You noggerhead! last year thou meäd'st a rick,
An' then we had to trig en wi' a stick.
An' what did John that tipp'd en zay? Why zaid
He stood a-top o'en all the while in dread,
A-thinkèn that avore he should a-done en
He'd tumble over slap wi' him upon en.
SAM.
You yoppèn dog! I warnt I meäde my rick
So well's thou meäd'st thy lwoad o' haÿ last week.
They hadden got a hundred yards to haul en,
An' then they vound 'twer best to have en boun',
Vor if they hadden, 'twould a-tumbl'd down;
An' after that I zeed en all but vallèn,
An' trigg'd en up wi' woone o'm's pitchèn pick,
To zee if I could meäke en ride to rick;
An' when they had the dumpy heap unboun',
He vell to pieces flat upon the groun'.
BOB.
Do shut thy lyèn chops! What dosten mind
Thy pitchèn to me out in Gully-plot,
A-meäkèn o' me waït (wast zoo behind)
A half an hour vor ev'ry pitch I got?
An' how didst groun' thy pick? an' how didst quirk
To get en up on end? Why hadst hard work
To rise a pitch that wer about so big
'S a goodish crow's nest, or a wold man's wig!
Why bist so weak, dost know, as any roller:
Zome o' the women vo'k will beät thee hollor.
SAM.
You snub-nos'd flopperchops! I pitch'd so quick,
That thou dost know thou hadst a hardish job
To teäke in all the pitches off my pick;
An' dissèn zee me groun' en, nother, Bob.
An' thou bist stronger, thou dost think, than I?
Girt bandy-lags! I jist should like to try.
We'll goo, if thou dost like, an' jist zee which
Can heave the mwost, or car the biggest nitch.
BOB.
There, Sam, do meäke me zick to hear thy braggèn!
Why bissen strong enough to car a flagon.
SAM.
You grinnèn fool! why I'd zet thee a-blowèn,
If thou wast wi' me vor a day a-mowèn.
I'd wear my cwoat, an' thou midst pull thy rags off,
An' then in half a zwath I'd mow thy lags off.
BOB.
Thee mow wi' me! Why coossen keep up wi' me:
Why bissèn fit to goo a-vield to skimmy,
Or mow down docks an' thistles! Why I'll bet
A shillèn, Samel, that thou cassen whet.
SAM.
Now don't thee zay much mwore than what'st a-zaid,
Or else I'll knock thee down, heels over head.
BOB.
Thou knock me down, indeed! Why cassen gi'e
A blow half hard enough to kill a bee.
SAM.
Well, thou shalt veel upon thy chops and snout.
BOB.
Come on, then, Samel; jist let's have woone bout.
WHERE WE DID KEEP OUR FLAGON.
When we in mornèn had a-drow'd
The grass or russlèn haÿ abrode,
The lit'some maïdens an' the chaps,
Wi' bits o' nunchèns in their laps,
Did all zit down upon the knaps
Up there, in under hedge, below
The highest elem o' the row,
Where we did keep our flagon.
There we could zee green vields at hand,
Avore a hunderd on beyand,
An' rows o' trees in hedges roun'
Green meäds, an' zummerleäzes brown,
An' thorns upon the zunny down,
While aïer, vrom the rockèn zedge
In brook, did come along the hedge,
Where we did keep our flagon.
There laughèn chaps did try in plaÿ
To bury maïdens up in haÿ,
As gigglèn maïdens tried to roll
The chaps down into zome deep hole,
Or sting wi' nettles woone o'm's poll;
While John did hele out each his drap
O' eäle or cider, in his lap
Where he did keep the flagon.
Woone day there spun a whirlwind by
Where Jenny's clothes wer out to dry;
An' off vled frocks, a'most a-catch'd
By smock-frocks wi' their sleeves outstratch'd,
An' caps a-frill'd an' eäperns patch'd;
[page 58]An' she a-steärèn in a fright,
Wer glad enough to zee em light
Where we did keep our flagon.
An' when white clover wer a-sprung
Among the eegrass, green an' young,
An' elder-flowers wer a-spread
Among the rwosen white an' red,
An' honeyzucks wi' hangèn head,—
O' Zunday evenèns we did zit
To look all roun' the grounds a bit,
Where we'd a-kept our flagon.
WEEK'S END IN ZUMMER, IN THE WOLD VO'K'S TIME.
His aunt an' uncle,—ah! the kind
Wold souls be often in my mind:
A better couple never stood
In shoes, an' vew be voun' so good.
She cheer'd the work-vo'k in theïr tweils
Wi' timely bits an' draps, an' smiles;
An' he païd all o'm at week's end,
Their money down to goo an' spend.
In zummer, when week's end come roun'
The haÿ-meäkers did come vrom groun',
An' all zit down, wi' weary bwones,
Within the yard a-peäved wi' stwones,
Along avore the peäles, between
The yard a-steän'd an' open green.
There women zot wi' bare-neck'd chaps,
An' maïdens wi' their sleeves an' flaps
To screen vrom het their eärms an' polls.
An' men wi' beards so black as coals:
[page 59]Girt stocky Jim, an' lanky John,
An' poor wold Betty dead an' gone;
An' cleän-grown Tom so spry an' strong,
An' Liz the best to pitch a zong,
That now ha' nearly half a score
O' childern zwarmèn at her door;
An' whindlen Ann, that cried wi' fear
To hear the thunder when 'twer near,—
A zickly maïd, so peäle's the moon,
That voun' her zun goo down at noon;
An' blushèn Jeäne so shy an' meek,
That seldom let us hear her speak,
That wer a-coorted an' undone
By Farmer Woodley's woldest son;
An' after she'd a-been vorzook,
Wer voun' a-drown'd in Longmeäd brook.
An' zoo, when he'd a-been all roun',
An' païd em all their wages down,
She us'd to bring vor all, by teäle
A cup o' cider or ov eäle,
An' then a tutty meäde o' lots
O' blossoms vrom her flower-nots,
To wear in bands an' button-holes
At church, an' in their evenèn strolls.
The pea that rangled to the oves,
An' columbines an' pinks an' cloves,
Sweet rwosen vrom the prickly tree,
An' jilliflow'rs, an' jessamy;
An' short-liv'd pinies, that do shed
Their leaves upon a eärly bed.
She didden put in honeyzuck:
She'd nwone, she zaïd, that she could pluck
Avore wild honeyzucks, a-vound
In ev'ry hedge ov ev'ry ground.
Zoo maïd an' woman, bwoy an' man,
Went off, while zunzet aïr did fan
Their merry zunburnt feäzen; zome
Down leäne, an' zome drough parrocks hwome.
Ah! who can tell, that ha'nt a-vound,
The sweets o' week's-end comèn round!
When Zadurday do bring woone's mind
The day that's all our own to spend
Wi' God an' wi' an e'thly friend.
The worold's girt vo'k, wi' the best
O' worldly goods mid be a-blest;
But Zunday is the poor man's peärt,
To seäve his soul an' cheer his heart.
THE MEAD A-MOW'D.
When sheädes do vall into ev'ry hollow,
An' reach vrom trees half athirt the groun';
An' banks an' walls be a-lookèn yollow,
That be a-turn'd to the zun gwaïn down;
Drough haÿ in cock, O,
We all do vlock, O,
Along our road vrom the meäd a-mow'd.
An' when the last swaÿèn lwoad's a-started
Up hill so slow to the lofty rick,
Then we so weary but merry-hearted,
Do shoulder each ō's a reäke an' pick,
Wi' empty flagon,
Behind the waggon,
To teäke our road vrom the meäd a-mow'd.
When church is out, an' we all so slowly
About the knap be a-spreadèn wide,
[page 61]How gaÿ the paths be where we do strolly
Along the leäne an' the hedge's zide;
But nwone's a voun', O,
Up hill or down, O,
So gaÿ's the road drough the meäd a-mow'd.
An' when the visher do come, a-drowèn
His flutt'ren line over bleädy zedge,
Drough groun's wi' red thissle-heads a-blowèn,
An' watchèn o't by the water's edge;
Then he do love, O,
The best to rove, O,
Along his road drough the meäd a-mow'd.
THE SKY A-CLEAREN.
The drevèn scud that overcast
The zummer sky is all a-past,
An' softer aïr, a-blowèn drough
The quiv'rèn boughs, do sheäke the vew
Last raïn drops off the leaves lik' dew;
An' peäviers, now a-gettèn dry,
Do steam below the zunny sky
That's now so vast a-cleärèn.
The sheädes that wer a-lost below
The stormy cloud, ageän do show
Their mockèn sheäpes below the light;
An' house-walls be a-lookèn white,
An' vo'k do stir woonce mwore in zight,
An' busy birds upon the wing
Do whiver roun' the boughs an' zing,
To zee the sky a-clearèn.
Below the hill's an ash; below
The ash, white elder-flow'rs do blow:
[page 62]Below the elder is a bed
O' robinhoods o' blushèn red;
An' there, wi' nunches all a-spread,
The haÿ-meäkers, wi' each a cup
O' drink, do smile to zee hold up
The raïn, an' sky a-cleärèn.
'Mid blushèn maïdens, wi' their zong,
Still draw their white-stemm'd reäkes among
The long-back'd weäles an' new-meäde pooks,
By brown-stemm'd trees an' cloty brooks;
But have noo call to spweil their looks
By work, that God could never meäke
Their weaker han's to underteäke,
Though skies mid be a-cleärèn.
'Tis wrong vor women's han's to clips
The zull an' reap-hook, speädes an' whips;
An' men abroad, should leäve, by right,
Woone faïthful heart at hwome to light
Their bit o' vier up at night,
An' hang upon the hedge to dry
Their snow-white linen, when the sky
In winter is a-cleärèn.
THE EVENÈN STAR O' ZUMMER.
When vu'st along theäse road vrom mill,
I zeed ye hwome all up the hill,
The poplar tree, so straïght an' tall,
Did rustle by the watervall;
An' in the leäze the cows wer all
A-lyèn down to teäke their rest
An' slowly zunk towárd the west
The evenèn star o' zummer.
In parrock there the haÿ did lie
In weäle below the elems, dry;
An' up in hwome-groun' Jim, that know'd
We all should come along thik road,
D a-tied the grass in knots that drow'd
Poor Poll, a-watchèn in the West
Woone brighter star than all the rest,—
The evenèn star o' zummer.
The stars that still do zet an' rise,
Did sheen in our forefather's eyes;
They glitter'd to the vu'st men's zight,
The last will have em in their night;
But who can vind em half so bright
As I thought thik peäle star above
My smilèn Jeäne, my zweet vu'st love,
The evenèn star o' zummer.
How sweet's the mornèn fresh an' new,
Wi' sparklèn brooks an' glitt'rèn dew;
How sweet's the noon wi' sheädes a-drow'd
Upon the groun' but leätely mow'd,
An' bloomèn flowers all abrode;
But sweeter still, as I do clim',
Theäse woody hill in evenèn dim
'S the evenèn star o' zummer.
THE CLOTE.
(Water-lily.)
O zummer clote! when the brook's a-glidèn
So slow an' smooth down his zedgy bed,
Upon thy broad leaves so seäfe a-ridèn
The water's top wi' thy yollow head,
By alder's heads, O,
An' bulrush beds, O.
Thou then dost float, goolden zummer clote!
The grey-bough'd withy's a-leänèn lowly
Above the water thy leaves do hide;
The bendèn bulrush, a-swaÿèn slowly,
Do skirt in zummer thy river's zide;
An' perch in shoals, O,
Do vill the holes, O,
Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!
Oh! when thy brook-drinkèn flow'r's a-blowèn,
The burnèn zummer's a-zettèn in;
The time o' greenness, the time o' mowèn,
When in the haÿ-vield, wi' zunburnt skin,
The vo'k do drink, O,
Upon the brink, O,
Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!
Wi' eärms a-spreadèn, an' cheäks a-blowèn,
How proud wer I when I vu'st could zwim
Athirt the pleäce where thou bist a-growèn,
Wi' thy long more vrom the bottom dim;
While cows, knee-high, O,
In brook, wer nigh, O,
Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!
Ov all the brooks drough the meäds a-windèn,
Ov all the meäds by a river's brim,
There's nwone so feäir o' my own heart's vindèn,
As where the maïdens do zee thee swim,
An' stan' to teäke, O,
Wi' long-stemm'd reäke, O,
Thy flow'r afloat, goolden zummer clote!
I GOT TWO VIELDS.
I got two vields, an' I don't ceäre
What squire mid have a bigger sheäre.
My little zummer-leäze do stratch
All down the hangèn, to a patch
O' meäd between a hedge an' rank
Ov elems, an' a river bank.
Where yollow clotes, in spreadèn beds
O' floatèn leaves, do lift their heads
By bendèn bulrushes an' zedge
A-swaÿèn at the water's edge,
Below the withy that do spread
Athirt the brook his grey-leav'd head.
An' eltrot flowers, milky white,
Do catch the slantèn evenèn light;
An' in the meäple boughs, along
The hedge, do ring the blackbird's zong;
Or in the day, a-vleèn drough
The leafy trees, the whoa'se gookoo
Do zing to mowers that do zet
Their zives on end, an' stan' to whet.
From my wold house among the trees
A leäne do goo along the leäze
O' yollow gravel, down between
Two mossy banks vor ever green.
An' trees, a-hangèn overhead,
Do hide a trinklèn gully-bed,
A-cover'd by a bridge vor hoss
Or man a-voot to come across.
Zoo wi' my hwomestead, I don't ceäre
What squire mid have a bigger sheäre!
POLLY BE-EN UPZIDES WI' TOM.
Ah! yesterday, d'ye know, I voun'
Tom Dumpy's cwoat an' smock-frock, down
Below the pollard out in groun';
An' zoo I slyly stole
An' took the smock-frock up, an' tack'd
The sleeves an' collar up, an' pack'd
Zome nice sharp stwones, all fresh a-crack'd
'Ithin each pocket-hole.
An' in the evenèn, when he shut
Off work, an' come an' donn'd his cwoat,
Their edges gi'ed en sich a cut,
How we did stan' an' laugh!
An' when the smock-frock I'd a-zow'd
Kept back his head an' hands, he drow'd
Hizzelf about, an' teäv'd, an' blow'd,
Lik' any up-tied calf.
Then in a veag away he flung
His frock, an' after me he sprung,
An' mutter'd out sich dreats, an' wrung
His vist up sich a size!
But I, a-runnèn, turn'd an' drow'd
Some doust, a-pick'd up vrom the road,
Back at en wi' the wind, that blow'd
It right into his eyes.
An' he did blink, an' vow he'd catch
Me zomehow yet, an' be my match.
But I wer nearly down to hatch
Avore he got vur on;
An' up in chammer, nearly dead
Wi' runnèn, lik' a cat I vled,
An' out o' window put my head
To zee if he wer gone.
An' there he wer, a-prowlèn roun'
Upon the green; an' I look'd down
An' told en that I hoped he voun'
He mussen think to peck
Upon a body zoo, nor whip
The meäre to drow me off, nor tip
Me out o' cart ageän, nor slip
Cut hoss-heäir down my neck.
BE'MI'STER.
Sweet Be'mi'ster, that bist a-bound
By green an' woody hills all round,
Wi' hedges, reachèn up between
A thousan' vields o' zummer green,
Where elems' lofty heads do drow
Their sheädes vor haÿ-meakers below,
An' wild hedge-flow'rs do charm the souls
O' maïdens in their evenèn strolls.
When I o' Zunday nights wi' Jeäne
Do saunter drough a vield or leäne,
Where elder-blossoms be a-spread
Above the eltrot's milk-white head,
An' flow'rs o' blackberries do blow
Upon the brembles, white as snow,
To be outdone avore my zight
By Jeän's gaÿ frock o' dazzlèn white;
Oh! then there's nothèn that's 'ithout
Thy hills that I do ho about,—
Noo bigger pleäce, noo gaÿer town,
Beyond thy sweet bells' dyèn soun',
As they do ring, or strike the hour,
At evenèn vrom thy wold red tow'r.
No: shelter still my head, an' keep
My bwones when I do vall asleep.
THATCHEN O' THE RICK.
As I wer out in meäd last week,
A-thatchèn o' my little rick,
There green young ee-grass, ankle-high,
Did sheen below the cloudless sky;
An' over hedge in tother groun',
Among the bennets dry an' brown,
My dun wold meäre, wi' neck a-freed
Vrom Zummer work, did snort an' veed;
An' in the sheäde o' leafy boughs,
My vew wold ragged-cwoated cows
Did rub their zides upon the raïls,
Or switch em wi' their heäiry taïls.
An' as the mornèn zun rose high
Above my mossy roof clwose by,
The blue smoke curreled up between
The lofty trees o' feädèn green:
A zight that's touchèn when do show
A busy wife is down below,
A-workèn hard to cheer woone's tweil
Wi' her best feäre, an' better smile.
Mid women still in wedlock's yoke
Zend up, wi' love, their own blue smoke,
An' husbands vind their bwoards a-spread
By faïthvul hands when I be dead,
An' noo good men in ouer land
Think lightly o' the weddèn band.
True happiness do bide alwone
Wi' them that ha' their own he'th-stwone
To gather wi' their childern roun',
A-smilèn at the worold's frown.
My bwoys, that brought me thatch an' spars,
Wer down a-taïtèn on the bars,
Or zot a-cuttèn wi' a knife,
Dry eltrot-roots to meäke a fife;
Or drevèn woone another round
The rick upon the grassy ground.
An', as the aïer vrom the west
Did fan my burnèn feäce an' breast,
An' hoppèn birds, wi' twitt'rèn beaks,
Did show their sheenèn spots an' streaks,
Then, wi' my heart a-vill'd wi' love
An' thankvulness to God above,
I didden think ov anything
That I begrudg'd o' lord or king;
Vor I ha' round me, vur or near,
The mwost to love an' nwone to fear,
An' zoo can walk in any pleäce,
An' look the best man in the feäce.
What good do come to eächèn heads,
O' lièn down in silken beds?
Or what's a coach, if woone do pine
To zee woone's naïghbour's twice so fine?
Contentment is a constant feäst,
He's richest that do want the leäst.
BEES A-ZWARMEN.
Avore we went a-milkèn, vive
Or six o's here wer all alive
A-teäkèn bees that zwarm'd vrom hive;
An' we'd sich work to catch
The hummèn rogues, they led us sich
A dance all over hedge an' ditch;
An' then at last where should they pitch,
But up in uncle's thatch?
Dick rung a sheep-bell in his han';
Liz beät a cannister, an' Nan
Did bang the little fryèn-pan
Wi' thick an' thumpèn blows;
An' Tom went on, a-carrèn roun'
A bee-pot up upon his crown,
Wi' all his edge a-reachèn down
Avore his eyes an' nose.
An' woone girt bee, wi' spitevul hum,
Stung Dicky's lip, an' meäde it come
All up amost so big's a plum;
An' zome, a-vleèn on,
Got all roun' Liz, an' meäde her hop
An' scream, a-twirlèn lik' a top,
An' spring away right backward, flop
Down into barken pon':
An' Nan' gi'ed Tom a roguish twitch
Upon a bank, an' meäde en pitch
Right down, head-voremost, into ditch,—
Tom coulden zee a wink.
An' when the zwarm wer seäfe an' sound
In mother's bit o' bee-pot ground,
She meäde us up a treat all round
O' sillibub to drink.
READEN OV A HEAD-STWONE.
As I wer readèn ov a stwone
In Grenley church-yard all alwone,
A little maïd ran up, wi' pride
To zee me there, an' push'd a-zide
A bunch o' bennets that did hide
A verse her father, as she zaïd,
Put up above her mother's head,
To tell how much he loved her:
The verse wer short, but very good,
I stood an' larn'd en where I stood:—
"Mid God, dear Meäry, gi'e me greäce
To vind, lik' thee, a better pleäce,
Where I woonce mwore mid zee thy feäce;
An' bring thy childern up to know
His word, that they mid come an' show
Thy soul how much I lov'd thee."
"Where's father, then," I zaid, "my chile?"
"Dead too," she answer'd wi' a smile;
"An' I an' brother Jim do bide
At Betty White's, o' tother zide
O' road." "Mid He, my chile," I cried,
"That's father to the fatherless,
Become thy father now, an' bless,
An' keep, an' leäd, an' love thee."
Though she've a-lost, I thought, so much,
Still He don't let the thoughts o't touch
Her litsome heart by day or night;
An' zoo, if we could teäke it right,
Do show He'll meäke his burdens light
To weaker souls, an' that his smile
Is sweet upon a harmless chile,
When they be dead that lov'd it.
ZUMMER EVENÈN DANCE.
Come out to the parrock, come out to the tree,
The maïdens an' chaps be a-waïtèn vor thee;
There's Jim wi' his fiddle to plaÿ us some reels,
Come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels.
Come, all the long grass is a-mow'd an' a-carr'd,
An' the turf is so smooth as a bwoard an' so hard;
[page 72]There's a bank to zit down, when y'ave danced a reel drough,
An' a tree over head vor to keep off the dew.
There be rwoses an' honeyzucks hangèn among
The bushes, to put in thy weäst; an' the zong
O' the nightingeäle's heärd in the hedges all roun';
An' I'll get thee a glow-worm to stick in thy gown.
There's Meäry so modest, an' Jenny so smart,
An' Mag that do love a good rompse to her heart;
There's Joe at the mill that do zing funny zongs,
An' short-lagged Dick, too, a-waggèn his prongs.
Zoo come to the parrock, come out to the tree,
The maïdens an' chaps be a-waïtèn vor thee;
There's Jim wi' his fiddle to plaÿ us some reels,—
Come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels.
Eclogue.
THE VEAIRIES.
Simon an' Samel.
SIMON.
There's what the vo'k do call a veäiry ring
Out there, lo'k zee. Why, 'tis an oddish thing.
SAMEL.
Ah! zoo do seem. I wunder how do come!
What is it that do meäke it, I do wonder?
SIMON.
Be hang'd if I can tell, I'm sure! But zome
Do zay do come by lightnèn when do thunder;
An' zome do say sich rings as thík ring there is,
Do grow in dancèn-tracks o' little veäiries,
That in the nights o' zummer or o' spring
Do come by moonlight, when noo other veet
Do tread the dewy grass, but their's, an' meet
An' dance away together in a ring.
SAMEL.
An' who d'ye think do work the fiddlestick?
A little veäiry too, or else wold Nick!
SIMON.
Why, they do zay, that at the veäiries' ball,
There's nar a fiddle that's a-heär'd at all;
But they do plaÿ upon a little pipe
A-meäde o' kexes or o' straws, dead ripe,
A-stuck in row (zome short an' longer zome)
Wi' slime o' snaïls, or bits o' plum-tree gum,
An' meäke sich music that to hear it sound,
You'd stick so still's a pollard to the ground.
SAMEL.
What do em dance? 'Tis plaïn by theäse green wheels,
They don't frisk in an' out in dree-hand reels;
Vor else, instead o' theäse here girt round O,
The'd cut us out a figure aïght (8), d'ye know.
SIMON.
Oh! they ha' jigs to fit their little veet.
They woulden dance, you know, at their fine ball,
The dree an' vow'r han' reels that we do sprawl
An' kick about in, when we men do meet.
SAMEL.
An' zoo have zome vo'k, in their midnight rambles,
A-catch'd the veäiries, then, in theäsem gambols.
SIMON.
Why, yes; but they be off lik' any shot,
So soon's a man's a-comèn near the spot
SAMEL.
But in the day-time where do veäiries hide?
Where be their hwomes, then? where do veäiries bide?
SIMON.
Oh! they do get awaÿ down under ground,
In hollow pleäzen where they can't be vound.
But still my gramfer, many years agoo,
(He liv'd at Grenley-farm, an milk'd a deäiry),
If what the wolder vo'k do tell is true,
Woone mornèn eärly vound a veäiry.
SAMEL.
An' did he stop, then, wi' the good wold bwoy?
Or did he soon contrive to slip awoy?
SIMON.
Why, when the vo'k were all asleep, a-bed,
The veäiries us'd to come, as 'tis a-zaid,
Avore the vire wer cwold, an' dance an hour
Or two at dead o' night upon the vloor;
Var they, by only utterèn a word
Or charm, can come down chimney lik' a bird;
Or draw their bodies out so long an' narrow,
That they can vlee drough keyholes lik' an arrow.
An' zoo woone midnight, when the moon did drow
His light drough window, roun' the vloor below,
An' crickets roun' the bricken he'th did zing,
They come an' danced about the hall in ring;
[page 75]An' tapp'd, drough little holes noo eyes could spy,
A kag o' poor aunt's meäd a-stannèn by.
An' woone o'm drink'd so much, he coulden mind
The word he wer to zay to meäke en small;
He got a-dather'd zoo, that after all
Out tothers went an' left en back behind.
An' after he'd a-beät about his head,
Ageän the keyhole till he wer half dead,
He laid down all along upon the vloor
Till gramfer, comen down, unlocked the door:
An' then he zeed en ('twer enough to frighten èn)
Bolt out o' door, an' down the road lik' lightenèn.
FALL.
CORN A-TURNEN YOLLOW
The windless copse ha' sheädy boughs,
Wi' blackbirds' evenèn whistles;
The hills ha' sheep upon their brows,
The zummerleäze ha' thistles:
The meäds be gaÿ in grassy Maÿ,
But, oh! vrom hill to hollow,
Let me look down upon a groun'
O' corn a-turnèn yollow.
An' pease do grow in tangled beds,
An' beäns be sweet to snuff, O;
The teäper woats do bend their heads,
The barley's beard is rough, O.
The turnip green is fresh between
The corn in hill or hollow,
But I'd look down upon a groun'
O' wheat a-turnèn yollow.
'Tis merry when the brawny men
Do come to reap it down, O,
Where glossy red the poppy head
'S among the stalks so brown, O.
'Tis merry while the wheat's in hile,
Or when, by hill or hollow,
The leäzers thick do stoop to pick
The ears so ripe an' yollow.
A-HAULEN O' THE CORN.
Ah! yesterday, you know, we carr'd
The piece o' corn in Zidelèn Plot,
An' work'd about it pretty hard,
An' vound the weather pretty hot.
'Twer all a-tied an' zet upright
In tidy hile o' Monday night;
Zoo yesterday in afternoon
We zet, in eärnest, ev'ry woone
A-haulèn o' the corn.
The hosses, wi' the het an' lwoad,
Did froth, an' zwang vrom zide to zide,
A-gwaïn along the dousty road,
An' seem'd as if they would a-died.
An' wi' my collar all undone,
An' neck a-burnèn wi' the zun,
I got, wi' work, an' doust, an' het,
So dry at last, I coulden spet,
A-haulèn o' the corn.
At uncle's orcha'd, gwaïn along,
I begged some apples, vor to quench
My drith, o' Poll that wer among
The trees: but she, a saucy wench,
Toss'd over hedge some crabs vor fun.
I squaïl'd her, though, an' meäde her run;
An' zoo she gie'd me, vor a treat,
A lot o' stubberds vor to eat.
A-haulèn o' the corn.
An' up at rick, Jeäne took the flagon,
An' gi'ed us out zome eäle; an' then
I carr'd her out upon the waggon,
Wi' bread an' cheese to gi'e the men.
[page 78]An' there, vor fun, we dress'd her head
Wi' noddèn poppies bright an' red,
As we wer catchèn vrom our laps,
Below a woak, our bits an' draps,
A-haulèn o' the corn.
HARVEST HWOME.
The vu'st peärt. The Supper.
Since we wer striplèns naïghbour John,
The good wold merry times be gone:
But we do like to think upon
What we've a-zeed an' done.
When I wer up a hardish lad,
At harvest hwome the work-vo'k had
Sich suppers, they wer jumpèn mad
Wi' feästèn an' wi' fun.
At uncle's, I do mind, woone year,
I zeed a vill o' hearty cheer;
Fat beef an' puddèn, eäle an' beer,
Vor ev'ry workman's crop
An' after they'd a-gie'd God thanks,
They all zot down, in two long ranks,
Along a teäble-bwoard o' planks,
Wi' uncle at the top.
An' there, in platters, big and brown,
Wer red fat beäcon, an' a roun'
O' beef wi' gravy that would drown
A little rwoastèn pig;
Wi' beäns an' teäties vull a zack,
An' cabbage that would meäke a stack,
An' puddèns brown, a-speckled black
Wi' figs, so big's my wig.
An' uncle, wi' his elbows out,
Did carve, an' meäke the gravy spout;
An' aunt did gi'e the mugs about
A-frothèn to the brim.
Pleätes werden then ov e'then ware,
They ate off pewter, that would bear
A knock; or wooden trenchers, square,
Wi' zalt-holes at the rim.
An' zoo they munch'd their hearty cheer,
An' dipp'd their beards in frothy-beer,
An' laugh'd, an' jok'd—they couldden hear
What woone another zaid.
An' all o'm drink'd, wi' woone accword,
The wold vo'k's health: an' beät the bwoard,
An' swung their eärms about, an' roar'd,
Enough to crack woone's head.
HARVEST HWOME.
Second Peärt. What they did after Supper.
Zoo after supper wer a-done,
They clear'd the teäbles, an' begun
To have a little bit o' fun,
As long as they mid stop.
The wold woones took their pipes to smoke,
An' tell their teäles, an' laugh an' joke,
A-lookèn at the younger vo'k,
That got up vor a hop.
Woone screäp'd away, wi' merry grin,
A fiddle stuck below his chin;
An' woone o'm took the rollèn pin,
An' beät the fryèn pan.
[page 80]An' tothers, dancèn to the soun',
Went in an' out, an' droo an' roun',
An' kick'd, an' beät the tuèn down,
A-laughèn, maïd an' man.
An' then a maïd, all up tip-tooe,
Vell down; an' woone o'm wi' his shoe
Slit down her pocket-hole in two,
Vrom top a-most to bottom.
An' when they had a-danc'd enough,
They got a-plaÿèn blindman's buff,
An' sard the maïdens pretty rough,
When woonce they had a-got em.
An' zome did drink, an' laugh, an' roar,
An' lots o' teäles they had in store,
O' things that happen'd years avore
To them, or vo'k they know'd.
An' zome did joke, an' zome did zing,
An' meäke the girt wold kitchen ring;
Till uncle's cock, wi' flappèn wing,
Stratch'd out his neck an' crow'd.
A ZONG OV HARVEST HWOME.
The ground is clear. There's nar a ear
O' stannèn corn a-left out now,
Vor win' to blow or raïn to drow;
'Tis all up seäfe in barn or mow.
Here's health to them that plough'd an' zow'd;
Here's health to them that reap'd an' mow'd,
An' them that had to pitch an' lwoad,
Or tip the rick at Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men's delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
An' mid noo harm o' vire or storm
Beval the farmer or his corn;
An' ev'ry zack o' zeed gi'e back
A hunderd-vwold so much in barn.
An' mid his Meäker bless his store,
His wife an' all that she've a-bore,
An' keep all evil out o' door,
Vrom Harvest Hwome to Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men's delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
Mid nothèn ill betide the mill,
As day by day the miller's wheel
Do dreve his clacks, an' heist his zacks,
An' vill his bins wi' show'rèn meal:
Mid's water never overflow
His dousty mill, nor zink too low,
Vrom now till wheat ageän do grow,
An' we've another Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men's delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
Drough cisterns wet an' malt-kil's het,
Mid barley paÿ the malter's païns;
An' mid noo hurt bevall the wort,
A-bweilèn vrom the brewer's graïns.
Mid all his beer keep out o' harm
Vrom bu'sted hoop or thunder storm,
That we mid have a mug to warm
Our merry hearts nex' Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men's delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
Mid luck an' jaÿ the beäker paÿ,
As he do hear his vier roar,
Or nimbly catch his hot white batch,
A-reekèn vrom the oven door.
[page 82]An' mid it never be too high
Vor our vew zixpences to buy,
When we do hear our childern cry
Vor bread, avore nex' Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men's delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
Wi' jaÿ o' heart mid shooters start
The whirrèn pa'tridges in vlocks;
While shots do vlee drough bush an' tree,
An' dogs do stan' so still as stocks.
An' let em ramble round the farms
Wi' guns 'ithin their bended eärms,
In goolden zunsheen free o' storms,
Rejaïcèn vor the Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men's delight,—the Harvest Hwome.