A-swaÿèn slow, the poplar's head,

Above the slopèn thatch did ply,

The while the midnight moon did shed

His light below the spangled sky.

An' there the road did reach avore

The hatch, all vootless down the hill;

An' hands, a-tired by day, wer still,

Wi' moonlight on the door.

Though till the dawn, where night's a-meäde

The day, the laughèn crowds be gaÿ,

Let evenèn zink wi' quiet sheäde,

Where I do hold my little swaÿ.

An' childern dear to my heart's core,

A-sleep wi' little heavèn breast,

That pank'd by day in plaÿ, do rest

Wi' moonlight on the door.

But still 'tis good, woonce now an' then

To rove where moonlight on the land

Do show in vaïn, vor heedless men,

The road, the vield, the work in hand.

When curtains be a-hung avore

The glitt'rèn windows, snowy white,

An' vine-leaf sheädes do sheäke in light

O' moonlight on the door.

As in the cool-aïr'd road I come by,

—in the night,

Under the moon-clim'd height o' the sky,

—in the night,

There by the lime's broad lim's as I staÿ'd,

Dark in the moonlight, bough's sheädows plaÿ'd

Up on the window-glass that did keep

Lew vrom the wind, my true love asleep,

—in the night.

"Zee how the winds, while here by the bough,

—in the night,

They do pass on, don't smite on her brow,

—in the night;

Zee how the cloud-sheädes naïseless do zweep

Over the house-top where she's asleep.

You, too, goo by, in times that be near,

You too, as I, mid speak in her ear

—in the night."

An' while below the mossy wheel

All day the foamèn stream did roar,

An' up in mill the floatèn meal

Did pitch upon the sheäkèn vloor.

We then could vind but vew han's still,

Or veet a-restèn off the ground,

An' seldom hear the merry sound

O' geämes a-play'd at Leeburn Mill.

But when they let the stream goo free,

Bezide the drippèn wheel at rest,

An' leaves upon the poplar-tree

Wer dark avore the glowèn west;

An' when the clock, a-ringèn sh'ill,

Did slowly beät zome evenèn hour,

Oh! then 'ithin the leafy bow'r

Our tongues did run at Leeburn Mill.

An' when November's win' did blow,

Wi' hufflèn storms along the plaïn,

An' blacken'd leaves did lie below

The neäked tree, a-zoak'd wi' raïn,

I werden at a loss to vill

The darkest hour o' raïny skies,

If I did vind avore my eyes

The feäces down at Leeburn Mill.

If you in Do'set be a-roamèn,

An' ha' business at a farm,

Then woont ye zee your eäle a-foamèn!

Or your cider down to warm?

Woont ye have brown bread a-put ye,

An' some vinny cheese a-cut ye?

Butter?—rolls o't!

Cream?—why bowls o't!

Woont ye have, in short, your vill,

A-gi'ed wi' a right good will?

Friend an' wife,

Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers.

Happy, happy, be their life!

Vor Do'set dear,

Then gi'e woone cheer;

D'ye hear? woone cheer!

If you do zee our good men travel,

Down a-voot, or on their meäres,

Along the windèn leänes o' gravel,

To the markets or the feäirs,—

Though their ho'ses cwoats be ragged,

Though the men be muddy-laggèd,

Be they roughish,

Be they gruffish,

They be sound, an' they will stand

By what is right wi' heart an' hand.

Friend an' wife,

Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers,

Happy, happy, be their life!

Vor Do'set dear,

Then gi'e woone cheer;

D'ye hear? woone cheer!

O! Meäry, when the zun went down,

Woone night in Spring, wi' vi'ry rim,

Behind thik nap wi' woody crown,

An' left your smilèn feäce so dim;

Your little sister there, inside,

Wi' bellows on her little knee,

Did blow the vier, a-glearèn wide

Drough window-peänes, that I could zee,—

As you did stan' wi' me, avore

The house, a-peärten,—woone smile mwore.

The chatt'rèn birds, a-risèn high,

An' zinkèn low, did swiftly vlee

Vrom shrinkèn moss, a-growèn dry,

Upon the leänèn apple tree.

An' there the dog, a-whippèn wide

His heäiry taïl, an' comèn near,

Did fondly lay ageän your zide

His coal-black nose an' russet ear:

To win what I'd a-won avore,

Vrom your gaÿ feäce, his woone smile mwore.

Now you that wer the daughter there,

Be mother on a husband's vloor,

An' mid ye meet wi' less o' ceäre

Than what your hearty mother bore;

An' if abroad I have to rue

The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed,

Mid I come hwome to sheäre wi' you

What's needvul free o' pinchèn need:

An' vind that you ha' still in store,

My evenèn meal, an' woone smile mwore.

About the tow'r an' churchyard wall,

Out nearly overright our door,

A tongue ov wind did always call

Whatever we did call avore.

The vaïce did mock our neämes, our cheers,

Our merry laughs, our hands' loud claps,

An' mother's call "Come, come, my dears"

—my dears;

Or "Do as I do bid, bad chaps"

—bad chaps.

The night when little Anne, that died,

Begun to zickèn, back in Maÿ,

An' she, at dusk ov evenèn-tide,

Wer out wi' others at their plaÿ,

Within the churchyard that do keep

Her little bed, the vaïce o' thin

Dark aïr, mock'd mother's call "To sleep"

—to sleep;

"'Tis bed time now, my love, come in"

—come in.

An' when our Jeäne come out so smart

A-married, an' we help'd her in

To Henry's newly-païnted cart,

The while the wheels begun to spin,

An' her gaÿ nods, vor all she smil'd,

Did sheäke a tear-drop vrom each eye,

The vaïce mock'd mother's call, "Dear child"

—dear child;

"God bless ye evermwore; good bye"

—good bye.

A young-cheäk'd mother's tears mid vall,

When woone a-lost, not half man-tall,

Vrom little hand, a-called vrom plaÿ,

Do leäve noo tool, but drop a taÿ,

An' die avore he's father-free

To sheäpe his life by his own plan;

An' vull an angel he shall be,

But here on e'th not vull a man,

No; I could boast if others can,

I'm vull a man.

I woonce, a child, wer father-fed,

An' I've a vound my childern bread;

My eärm, a sister's trusty crook,

Is now a faïthvul wife's own hook;

An' I've a-gone where vo'k did zend,

An' gone upon my own free mind,

An' of'en at my own wits' end.

A-led o' God while I wer blind.

No; I could boast if others can

I'm vull a man.

O jaÿ betide the dear wold mill,

My naïghbour plaÿmeätes' happy hwome,

Wi' rollèn wheel, an' leäpèn foam,

Below the overhangèn hill,

Where, wide an' slow,

The stream did flow,

An' flags did grow, an' lightly vlee

Below the grey-leav'd withy tree,

While clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,

Wi' whirlèn stwone, an' streamèn flour,

Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.

An' there in geämes by evenèn skies,

When Meäry zot her down to rest,

The broach upon her pankèn breast,

Did quickly vall an' lightly rise,

While swans did zwim

In steätely trim.

An' swifts did skim the water, bright

Wi' whirlèn froth, in western light;

An' clack, clack, clack, that happy hour,

Wi' whirlèn stwone, an' streamèn flour,

Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.

But should I vind a-heavèn now

Her breast wi' aïr o' thik dear pleäce?

Or zee dark locks by such a brow,

Or het o' plaÿ on such a feäce?

No! She's now staïd,

An' where she plaÿ'd,

There's noo such maïd that now ha' took

The pleäce that she ha' long vorsook,

Though clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,

Wi' whirlèn stwone an' streamèn flour,

Do goo the mill by cloty Stour.

An' still the pulley rwope do heist

The wheat vrom red-wheeled waggon beds.

An' ho'ses there wi' lwoads of grist,

Do stand an' toss their heavy heads;

But on the vloor,

Or at the door,

Do show noo mwore the kindly feäce

Her father show'd about the pleäce,

As clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,

Wi' whirlèn stwone, an' streamèn flour,

Did goo his mill by cloty Stour.

An' on the cowslip-knap at Creech,

Below the grove o' steätely beech,

I heärd two tow'rs a-cheemèn clear,

Vrom woone I went, to woone drew near,

As they did call, by flow'ry ground,

The bright-shod veet vrom housen round,

A-drownèn wi' their holy call,

The goocoo an' the water-vall.

Die off, O bells o' my dear pleäce,

Ring out, O bells avore my feäce,

Vull sweet your zwells, O ding-dong bells.

Ah! then vor things that time did bring

My kinsvo'k, Lea had bells to ring;

An' then, ageän, vor what bevell

My wife's, why Noke church had a bell;

But soon wi' hopevul lives a-bound

In woone, we had woone tower's sound,

Vor our high jaÿs all vive bells rung

Our losses had woone iron tongue.

Oh! ring all round, an' never mwoän

So deep an' slow woone bell alwone,

Vor sweet your swells o' vive clear bells.

When sycamore leaves wer a-spreadèn,

Green-ruddy, in hedges,

Bezide the red doust o' the ridges,

A-dried at Woak Hill;

I packed up my goods all a-sheenèn

Wi' long years o' handlèn,

On dousty red wheels ov a waggon,

To ride at Woak Hill.

The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellèn,

I then wer a-leävèn,

Had shelter'd the sleek head o' Meäry,

My bride at Woak Hill.

But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall

'S a-lost vrom the vloorèn.

Too soon vor my jaÿ an' my childern,

She died at Woak Hill.

But still I do think that, in soul,

She do hover about us;

To ho vor her motherless childern,

Her pride at Woak Hill.

Zoo—lest she should tell me hereafter

I stole off 'ithout her,

An' left her, uncall'd at house-riddèn,

To bide at Woak Hill—

I call'd her so fondly, wi' lippèns

All soundless to others,

An' took her wi' aïr-reachèn hand,

To my zide at Woak Hill.

On the road I did look round, a-talkèn

To light at my shoulder,

An' then led her in at the door-way,

Miles wide vrom Woak Hill.

An' that's why vo'k thought, vor a season,

My mind wer a-wandrèn

Wi' sorrow, when I wer so sorely

A-tried at Woak Hill.

But no; that my Meäry mid never

Behold herzelf slighted,

I wanted to think that I guided

My guide vrom Woak Hill.

Upon the hedge theäse bank did bear,

Wi' lwonesome thought untwold in words,

I woonce did work, wi' noo sound there

But my own strokes, an' chirpèn birds;

As down the west the zun went wan,

An' days brought on our Zunday's rest,

When sounds o' cheemèn bells did vill

The aïr, an' hook an' axe wer stïll.

Along the wold town-path vo'k went,

An' met unknown, or friend wi' friend,

The maïd her busy mother zent,

The mother wi' noo maïd to zend;

An' in the light the gleäzier's glass,

As he did pass, wer dazzlèn bright,

Or woone went by wï' down-cast head,

A wrapp'd in blackness vor the dead.

An' then the bank, wi' risèn back,

That's now a-most a-troddèn down,

Bore thorns wi' rind o' sheeny black,

An' meäple stems o' ribby brown;

An' in the lewth o' theäse tree heads,

Wer primrwose beds a-sprung in blooth,

An' here a geäte, a-slammèn to,

Did let the slow-wheel'd plough roll drough.

Ov all that then went by, but vew

Be now a-left behine', to beät

The mornèn flow'rs or evenèn dew,

Or slam the woakèn vive-bar'd geäte;

But woone, my wife, so litty-stepp'd,

That have a-kept my path o' life,

Wi' her vew errands on the road,

Where woonce she bore her mother's lwoad.

My love is the maïd ov all maïdens,

Though all mid be comely,

Her skin's lik' the jessamy blossom

A-spread in the Spring.

Her smile is so sweet as a beäby's

Young smile on his mother,

Her eyes be as bright as the dew drop

A-shed in the Spring.

O grey-leafy pinks o' the geärden,

Now bear her sweet blossoms;

Now deck wi' a rwose-bud, O briar.

Her head in the Spring.

O light-rollèn wind blow me hither,

The väice ov her talkèn,

Or bring vrom her veet the light doust,

She do tread in the Spring.

O zun, meäke the gil'cups all glitter,

In goold all around her;

An' meäke o' the deäisys' white flowers

A bed in the Spring.

O whissle gaÿ birds, up bezide her,

In drong-waÿ, an' woodlands,

O zing, swingèn lark, now the clouds,

Be a-vled in the Spring.

An' who, you mid ax, be my praïses

A-meäkèn so much o',

An' oh! 'tis the maïd I'm a-hopèn

To wed in the Spring.

Last night below the elem in the lew

Bright the sky did gleam

On water blue, while aïr did softly blow

On the flowèn stream,

An' there wer gil'cups' buds untwold,

An' deäisies that begun to vwold

Their low-stemm'd blossoms vrom my zight

Ageän the night, an' evenèn's cwold.

But when the zun arose, an' lik' a rwose

Shone the mornèn sky;

An' roun' the woak, the wind a-blowèn weak,

Softly whiver'd by.

Though drown'd wer still the deaïsy bed

Below the flood, its feäce instead

O' flow'ry grown', below our shoes

Show'd feäirest views o' skies o'er head.

An' zoo to try if all our faïth is true

Jaÿ mid end in tears,

An' hope, woonce feäir, mid saddèn into fear,

Here in e'thly years.

But He that tried our soul do know

To meäke us good amends, an' show

Instead o' things a-took awaÿ,

Some higher jaÿ that He'll bestow.

As clouds did ride wi' heästy flight.

An' woods did swäy upon the height,

An' bleädes o' grass did sheäke, below

The hedge-row bremble's swingèn bow,

I come back hwome where winds did zwell,

In whirls along the woody gleädes,

On primrwose beds, in windy sheädes,

To Burnley's dark-tree'd dell.

There hills do screen the timber's bough,

The trees do screen the leäze's brow,

The timber-sheäded leäze do bear

A beäten path that we do wear.

The path do stripe the leäze's zide,

To willows at the river's edge.

Where hufflèn winds did sheäke the zedge

An' sparklèn weäves did glide.

An' where the river, bend by bend,

Do dräin our meäd, an' mark its end,

The hangèn leäze do teäke our cows,

An' trees do sheäde em wi' their boughs,

An' I the quicker beät the road,

To zee a-comèn into view,

Still greener vrom the sky-line's blue,

Wold Burnley our abode.

"The zunny copse ha' birds to zing,

The leäze ha' cows to low,

The elem trees ha' rooks on wing,

The meäds a brook to flow,

But I can walk noo mwore, to pass

The drashel out abrode,

To wear a path in theäse year's grass

Or tread the wheelworn road,"

Cried Grammer, "then adieu,

O runnèn brooks,

An' vleèn rooks,

I can't come out to you.

If 'tis God's will, why then 'tis well,

That I should bide 'ithin a wall."

An' then the childern, wild wi' fun,

An' loud wi' jaÿvul sounds,

Sprung in an' cried, "We had a run,

A-plaÿèn heäre an' hounds;

But oh! the cowslips where we stopt

In Maÿcreech, on the knap!"

An' vrom their little han's each dropt

Some cowslips in her lap.

Cried Grammer, "Only zee!

I can't teäke strolls,

An' little souls

Would bring the vields to me.

Since 'tis God's will, an' mus' be well

That I should bide 'ithin a wall."

"Oh! there be prison walls to hold

The han's o' lawless crimes,

An' there be walls arear'd vor wold

An' zick in tryèn times;

But oh! though low mid slant my ruf,

Though hard my lot mid be,

Though dry mid come my daily lwoaf,

Mid mercy leäve me free!"

Cried Grammer, "Or adieu

To jaÿ; O grounds,

An' bird's gaÿ sounds

If I mus' gi'e up you,

Although 'tis well, in God's good will,

That I should bide 'ithin a wall."

A happy day at Whitsuntide,

As soon's the zun begun to vall,

We all stroll'd up the steep hill-zide

To Meldon, girt an' small;

Out where the castle wall stood high

A-mwoldrèn to the zunny sky.

An' there wi' Jenny took a stroll

Her youngest sister, Poll, so gaÿ,

Bezide John Hind, ah! merry soul,

An' mid her wedlock faÿ;

An' at our zides did play an' run

My little maïd an' smaller son.

Above the beäten mwold upsprung

The driven doust, a-spreadën light,

An' on the new-leav'd thorn, a-hung,

Wer wool a-quiv'rèn white;

An' corn, a sheenèn bright, did bow,

On slopèn Meldon's zunny brow.

My bwoy did watch the daws' bright wings

A-flappèn vrom their ivy bow'rs;

My wife did watch my maïd's light springs,

Out here an' there vor flow'rs;

And John did zee noo tow'rs, the pleäce

Vor him had only Polly's feäce.

An' there, of all that pried about

The walls, I overlook'd em best,

An' what o' that? Why, I meäde out

Noo mwore than all the rest:

That there wer woonce the nest of zome

That wer a-gone avore we come.

When woonce above the tun the smoke

Did wreathy blue among the trees,

An' down below, the livèn vo'k,

Did tweil as brisk as bees;

Or zit wi' weary knees, the while

The sky wer lightless to their tweil.