Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect

A. Back here, but now, the jobber John

Come by, an' cried, "Well done, zing on,

I thought as I come down the hill,

An' heärd your zongs a-ringèn sh'ill,

Who woudden like to come, an' fling

A peäir o' prongs where you did zing?"

J. Aye, aye, he woudden vind it plaÿ,

To work all day a-meäkèn haÿ,

Or pitchèn o't, to eärms a-spread

By lwoaders, yards above his head,

'T'ud meäke en wipe his drippèn brow.

A. Or else a-reäken after plow.

J. Or workèn, wi' his nimble pick,

A-stiffled wi' the haÿ, at rick.

A. Our Company would suit en best,

When we do teäke our bit o' rest,

At nunch, a-gather'd here below

The sheäde theäse wide-bough'd woak do drow,

Where hissèn froth mid rise, an' float

In horns o' eäle, to wet his droat.

J. Aye, if his zwellèn han' could drag

A meat-slice vrom his dinner bag.

'T'ud meäke the busy little chap

Look rather glum, to zee his lap

Wi' all his meal ov woone dry croust,

An' vinny cheese so dry as doust.

A. Well, I don't grumble at my food,

'Tis wholesome, John, an' zoo 'tis good.

J. Whose reäke is that a-lyèn there?

Do look a bit the woo'se vor wear.

A. Oh! I mus' get the man to meäke

A tooth or two vor thik wold reäke,

'Tis leäbour lost to strik a stroke

Wi' him, wi' half his teeth a-broke.

J. I should ha' thought your han' too fine

To break your reäke, if I broke mine.

A. The ramsclaws thin'd his wooden gum

O' two teeth here, an' here were zome

That broke when I did reäke a patch

O' groun' wi' Jimmy, vor a match:

An' here's a gap ov woone or two

A-broke by Simon's clumsy shoe,

An' when I gi'ed his poll a poke,

Vor better luck, another broke.

In what a veag have you a-swung

Your pick, though, John? His stem's a-sprung.

J. When I an' Simon had a het

O' pookèn, yonder, vor a bet,

The prongs o'n gi'ed a tump a poke,

An' then I vound the stem a-broke,

Bût they do meäke the stems o' picks

O' stuff so brittle as a kicks.

A. There's poor wold Jeäne, wi' wrinkled skin,

A-tellèn, wi' her peakèd chin,

Zome teäle ov her young days, poor soul.

Do meäke the young-woones smile. 'Tis droll.

What is it? Stop, an' let's goo near.

I do like theäse wold teäles. Let's hear.

The snow-white clouds did float on high

In shoals avore the sheenèn sky,

An' runnèn weäves in pon' did cheäse

Each other on the water's feäce,

As hufflèn win' did blow between

The new-leav'd boughs o' sheenèn green.

An' there, the while I walked along

The path, drough leäze, above the drong,

A little maïd, wi' bloomèn feäce,

Went on up hill wi' nimble peäce,

A-leänèn to the right-han' zide,

To car a basket that did ride,

A-hangèn down, wi' all his heft,

Upon her elbow at her left.

An' yet she hardly seem'd to bruise

The grass-bleädes wi' her tiny shoes,

That pass'd each other, left an' right.

In steps a'most too quick vor zight.

But she'd a-left her mother's door

A-bearèn vrom her little store

Her father's welcome bit o' food,

Where he wer out at work in wood;

An' she wer bless'd wi' mwore than zwome—

A father out, an' mother hwome.

An' there, a-vell'd 'ithin the copse,

Below the timber's new-leav'd tops,

Wer ashèn poles, a-castèn straïght,

On primrwose beds, their langthy waïght;

Below the yollow light, a-shed

Drough boughs upon the vi'let's head,

By climèn ivy, that did reach,

A sheenèn roun' the dead-leav'd beech.

An' there her father zot, an' meäde

His hwomely meal bezide a gleäde;

While she, a-croopèn down to ground,

Did pull the flowers, where she vound

The droopèn vi'let out in blooth,

Or yollow primrwose in the lewth,

That she mid car em proudly back,

An' zet em on her mother's tack;

Vor she wer bless'd wi' mwore than zwome—

A father out, an' mother hwome.

A father out, an' mother hwome,

Be blessèns soon a-lost by zome;

A-lost by me, an' zoo I pray'd

They mid be speär'd the little maïd.

A. A plague! theäse cow wont stand a bit,

Noo sooner do she zee me zit

Ageän her, than she's in a trot,

A-runnèn to zome other spot.

J. Why 'tis the dog do sceäre the cow,

He worried her a-vield benow.

A. Goo in, Ah!   Liplap, where's your taïl!

J. He's off, then up athirt the raïl.

Your cow there, Anne's a-come to hand

A goodish milcher.   A. If she'd stand,

But then she'll steäre an' start wi' fright

To zee a dumbledore in flight.

Last week she het the païl a flought,

An' flung my meal o' milk half out.

J. Ha! Ha!   But Anny, here, what lout

Broke half your small païl's bottom out?

A. What lout indeed!   What, do ye own

The neäme?   What dropp'd en on a stwone?

J. Hee! Hee!   Well now he's out o' trim

Wi' only half a bottom to en;

Could you still vill en' to the brim

An' yit not let the milk run drough en?

A. Aye, as for nonsense, Joe, your head

Do hold it all so tight's a blather,

But if 'tis any good, do shed

It all so leäky as a lather.

Could you vill païls 'ithout a bottom,

Yourself that be so deeply skill'd?

J. Well, ees, I could, if I'd a-got em

Inside o' bigger woones a-vill'd.

A. La! that is zome'hat vor to hatch!

Here answer me theäse little catch.

Down under water an' o' top o't

I went, an' didden touch a drop o't,

J. Not when at mowèn time I took

An' pull'd ye out o' Longmeäd brook,

Where you'd a-slidder'd down the edge

An' zunk knee-deep bezide the zedge,

A-tryèn to reäke out a clote.

A. Aye I do hear your chucklèn droat

When I athirt the brudge did bring

Zome water on my head vrom spring.

Then under water an' o' top o't,

Wer I an' didden touch a drop o't.

J. O Lauk!   What thik wold riddle still,

Why that's as wold as Duncliffe Hill;

"A two-lagg'd thing do run avore

An' run behind a man,

An' never run upon his lags

Though on his lags do stan'.

What's that?

I don't think you do know.

There idden sich a thing to show.

Not know?   Why yonder by the stall

'S a wheel-barrow bezide the wall,

Don't he stand on his lags so trim,

An' run on nothèn but his wheels wold rim.

A. There's horn vor Goodman's eye-zight seäke;

There's horn vor Goodman's mouth to teäke;

There's horn vor Goodman's ears, as well

As horn vor Goodman's nose to smell—

What horns be they, then?   Do your hat

Hold wit enough to tell us that?

J. Oh! horns! but no, I'll tell ye what,

My cow is hornless, an' she's knot.

A. Horn vor the mouth's a hornèn cup.

J. An' eäle's good stuff to vill en up.

A. An' horn vor eyes is horn vor light,

Vrom Goodman's lantern after night;

Horn vor the ears is woone to sound

Vor hunters out wi' ho'se an' hound;

But horn that vo'k do buy to smell o'

Is hart's-horn.   J. Is it?   What d'ye tell o'

How proud we be, vor ben't we smart?

Aye, horn is horn, an' hart is hart.

Well here then, Anne, while we be at it,

'S a ball vor you if you can bat it.

On dree-lags, two-lags, by the zide

O' vower-lags, woonce did zit wi' pride,

When vower-lags, that velt a prick,

Vrom zix-lags, het two lags a kick.

An' two an' dree-lags vell, all vive,

Slap down, zome dead an' zome alive.

A. Teeh! heeh! what have ye now then, Joe,

At last, to meäke a riddle o'?

J. Your dree-lagg'd stool woone night did bear

Up you a milkèn wi' a peäir;

An' there a zix-lagg'd stout did prick

Your vow'r-lagg'd cow, an meäke her kick,

A-hettèn, wi' a pretty pat,

Your stool an' you so flat's a mat.

You scrambled up a little dirty,

But I do hope it didden hurt ye.

A. You hope, indeed! a likely ceäse,

Wi' thik broad grin athirt your feäce

You saucy good-vor-nothèn chap,

I'll gi'e your grinnèn feäce a slap,

Your drawlèn tongue can only run

To turn a body into fun.

J. Oh! I woont do 't ageän.   Oh dear!

Till next time, Anny.   Oh my ear!

Oh! Anne, why you've a-het my hat

'Ithin the milk, now look at that.

A. Do sar ye right, then, I don't ceäre.

I'll thump your noddle,—there—there—there.

And oh! the jaÿ our rest did yield,

At evenèn by the mossy wall,

When we'd a-work'd all day a-vield,

While zummer zuns did rise an' vall;

As there a-lettèn

Goo all frettèn,

An' vorgettèn all our tweils,

We zot among our childern's smiles.

An' under skies that glitter'd white,

The while our smoke, arisèn blue,

Did melt in aiër, out o' zight,

Above the trees that kept us lew;

Wer birds a-zingèn,

Tongues a-ringèn,

Childern springèn, vull o' jaÿ,

A-finishèn the day in plaÿ.

An' back behind, a-stannèn tall,

The cliff did sheen to western light;

An' while avore the water-vall,

A-rottlèn loud, an' foamèn white.

The leaves did quiver,

Gnots did whiver,

By the river, where the pool,

In evenèn aïr did glissen cool.

An' childern there, a-runnèn wide,

Did plaÿ their geämes along the grove,

Vor though to us 'twer jaÿ to bide

At rest, to them 'twer jaÿ to move.

The while my smilèn

Jeäne, beguilèn,

All my tweilèn, wi' her ceäre,

Did call me to my evenèn feäre.

(1) Well, here we be, then, wi' the vu'st poor lwoad

O' vuzz we brought, a-stoodèd in the road.

(2) The road, George, no.   There's na'r a road.   That's wrong.

If we'd a road, we mid ha' got along.

(1) Noo road!   Ees 'tis, the road that we do goo.

(2) Do goo, George, no.   The pleäce we can't get drough.

(1) Well, there, the vu'st lwoad we've a-haul'd to day

Is here a-stoodèd in theäse bed o' clay.

Here's rotten groun'! an' how the wheels do cut!

The little woone's a-zunk up to the nut.

(3) An' yeet this rotten groun' don't reach a lug.

(1) Well, come, then, gi'e the plow another tug.

(2) They meäres wull never pull the waggon out,

A-lwoaded, an' a-stoodèd in thik rout.

(3) We'll try.   Come, Smiler, come!   C'up, Whitevoot, gee!

(2) White-voot wi' lags all over mud!   Hee! Hee!

(3) 'Twoon't wag.   We shall but snap our gear,

An' overstraïn the meäres. 'Twoon't wag, 'tis clear.

(1) That's your work, William.   No, in coo'se, 'twoon't wag.

Why did ye drēve en into theäse here quag?

The vore-wheels be a-zunk above the nuts.

(3) What then?   I coulden leäve the beäten track,

To turn the waggon over on the back

Ov woone o' theäsem wheel-high emmet-butts.

If you be sich a drēver, an' do know't,

You drēve the plow, then; but you'll overdrow 't.

(1) I drēve the plow, indeed!   Oh! ees, what, now

The wheels woont wag, then, I mid drēve the plow!

We'd better dig away the groun' below

The wheels.   (2) There's na'r a speäde to dig wi'.

(1) An' teäke an' cut a lock o' frith, an' drow

Upon the clay.   (2) Nor hook to cut a twig wi'.

(1) Oh! here's a bwoy a-comèn.   Here, my lad,

Dost know vor a'r a speäde, that can be had?

(B) At father's.  (1) Well, where's that?   (Bwoy) At Sam'el Riddick's.

(1) Well run, an' ax vor woone.   Fling up your heels,

An' mind: a speäde to dig out theäsem wheels,

An' hook to cut a little lock o' widdicks.

(3) Why, we shall want zix ho'ses, or a dozen,

To pull the waggon out, wi' all theäse vuzzen.

(1) Well, we mus' lighten en; come, Jeämes, then, hop

Upon the lwoad, an' jus' fling off the top.

(2) If I can clim' en; but 'tis my consaït,

That I shall overzet en wi' my waïght.

(1) You overzet en!   No, Jeämes, he won't vall,

The lwoad's a-built so firm as any wall.

(2) Here! lend a hand or shoulder vor my knee

Or voot.   I'll scramble to the top an' zee

What I can do. Well, here I be, among

The fakkets, vor a bit, but not vor long.

Heigh, George!   Ha! ha! Why this wull never stand.

Your firm 's a wall, is all so loose as zand;

'Tis all a-come to pieces.   Oh! Teäke ceäre!

Ho! I'm a-vallèn, vuzz an' all! Haë! There!

(1) Lo'k there, thik fellor is a-vell lik' lead,

An' half the fuzzen wi 'n, heels over head!

There's all the vuzz a-lyèn lik' a staddle,

An' he a-deäb'd wi' mud.   Oh! Here's a caddle!

(3) An' zoo you soon got down zome vuzzen, Jimmy.

(2) Ees, I do know 'tis down. I brought it wi' me.

(3) Your lwoad, George, wer a rather slick-built thing,

But there, 'twer prickly vor the hands!   Did sting?

(1) Oh! ees, d'ye teäke me vor a nincompoop,

No, no.   The lwoad wer up so firm's a rock,

But two o' theäsem emmet-butts would knock

The tightest barrel nearly out o' hoop.

(3) Oh! now then, here 's the bwoy a-bringèn back

The speäde.   Well done, my man.   That idder slack.

(2) Well done, my lad, sha't have a ho'se to ride

When thou'st a meäre.   (Bwoy) Next never's-tide.

(3) Now let's dig out a spit or two

O' clay, a-vore the little wheels;

Oh! so's, I can't pull up my heels,

I be a-stogg'd up over shoe.

(1) Come, William, dig away!   Why you do spuddle

A'most so weak's a child.   How you do muddle!

Gi'e me the speäde a-bit.   A pig would rout

It out a'most so nimbly wi' his snout.

(3) Oh! so's, d'ye hear it, then.   How we can thunder!

How big we be, then George! what next I wonder?

(1) Now, William, gi'e the waggon woone mwore twitch,

The wheels be free, an' 'tis a lighter nitch.

(3) Come, Smiler, gee! C'up, White-voot.   (1) That wull do.

(2) Do wag.   (1) Do goo at last.   (3) Well done.   'Tis drough.

(1) Now, William, till you have mwore ho'ses' lags,

Don't drēve the waggon into theäsem quags.

(3) You build your lwoads up tight enough to ride.

(1) I can't do less, d'ye know, wi' you vor guide.

While zuns do roll vrom east to west

To bring us work, or leäve us rest,

There down below the steep hill-zide,

Drough time an' tide, the spring do flow;

An' mothers there, vor years a-gone,

Lik' daughters now a-comèn on,

To bloom when they be weak an' wan,

Went down the steps vor water.

An' what do yonder ringers tell

A-ringèn changes, bell by bell;

Or what's a-show'd by yonder zight

O' vo'k in white, upon the road,

But that by John o' Woodleys zide,

There's now a-blushèn vor his bride,

A pretty maïd that vu'st he spied,

Gwaïn down the steps vor water.

Though she, 'tis true, is feäir an' kind,

There still be mwore a-left behind;

So cleän 's the light the zun do gi'e,

So sprack 's a bee when zummer's bright;

An' if I've luck, I woont be slow

To teäke off woone that I do know,

A-trippèn gaïly to an' fro,

Upon the steps vor water.

Her father idden poor—but vew

In parish be so well to do;

Vor his own cows do swing their taïls

Behind his païls, below his boughs:

An' then ageän to win my love,

Why, she's as hwomely as a dove,

An' don't hold up herzelf above

Gwaïn down the steps vor water.

Gwaïn down the steps vor water! No!

How handsome it do meäke her grow.

If she'd be straïght, or walk abrode,

To tread her road wi' comely gaït,

She coulden do a better thing

To zet herzelf upright, than bring

Her pitcher on her head, vrom spring

Upon the steps, wi' water.

No! don't ye neäme in woone seäme breath

Wi' bachelors, the husband's he'th;

The happy pleäce, where vingers thin

Do pull woone's chin, or pat woone's feäce.

But still the bleäme is their's, to slight

Their happiness, wi' such a zight

O' maïdens, mornèn, noon, an' night,

A-gwaïn down steps vor water.

Noo soul did hear her lips complaïn,

An' she's a-gone vrom all her païn,

An' others' loss to her is gaïn

For she do live in heaven's love;

Vull many a longsome day an' week

She bore her aïlèn, still, an' meek;

A-workèn while her strangth held on,

An' guidèn housework, when 'twer gone.

Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn,

Oh! there be souls to murn.

The last time I'd a-cast my zight

Upon her feäce, a-feäded white,

Wer in a zummer's mornèn light

In hall avore the smwold'rèn vier,

The while the childern beät the vloor,

In plaÿ, wi' tiny shoes they wore,

An' call'd their mother's eyes to view

The feät's their little limbs could do.

Oh! Ellen Brine ov Allenburn,

They childern now mus' murn.

Then woone, a-stoppèn vrom his reäce,

Went up, an' on her knee did pleäce

His hand, a-lookèn in her feäce,

An' wi' a smilèn mouth so small,

He zaid, "You promised us to goo

To Shroton feäir, an' teäke us two!"

She heärd it wi' her two white ears,

An' in her eyes there sprung two tears,

Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn

Did veel that they mus' murn.

September come, wi' Shroton feäir,

But Ellen Brine wer never there!

A heavy heart wer on the meäre

Their father rod his hwomeward road.

'Tis true he brought zome feärèns back,

Vor them two childern all in black;

But they had now, wi' plaÿthings new,

Noo mother vor to shew em to,

Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn

Would never mwore return.

An' then we went along the gleädes

O' zunny turf, in quiv'rèn sheädes,

A-windèn off, vrom hand to hand,

Along a path o' yollow zand,

An' clomb a stickle slope, an' vound

An open patch o' lofty ground,

Up where a steätely tow'r did spring,

So high as highest larks do zing.

"An' here," good Meäster Collins cried,

"You'll zee a creädle at her zide,

An' there's her child, a-lyèn deep

'Ithin it, an' a-gone to sleep,

Wi' little eyelashes a-met

In fellow streäks, as black as jet;

The while her needle, over head,

Do nimbly leäd the snow-white thread,

To zew a robe her love do meäke

Wi' happy leäbor vor his seäke.

"An' here a-geän's another pleäce,

Where she do zit wi' smilèn feäce,

An' while her bwoy do leän, wi' pride,

Ageän her lap, below her zide,

Her vinger tip do leäd his look

To zome good words o' God's own book.

"An' next you'll zee her in her pleäce,

Avore her happy husband's feäce,

As he do zit, at evenèn-tide,

A-restèn by the vier-zide.

An' there the childern's heads do rise

Wi' laughèn lips, an' beamèn eyes,

Above the bwoard, where she do lay

Her sheenèn tacklèn, wi' the tea.

"Then next you'll zee her bend her head

Above her aïlèn husband's bed,

A-fannèn, wi' an inward praÿ'r,

His burnèn brow wi' beäten aïr;

The while the clock, by candle light,

Do show that 'tis the dead o' night.

"An' here ageän upon the wall,

Where we do zee her last ov all,

Her husband's head's a-hangèn low,

'Ithin his hands in deepest woe.

An' she, an angel ov his God,

Do cheer his soul below the rod,

A-liftèn up her han' to call

His eyes to writèn on the wall,

As white as is her spotless robe,

'Hast thou rememberèd my servant Job?'

"An' zoo the squier, in grief o' soul,

Built up the Tower upon the knowl."

As vor me, why my life idden bound

To my own heart alwone, among men;

I do live in myzelf, an' ageän

In the lives o' my childern all round:

I do live wi' my bwoy in his plaÿ,

An' ageän wi' my maïd in her zongs;

An' my heart is a-stirr'd wi' their jaÿ,

An' would burn at the zight o' their wrongs.

I ha' nine lives, an' zoo if a half

O'm do cry, why the rest o'm mid laugh

All so plaÿvully, jaÿvully,

Happy wi' hope.

Tother night I come hwome a long road,

When the weather did sting an' did vreeze;

An' the snow—vor the day had a-snow'd—

Wer avroze on the boughs o' the trees;

An' my tooes an' my vingers wer num',

An' my veet wer so lumpy as logs,

An' my ears wer so red's a cock's cwom';

An' my nose wer so cwold as a dog's;

But so soon's I got hwome I vorgot

Where my limbs wer a-cwold or wer hot,

When wi' loud cries an' proud cries

They coll'd me so cwold.

As I zot wi' my teacup, at rest,

There I pull'd out the taÿs I did bring;

Men a-kickèn, a-wagg'd wi' a string,

An' goggle-ey'd dolls to be drest;

An' oh! vrom the childern there sprung

Such a charm when they handled their taÿs,

That vor pleasure the bigger woones wrung

Their two hands at the zight o' their jaÿs;

As the bwoys' bigger vaïces vell in

Wi' the maïdens a-titterèn thin,

An' their dancèn an' prancèn,

An' little mouth's laughs.

Though 'tis hard stripes to breed em all up,

If I'm only a-blest vrom above,

They'll meäke me amends wi' their love,

Vor their pillow, their pleäte, an' their cup;

Though I shall be never a-spweil'd

Wi' the sarvice that money can buy;

Still the hands ov a wife an' a child

Be the blessèns ov low or ov high;

An' if there be mouths to be ved,

He that zent em can zend me their bread,

An' will smile on the chile

That's a-new on the knee.

In zummer, when the knaps wer bright

In cool-aïr'd evenèn's western light,

An' haÿ that had a-dried all day,

Did now lie grey, to dewy night;

I went, by happy chance, or doom,

Vrom Broadwoak Hill, athirt to Coomb,

An' met a maïd in all her bloom:

The feaïrest maïd o' Newton.

She bore a basket that did ride

So light, she didden leän azide;

Her feäce wer oval, an' she smil'd

So sweet's a child, but walk'd wi' pride.

I spoke to her, but what I zaid

I didden know; wi' thoughts a-vled,

I spoke by heart, an' not by head,

Avore the maïd o' Newton.

I call'd her, oh! I don't know who,

'Twer by a neäme she never knew;

An' to the heel she stood upon,

She then brought on her hinder shoe,

An' stopp'd avore me, where we met,

An' wi' a smile woone can't vorget,

She zaid, wi' eyes a-zwimmèn wet,

"No, I be woone o' Newton."

By fancy led, at evenèn's glow,

I woonce did goo, a-rovèn slow,

Down where the elèms, stem by stem,

Do stan' to hem the grove below;

But after that, my veet vorzook

The grove, to seek the little brook

At Coomb, where I mid zometimes look,

To meet the maïd o' Newton.

Aye, at that time our days wer but vew,

An' our lim's wer but small, an' a-growèn;

An' then the feäir worold wer new,

An' life wer all hopevul an' gaÿ;

An' the times o' the sproutèn o' leaves,

An' the cheäk-burnèn seasons o' mowèn,

An' bindèn o' red-headed sheaves,

Wer all welcome seasons o' jaÿ.

Then the housen seem'd high, that be low,

An' the brook did seem wide that is narrow,

An' time, that do vlee, did goo slow,

An' veelèns now feeble wer strong,

An' our worold did end wi' the neämes

Ov the Sha'sbury Hill or Bulbarrow;

An' life did seem only the geämes

That we plaÿ'd as the days rolled along.

But happy be childern the while

They have elders a-livèn to love em,

An' teäke all the wearisome tweil

That zome hands or others mus' do;

Like the low-headed shrubs that be warm,

In the lewth o' the trees up above em,

A-screen'd vrom the cwold blowèn storm

That the timber avore em must rue.

When mornèn winds, a-blowèn high,

Do zweep the clouds vrom all the sky,

An' laurel-leaves do glitter bright,

The while the newly broken light

Do brighten up, avore our view,

The vields wi' green, an' hills wi' blue;

What then can highten to my eyes

The cheerful feäce ov e'th an' skies,

But Meäry's smile, o' Morey's Mill,

My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

An' O! mid never tears come on,

To wash her feäce's blushes wan,

Nor kill her smiles that now do plaÿ

Like sparklèn weäves in zunny Maÿ;

But mid she still, vor all she's gone

Vrom souls she now do smile upon,

Show others they can vind woone jaÿ

To turn the hardest work to plaÿ.

My Meäry's smile, o' Morey's Mill,

My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

The zun can zink, the stars mid rise,

An' woods be green to sheenèn skies;

The cock mid crow to mornèn light,

An' workvo'k zing to vallèn night;

The birds mid whissle on the spraÿ,

An' childern leäp in merry plaÿ,

But our's is now a lifeless pleäce,

Vor we've a-lost a smilèn feäce—

Young Meäry Meäd o' merry mood,

Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded.

When they do draw the evenèn blind,

An' when the evenèn light's a-tin'd,

The cheerless vier do drow a gleäre

O' light ageän her empty chair;

An' wordless gaps do now meäke thin

Their talk where woonce her vaïce come in.

Zoo lwonesome is her empty pleäce,

An' blest the house that ha' the feäce

O' Meäry Meäd, o' merry mood,

Now she's a-woo'd and wedded.

The day she left her father's he'th,

Though sad, wer kept a day o' me'th,

An' dry-wheel'd waggons' empty beds

Wer left 'ithin the tree-screen'd sheds;

An' all the hosses, at their eäse,

Went snortèn up the flow'ry leäse,

But woone, the smartest for the roäd,

That pull'd away the dearest lwoad—

Young Meäry Meäd o' merry mood,

That wer a-woo'd an' wedded.