Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect

Now the sheädes o' the elems do stratch mwore an' mwore,

Vrom the low-zinkèn zun in the west o' the sky;

An' the maïdens do stand out in clusters avore

The doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

An' their cwombs be a-zet in their bunches o' heäir,

An' their currels do hang roun' their necks lily-white,

An' their cheäks they be rwosy, their shoulders be beäre,

Their looks they be merry, their limbs they be light.

An' the times have a-been—but they cant be noo mwore—

When I had my jaÿ under evenèn's dim sky,

When my Fanny did stan' out wi' others avore

Her door, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

An' up there, in the green, is her own honey-zuck,

That her brother traïn'd up roun' her window; an' there

Is the rwose an' the jessamy, where she did pluck

A flow'r vor her bosom or bud vor her heäir.

An' zoo smile, happy maïdens! vor every feäce,

As the zummers do come, an' the years do roll by,

Will soon sadden, or goo vur away vrom the pleäce,

Or else, lik' my Fanny, will wither an' die.

But when you be a-lost vrom the parish, zome mwore

Will come on in your pleäzen to bloom an' to die;

An' the zummer will always have maïdens avore

Their doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

Vor daughters ha' mornèn when mothers ha' night,

An' there's beauty alive when the feäirest is dead;

As when woone sparklèn weäve do zink down vrom the light,

Another do come up an' catch it instead.

Zoo smile on, happy maïdens! but I shall noo mwore

Zee the maïd I do miss under evenèn's dim sky;

An' my heart is a-touch'd to zee you out avore

The doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

Oh! I be shepherd o' the farm,

Wi' tinklèn bells an' sheep-dog's bark,

An' wi' my crook a-thirt my eärm,

Here I do rove below the lark.

An' I do bide all day among

The bleäten sheep, an' pitch their vwold;

An' when the evenèn sheädes be long,

Do zee em all a-penn'd an' twold.

An' I do zee the friskèn lam's,

Wi' swingèn taïls an' woolly lags,

A-playèn roun' their veedèn dams

An' pullèn o' their milky bags.

An' I bezide a hawthorn tree,

Do' zit upon the zunny down,

While sheädes o' zummer clouds do vlee

Wi' silent flight along the groun'.

An' there, among the many cries

O' sheep an' lambs, my dog do pass

A zultry hour, wi' blinkèn eyes,

An' nose a-stratch'd upon the grass;

But, in a twinklèn, at my word,

He's all awake, an' up, an' gone

Out roun' the sheep lik' any bird,

To do what he's a-zent upon.

An' I do goo to washèn pool,

A-sousèn over head an' ears,

The shaggy sheep, to cleän their wool

An' meäke em ready vor the sheärs.

An' when the shearèn time do come,

Then we do work vrom dawn till dark;

Where zome do shear the sheep, and zome

An' when the shearèn's all a-done,

Then we do eat, an' drink, an' zing,

In meäster's kitchen till the tun

Wi' merry sounds do sheäke an' ring.

Oh! I be shepherd o' the farm,

Wi' tinklèn bells an' sheep dog's bark,

An' wi' my crook a-thirt my eärm,

Here I do rove below the lark.

Vor when at evenèn I do look

All down theäse hangèn on the brook,

Wi' weäves a-leäpèn clear an' bright,

Where boughs do swaÿ in yollow light;

Noo hills nor hollows, woods nor streams,

A-voun' by daÿ or zeed in dreams,

Can ever seem so fit to be

Good angel's hwomes, though they do gi'e

But païn an' tweil to such as we.

An' when by moonlight darksome sheädes

Do lie in grass wi' dewy bleädes,

An' worold-hushèn night do keep

The proud an' angry vast asleep,

When I can think, as I do rove,

Ov only souls that I do love;

Then who can dream a dream to show,

Or who can think o' moons to drow,

A sweeter light to rove below?

An' after that they went all out

In rank ageän, an' walk'd about,

An' gi'ed zome parish vo'k a call;

An', then went down to Narley Hall

An' had zome beer, an' danc'd between

The elem trees upon the green.

An' down along the road they done

All sorts o' mad-cap things vor fun;

An' danc'd, a-pokèn out their poles,

An' pushèn bwoys down into holes:

An' Sammy Stubbs come out o' rank,

An' kiss'd me up ageän the bank,

A saucy chap; I ha'nt vor'gied en

Not yet,—in short, I han't a-zeed en.

Zoo in the dusk ov evenèn, zome

Went back to drink, an' zome went hwome.

Though time do dreve me on, my mind

Do turn in love to thee behind,

The seäme's a bulrush that's a-shook

By wind a-blowèn up the brook:

The curlèn stream would dreve en down,

But plaÿsome aïr do turn en roun',

An' meäke en seem to bend wi' love

To zunny hollows up above.

Thy tower still do overlook

The woody knaps an' windèn brook,

An' leäne's wi' here an' there a hatch,

An' house wi' elem-sheäded thatch,

An' vields where chaps do vur outdo

The Zunday sky, wi' cwoats o' blue;

An' maïdens' frocks do vur surpass

The whitest deäsies in the grass.

What peals to-day from thy wold tow'r

Do strike upon the zummer flow'r,

As all the club, wi' dousty lags,

Do walk wi' poles an' flappèn flags,

An' wind, to music, roun' between

A zwarm o' vo'k upon the green!

Though time do dreve me on, my mind

Do turn wi' love to thee behind.

When snow-white clouds wer thin an' vew

Avore the zummer sky o' blue,

An' I'd noo ho but how to vind

Zome plaÿ to entertaïn my mind;

Along the water, as did wind

Wi' zedgy shoal an' hollow crook,

How I did ramble by the brook

That ran all down vrom gramfer's.

A-holdèn out my line beyond

The clote-leaves, wi' my withy wand,

How I did watch, wi' eager look,

My zwimmèn cork, a-zunk or shook

By minnows nibblèn at my hook,

A-thinkèn I should catch a breäce

O' perch, or at the leäst some deäce,

A-zwimmèn down vrom gramfer's.

Then ten good deäries wer a-ved

Along that water's windèn bed,

An' in the lewth o' hills an' wood

A half a score farm-housen stood:

But now,—count all o'm how you would,

So many less do hold the land,—

You'd vind but vive that still do stand,

A-comèn down vrom gramfer's.

There, in the midst ov all his land,

The squier's ten-tunn'd house did stand,

Where he did meäke the water clim'

A bank, an' sparkle under dim

Bridge arches, villèn to the brim

His pon', an' leäpèn, white as snow,

Vrom rocks a-glitt'rèn in a bow,

An' runnèn down to gramfer's.

An' now woone wing is all you'd vind

O' thik girt house a-left behind;

An' only woone wold stwonen tun

'S a-stannèn to the raïn an' zun,—

An' all's undone that he'd a-done;

The brook ha' now noo call to staÿ

To vill his pon' or clim' his baÿ,

A-runnèn down to gramfer's.

When woonce, in heavy raïn, the road

At Grenley bridge wer overflow'd,

Poor Sophy White, the pleäces pride,

A-gwaïn vrom market, went to ride

Her pony droo to tother zide;

But vound the strëam so deep an' strong,

That took her off the road along

The hollow down to gramfer's.

'Twer dark, an' she went on too vast

To catch hold any thing she pass'd;

Noo bough hung over to her hand,

An' she could reach noo stwone nor land,

Where woonce her little voot could stand;

Noo ears wer out to hear her cries,

Nor wer she woonce a-zeen by eyes,

Till took up dead at gramfer's.

O when our zun's a-zinkèn low,

How soft's the light his feäce do drow

Upon the backward road our mind

Do turn an' zee a-left behind;

When we, in childhood's days did vind

Our jaÿ among the gil'cup flow'rs,

All drough the zummer's zunny hours;

An' sleep did come wi' the dew.

An' afterwards, when we did zweat

A tweilèn in the zummer het,

An' when our daily work wer done

Did meet to have our evenèn fun:

Till up above the zettèn zun

The sky wer blushèn in the west,

An' we laid down in peace to rest,

An' sleep did come wi' the dew.

Ah! zome do turn—but tidden right—

The night to day, an' day to night;

But we do zee the vu'st red streak

O' mornèn, when the day do break;

Zoo we don't grow up peäle an' weak,

But we do work wi' health an' strength,

Vrom mornèn drough the whole day's length,

An' sleep do come wi' the dew.

An' when, at last, our e'thly light

Is jist a-drawèn in to night,

We mid be sure that God above,

If we be true when he do prove

Our stedvast faïth an' thankvul love,

Wull do vor us what mid be best,

An' teäke us into endless rest,

As sleep do come wi' the dew.

When evenèn is a-drawèn in,

I'll steal vrom others' naïsy din;

An' where the whirlèn brook do roll

Below the walnut-tree, I'll stroll

An' think o' thee wi' all my soul,

Dear Jenny; while the sound o' bells

Do vlee along wi' mwoansome zwells,

Sweet music in the wind!

I'll think how in the rushy leäze

O' zunny evenèns jis' lik' theäse,

In happy times I us'd to zee

Thy comely sheäpe about the tree,

Wi' païl a-held avore thy knee;

An' lissen'd to thy merry zong

That at a distance come along,

Sweet music in the wind!

An' when wi' me you walk'd about

O' Zundays, after church wer out.

Wi' hangèn eärm an' modest look;

Or zittèn in some woody nook

We lissen'd to the leaves that shook

Upon the poplars straïght an' tall,

Or rottle o' the watervall,

Sweet music in the wind!

An' when the plaÿvul aïr do vlee,

O' moonlight nights, vrom tree to tree,

Or whirl upon the sheäkèn grass,

Or rottle at my window glass:

Do seem,—as I do hear it pass,—

As if thy vaïce did come to tell

Me where thy happy soul do dwell,

Sweet music in the wind!

How happy uncle us'd to be

O' zummer time, when aunt an' he

O' Zunday evenèns, eärm in eärm,

Did walk about their tiny farm,

While birds did zing an' gnats did zwarm,

Drough grass a'most above their knees,

An' roun' by hedges an' by trees

Wi' leafy boughs a-swaÿèn.

His hat wer broad, his cwoat wer brown,

Wi' two long flaps a-hangèn down;

An' vrom his knee went down a blue

Knit stockèn to his buckled shoe;

An' aunt did pull her gown-taïl drough

Her pocket-hole, to keep en neat,

As she mid walk, or teäke a seat

By leafy boughs a-zwaÿèn.

An' vu'st they'd goo to zee their lots

O' pot-eärbs in the geärden plots;

An' he, i'-may-be, by the hatch,

Would zee aunt's vowls upon a patch

O' zeeds, an' vow if he could catch

Em wi' his gun, they shoudden vlee

Noo mwore into their roostèn tree,

Wi' leafy boughs a-swaÿèn.

An' then vrom geärden they did pass

Drough orcha'd out to zee the grass,

An' if the apple-blooth, so white,

Mid be at all a-touch'd wi' blight;

An' uncle, happy at the zight,

Did guess what cider there mid be

In all the orcha'd, tree wi' tree,

Wi' tutties all a-swaÿèn.

An' then they stump'd along vrom there

A-vield, to zee the cows an' meäre;

An' she, when uncle come in zight,

Look'd up, an' prick'd her ears upright,

An' whicker'd out wi' all her might;

An' he, a-chucklèn, went to zee

The cows below the sheädy tree,

Wi' leafy boughs a-swaÿen.

In leäne the gipsies, as we went

A-milkèn, had a-pitch'd their tent,

Between the gravel-pit an' clump

O' trees, upon the little hump:

An' while upon the grassy groun'

Their smokèn vire did crack an' bleäze,

Their shaggy-cwoated hoss did greäze

Among the bushes vurder down.

An' zoo, when we brought back our païls,

The woman met us at the raïls,

An' zaid she'd tell us, if we'd show

Our han's, what we should like to know.

Zoo Poll zaid she'd a mind to try

Her skill a bit, if I would vu'st;

Though, to be sure, she didden trust

To gipsies any mwore than I.

Well; I agreed, an' off all dree

O's went behind an elem tree,

An' after she'd a-zeed 'ithin

My han' the wrinkles o' the skin,

She twold me—an' she must a-know'd

That Dicky met me in the leäne,—

That I'd a-walk'd, an' should ageän,

Wi' zomebody along thik road.

An' then she twold me to bewar

O' what the letter M stood vor.

An' as I walk'd, o' Monday night,

Drough Meäd wi' Dicky overright

The Mill, the Miller, at the stile,

Did stan' an' watch us teäke our stroll,

An' then, a blabbèn dousty-poll!

Twold Mother o't. Well wo'th his while!

An' Poll too wer a-bid bewar

O' what the letter F stood vor;

An' then, because she took, at Feäir,

A bosom-pin o' Jimmy Heäre,

Young Franky beät en black an' blue.

'Tis F vor Feäir; an' 'twer about

A Fearèn Frank an' Jimmy foüght,

Zoo I do think she twold us true.

In short, she twold us all about

What had a-vell, or would vall out;

An' whether we should spend our lives

As maïdens, or as wedded wives;

But when we went to bundle on,

The gipsies' dog were at the raïls

A-lappèn milk vrom ouer païls,—

A pretty deäl o' Poll's wer gone.

At last Jeäne come down stairs, a-drest

Wi' weddèn knots upon her breast,

A-blushèn, while a tear did lie

Upon her burnèn cheäk half dry;

An' then her Robert, drawèn nigh

Wi' tothers, took her han' wi' pride,

To meäke her at the church his bride,

Her weddèn day in mornèn.

Wi' litty voot an' beätèn heart

She stepp'd up in the new light cart,

An' took her bridemaïd up to ride

Along wi' Robert at her zide:

An' uncle's meäre look'd roun' wi' pride

To zee that, if the cart wer vull,

'Twer Jenny that he had to pull,

Her weddèn day in mornèn.

An' aunt an' uncle stood stock-still,

An' watch'd em trottèn down the hill;

An' when they turn'd off out o' groun'

Down into leäne, two tears run down

Aunt's feäce; an' uncle, turnèn roun',

Sigh'd woonce, an' stump'd off wi' his stick,

Because did touch en to the quick

To peärt wi' Jeäne thik mornèn.

"Now Jeäne's agone," Tom mutter'd, "we

Shall mwope lik' owls 'ithin a tree;

Vor she did zet us all agog

Vor fun, avore the burnèn log."

An' as he zot an' talk'd, the dog

Put up his nose athirt his thighs,

But coulden meäke en turn his eyes,

Jeäne's weddèn day in mornèn.

An' then the naïghbours round us, all

By woones an' twos begun to call,

To meet the young vo'k, when the meäre

Mid bring em back a married peäir:

An' all o'm zaid, to Robert's sheäre,

There had a-vell the feärest feäce,

An' kindest heart in all the pleäce,

Jeäne's weddèn day in mornèn.

The brook I left below the rank

Ov alders that do sheäde his bank,

A-runnèn down to dreve the mill

Below the knap, 's a runnèn still;

The creepèn days an' weeks do vill

Up years, an' meäke wold things o' new,

An' vok' do come, an' live, an' goo,

But rivers don't gi'e out, John.

The leaves that in the spring do shoot

Zo green, in fall be under voot;

Maÿ flow'rs do grow vor June to burn,

An' milk-white blooth o' trees do kern,

An' ripen on, an' vall in turn;

The miller's moss-green wheel mid rot,

An' he mid die an' be vorgot,

But rivers don't gi'e out, John.

A vew short years do bring an' rear

A maïd—as Jeäne wer—young an' feäir,

An' vewer zummer-ribbons, tied

In Zunday knots, do feäde bezide

Her cheäk avore her bloom ha' died:

Her youth won't staÿ,—her rwosy look

'S a feädèn flow'r, but time's a brook

To run an' not gi'e out, John.

Vorgi'e me, Jenny, do! an' rise

Thy hangèn head an' teary eyes,

An' speak, vor I've a-took in lies,

An' I've a-done thee wrong;

But I wer twold,—an' thought 'twer true,—

That Sammy down at Coome an' you

Wer at the feäir, a-walkèn drough

The pleäce the whole day long.

An' tender thoughts did melt my heart,

An' zwells o' viry pride did dart

Lik' lightnèn drough my blood; a-peärt

Ov your love I should scorn,

An' zoo I vow'd, however sweet

Your looks mid be when we did meet,

I'd trample ye down under veet,

Or let ye goo forlorn.

But still thy neäme would always be

The sweetest, an' my eyes would zee

Among all maïdens nwone lik' thee

Vor ever any mwore;

Zoo by the walks that we've a-took

By flow'ry hedge an' zedgy brook,

Dear Jenny, dry your eyes, an' look

As you've a-look'd avore.

'Tis merry ov a zummer's day,

Where vo'k be out a-meäkèn haÿ;

Where men an' women, in a string,

Do ted or turn the grass, an' zing,

Wi' cheemèn vaïces, merry zongs,

A-tossèn o' their sheenèn prongs

Wi' eärms a-zwangèn left an' right,

In colour'd gowns an' shirtsleeves white;

Or, wider spread, a reäkèn round

The rwosy hedges o' the ground,

Where Sam do zee the speckled sneäke,

An' try to kill en wi' his reäke;

An' Poll do jump about an' squall,

To zee the twistèn slooworm crawl.

'Tis merry where a gaÿ-tongued lot

Ov haÿ-meäkers be all a-squot,

On lightly-russlèn haÿ, a-spread

Below an elem's lofty head,

To rest their weary limbs an' munch

Their bit o' dinner, or their nunch;

Where teethy reäkes do lie all round

By picks a-stuck up into ground.

An' wi' their vittles in their laps,

An' in their hornen cups their draps

O' cider sweet, or frothy eäle,

Their tongues do run wi' joke an' teäle.

An' when the zun, so low an' red,

Do sheen above the leafy head

O' zome broad tree, a-rizèn high

Avore the vi'ry western sky,

'Tis merry where all han's do goo

Athirt the groun', by two an' two,

A-reäkèn, over humps an' hollors,

The russlèn grass up into rollers.

An' woone do row it into line,

An' woone do clwose it up behine;

An' after them the little bwoys

Do stride an' fling their eärms all woys,

Wi' busy picks, an' proud young looks

A-meäkèn up their tiny pooks.

An' zoo 'tis merry out among

The vo'k in haÿ-vield all day long.

'Tis merry ov a zummer's day,

When vo'k be out a-haulèn haÿ,

Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground,

Do meäke the staddle big an' round;

An' grass do stand in pook, or lie

In long-back'd weäles or parsels, dry.

There I do vind it stir my heart

To hear the frothèn hosses snort,

A-haulèn on, wi' sleek heäir'd hides,

The red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides.

Aye; let me have woone cup o' drink,

An' hear the linky harness clink,

An' then my blood do run so warm,

An' put sich strangth 'ithin my eärm,

That I do long to toss a pick,

A-pitchèn or a-meäkèn rick.

The bwoy is at the hosse's head,

An' up upon the waggon bed

The lwoaders, strong o' eärm do stan',

At head, an' back at taïl, a man,

Wi' skill to build the lwoad upright

An' bind the vwolded corners tight;

An' at each zide ō'm, sprack an' strong,

A pitcher wi' his long-stem'd prong,

Avore the best two women now

A-call'd to reäky after plough.

When I do pitchy, 'tis my pride

Vor Jenny Hine to reäke my zide,

An' zee her fling her reäke, an' reach

So vur, an' teäke in sich a streech;

An' I don't shatter haÿ, an' meäke

Mwore work than needs vor Jenny's reäke.

I'd sooner zee the weäles' high rows

Lik' hedges up above my nose,

Than have light work myzelf, an' vind

Poor Jeäne a-beät an' left behind;

Vor she would sooner drop down dead.

Than let the pitchers get a-head.

'Tis merry at the rick to zee

How picks do wag, an' haÿ do vlee.

While woone's unlwoadèn, woone do teäke

The pitches in; an' zome do meäke

The lofty rick upright an' roun',

An' tread en hard, an' reäke en down,

An' tip en, when the zun do zet,

To shoot a sudden vall o' wet.

An' zoo 'tis merry any day

Where vo'k be out a-carrèn hay.