads, the while their friend
Rose up avore the teäble's end,
An' zaid a timely greäce, an' blest
The welcome meat to every guest.
An' then arose a mingled naïse
O' knives an' pleätes, an' cups an' traÿs,
An' tongues wi' merry tongues a-drown'd
Below a deaf'nèn storm o' sound.
An' zoo, at last, their worthy host
Stood up to gi'e em all a twoast,
That they did drink, wi' shouts o' glee,
An' whirlèn eärms to dree times dree.
An' when the bwoards at last wer beäre
Ov all the cloths an' goodly feäre,
An' froth noo longer rose to zwim
Within the beer-mugs sheenèn rim,
The vo'k, a-streamèn drough the door,
Went out to geämes they had in store
An' on the blue-reäv'd waggon's bed,
Above his vower wheels o' red,
Musicians zot in rows, an' plaÿ'd
Their tuèns up to chap an' maïd,
That beät, wi' plaÿsome tooes an' heels,
The level ground in nimble reels.
An' zome ageän, a-zet in line,
An' startèn at a given sign,
Wi' outreach'd breast, a-breathèn quick
Droo op'nèn lips, did nearly kick
Their polls, a-runnèn sich a peäce,
Wi' streamèn heäir, to win the reäce.
An' in the house, an' on the green,
An' in the shrubb'ry's leafy screen,
On ev'ry zide we met sich lots
O' smilèn friends in happy knots,
That I do think, that drough the feäst
In Caundle, vor a day at leäst,
You woudden vind a scowlèn feäce
Or dumpy heart in all the pleäce.