Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect

At the feäst, I do mind very well, all the vo'ks

Wer a-took in a happerèn storm,

But we chaps took the maïdens, an' kept em wi' clokes

Under shelter, all dry an' all warm;

An' to my lot vell Jeäne, that's my bride,

That did titter, a-hung at my zide;

Zaid her aunt, "Why the vo'k 'ull talk finely o' you,"

An', cried she, "I don't ceäre if they do."

When the time o' the feäst wer ageän a-come round,

An' the vo'k wer a-gather'd woonce mwore,

Why she guess'd if she went there, she'd soon be a-vound

An' a-took seäfely hwome to her door.

Zaid her mother, "'Tis sure to be wet."

Zaid her cousin, "'T'ull raïn by zunzet."

Zaid her aunt, "Why the clouds there do look black an' blue,"

An' zaid she, "I don't ceäre if they do."

An' at last, when she own'd I mid meäke her my bride,

Vor to help me, an' sheäre all my lot,

An' wi' faïthvulness keep all her life at my zide,

Though my waÿ mid be happy or not.

Zaid her naïghbours, "Why wedlock's a clog,

An' a wife's a-tied up lik' a dog."

Zaid her aunt, "You'll vind trials enough vor to rue,"

An', zaid she, "I don't ceäre if I do."

Now she's married, an' still in the midst ov her tweils

She's as happy's the daylight is long,

She do goo out abroad wi' her feäce vull o' smiles,

An' do work in the house wi' a zong.

An', zays woone, "She don't grieve, you can tell."

Zays another, "Why, don't she look well!"

Zays her aunt, "Why the young vo'k do envy you two,"

An', zays she, "I don't ceäre if they do."

Now vor me I can zing in my business abrode,

Though the storm do beät down on my poll,

There's a wife-brighten'd vier at the end o' my road,

An' her love vor the jaÿ o' my soul.

Out o' door I wi' rogues mid be tried:

Out o' door be brow-beäten wi' pride;

Men mid scowl out o' door, if my wife is but true—

Let em scowl, "I don't ceäre if they do."

By time's a-brought the mornèn light,

By time the light do weäne;

By time's a-brought the young man's might,

By time his might do weäne;

The Winter snow do whitèn grass,

The zummer flow'rs do brightèn grass,

Vor zome things we do lose wi' païn,

We've mwore that mid be jaÿ to gaïn,

An' my dear life do seem the seäme

While at my zide

There still do bide

Your welcome feäce an' hwomely neäme.

Wï' ev'ry day that woonce come on

I had to choose a jaÿ,

Wi' many that be since a-gone

I had to lose a jaÿ.

Drough longsome years a-wanderèn,

Drough lwonesome rest a-ponderèn,

Woone peaceful daytime wer a-bro't

To heal the heart another smote;

But my dear life do seem the seäme

While I can hear,

A-soundèn near,

Your answ'rèn vaïce an' long-call'd neäme.

When weakness now do strive wi' might

In struggles ov an e'thly trial,

Might mid overcome the right,

An' truth be turn'd by might's denial;

Withstanders we ha' mwost to feär,

If selfishness do wring us here,

Be souls a-holdèn in their hand,

The might an' riches o' the land.

But when the wicked, now so strong,

Shall stan' vor judgment, peäle as ashes,

By the souls that rued their wrong,

Wi' tears a-hangèn on their lashes—

Then wïthstanders they shall deäre

The leäst ov all to meet wi' there,

Mid be the helpless souls that now

Below their wrongvul might mid bow.

Sweet childern o' the dead, bereft

Ov all their goods by guile an' forgèn;

Souls o' driven sleäves that left

Their weäry limbs a-mark'd by scourgèn;

They that God ha' call'd to die

Vor truth ageän the worold's lie,

An' they that groan'd an' cried in vaïn,

A-bound by foes' unrighteous chaïn.

The maïd that selfish craft led on

To sin, an' left wi' hope a-blighted;

Starvèn workmen, thin an' wan,

Wi' hopeless leäbour ill requited;

Souls a-wrong'd, an' call'd to vill

Wi' dread, the men that us'd em ill.

When might shall yield to right as pliant

As a dwarf avore a giant.

When there, at last, the good shall glow

In starbright bodies lik' their Seäviour,

Vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show,

The marks o' man's unkind beheäviour:

Wi' speechless tongue, an' burnèn cheak,

The strong shall bow avore the weäk,

An' vind that helplessness, wi' right,

Is strong beyond all e'thly might.

Dan Dwithen wer the chap to show

His naïghbours mwore than they did know,

Vor he could zee, wi' half a thought,

What zome could hardly be a-taught;

An' he had never any doubt

Whatever 'twer, but he did know't,

An' had a-reach'd the bottom o't,

Or soon could meäke it out.

Wi' narrow feäce, an' nose so thin

That light a'most shone drough the skin,

As he did talk, wi' his red peäir

O' lips, an' his vull eyes did steäre,

What nippy looks friend Daniel wore,

An' how he smiled as he did bring

Such reasons vor to clear a thing,

As dather'd vo'k the mwore!

When woonce there come along the road

At night, zome show-vo'k, wi' a lwoad

Ov half the wild outlandïsh things

That crawl'd, or went wi' veet, or wings;

Their elephant, to stratch his knees,

Walk'd up the road-zide turf, an' left

His tracks a-zunk wi' all his heft

As big's a vinny cheese.

An' zoo next mornèn zome vo'k vound

The girt round tracks upon the ground,

An' view'd em all wi' stedvast eyes,

An' wi' their vingers spann'd their size,

An' took their depth below the brink:

An' whether they mid be the tracks

O' things wi' witches on their backs,

Or what, they coulden think.

At last friend Dan come up, an' brought

His wit to help their dizzy thought,

An' lookèn on an' off the ea'th,

He cried, a-drawèn a vull breath,

Why, I do know; what, can't ye zee 't?

I'll bet a shillèn 'twer a deer

Broke out o' park, an' sprung on here,

Wi' quoits upon his veet.

My hwome wer on the timber'd ground

O' Duncombe, wi' the hills a-bound:

Where vew from other peärts did come,

An' vew did travel vur from hwome,

An' small the worold I did know;

But then, what had it to bestow

But Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir?

'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

In our deep hollow where the zun

Did eärly leäve the smoky tun,

An' all the meäds a-growèn dim,

Below the hill wi' zunny rim;

Oh! small the land the hills did bound,

But there did walk upon the ground

Young Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir:

'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

An' I've a house wi' thatchen ridge,

Below the elems by the bridge:

Wi' small-peän'd windows, that do look

Upon a knap, an' ramblèn brook;

An' small's my house, my ruf is low,

But then who mid it have to show

But Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir?

'Tis fine enough if peace is there.

I do mind when there broke bitter tidèns,

Woone day, on their ears,

An' their souls wer a-smote wi' a stroke

As the lightnèn do vall on the woak,

An' the things that wer bright all around em

Seem'd dim drough their tears.

Then unheeded wer things in their vingers,

Their grief wer their all.

All unheeded wer zongs o' the birds,

All unheeded the child's perty words,

All unheeded the kitten a-rollèn

The white-threaded ball.

Oh! vor their minds the daylight around em

Had nothèn to show.

Though it brighten'd their tears as they vell,

An' did sheen on their lips that did tell,

In their vaïces all thrillèn an' mwoansome,

O' nothèn but woe.

But they vound that, by Heavenly mercy,

The news werden true;

An' they shook, wi' low laughter, as quick

As a drum when his blows do vall thick,

An' wer eärnest in words o' thanksgivèn,

Vor mercies anew.

Ah! sad wer we as we did peäce

The wold church road, wi' downcast feäce,

The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep

Above our child a-left asleep,

Wer now a-zingèn all alive

Wi' tother bells to meäke the vive.

But up at woone pleäce we come by,

'Twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry:

On Steän-cliff road, 'ithin the drong,

Up where, as vo'k do pass along,

The turnèn stile, a-païnted white,

Do sheen by day an' show by night.

Vor always there, as we did goo

To church, thik stile did let us drough,

Wi' spreadèn eärms that wheel'd to guide

Us each in turn to tother zide.

An' vu'st ov all the traïn he took

My wife, wi' winsome gaït an' look;

An' then zent on my little maïd,

A-skippèn onward, overjaÿ'd

To reach ageän the pleäce o' pride,

Her comely mother's left han' zide.

An' then, a-wheelèn roun', he took

On me, 'ithin his third white nook.

An' in the fourth, a-sheäkèn wild,

He zent us on our giddy child.

But eesterday he guided slow

My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe,

An' then my little maïd in black,

A-walkèn softly on her track;

An' after he'd a-turn'd ageän,

To let me goo along the leäne,

He had noo little bwoy to vill

His last white eärms, an' they stood still.

'Twer good what Meäster Collins spoke

O' spite to two poor spitevul vo'k,

When woone twold tother o' the two

"I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."

If soul to soul, as Christians should,

Would always try to do zome good,

"How vew," he cried, "would zee our feäce

A-brighten'd up wi' smiles o' greäce,

An' tell us, or could tell us true,

I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."

A man mus' be in evil ceäse

To live 'ithin a land o' greäce,

Wi' nothèn that a soul can read

O' goodness in his word or deed;

To still a breast a-heav'd wi' sighs,

Or dry the tears o' weepèn eyes;

To staÿ a vist that spite ha' wrung,

Or cool the het ov anger's tongue:

Or bless, or help, or gi'e, or lend;

Or to the friendless stand a friend,

An' zoo that all could tell en true,

"I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."

Oh! no, mid all o's try to spend

Our passèn time to zome good end,

An' zoo vrom day to day teäke heed,

By mind, an' han', by word or deed;

To lessen evil, and increase

The growth o' righteousness an' peäce,

A-speakèn words o' lovèn-kindness,

Openèn the eyes o' blindness;

Helpèn helpless striver's weakness,

Cheerèn hopeless grievers' meekness,

Meäkèn friends at every meetèn,

Veel the happier vor their greetèn;

Zoo that vew could tell us true,

"I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."

No, let us even try to win

Zome little good vrom sons o' sin,

An' let their evils warn us back

Vrom teäkèn on their hopeless track,

Where we mid zee so clear's the zun

That harm a-done is harm a-won,

An' we mid cry an' tell em true,

"I be even the better vor zeèn o' you."

John Bloom he wer a jolly soul,

A grinder o' the best o' meal,

Bezide a river that did roll,

Vrom week to week, to push his wheel.

His flour wer all a-meäde o' wheat;

An' fit for bread that vo'k mid eat;

Vor he would starve avore he'd cheat.

"'Tis pure," woone woman cried;

"Aye, sure," woone mwore replied;

"You'll vind it nice. Buy woonce, buy twice,"

Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

Athirt the chest he wer so wide

As two or dree ov me or you.

An' wider still vrom zide to zide,

An' I do think still thicker drough.

Vall down, he coulden, he did lie

When he wer up on-zide so high

As up on-end or perty nigh.

"Meäke room," woone naïghbour cried;

"'Tis Bloom," woone mwore replied;

"Good morn t'ye all, bwoth girt an' small,"

Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

When Lon'on vok did meäke a show

O' their girt glassen house woone year,

An' people went, bwoth high an' low,

To zee the zight, vrom vur an' near,

"O well," cried Bloom, "why I've a right

So well's the rest to zee the zight;

I'll goo, an' teäke the raïl outright."

"Your feäre," the booker cried;

"There, there," good Bloom replied;

"Why this June het do meäke woone zweat,"

Cried worthy Bloom the miller,

Then up the guard did whissle sh'ill,

An' then the engine pank'd a-blast,

An' rottled on so loud's a mill,

Avore the traïn, vrom slow to vast.

An' oh! at last how they did spank

By cuttèn deep, an' high-cast bank

The while their iron ho'se did pank.

"Do whizzy," woone o'm cried;

"I'm dizzy," woone replied;

"Aye, here's the road to hawl a lwoad,"

Cried worthy Bloom the miller.