Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect

If souls should only sheen so bright

In heaven as in e'thly light,

An' nothèn better wer the ceäse,

How comely still, in sheäpe an' feäce,

Would many reach thik happy pleäce,—

The hopeful souls that in their prime

Ha' seem'd a-took avore their time—

The young that died in beauty.

But when woone's lim's ha' lost their strangth

A-tweilèn drough a lifetime's langth,

An' over cheäks a-growèn wold

The slowly-weästen years ha' rolled,

The deep'nèn wrinkle's hollow vwold;

When life is ripe, then death do call

Vor less ov thought, than when do vall

On young vo'ks in their beauty.

But pinèn souls, wi' heads a-hung

In heavy sorrow vor the young,

The sister ov the brother dead,

The father wi' a child a-vled,

The husband when his bride ha' laid

Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn,

Have all a-vound the time to murn

Vor youth that died in beauty.

An' yeet the church, where praÿer do rise

Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi' downcast eyes.

An' village greens, a-beät half beäre

By dancers that do meet, an' weär

Such merry looks at feäst an' feäir,

Do gather under leàtest skies,

Their bloomèn cheäks an' sparklèn eyes,

Though young ha' died in beauty.

But still the dead shall mwore than keep

The beauty ov their eärly sleep;

Where comely looks shall never weär

Uncomely, under tweil an' ceäre.

The feäir at death be always feäir,

Still feäir to livers' thought an' love,

An' feäirer still to God above,

Than when they died in beauty.

Dear Yarrowham, 'twer many miles

Vrom thy green meäds that, in my walk,

I met a maïd wi' winnèn smiles,

That talk'd as vo'k at hwome do talk;

An' who at last should she be vound,

Ov all the souls the sky do bound,

But woone that trod at vu'st thy groun'

Fair Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

But thy wold house an' elmy nook,

An' wall-screen'd geärden's mossy zides,

Thy grassy meäds an' zedgy brook,

An' high-bank'd leänes, wi' sheädy rides,

Wer all a-known to me by light

Ov eärly days, a-quench'd by night,

Avore they met the younger zight

Ov Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

An' now my heart do leäp to think

O' times that I've a-spent in plaÿ,

Bezide thy river's rushy brink,

Upon a deäizybed o' Maÿ;

I lov'd the friends thy land ha' bore,

An' I do love the paths they wore,

An' I do love thee all the mwore,

Vor Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

When bright above the e'th below

The moon do spread abroad his light,

An' aïr o' zummer nights do blow

Athirt the vields in plaÿsome flight,

'Tis then delightsome under all

The sheädes o' boughs by path or wall,

But mwostly thine when they do vall

On Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

Aye, aye, the leäne wi' flow'ry zides

A-kept so lew, by hazzle-wrides,

Wi' beds o' grægles out in bloom,

Below the timber's windless gloon

An' geäte that I've a-swung,

An' rod as he's a-hung,

When I wer young, in Woakley Coomb.

'Twer there at feäst we all did pass

The evenèn on the leänezide grass,

Out where the geäte do let us drough,

Below the woak-trees in the lew,

In merry geämes an' fun

That meäde us skip an' run,

Wi' burnèn zun, an' sky o' blue.

But still there come a scud that drove

The titt'rèn maïdens vrom the grove;

An' there a-left wer flow'ry mound,

'Ithout a vaïce, 'ithout a sound,

Unless the aïr did blow,

Drough ruslèn leaves, an' drow,

The raïn drops low, upon the ground.

I linger'd there an' miss'd the naïse;

I linger'd there an' miss'd our jaÿs;

I miss'd woone soul beyond the rest;

The maïd that I do like the best.

Vor where her vaïce is gaÿ

An' where her smiles do plaÿ,

There's always jaÿ vor ev'ry breast.

Vor zome vo'k out abroad ha' me'th,

But nwone at hwome bezide the he'th;

An' zome ha' smiles vor strangers' view;

An' frowns vor kith an' kin to rue;

But her sweet vaïce do vall,

Wi' kindly words to all,

Both big an' small, the whole day drough.

Then, while the bird wi' oben bill

Did warble on, her vaïce wer still;

An' as she stood avore me, bound

In stillness to the flow'ry mound,

"The bird's a jaÿ to zome,"

I thought, "but when he's dum,

Her vaïce will come, wi' sweeter sound."

'Twer when the vo'k wer out to hawl

A vield o' haÿ a day in June,

An' when the zun begun to vall

Toward the west in afternoon,

Woone only wer a-left behind

To bide indoors, at hwome, an' mind

The house, an' answer vo'k avore

The geäte or door,—young Fanny Deäne.

The aïr 'ithin the geärden wall

Wer deadly still, unless the bee

Did hummy by, or in the hall

The clock did ring a-hettèn dree,

An' there, wi' busy hands, inside

The iron ceäsement, oben'd wide,

Did zit an' pull wi' nimble twitch

Her tiny stitch, young Fanny Deäne.

He twold her that he had on hand

Zome business on his father's zide,

But what she didden understand;

An' zoo she ax'd en if he'd ride

Out where her father mid be vound,

Bezide the plow, in Cowslip Ground;

An' there he went, but left his mind

Back there behind, wi' Fanny Deäne.

An' oh! his hwomeward road wer gaÿ

In aïr a-blowèn, whiff by whiff,

While sheenèn water-weäves did plaÿ

An' boughs did swaÿ above the cliff;

Vor Time had now a-show'd en dim

The jaÿ it had in store vor him;

An' when he went thik road ageän

His errand then wer Fanny Deäne.

How strangely things be brought about

By Providence, noo tongue can tell,

She minded house, when vo'k wer out,

An' zoo mus' bid the house farewell;

The bees mid hum, the clock mid call

The lwonesome hours 'ithin the hall,

But in behind the woaken door,

There's now noo mwore a Fanny Deäne.

An' oh! if I could teäme an' guide

The winds above the e'th, an' ride

As light as shootèn stars do glide,

O leänèn lawns ov Allen,

To you I'd teäke my daily flight,

Drough dark'nèn aïr in evenèn's light,

An' bid her every night "Good night,"

O leänèn lawns ov Allen.

Vor good, however good's a-waïgh'd,

'S the lovely maïd ov Elwell Meäd.

An' when your hedges' slooes be blue,

By blackberries o' dark'nèn hue,

An' spiders' webs behung wi' dew,

O leänèn lawns ov Allen

Avore the winter aïr's a-chill'd,

Avore your winter brook's a-vill'd

Avore your zummer flow'rs be kill'd,

O leänèn lawns ov Allen;

I there would meet, in white arraÿ'd,

The lovely maïd ov Elwell Meäd.

Ah! I do think, as I do tread

Theäse path, wi' elems overhead,

A-climèn slowly up vrom Bridge,

By easy steps, to Broadwoak Ridge,

That all theäse roads that we do bruise

Wi' hosses' shoes, or heavy lwoads;

An' hedges' bands, where trees in row

Do rise an' grow aroun' the lands,

Be works that we've a-vound a-wrought

By our vorefathers' ceäre an' thought.

They clear'd the groun' vor grass to teäke

The pleäce that bore the bremble breäke,

An' draïn'd the fen, where water spread,

A-lyèn dead, a beäne to men;

An' built the mill, where still the wheel

Do grind our meal, below the hill;

An' turn'd the bridge, wi' arch a-spread,

Below a road, vor us to tread.

Zoo now mid nwone ov us vorget

The pattern our vorefathers zet;

But each be fäin to underteäke

Some work to meäke vor others' gaïn,

That we mid leäve mwore good to sheäre,

Less ills to bear, less souls to grieve,

An' when our hands do vall to rest,

It mid be vrom a work a-blest.

My days, wi' wold vo'k all but gone,

An' childern now a-comèn on,

Do bring me still my mother's smiles

In light that now do show my chile's;

An' I've a-sheär'd the wold vo'ks' me'th,

Avore the burnèn Chris'mas he'th,

At friendly bwoards, where feäce by feäce,

Did, year by year, gi'e up its pleäce,

An' leäve me here, behind, to tread

The ground a-trod by wold vo'k dead.

But wold things be a-lost vor new,

An' zome do come, while zome do goo:

As wither'd beech-tree leaves do cling

Among the nesh young buds o' Spring;

An' frettèn worms ha' slowly wound,

Droo beams the wold vo'k lifted sound,

An' trees they planted little slips

Ha' stems that noo two eärms can clips;

An' grey an' yollow moss do spread

On buildèns new to wold vo'k dead.

The backs of all our zilv'ry hills,

The brook that still do dreve our mills,

The roads a-climèn up the brows

O' knaps, a-screen'd by meäple boughs,

Wer all a-mark'd in sheäde an' light

Avore our wolder fathers' zight,

In zunny days, a-gied their hands

For happy work, a-tillèn lands,

That now do yield their childern bread

Till they do rest wi' wold vo'k dead.

But livèn vo'k, a-grievèn on,

Wi' lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone,

Do zee their goodness, but do vind

All else a-stealèn out o' mind;

As air do meäke the vurthest land

Look feäirer than the vield at hand,

An' zoo, as time do slowly pass,

So still's a sheäde upon the grass,

Its wid'nèn speäce do slowly shed

A glory roun' the wold vo'k dead.

An' what if good vo'ks' life o' breath

Is zoo a-hallow'd after death,

That they mid only know above,

Their times o' faïth, an' jaÿ, an' love,

While all the evil time ha' brought

'S a-lost vor ever out o' thought;

As all the moon that idden bright,

'S a-lost in darkness out o' zight;

And all the godly life they led

Is glory to the wold vo'k dead.

There's noo pleäce I do like so well,

As Elem Knap in Culver Dell,

Where timber trees, wi' lofty shouds,

Did rise avore the western clouds;

An' stan' ageän, wi' veathery tops,

A-swayèn up in North-Hill Copse.

An' on the east the mornèn broke

Above a dewy grove o' woak:

An' noontide shed its burnèn light

On ashes on the southern height;

An' I could vind zome teäles to tell,

O' former days in Culver Dell.

An' all the vo'k did love so well

The good wold squire o' Culver Dell,

That used to ramble drough the sheädes

O' timber, or the burnèn gleädes,

An' come at evenèn up the leäze

Wi' red-eär'd dogs bezide his knees.

An' hold his gun, a-hangèn drough

His eärmpit, out above his tooe.

Wi' kindly words upon his tongue,

Vor vo'k that met en, wold an' young,

Vor he did know the poor so well

'S the richest vo'k in Culver Dell.

An' while the woäk, wi' spreadèn head,

Did sheäde the foxes' verny bed;

An' runnèn heäres, in zunny gleädes,

Did beät the grasses' quiv'rèn' bleädes;

An' speckled pa'tridges took flight

In stubble vields a-feädèn white;

Or he could zee the pheasant strut

In sheädy woods, wi' païnted cwoat;

Or long-tongued dogs did love to run

Among the leaves, bezide his gun;

We didden want vor call to dwell

At hwome in peace in Culver Dell.

But now I hope his kindly feäce

Is gone to vind a better pleäce;

But still, wi' vo'k a-left behind

He'll always be a-kept in mind,

Vor all his springy-vooted hounds

Ha' done o' trottèn round his grounds,

An' we have all a-left the spot,

To teäke, a-scatter'd, each his lot;

An' even Father, lik' the rest,

Ha' left our long vorseäken nest;

An' we should vind it sad to dwell,

Ageän at hwome in Culver Dell.

The aïry mornèns still mid smite

Our windows wi' their rwosy light,

An' high-zunn'd noons mid dry the dew

On growèn groun' below our shoe;

The blushèn evenèn still mid dye,

Wi' viry red, the western sky;

The zunny spring-time's quicknèn power

Mid come to oben leaf an' flower;

An' days an' tides mid bring us on

Woone pleasure when another's gone.

But we must bid a long farewell

To days an' tides in Culver Dell.

How dear's the door a latch do shut,

An' geärden that a hatch do shut,

Where vu'st our bloomèn cheäks ha' prest

The pillor ov our childhood's rest;

Or where, wi' little tooes, we wore

The paths our fathers trod avore;

Or clim'd the timber's bark aloft,

Below the zingèn lark aloft,

The while we heärd the echo sound

Drough all the ringèn valley round.

A lwonesome grove o' woak did rise,

To screen our house, where smoke did rise,

A-twistèn blue, while yeet the zun

Did langthen on our childhood's fun;

An' there, wi' all the sheäpes an' sounds

O' life, among the timber'd grounds,

The birds upon their boughs did zing,

An' milkmaïds by their cows did zing,

Wi' merry sounds, that softly died,

A-ringèn down the valley zide.

By river banks, wi' reeds a-bound,

An' sheenèn pools, wi' weeds a-bound,

The long-neck'd gander's ruddy bill

To snow-white geese did cackle sh'ill;

An' stridèn peewits heästen'd by,

O' tiptooe wi' their screamèn cry;

An' stalkèn cows a-lowèn loud,

An' struttèn cocks a-crowèn loud,

Did rouse the echoes up to mock

Their mingled sounds by hill an' rock.

The stars that clim'd our skies all dark,

Above our sleepèn eyes all dark,

An' zuns a-rollèn round to bring

The seasons on, vrom Spring to Spring,

Ha' vled, wi' never-restèn flight,

Drough green-bough'd day, an' dark-tree'd night;

Till now our childhood's pleäces there,

Be gaÿ wi' other feäces there,

An' we ourselves do vollow on

Our own vorelivers dead an' gone.

When Pentridge House wer still the nest

O' souls that now ha' better rest,

Avore the viër burnt to ground

His beams an' walls, that then wer sound,

'Ithin a naïl-bestudded door,

An' passage wi' a stwonèn vloor,

There spread the hall, where zun-light shone

In drough a window freäm'd wi' stwone.

A clavy-beam o' sheenèn woak

Did span the he'th wi' twistèn smoke,

Where fleämes did shoot in yollow streaks,

Above the brands, their flashèn peaks;

An' aunt did pull, as she did stand

O'-tip-tooe, wi' her lifted hand,

A curtain feäded wi' the zun,

Avore the window freäm'd wi' stwone.

An' as the seasons, in a ring,

Roll'd slowly roun' vrom Spring to Spring,

An' brought em on zome holy-tide,

When they did cast their tools azide;

How glad it meäde em all to spy

In Stwonylands their friends draw nigh,

As they did know em all by neäme

Out drough the window's stwonèn freäme.

O evenèn zun, a-ridèn drough

The sky, vrom Sh'oton Hill o' blue,

To leäve the night a-broodèn dark

At Stalbridge, wi' its grey-wall'd park;

Small jaÿ to me the vields do bring,

Vor all their zummer birds do zing,

Since now thy beams noo mwore do fleäme

In drough the window's stwonèn freäme.

Oh! aye! the spring 'ithin the leäne,

A-leäden down to Lyddan Brook;

An' still a-nesslèn in his nook,

As weeks do pass, an' moons do weäne.

Nwone the drier,

Nwone the higher,

Nwone the nigher to the door

Where we did live so long avore.

Behind the spring do lie the lands

My father till'd, vrom Spring to Spring,

Awäitèn on vor time to bring

The crops to paÿ his weary hands.

Wheat a-growèn,

Beäns a-blowèn,

Grass vor mowèn, where the bridge

Do leäd to Ryall's on the ridge.

But who do know when liv'd an' died

The squier o' the mwoldrèn hall;

That lined en wi' a stwonèn wall,

An' steän'd so cleän his wat'ry zide?

We behind en,

Now can't vind en,

But do mind en, an' do thank

His meäker vor his little tank.

If theäse day's work an' burnèn sky

'V'a-zent hwome you so tired as I,

Let's zit an' rest 'ithin the screen

O' my wold bow'r upon the green;

Where I do goo myself an' let

The evenèn aiër cool my het,

When dew do wet the grasses bleädes,

A-quiv'rèn in the dusky sheädes.

There yonder poplar trees do plaÿ

Soft music, as their heads do swaÿ,

While wind, a-rustlèn soft or loud,

Do stream ageän their lofty sh'oud;

An' seem to heal the ranklèn zore

My mind do meet wi' out o' door,

When I've a-bore, in downcast mood,

Zome evil where I look'd vor good.

O' they two poplars that do rise

So high avore our naïghbours' eyes,

A-zet by gramfer, hand by hand,

Wi' grammer, in their bit o' land;

The woone upon the western zide

Wer his, an' woone wer grammer's pride,

An' since they died, we all do teäke

Mwore ceäre o'm vor the wold vo'k's seäke.

An' there, wi' stems a-growèn tall

Avore the houses mossy wall,

The while the moon ha' slowly past

The leafy window, they've a-cast

Their sheädes 'ithin the window peäne;

While childern have a-grown to men,

An' then ageän ha' left their beds,

To bear their childern's heavy heads.

An' now ov all the trees wi' sheädes

A-wheelèn round in Blackmwore gleädes,

There's noo tall poplar by the brook,

Nor elem that do rock the rook,

Nor ash upon the shelvèn ledge,

Nor low-bough'd woak bezide the hedge,

Nor withy up above the zedge,

So dear's thik linden on the lawn.

Vor there, o' zummer nights, below

The wall, we zot when aïr did blow,

An' sheäke the dewy rwose a-tied

Up roun' the window's stwonèn zide.

An' while the carter rod' along

A-zingèn, down the dusky drong,

There you did zing a sweeter zong

Below the linden on the lawn.

An' while your warbled ditty wound

Drough plaÿsome flights o' mellow sound,

The nightèngeäle's sh'ill zong, that broke

The stillness ov the dewy woak,

Rung clear along the grove, an' smote

To sudden stillness ev'ry droat;

As we did zit, an' hear it float

Below the linden on the lawn.

But now, as Dobbin, wi' a nod

Vor ev'ry heavy step he trod,

Did bring me on, to-night, avore

The geäbled house's pworchèd door,

Noo laughèn child a-cloth'd in white,

Look'd drough the stwonèn window's light,

An' noo vaïce zung, in dusky night,

Below the linden on the lawn.

An' zoo, if you should ever vind

My kindness seem to grow less kind,

An' if upon my clouded feäce

My smile should yield a frown its pleäce,

Then, Jenny, only laugh an' call

My mind 'ithin the geärden wall,

Where we did plaÿ at even-fall,

Below the linden on the lawn.

Though ice do hang upon the willows

Out bezide the vrozen brook,

An' storms do roar above our pillows,

Drough the night, 'ithin our nook;

Our evenèn he'th's a-glowèn warm,

Drough wringèn vrost, an' roarèn storm,

Though winds mid meäke the wold beams sheäke,

In our abode in Arby Wood.

An' there, though we mid hear the timber

Creake avore the windy raïn;

An' climèn ivy quiver, limber,

Up ageän the window peäne;

Our merry vaïces then do sound,

In rollèn glee, or dree-vaïce round;

Though wind mid roar, 'ithout the door,

Ov our abode in Arby Wood.

'Tis zome vo'ks jaÿ to teäke the road,

An' goo abro'd, a-wand'rèn wide,

Vrom shere to shere, vrom pleäce to pleäce,

The swiftest peäce that vo'k can ride.

But I've a jaÿ 'ithin the door,

Wi' friends avore the vier-zide.

An' zoo, when winter skies do lour,

An' when the Stour's a-rollèn wide,

Drough bridge-voot raïls, a-païnted white,

To be at night the traveller's guide,

Gi'e me a pleäce that's warm an' dry,

A-zittèn nigh my vier-zide.

Vor where do love o' kith an' kin,

At vu'st begin, or grow an' wride,

Till souls a-lov'd so young, be wold,

Though never cwold, drough time nor tide

But where in me'th their gather'd veet

Do often meet—the vier-zide.

If, when a friend ha' left the land,

I shook his hand a-most wet-eyed,

I velt too well the ob'nèn door

Would leäd noo mwore where he did bide

An' where I heärd his vaïces sound,

In me'th around the vier-zide.

As I've a-zeed how vast do vall

The mwold'rèn hall, the wold vo'ks pride,

Where merry hearts wer woonce a-ved

Wi' daily bread, why I've a-sigh'd,

To zee the wall so green wi' mwold,

An' vind so cwold the vier-zide.

An' Chris'mas still mid bring his me'th

To ouer he'th, but if we tried

To gather all that woonce did wear

Gay feäces there! Ah! zome ha' died,

An' zome be gone to leäve wi' gaps

O' missèn laps, the vier-zide.

But come now, bring us in your hand,

A heavy brand o' woak a-dried,

To cheer us wi' his het an' light,

While vrosty night, so starry-skied,

Go gather souls that time do speäre

To zit an' sheäre our vier-zide.

I don't want to sleep abrode, John,

I do like my hwomeward road, John;

An' like the sound o' Knowlwood bells the best.

Zome would rove vrom pleäce to pleäce, John,

Zome would goo from feäce to feäce, John,

But I be happy in my hwomely nest;

An' slight's the hope vor any pleäce bezide,

To leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide.

Where the shelvèn knap do vall, John,

Under trees a-springèn tall, John;

'Tis there my house do show his sheenèn zide,

Wi' his walls vor ever green, John,

Under ivy that's a screen, John,

Vrom wet an' het, an' ev'ry changèn tide,

An' I do little ho vor goold or pride,

To leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide.

There the bendèn stream do flow, John,

By the mossy bridge's bow, John;

An' there the road do wind below the hill;

There the miller, white wi' meal, John,

Deafen'd wi' his foamy wheel, John,

Do stan' o' times a-lookèn out o' mill:

The while 'ithin his lightly-sheäken door.

His wheatèn flour do whitèn all his floor.

When my daily work's a-done, John,

At the zettèn o' the zun, John,

An' I all day 've a-plaÿ'd a good man's peärt,

I do vind my ease a-blest, John,

While my conscience is at rest, John;

An' while noo worm's a-left to fret my heart;

An' who vor finer hwomes o' restless pride,

Would pass the plaïn abode where peace do bide?

By a windor in the west, John,

There upon my fiddle's breast, John,

The strings do sound below my bow's white heäir;

While a zingèn drush do swaÿ, John,

Up an' down upon a spraÿ, John,

An' cast his sheäde upon the window square;

Vor birds do know their friends, an' build their nest,

An' love to roost, where they can live at rest.

Out o' town the win' do bring, John,

Peals o' bells when they do ring, John,

An' roun' me here, at hand, my ear can catch

The maïd a-zingèn by the stream, John,

Or carter whislèn wi' his team, John,

Or zingèn birds, or water at the hatch;

An' zoo wi' sounds o' vaïce, an' bird an' bell,

Noo hour is dull 'ithin our rwosy dell.

An' when the darksome night do hide, John,

Land an' wood on ev'ry zide, John;

An' when the light's a-burnèn on my bwoard,

Then vor pleasures out o' door, John,

I've enough upon my vloor, John:

My Jenny's lovèn deed, an' look, an' word,

An' we be lwoth, lik' culvers zide by zide,

To leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide.

At Woodcombe farm, wi' ground an' tree

Hallow'd by times o' youthvul glee,

At Chris'mas time I spent a night

Wi' feäces dearest to my zight;

An' took my wife to tread, woonce mwore,

Her maïden hwome's vorseäken vloor,

An' under stars that slowly wheel'd

Aloft, above the keen-aïr'd vield,

While night bedimm'd the rus'lèn copse,

An' darken'd all the ridges' tops,

The hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung

Wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young.

There, on the he'th's well-hetted ground,

Hallow'd by times o' zittèn round,

The brimvul mug o' cider stood

An' hiss'd avore the bleäzèn wood;

An' zome, a-zittèn knee by knee,

Did tell their teäles wi' hearty glee,

An' others gamboll'd in a roar

O' laughter on the stwonèn vloor;

An' while the moss o' winter-tide

Clung chilly roun' the house's zide,

The hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung

Wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young.

There, in the geärden's wall-bound square,

Hallow'd by times o' strollèn there,

The winter wind, a-hufflèn loud,

Did swaÿ the pear-tree's leafless sh'oud,

An' beät the bush that woonce did bear

The damask rwose vor Jenny's heäir;

An' there the walk o' peävèn stwone

That burn'd below the zummer zun,

Struck icy-cwold drough shoes a-wore

By maïdens vrom the hetted vloor

In hall, a-hung wi' holm, where rung

Vull many a tongue o' wold an' young.

There at the geäte that woonce wer blue

Hallow'd by times o' passèn drough,

Light strawmotes rose in flaggèn flight,

A-floated by the winds o' night,

Where leafy ivy-stems did crawl

In moonlight on the windblown wall,

An' merry maïdens' vaïces vled

In echoes sh'ill, vrom wall to shed,

As shiv'rèn in their frocks o' white

They come to bid us there "Good night,"

Vrom hall, a-hung wi' holm, that rung

Wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young.

There in the narrow leäne an' drong

Hallow'd by times o' gwaïn along,

The lofty ashes' leafless sh'ouds

Rose dark avore the clear-edged clouds,

The while the moon, at girtest height,

Bespread the pooly brook wi' light,

An' as our child, in loose-limb'd rest,

Lay peäle upon her mother's breast,

Her waxen eyelids seal'd her eyes

Vrom darksome trees, an' sheenèn skies,

An' halls a-hung wi' holm, that rung

Wi' many a tongue, o' wold an' young.

Here, Jeäne, we vu'st did meet below

The leafy boughs, a-swingèn slow,

Avore the zun, wi' evenèn glow,

Above our road, a-beamèn red;

The grass in zwath wer in the meäds,

The water gleam'd among the reeds

In aïr a-steälèn roun' the hall,

Where ivy clung upon the wall.

Ah! well-a-day! O wall adieu!

The wall is wold, my grief is new.

An' there you walk'd wi' blushèn pride,

Where softly-wheelèn streams did glide,

Drough sheädes o' poplars at my zide,

An' there wi' love that still do live,

Your feäce did wear the smile o' youth,

The while you spoke wi' age's truth,

An' wi' a rwosebud's mossy ball,

I deck'd your bosom vrom the wall.

Ah! well-a-day! O wall adieu!

The wall is wold, my grief is new.

But now when winter's raïn do vall,

An' wind do beät ageän the hall,

The while upon the wat'ry wall

In spots o' grey the moss do grow;

The ruf noo mwore shall overspread

The pillor ov our weary head,

Nor shall the rwose's mossy ball

Behang vor you the house's wall.

Ah! well-a-day! O wall adieu!

The wall is wold, my grief is new.

John Bleäke he had a bit o' ground

Come to en by his mother's zide;

An' after that, two hunderd pound

His uncle left en when he died;

"Well now," cried John, "my mind's a-bent

To build a house, an' paÿ noo rent."

An' Meäry gi'ed en her consent.

"Do, do,"—the maïdens cried

"True, true,"—his wife replied.

"Done, done,—a house o' brick or stwone,"

Cried merry Bleäke o' Blackmwore.

Then John he call'd vor men o' skill,

An' builders answer'd to his call;

An' met to reckon, each his bill;

Vor vloor an' window, ruf an' wall.

An' woone did mark it on the groun',

An' woone did think, an' scratch his crown,

An' reckon work, an' write it down:

"Zoo, zoo,"—woone treädesman cried,

"True, true,"—woone mwore replied.

"Aye, aye,—good work, an' have good paÿ,"

Cried merry Bleäke o' Blackmwore.

The work begun, an' trowels rung,

An' up the brickèn wall did rise,

An' up the slantèn refters sprung,

Wi' busy blows, an' lusty cries!

An' woone brought planks to meäke a vloor,

An' woone did come wi' durns or door,

An' woone did zaw, an' woone did bore,

"Brick, brick,—there down below,

Quick, quick,—why b'ye so slow?"

"Lime, lime,—why we do weäste the time,

Vor merry Bleäke o' Blackmwore."

The house wer up vrom groun' to tun,

An' thatch'd ageän the raïny sky,

Wi' windows to the noonday zun,

Where rushy Stour do wander by.

In coo'se he had a pworch to screen

The inside door, when win's wer keen,

An' out avore the pworch, a green.

"Here! here!"—the childern cried:

"Dear! dear!"—the wife replied;

"There, there,—the house is perty feäir,"

Cried merry Bleäke o' Blackmwore.

Then John he ax'd his friends to warm

His house, an' they, a goodish batch,

Did come alwone, or eärm in eärm,

All roads, a-meäkèn vor his hatch:

An' there below the clavy beam

The kettle-spout did zing an' steam;

An' there wer ceäkes, an' tea wi' cream.

"Lo! lo!"—the women cried;

"Ho! ho!"—the men replied;

"Health, health,—attend ye wi' your wealth,

Good merry Bleäke o' Blackmwore."

Then John, a-praïs'd, flung up his crown,

All back a-laughèn in a roar.

They praïs'd his wife, an' she look'd down

A-simperèn towards the vloor.

Then up they sprung a-dancèn reels,

An' up went tooes, an' up went heels,

A-windèn roun' in knots an' wheels.

"Brisk, brisk,"—the maïdens cried;

"Frisk, frisk,"—the men replied;

"Quick, quick,—there wi' your fiddle-stick,"

Cried merry Bleäke o' Blackmwore.

An' when the morrow's zun did sheen,

John Bleäke beheld, wi' jaÿ an' pride,

His brickèn house, an' pworch, an' green,

Above the Stour's rushy zide.

The zwallows left the lwonesome groves,

To build below the thatchèn oves,

An' robins come vor crumbs o' lwoaves:

"Tweet, tweet,"—the birds all cried;

"Sweet, sweet,"—John's wife replied;

"Dad, dad,"—the childern cried so glad,

To merry Bleäke o' Blackmwore.

When crumpled leaves o' Fall do bound

Avore the wind, along the ground,

An' wither'd bennet-stems do stand

A-quiv'rèn on the chilly land;

The while the zun, wi' zettèn rim,

Do leäve the workman's pathway dim;

An' sweet-breath'd childern's hangèn heads

Be laid wi' kisses, on their beds;

Then I do seek my woodland nest,

An' zit bezide my vier at rest,

While night's a-spread, where day's a-vled,

An' lights do shed their beams o' red,

A-sparklèn drough the window.

If winter's whistlèn winds do vreeze

The snow a-gather'd on the trees,

An' sheädes o' poplar stems do vall

In moonlight up athirt the wall;

An' icicles do hang below

The oves, a-glitt'rèn in a row,

An' risèn stars do slowly ride

Above the ruf's upslantèn zide;

Then I do lay my weary head

Asleep upon my peaceful bed,

When middle-night ha' quench'd the light

Ov embers bright, an' candles white

A-beamèn drough the window.