TOM GOOL, AND LUCK IN THA BAG.

  "Luck, Luck in tha Bag! Good Luck!
    Put in an try yer fortin;
  Come, try yer luck in tha Lucky Bag!
    You'll git a prize vor sartin."

  Mooäst plazen hâ their customs
    Ther manners an ther men;
  We too a got our customs,
    Our manners and our men.

  He who a bin ta Huntspill Fâyer
    Or Highbridge—Pawlet Revel—
  Or Burtle Sassions, whaur thâ plâ
    Zumtimes tha very devil,

  Mist mine once a man well
    That war a câll'd TOM GOOL;
  Zum thawt en mazed, while withers thawt
    En moor a knave than fool.

  At all tha fâyers an revels too
    TOM GOOL war shower ta be,
  A tâkin vlother vast awâ,—
    A hoopin who bit he.

  Vor' âll that a had a zoort o' wit
    That zet tha vawk a laughin;
  An mooäst o' that, when ho tha yal
    Ad at tha fâyer bin quaffin.

A corr'd a kit o' pedlar's waur, Like awld Joannah Martin; [Footnote: This Lady, who was for many years known in Somersetshire as an itinerant dealer in earthenware, rags, &c., and occasionally a fortune-teller, died a few years since at Huntspill, where she had resided for the greater part of a century. She was extremely illiterate, so much so, as not to be able to write, and, I think, could scarcely read. She lived for some years in a house belonging to my father, and while a boy, I was very often her gratuitous amanuensis, in writing letters for her to her children. She possessed, however, considerable shrewdness, energy, and perseverance, and amassed property to the amount of several hundred pounds. She had three husbands; the name of the first was, I believe, Gool or Gould, a relation of Thomas Gool, the subject of the above Poem; the name of the second was Martin, of the third Pain; but as the last lived a short time only after having married her, she always continued to be called Joannah Martin.

Joannah was first brought into public notice by the Rev. Mr. WARNER, in his Walks through the Western Counties, published in 1800, in which work will be found a lively and interesting description of her; but she often said that she should wish me to write her life, as I was, of course, more intimately acquainted with it than any casual inquirer could possibly be. An additional notice of Joannah was inserted by me in the Monthly Magazine, for Nov. 1816, page 310. I had among my papers, the original song composed by her, which I copied from her dictation many years ago,—the only, copy in existence; I regret that I cannot lay my hand upon it; as it contains much of the Somersetshire idiom. I have more than once heard her sing this song, which was satirical, and related to the conduct of a female, one of her neighbours, who had become a thief.

Such was JOANNAH MARTIN, a woman whose name (had she moved in a sphere where her original talents could have been improved by education,) might have been added to the list of distinguished female worthies of our country.

[The MS. song was never, that I am aware of, discovered
after my relative's death.—Editor, J. K. J.]]
  An nif yon hân't a hired o' her,
    You zumtime sholl vor sartin.

  "Luck, Luck in tha Bag!" TOM, cried
    "Put in and try yer fortin;
  Come try yer luck in tha lucky bag;
    You'll git a prize vor sartin.

  All prizes, norra blank,
    Norra blank, âll prizes!
  A waiter—knife—or scissis sheer—
  A splat o' pins—put in my dear!—
    Whitechapel nills âll sizes.

Luck, Luck in tha Bag!—only a penny vor a venter—you mid get, a- ma-be, a girt prize—a Rawman waiter!—I can avoord it as cheep as thic that stawl it—I a bote it ta trust, an niver intend to pâ vor't. Luck, Luck in tha bag! âll prizes; norra blank!

  Luck, Luck in tha Bag! Good Luck!
    Put in an try yer fortin;
  Come, try yer luck in tha lucky bag!
    You'll git a prize vor sartin.

  Come, niver mine tha single-sticks,
    Tha whoppin or tha stickler,
  You dwon't want now a brawken head,
    "Nor jitchy zoort o' tickler!

  Now Lady! yer prize is—'A SNUFF-BOX,'
    A treble-japann'd Pontypool!
  You'll shower come again ta my luck in tha bag,
    Or niver trust me—TOMMY GOOL.

  Luck, Luck in tha bag! Good Luck!
    Put in an try yer fortin;
  Come, try yer luck in tha lucky bag!
    You'll git a prize for sartin!

TEDDY BAND.

"The short and simple annals of the poor." GRAY.

Miss Hanson to Miss Mortimer. Ashcot, July 21st.

My Dear Jane.

Will you do me the favour to amuse yourself and your friends with the enclosed epistle? it is certainly an original—written in the dialect of the County. You will easily understand it, and, I do not doubt, the "moril" too.

Edward Band, or as he is more commonly called here, Teddy Band, is a poor, but honest and industrious cottager, but I am, nevertheless, disposed to think that "if ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."

My dear Jane, affectionately yours,

MARIA HANSON.

Teddy Band to Miss Hanson.

Mâm,

I da thenk you'll smile at theeäzam here veo lains that I write ta you, bin I be naw scholard; vor vather coud'n avoord ta put I ta school. Bit nif you'll vorgee me vor my bauldniss, a-mâ-be, I mid not be afeard ta zâ zummet ta you that you, mâm yourzell mid like ta hire. Bit how be I ta knaw that? I knaw that you be a goodhorted Lady, an da like ta zee poor vawk well-at-eased an happy. You axt I tother dâ ta zing a zong: now I dwont much like zum o' thâ zongs that I hired thic night at squire Reevs's when we made an end o' Hâ-corrin: vor, zim ta I, there war naw moril to 'em. I like zongs wi' a moril to 'em. Tha nawtes, ta be shower, war zât anow, bit, vor âll that, I war looking vor tha moril, mâm. Zo, when I cum'd whim, I tawld our Pall, that you axt I ta zing: an I war zorry âterward that I did'n, bin you be âlways zo desperd good ta poor vowk. Bit I thawt, a-mâ-be, you mid be angry wi' my country lidden. Why Teddy, zed Pall, dwontye zend Miss Hanson thic zong which ye made yerzel; I thenk ther is a moril in thic. An zo, mâm, nif you please, I a zent tha zong. I haup you'll vorgee me.

Mâm, your humble sarvant,

TEDDY BAND.

ZONG.

  I have a cot o' Cob-wâll
    Roun which tha ivy clims;
  My Pally at tha night-vâll
    Er crappin viër trims.

  A comin vrom tha plow-veel
    I zee tha blankers rise,
  Wi' blue smauk cloudy curlin,
    An whivering up tha skies.

  When tha winter wines be crousty,
    An snaws dreav vast along,
  I hurry whim—tha door tine,
    An cheer er wi' a zong.

  When spreng, adresst in tutties,
    Câlls âll tha birds abroad;
  An wrans an robin-riddicks,
    Tell âll the cares o' God,

  I zit bezides my cot-door
    After my work is done,
  While Pally, bizzy knittin,
    Looks at tha zottin zun.

  When zummertime is passin,
    An narras dâs be vine,
  I drenk tha sporklin cider,
    An wish naw wither wine.

  How zweet tha smill o' clawver,
    How zweet tha smill o' hâ;
  How zweet is haulsom labour, ^
    Bit zweeter Pall than thâ.

  An who d'ye thenk I envy?—
    Tha nawbles o' tha land?
  Thâ can't be moor than happy,
    An that is Teddy Band.

Mister Ginnins;

I a red thic ballet o' yourn called Fanny Fear, an, zim ta I, there's naw moril to it. Nif zaw be you da thenk zo well o't, I'll gee one.

I dwont want to frunt any ov the gennelmen o' tha country, bit I âlways a thawt it desperd odd, that dogs should be keept in a kannel, and keept a hungered too, zaw that thâ mid be moor eager to hunt thic poor little theng câlled a hare. I dwon' naw, bit I da thenk, nif I war a gennelman, that I'd vine better spoort than huntin; bezides, zim ta I 'tis desperd wicked to hunt animals vor one's spoort. Now, jitch a horrid blanscue as what happened at Shapick, niver could a bin but vor tha hungry houns. I haup that gennelmen ool thenk o't oten; an when thâ da hire tha yell o' tha houns thâ'll not vorgit Fanny Fear; a-mâ-be thâ mid be zummet tha wiser an better vor't; I'm shower jitch a storry desarves ta be remimbered. This is the moril.

I am, sur, your sarvant,

TEDDY BAND.

THE CHURCHWARDEN.

  Upon a time, naw matter whaur,
  Jitch plazen there be many a scaur
    In Zummerzet's girt gorden;
    (Ive hir'd 'twar handy ta tha zea,
  Not vur vrom whaur tha zantots be)
    There liv'd a young churchwarden.

  A zim'd delighted when put in.
  An zaw a thawt a ood begin
    Ta do hiz office duly:
  Bit zum o'm, girt vawk in ther wâ—
    Tha Porish o'ten câlled,—a girt bell sheep
    Or two that lead the rest an quiet keep—
  Put vooäth ther hons iz coose to stâ,
    Which made en quite unruly.

  A went, of coose, ta Visitâtion
  Ta be sworn in;—an than 'twar nâtion
  Hord that a man his power should doubt,—
  An moor—ta try ta turn en out!
  "Naw, Naw!" exclaim'd our young churchwarden,
  I dwon't care vor ye âll a copper varden!"

  Tha church war durty.—Wevets here
  Hang'd danglin vrom tha ruf; an there
   Tha plaisterin shaw'd a crazy wâll;

  Tha âltar-piece war dim and dowsty too,
  That Peter's maricle thâ scase cood view.
  Tha Ten Commandments nawbody cood rade; [Footnote: Read]
  Tha Lord's Prayer ad nuthin in't bit "Brade;" [Footnote: Bread]
    Nor had tha Creed
  A lain or letter parfit, grate or smâll.
  'Twar time vor zum one ta renew 'em âll.

  I've tawld o' wevets—zum o'm odd enow;
  Thâ look'd tha colour of a dork dun cow,
    An like a skin war stratched across tha corners;
  Tha knitters o' tha porish tâk'd o knittin
  Stocking wi' 'em!—Bit aw, how unbevittin
    All tâk like this!—aw fie, tha wicked scorners!

  Ta work went tha Churchwarden; wevets tummel'd
  Down by tha bushel, an tha pride o' dowst war hummel'd.
    Tha wâlls once moor look'd bright.
  Tha Painter, fags, a war a Plummer
    An Glazier too,
    Put vooäth his powers,
   (His workin made naw little scummer!)
  In zentences, in flourishes, and flowers.
  Tha chancel, church and âll look'd new,
    An war well suited to avoord delight.

  Tha Ten Commandments glitter'd wi' tha vornish;
  Compleat now, tha Lord's Prayer, what cood tornish.

  As vor tha Creed 'twar made bran new
  Vrom top ta bottom; I tell ye true!
  Tha âltar piece wi' Peter war now naw libel
    Upon tha church,
  Which booäth athin an, tower an all, athout
  Look'd like a well-dressed maid in pride about;
  Tha walls rejâic'd wi' texts took vrom tha Bible.
    Bit vor all that, thâ left en in tha lurch; I bag your pardon.
  I mean, of âll tha expense thâ ood'n pâ a varden.

  Jitch zweepin, birshin, paintin, scrubbin;
  Tha tuts ad niver jitch a drubbin;
    Jitch white-washin and jitch brought gwâin
  A power of money—Tha Painter's bill
  Made of itzel a pirty pill,
    Ta zwell which âll o'm tried in vain!
  Ther stomicks turn'd, ther drawts were norry; [Footnote: Narrow]
  Jitch gillded pills thâ cood'n corry.
  An when our young churchwarden ax'd em why,
  Thâ laugh'd at en, an zed, ther drawts war dry.

  Tha keeper o' tha church war wrong;
   (Churchwarden still the burden o' my zong)
    A should at vust
  A câll'd a Vestry: vor 'tis hord ta trust
  To Porish generasity; an zaw
  A voun it: I dwon' knaw

  Whaur or who war his advisers;
    Zum zed a Lâyer gid en bad advice;
    A-mâ-be saw; jitch vawk ben't always nice.
  Lâyers o' advice be seltimes misers
    Nif there's wherewi' ta pâ;
  Or, witherwise, good bwye ta Lâyers an tha Lâ.

  A Vestry than at last war cried—
  A Vestry's power let noäne deride—
  When tha church war auver tha clork bal'd out,
    Aw eese! aw eese! aw eese!
  All wonder'd what cood be about,
    An stratch'd ther necks like a vlock o' geese;
    Why—ta make a Rate
    Vor tha church's late
    Repairâtion.
    A grate norâtion,
  A nâtion naise tha nawtice made,
  About tha cost ta be defray'd
    Vor tha church's repairâtion.

  Tha Vestry met, âll naise an bother;
  One ood'n wait ta hire tha tuther.
  When thâ war tir'd o' jitch a gabble,
  Ta bâl na moor not one war yable,
  A man, a little zâtenfare,
  Got up hiz verdi ta delcare.
  Now Soce, zed he, why we be gwâin
  Ta meet in Vestry here in vâin.

  Let's come to some determination,
  An not tâk âll in jitch a fashion.
  Let's zee tha 'counts. A snatch'd tha book
  Vrom tha Churchwarden in't ta look.
  Tha, book war chain'd clooäse to his wrist;
  A gid en slily jitch a twist!
  That the young Churchwarden loud raur'd out,
  "You'll break my yarm!—what be about?"

  Tha man a little zâtenfare,
  An âll tha Vestry wide did stare!
  Bit Soce, zed he again, I niver zeed
  Money brought gwâin zaw bad. What need
  War ther tha âltar-piece ta titch?
  What good war paintin, vornishin, an jitch?
  What good war't vor'n ta mend
  Tha Ten Commandments?—Why did he
  Mell o' tha Lord's Prayer? Lockyzee!
    Ther war naw need
  To mell or make wi' thic awld Creed.
  I'm zorry vor'n; eesse zorry as a friend;
  Bit can't conzent our wherewi' zaw ta spend,

    Thâ âll, wi one accord,
    At tha little zâtenfare's word,
        Agreed, that, not one varden,
          By Rate,
     Should be collected vor tha late Repairâtion
    Of tha church by tha young Churchwarden.

THE FISHERMAN AND THE PLAYERS.

  Now who is ther that han't a hir'd
    O' one young TOM CAME?
  A Fisherman of Huntspill,
    An a well-knawn name.

  A knaw'd much moor o' fishin
    Than many vawk bezides;
  An a knaw'd much moor than mooäst about
    Tha zea an âll tha tides.

  A knaw'd well how ta make buts,
    An hullies too an jitch,
  An up an down tha river whaur
    Tha best place vor ta pitch.

  A knaw'd âll about tha stake-hangs
    Tha zâlmon vor ta catch;—
  Tha pitchin an tha dippin net,—
    Tha Slime an tha Mud-Batch.
[Footnote: Two islands well known in the River Parret, near its
mouth. Several words will be found in this Poem which I have not
placed in the Glossary, because they seem too local and
technical to deserve a place there: they shall be here explained,

To Pitch, v.n. To fish with a boat and a pitchin-net in a proper position across the current so that the fish may be caught.

Pitchin-net. s. A large triangular net attached to two poles, and used with a boat for the purpose, chiefly, of catching salmon.—The fishing boats in the Parret, are flat- bottomed, in length about seventeen feet, about four feet and a half wide, and pointed at both ends: they are easily managed by one person, and rarely, if ever, known to overturn.

Dippen-net. s. A small net somewhat semicircular, and attached to two round sticks for sides, and a long pole for a handle. It is used for the purpose of dipping salmon and some other fish, as the shad, out of water.

Gad. s. A long pole, having an iron point to it, so that it may be easily thrust into the ground. Two gads are used for each boats. Their uses are to keep the boat steady across the current in order that the net may be in a proper position.]

  A handled too iz gads well
    His paddle and iz oor;
[Footnote: Oar.]
  A war âlways bawld an fearless—
    A, when upon tha Goor.
[Footnote: The Gore. Dangerous sands so called, at the mouth of
the River Parret, in the Bristol Channel.]

  O' heerins, sprats, an porpuses—
    O' âll fish a cood tell;
  Who bit he amangst tha Fishermen—
    A âlways bear'd tha bell.

  Tommy Came ad hired o' Plâyers,
    Bit niver zeed 'em plâ;
  Thâ war actin at Bejwâter;
      There a went wi' Sally Dâ.

  When tha curtain first drâw'd up, than
    Sapriz'd war Tommy Came;
  A'd hâf a mine ta him awâ,
   Bit stapp'd vor very shame.

  Tha vust act bein auver
    Tha zecond jist begun,
  Tommy Came still wonder'd grately,
    Ta him it war naw fun.

  Zaw âter lookin on zumtime,
    Ta understand did strive;
  There now, zed he, I'll gee my woth
[Footnote: Oath.]
    That thâ be all alive!

MARY RAMSEY'S CRUTCH.

  I zeng o' Mary Ramsey's Crutch!
  "Thic little theng!"—Why 'tis'n much
  It's true, but still I like ta touch
  Tha cap o' Mary Ramsey's Crutch!
  She zed, wheniver she shood die,
  Er little crutch she'd gee ta I.
  Did Mary love me? eese a b'leeve.
  She died—a veo vor her did grieve,—
  An but a veo—vor Mary awld,
  Outliv'd er friends, or voun 'em cawld.
  Thic crutch I had—I ha it still,
  An port wi't wont—nor niver will.
  O' her I lorn'd tha cris-cross-lâin;
  I haup that't word'n quite in vâin!
  'Twar her who teach'd me vust ta read
  Jitch little words as beef an bread;
  An I da thenk 'twar her that, âter,
  Lorn'd I ta read tha single zâter.
  Poor Mary ôten used ta tell
  O' das a past that pleas'd er well;
  An mangst tha rest war zum o' jay
  When I look'd up a little bway.
  She zed I war a good one too,
  An lorn'd my book athout tha rue.
[Footnote: This Lady, when her scholars neglected their duty, or
behaved ill, rubbed their fingers with the leaves of rue!]
  Poor Mary's gwon!—a longful time
  Zunz now!—er little scholard's prime
  A-mâ-be's past.—It must be zaw;—
  There's nothin stable here belaw!
  O' Mary—âll left is—er crutch!
  An thaw a gift, an 'tword'n much
  'Tis true, still I da like ta touch
  Tha cap o' Mary Ramsey's Crutch!
  That I lov'd Mary, this ool tell.
  I'll zâ na moor—zaw, fore well! [Footnote: Fare ye well.]

HANNAH VERRIOR.

  Tha zâ I'm maz'd,—my Husband's dead,
    My chile, (hush! hush! Lord love er face!)
  Tha pit-hawl had at Milemas, when
    Thâ put me in theäze pooät-hawl place.

  Thâ zâ I'm maz'd.—I veel—I thenk—-
  I tâk—I ate, an oten drenk.—
  Tha thenk, a-mâ-be, zumtimes, peel—
  An gee me stra vor bed an peel!

  Thâ zâ I'm maz'd.—Hush! Babby, dear!
  Thâ shan't come to er!—niver fear!
  Thâ zâ thy Father's dead!—Naw, naw!
  A'll niver die while I'm belaw.

  Thâ zâ I'm maz'd.—Why dwont you speak?
  Fie James!—or else my hort ool break!—
  James is not dead! nor Babby!—naw!
  Thâ'll niver die while I'm belaw!

REMEMBRANCE.

  An shall I drap tha Reed—an shall I,
  Athout one nawte about my SALLY?
  Althaw we Pawets âll be zingers,
  We like, wi' enk, ta dye our vingers;
  Bit mooäst we like in vess ta pruv
  That we remimber those we love.
  Sim-like-it than, that I should iver
  Vorgit my SALLY.—Niver, niver!
  Vor, while I've wander'd in tha West—
  At mornin tide—at evenin rest—
  On Quantock's hills—in Mendip's vales—
  On Parret's banks—in zight o' Wales—
  In thic awld mansion whaur tha bâll
  Once vrighten'd Lady Drake an âll;—
  When wi' tha Ladies o' thic dell
  Whaur witches spird ther 'ticin spell—
[Footnote: COMBE SYDENHAM, the residence of my Friend, GEORGE
NOTLEY, Esq. The history of the Magic Ball, as it has been
called, is now pretty generally known, and therefore need not
be here repeated.]
  Amangst tha rocks on Watchet shaur
  When did tha wine an wâters raur—
  In Banwell's cave—on Loxton hill—
  At Clifton gâ—at Rickford rill—
  In Compton ood—in Hartree coom—
  At Crispin's cot wi' little room;—
  At Upton—Lansdown's lofty brow—
  At Bath, whaur pleasure flânts enow;
  At Trowbridge, whaur by Friendship's heed,
  I blaw'd again my silent Reed,
  An there enjay'd, wi' quiet, rest,
  Jitch recollections o' tha West;
  Whauriver stapp'd my voot along
  I thawt o' HER.—Here ends my zong.

DOCTOR COX; A BLANSCUE.

(First printed in the Graphic Illustrator.)

The catastrophe described in the following sketch, occurred near Highbridge, in Somersetshire, about the year 1779.—Mr. or Doctor Cox, as surgeons are usually called in the west, was the only medical resident at Huntspill, and in actual practice for many miles around that village. The conduct of Mr. Robert Evans, the friend and associate of Cox, can only be accounted for by one of those unfortunate infatuations to which the minds of some are sometimes liable. Had an immediate alarm been given when we children first discovered that Cox was missing, he might, probably, have been saved. The real cause of his death was, a too great abstraction of heat from the body; as the water was fresh and still, and of considerable depth, and, under the surface, much beneath the usual temperature of the human body. This fact ought to be a lesson to those who bathe in still and deep fresh water; and to warn them to continue only a short time in such a cold medium. [Footnote: Various efforts to restore the suspended animation of Cox, such as shaking him, rolling him on a cask, attempts to get out the water which it was then presumed had got into the stomach or the lungs, or both, in the drowning; strewing salt over the body, and many other equally ineffectual and improper methods to restore the circulation were, I believe, pursued. Instead of which, had the body been laid in a natural position, and the lost heat gradually administered, by the application of warm frictions, a warm bed, &c., how easily in all probability, would animation have been restored!]

  The BRUE war bright, and deep and clear;
[Footnote: The reader must not suppose that the river Brue,
is generally a clear stream, or always rapid. I have elsewhere
called it "lazy Brue." It is sometimes, at and above the
floodgates at Highbridge, when they are not closed by the
tide, a rapid stream; but through the moors, generally, its course
is slow. In the summertime, and at the period to which allusion is
made, the floodgates were closed.]
  And Lammas dâ and harras near:
  The zun upon the waters drode
  Girt sheets of light as on a rode;
  From zultry heät the cattle hirn'd
  To shade or water as to firnd:
  Men, too, in yarly âternoon
  Doft'd quick ther cloaths and dash'd in zoon
  To thic deep river, whaur the trout,
  In all ther prankin, plâd about;
  And yels wi' zilver skins war zid,
  While gudgeons droo the wâter slid,
  Wi' carp sumtimes and wither fish
  Avoordon many a dainty dish.
  Whaur elvers too in spring time plâd,
[Footnote: Young eels are called elvers in Somersetshire.
Walton, in his Angler, says, "Young eels, in the Severn,
are called yelvers." In what part of the country through
which the Severn passes they are called yelvers we are not told in
Walton's book; as eels are called, in Somersetshere, yels, analogy
seems to require yelvers for their young; but I never heard
them so called. The elvers used to be obtained from the salt-water
side of the bridge.]
  And pailvuls mid o' them be had.
  The wâter cold—the zunshine bright,
  To zwiminers than what high delight!
  'Tis long agwon whun youth and I
  Wish'd creepin Time would rise and vly—
  A, half a hundred years an moor
  Zunz I a trod theäze earthly vloor!
  I zed, the face o' Brue war bright;
  Time smil'd too in thic zummer light.
  Wi' Hope bezide en promising
  A wordle o' fancies wild ö' whing.
  I mine too than one lowering cloud
  That zim'd to wrop us like a shroud;
  The death het war o' Doctor Cox—
  To thenk o't now the storry shocks!
  Vor âll the country vur and near
  Shod than vor'n many a horty tear.
  The Doctor like a duck could zwim;
  No fear o' drownin daver'd him!
  The pectur now I zim I zee!
  I wish I could liet's likeness gee!
  His Son, my brother John, myzel,
  Or Evans, mid the storry tell;
  But thâ be gwon and I, o' âll
  O'm left to zâ what did bevâll.
  Zo, nif zo be you like, why I
  To tell the storry now ool try.

  Thic _Evans_had a coward core
  And fear'd to venter vrom the shore;
  While to an vro, an vur an near,
  And now an tan did Cox appear
  In dalliance with the wâters bland,
  Or zwimmin wi' a maëster hand.
  We youngsters dree, the youngest I,
  To zee the zwimmers âll stood by
  Upon the green bonk o' the Brue
  Jist whaur a stook let water droo:
  A quiet time of joyousness
  Zim'd vor a space thic dâ to bless!
  A dog' too, faithful to his maëster
  War there, and mang'd wi' the disaster—
  Vigo, ah well I mine his name!
  A Newvoun-lond and very tame!
  But Evans only war to blame:
  He âllès paddled near the shore
  Wi' timid hon and coward core;
  While Doctor Cox div'd, zwim'd at ease
  Like fishes in the zummer seas;
  Or as the skaiters on the ice
  In winin circles wild and nice
  Yet in a moment he war gwon,
  The wonderment of ivry one:
  That is, we dree and Evans, âll
  That zeed what Blanscue did bevâll.—
  Athout one sign, or naise, or cry,
  Or shriek, or splash, or groan, or sigh!
  Could zitch a zwimmer ever die
  In wâter?—Yet we gaz'd in vain
  Upon thic bright and wâter plain:
  All smooth and calm—no ripple gave
  One token of the zwimmer's grave!
  We hir'd en not, we zeed en not!—
  The glassy wâter zim'd a blot?
  While Evans, he of coward core,
  Still paddled as he did bevore!
  At length our fears our silence broke,—
  Young as we war, and children âll,
  We wish'd to goo an zum one câll;
  But Evans carelissly thus spoke—
  "Oh, Cox is up the river gone,
  Vor sartain ool be back anon;—
  He tâlk'd o' cyder, zed he'd g'up
  To Stole's an drenk a horty cup!"
[Footnote: Mr. Stole resided near Newbridge, about a mile
from the spot where the accident occurred; he was somewhat famous
for his cyder.]
  Conjecture anty as the wine!
  And zoon did he het's faleshood vine.

  John Cox took up his father's cloaths—
  Poor fellow! he beginn'd to cry!
  Than, Evans vrom the wâter rose;
  "A hunderd vawk'll come bimeby,"
  A zed; whun, short way vrom the shore.
  We zeed, what zeed we not avore,
  The head of Doctor Cox appear—
  Het floated in the wâter clear!
  Bolt upright war he, and his hair,
  That pruv'd he sartainly war there,
  Zwimm'd on the wâter!—Evans than,
  The stupid'st of a stupid man,
  Call'd Vigo—pointed to that head—
  In Vigo dash'd—Cox was not dead!
  But seiz'd the dog's lag—helt en vast!
  One struggle, an het war the last!
  Ah! well do I remember it—
  That struggle I sholl ne'er forgit!
  Vigo was frightened and withdrew;
  The body zink'd at once vrom view.

  Did Evans, gallid Evans then,
  Câll out, at once, vor father's men?
  (Thâ war at work vor'n very near
  A mendin the old Highbridge pier,)
  A did'n câll, but 'mus'd our fear—
  "A hundred vawk ool zoon be here!"
  A zed.—We gid the hue and cry!
  And zoon a booät wi' men did vly!
  But twar âll auver! Cox war voun
  Not at the bottom lyin down,
  But up aneen, as jist avore
  We zeed en floatin nigh the shore.

  But death 'ad done his wust—not âll
  Thâ did could life's last spork recall.
  Zo Doctor Cox went out o' life
  A vine, a, and as honsom mon,
  As zun hath iver shin'd upon;
  A left a family—a wife,
  Two sons—one_dater_,
  As beautiful as lovely Mâ,
  Of whom a-mâ-bi I mid za
  Zumthin hereâter:
  What thâ veel'd now I sholl not tell—
  My hort athin me 'gins to zwell!
  Reflection here mid try in vain,
  Wither particulars to gain,
  Evans zim'd all like one possest;
  Imagination! tell the rest!

L'ENVOY.

  To âll that sholl theeäze storry read,
  The Truth must vor it chiefly plead;
  I gee not here a tale o' ort,
  Nor snip-snap wit, nor lidden smort.
  But ôten, ôten by thie river,
  Have I a pass'd; yet niver, niver,
  Athout a thought o' Doctor Cox—
  His dog—his death—his floatin locks!
  The mooäst whun Brue war deep and clear,
  And Lammas dâ an harras near;—
  Whun zummer vleng'd his light abroad,—
  The zun in all his glory rawd;
  How beautiful mid be the dâ
  A zumthin âllès zim'd to zâ,
  "Whar whing! the wâter's deep an' clear,
  But death mid be a lurkin near!"

A DEDICATION.

  Thenk not, bin I ood be tha fashion,
  That I, ZIR, write theäze Dedicâtion;
  I write, I haup I dwon't offend.
  Bin I be proud ta câll You FRIEND.
  I here ston vooäth, alooän unbidden
  To 'muse you wi' my country lidden;—
  Wi' remlet's o' tha Saxon tongue
  That to our Gramfers did belong.
  Vor áll it is a little thing,
  Receave it—Friendship's offering—
  Ta pruv, if pruf I need renew,
  That I esteem not lightly YOU.

THE FAREWELL.

  A longful time zunz I this vust begun!
  One little tootin moor and I a done.
  "One little tootin moor!—Enough,
  Vor once, we've had o' jitchy stuff;
  Thy lidden to a done 'tis time!
  Jitch words war niver zeed in rhyme!"
  Vorgee me vor'm.—Goo little Reed!
  Aforn tha vawk an vor me plead:
  Thy wild nawtes, mâ-be, thâ ool hire
  Zooner than zâter vrom a lyre.
  Zâ that, thy mäester's pleas'd ta blaw 'em,
  An haups in time thâ'll come ta knaw 'em;
  An nif zaw be thâ'll please ta hear
  A'll gee zum moor another year.
  Ive nothin else jist now ta tell:
  Goo, little Reed, an than forwel!

FARMER BENNET AN JAN LIDE,

A DIALOGUE.

Farmer Bennet.— Jan! why dwon't ye right my shoes?

Jan Lide.— Bin, maëster 'tis zaw cawld, I can't work wi' tha tacker at âll; I've a brawk it ten times I'm shower ta dâ— da vreaze za hord. Why Hester hanged out a kittle-smock ta drowy, an in dree minits a war a vraur as stiff as a pawker; an I can't avoord ta keep a good vier—I wish I cood—I'd zoon right your shoes and withers too—I'd zoon yarn [Footnote: Earn.] zum money, I warnt ye. Can't ye vine zum work vor me, maester, theäze hord times—I'll do any theng ta sar a penny.—I can drash—I can cleave brans—I can make spars—I can thatchy—I can shear ditch, an I can gripy too, bit da vreaze za hord. I can wimmy—I can messy or milky nif ther be need o't. I ood'n mine dreavin plough or any theng.

Farmer Bennet.— I've a got nothing vor ye ta do, Jan; bit Mister Boord banchond ta I jist now that thâ war gwain ta wimmy, ond that thâ wanted zumbody ta help 'em.

Jan Lide.—Aw, I'm glad o't, I'll him auver an zee where I can't help 'em; bit I han't a bin athin tha drashel o' Maester Boord's door vor a longful time, bin I thawt that missis did'n use Hester well; but I dwon't bear malice, an zaw I'll goo.

Farmer Bennet.—What did Missis Boord zâ or do ta Hester, than?

Jan Lide.—Why, Hester, a mâ-be, war zummet ta blame too: vor she war one o'm, d'ye zee, that rawd Skimmerton—thic mâ game that frunted zum o' tha gennel-vawk. Thâ zed 'twar time to a done wi'jitch litter, or jitch stuff, or I dwon knaw what thâ call'd it; bit thâ war a frunted wi' Hester about it: an I zed nif thâ war a frunted wi' Hester, thâ mid be frunted wi' I. This zet missis's back up, an Hester han't a bin a choorin there zunz. Bit 'tis niver-the-near ta bear malice; and zaw I'll goo auver an zee which wâ tha wine da blaw.

THOMAS CAME AN YOUNG MAESTER JIMMY.

Thomas Came.—Aw, Maester Jimmy! zaw you be a come whim vrom school. I thawt we shood niver zeenamoor. We've a mist ye iver zunz thic time, when we war at zea-wall, an cut aup tha girt porpus wi' za many zalmon in hiz belly—zum o'm look'd vit ta eat as thaw tha wor a bwiled, did'n thâ?—

Jimmy.—Aw eese, Thomas; I da mine tha porpus; an I da mine tha udder, an tha milk o'n, too. I be a come whim, Thomas, an I dwon't thenk I shall goo ta school again theäze zumrner. I shall be out amangst ye. I'll goo wi' ta mawy, an ta hâ-makin, an ta reapy—I'll come âter, an zet up tha stitches vor ye, Thomas. An if I da stâ till Milemas, I'll goo ta Matthews fayer wi'. Thomas, âve ye had any zenvy theäze year?—I zeed a gir'd'l o't amangst tha wheat as I rawd along. Ave you bin down in ham, Thomas, o' late—is thic groun, tha ten yacres, haind vor mawin?

Thomas Came.—Aw, Maester Jimmy! I da love ta hire you tâk- -da zeem za naatal. We a had zum zenvy—an tha ten yacres be a haind—a'll be maw'd in veo dâs—you'll come an hâ-maky, o'nt ye?- -eese, I knaw you ool—an I da knaw whool goo a hâ-makin wi', too —ah, she's a zweet maid—I dwon't wonder at ye at âll, Maester Jimmy—Lord bless ye, an love ye booäth.

Jimmy.—Thomas, you a liv'd a long time wi' Father, an' I dwont like ta chide ye, bit nif you da tâk o' Miss Cox in thic fashion, I knaw she on't like it, naw moor sholl I. Miss Cox, Thomas, Miss Cox ool, a-mâ-be, goo a hâ-makin wi' I, as she a done avaur now; bit Sally, Miss Cox, Thomas, I wish you'd zâ naw moor about er.—There now, Thomas, dwon't ye zee—why shee's by tha gate-shord! I haup she han't a hird what we a bin a tâkin about.— Be tha thissles skeer'd in tha twenty yacres, Thomas?—aw, thâ be. Well, I sholl be glad when tha ten yacres be a mawed—an when we da make an end o' hâ-corrin, I'll dance wi' Sally Cox.

Thomas Came.—There, Maester Jimmy! 'tword'n I that tâk'd o' Sally Cox!

MARY RAMSEY,

_A MONOLOGUE,

To er Scholards_.

Commether [Footnote: Come hither.] Billy Chubb, an breng tha hornen book. Gee me tha vester in tha windor, you Pal Came!—what! be a sleepid—I'll wâke ye. Now, Billy there's a good bway! Ston still there, an mine what I da zâ to ye, an whaur I da pwint.—Now;—cris-cross, [Footnote: The cris, in this compound, and in cris-cross-lain, is very often, indeed most commonly, pronounced Kirs.] girt â little â—b—c—d.—That's right Billy; you'll zoon lorn tha cris-cross-lain—you'll zoon auvergit Bobby Jiffry—you'll zoon be a scholard.—A's a pirty chubby bway—Lord love'n!

Now, Pal Came! you come an vessy wi' yer zister. —There! tha forrels o' tha book be a brawk; why dwon't ye take moor care o'm?—Now, read;—Het Came! why d'ye drean zaw?—hum, hum, hum;—you da make a naise like a spinnin turn, or a dumbledore—âll in one lidden—hum, hum, hum,—You'll niver lorn ta read well thic fashion.—Here, Pal, read theäze vesses vor yer zister. There now, Het, you mine how yerzister da read, not hum, hum, hum.—Eese you ool, ool ye?—I tell ye, you must, or I'll rub zum rue auver yer hons:—what d'ye thenk o't!—There, be gwon you Het, an dwon't ye come anuost yer zister ta vessy wi' er till you a got yer lessin moor parfit, or I'll gee zummet you on't ax me vor. Pally, you tell yer Gramfer Palmer that I da zâ Hetty Came shood lorn ta knitty; an a shood buy zum knittin nills and wusterd vor er; an a shood git er zum nills and dird, vor er to lorn to zawy too.

Now Miss Whitin, tha dunces be a gwon, let I hire how pirty you can read.—I âlways zed that Pâson Tuttle's grandâter ood lorn er book well.—Now, Miss, what ha ye a got there? Valentine an Orson.—A pirty storry, bit I be afeard there's naw moril to it.—What be âll tha tuthermy books you a got by yer goodhussey there in tha basket? Gee's-zee-'em,[Footnote: Let me see them. This is a singular expression, and is thus to be analysed; Give us to see them.] nif you please, Miss Polly.—Tha Zeven Champions—Goody Two Shoes—Pawems vor Infant minds.—Theäzamy here be by vur tha best.—There is a moril ta mooäst o'm; an thâ be pirty bezides.—Now, Miss, please ta read thic— Tha Notorious Glutton.—Pal Came! turn tha glass! dwon't ye zee tha zond is âll hirnd out;—you'll stâ in school tha longer for't nif you dwon't mine it.—Now, âll o' ye be quiet ta hire Miss Whitin read.—There now! what d'ye zâ ta jitch radin as that?—There, d'ye hire, Het Came! she dwon't drean—hum, hum, hum.—I shood like ta hire er vessy wi' zum o' ye; bit your bad radin ood spwile her good.

OUT O' BOOKS!

All the childern goo voäth.

SOLILOQUY OF BEN BOND,

THE IDLETON.

(First printed in the Graphic Illustrator.)

Ben Bond was one of those sons of Idleness whom ignorance and want of occupation in a secluded country village too often produce. He was a comely lad, aged sixteen, employed by Farmer Tidball, a querulous and suspicious old man, tto look after a large flock o sheep.—The scene of his Soliloquy may be thus described.

A green sunny bank, on which the body may agreeably repose, called the Sea Wall; on the sea side was an extensive common called the Wath, and adjoining to it was another called the Island, both were occasionally overflowed by the tide. On the other side of the bank were rich enclosed pastures, suitable for fattening the finest cattle. Into these inclosures many of Ben Bond's charge were frequently disposed to stray. The season was June, the time mid-day, and the western breezes came over the sea, a short distance from which our scene lay, at once cool, grateful, refreshing, and playful. The rushing Parret, with its ever shifting sands, was also heard in the distance. It should be stated, too, that Larence is the name usually given in Somersetshire to that imaginary being which presides over the IDLE. Perhaps it may also be useful to state here that the word Idlelon is more than a provincialism, and should be in our dictionaries.

During the latter part of the Soliloquy Farmer Tidball arrives behind the bank, and hearing poor Ben's discourse with himself, interrupts his musings in the manner described hereafter. It is the history of an occurrence in real life, and at the place mentioned. The writer knew Farmer Tidball personally, and has often heard the story from his wife.

SOLILOQUY

"Larence! why doos'n let I up? Oot let I up?" Naw, I be sleapid, I can't let thee up eet.—"Now, Lareuce! do let I up. There! bimeby maester'll come, an a'll beät I athin a ninch o' me life; do let I up!"—Naw I wunt.

"Larence! I bag o'ee, do ee let I, up! D'ye zee! Tha shee-ape be âll a breakin droo tha hadge inta tha vivean-twenty yacres; an Former Haggit'll goo ta Lâ wi'n, an I sholl be kill'd. —Naw I wun't— 'tis zaw whot: bezides I hant a had my nap out. "Larence! I da zâ, thee bist a bad un! Oot thee hire what I da zâ? Come now an let I scooce wi'. Lord a massy upon me! Larence, whys'n thee let I up?" Câz I wunt. What! muss'n I hâ an hour like wither vawk ta ate my bird an cheese? I do zâ I wunt; and zaw 'tis niver-tha-near to keep on.

"Maester tawl'd I, nif I wer a good bway, a'd gee I iz awld wasket; an I'm shower, nif a da come an vine I here, an tha shee-ape a brawk inta tha vive-an-twenty yacres, a'll vleng't awâ vust! Larence, do ee, do ee let I up! Ool ee, do ee!"—Naw, I tell ee I wunt.

"There's one o' tha sheep 'pon iz back in tha gripe, an a can't turn auver! I mis g'in ta tha groun an g'out to'n, an git'n out. There's another in tha ditch! a'll be a buddled! There's a gird'l o' trouble wi' shee-ape! Larence; cass'n thee let I goo. I'll gee thee a hâ peny nif oot let me."—Naw I can't let thee goo eet.

"Maester'll be shower to come an catch me! Larence! doose thee hire? I da zâ, oot let me up. I zeed Farmer Haggit zoon âter I upt, an a zed, nif a voun one o' my shee-ape in tha vive-an-twenty yacres, a'd drash I za long as a cood ston auver me, an wi' a groun ash' too! There! Zum o'm be a gwon droo tha vive-an-twenty yacres inta tha drauve: thâ'll zoon hirn vur anow. Thâ'll be poun'd. Larence! I'll gee thee a penny nif oot let I up." Naw I wunt.

"Thic not sheep ha got tha shab! Dame tawl'd I whun I upt ta-da ta mine tha shab-wâter; I sholl pick it in whun I da goo whim. I vorgot it! Maester war desperd cross, an I war glad ta git out o' tha langth o' iz tongue. I da hate zitch cross vawk! Larence! what, oot niver let I up? There! zum o' tha shee-ape be gwon into Leek- beds; an zum o'm be in Hounlake; dree or vour o'm be gwon zâ vur as Slow-wâ; the ditches be, menny o'm zâ dry 'tis all now rangel common! There! I'll gee thee dree hâ pence ta let I goo." Why, thee hass'n bin here an hour, an vor what shood I let thee goo? I da zâ, lie still!

"Larence! why doos'n let I up? There! zim ta I, I da hire thic pirty maid, Fanny o' Primmer Hill, a chidin bin I be a lyin here while tha shee-ape be gwain droo thic shord an tuther shord; zum o'm, a-mâ-be, be a drown'd! Larence; doose thee thenk I can bear tha betwitten o' thic pirty maid? She, tha Primrawse o' Primmer-hill; tha Lily o' tha level; tha gawl-cup o' tha mead; tha zweetist honeyzuckle in tha garden; tha yarly vilet; tha rawse o' rawses; tha pirty pollyantice! Whun I seed er last, she zed, "Ben, do ee mind tha sheeape, an tha yeos an lams, an than zumbody ool mine you." Wi'that she gid me a beautiful spreg o' jessamy, jist a pickt vrom tha poorch,—tha smill war za zweet.

"Larence! I mus goo! I ool goo. You mus let I up. I ont stâ here na
longer! Maester'll be shower ta come an drash me. There, Larence!
I'll gee tuther penny, an that's ivry vard'n I a got. Oot let
I goo?" Naw, I mis ha a penny moor.

"Larence! do let I up! Creeplin Philip'll be shower ta catch me! Thic cockygee! I dwont like en. at âll; a's za rough, an za zoür. An Will Popham too, ta betwite me about tha maid: a câll'd er a ratheripe Lady-buddick. I dwont mislike tha name at âll, thawf I dwont care vor'n a stra, nor a read mooäte; nor thatite o' a pin! What da thâ câll he? Why, tha upright man, câs a da ston upright; let'n; an let'n wrassly too: I dwont like zitch hoss-plâs, nor singel-stick nuther; nor _cock- squailin'; nor menny wither mâ-games that Will Popham da volly. I'd rather zitin tha poorch, wi' tha jessamy ranglin roun it, and hire Fanny zeng. Oot let I up, Larence?"—Naw, I tell ee I ont athout a penny moor.

"Rawzey Pink, too, an Nanny Dubby axed I about Fanny. What bisniss ad thâ ta up wi't? I dwont like norn'om? Girnin Jan too shawed iz teeth an put in his verdi.—I—wish theeäze vawk ood mine ther awn consarns an let I an Fanny alooäne.

"Larence! doose thee meän to let I goo?"—Eese, nif thee't gee me tuther penny.—"Why I han't a got a vard'n moor; oot let I up!"- -_Not athout tha penny.—"Now Larence! doo ee, bin I liant naw moor money. I a bin here moor than an hoür; whaur tha yeos an lams an âll tha tuthermy sheep be now I dwon' know.—Creeplin Philip[Footnote: Even remote districts in the country have their satirists, and would-be-wits; and Huntspill, the place alluded to in the Soliloquy, was, about half a century ago, much pestered with them. Scarcely a person of any note escaped a pariah libel, and even servants were not excepted. For instance:—Creeplin Philip, (that is "creeplin," because he walked lamely,) was Farmer Tidball himself; and his servant, William Popham, was the upright man. Girnin Jan is Grinning John.] ool gee me a lirropin shower anow! There!—I da thenk I hired zummet or zumbody auver tha wâll."—

"Here, d—n thee! I'll gee tha tuther penny, an zummet besides!" exclaimed Farmer Tidball, leaping down the bank, with a stout sliver of a crab-tree in his hand.—The sequel may be easily imagined.

  Nanny Dubby, Sally Clink,
  Long Josias an Raway Pink,
  —Girnin Jan,
  Creeplin Philip and the upright man.

TWO DISSERTATIONS ON SOME OF THE ANGLO-SAXON PRONOUNS.

BY JAMES JENKINGS.

(From the Graphic Illustrator.)

No. 1.—I, IC, ICH, ICHE, UTCHY, ISE, C', CH', CHE, CH'AM, CH'UD,
CH'LL.

Until recently few writers on the English Language, have devoted much attention to the origin of our first personal pronoun I, concluding perhaps that it would be sufficient to state that it is derived from the Anglo-Saxon ic. No pains seem to have been taken to explain the connexion which ic, ich, and iche have with Ise, c', ch', che', and their combinations in such words as ch'am, ch'ud, ch'ill, &c. Hence we have been led to believe that such contractions are the vulgar corruptions of an ignorant and, consequently, unlettered people. That the great portion of the early Anglo-Saxons were an unlettered people, and that the rural population were particularly unlettered, and hence for the most part ignorant, we may readily admit; and even at the present time, many districts in the west will be found pretty amply besprinkled with that unlettered ignorance for which many of our forefathers were distinguished. But an enquiry into the origin and use of our provincial words will prove, that even our unlettered population have been guided by certain rules in their use of an energetic language. Hence it will be seen on inquiry that many of the words supposed to be vulgarisms, and vulgar and capricious contractions are no more so than many of our own words in daily use; as to the Anglo-Saxon contractions of ch'am, ch'ud, and ch'ill, they will be found equally consistent with our own common contractions of can't, won't, he'll, you'll, &c., &c. in our present polished dialect.

Whether, however, our western dialects will be more dignified by an Anglo-Saxon pedigree I do not know; those who delight in tracing descents through a long line of ancestors up to one primitive original ought to be pleased with the literary genealogist, who demonstrates that many of our provincial words and contractions have an origin more remote, and in their estimation of course, must be more legitimate than a mere slip from the parent stock, as our personal pronoun, I, unquestionably is.

As to the term "barbarous," Mr. Horace Smith, the author of "Walter Colyton," assures me that many of his friends call what he has introduced of the Somerset Dialect in Walter Colyton, "barbarous."—Now, I should like to learn in what its barbarity consists. The plain truth after all is, that those who are unwilling to take the trouble to understand any language, or any dialect of any language, with which they are previously unacquainted, generally consider such new language or such dialect barbarous; and to them it doubtless appears so. What induces our metropolitan literati, those at least who are, or affect to be the arbitri elegantiarum among them, to consider the Scotch dialect in another light? Simply because such able writers, as Allan Ramsay, Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, and others, have chosen to employ it for the expression of their thoughts. Let similar able writers employ our Western Dialect in a similar way, and I doubt not the result. And why should not our Western dialects be so employed? If novelty and amusement, to say the least for such writings, be advantageous to our literature, surely novelty and amusement might be conveyed in the dialect of the West as well as of the North. Besides these advantages, it cannot be improper to observe that occasional visits to the well-heads of our language, (and many of these will be found in the West of England) will add to the perfection of our polished idiom itself. The West may be considered the last strong hold of the Anglo-Saxon in this country.

I observed, in very early life, that some of my father's servants, who were natives of the Southern parts of the county of Somerset, almost invariably employed the word utchy for I. Subsequent reflection convinced me that this word, utchy, was the Anglo-Saxon iche, used as a dissyllable ichè, as the Westphalians, (descendants of the Anglo- Saxons,) down to this day in their Low German (Westphalian) dialect say, "Ikke" for "ich." How or when this change in the pronunciation of the word, from one to two syllables, took place in in this country it is difficult to determine; but on reference to the works of Chaucer, there is, I think, reason to conclude that iche is used sometimes in that poet's works as a dissyllable.

Having discovered that utchy was the Anglo-Saxon iche, there was no difficulty in appropriating 'che, 'c', and ch' to the same root; hence, as far as concerned iche in its literal sounds, a good deal seemed unravelled; but how could we account for ise, and ees, used so commonly for I in the western parts of Somersetshire, as well as in Devonshire? In the first folio edition of tlie works of Shakspeare the ch is printed, in one instance, with a mark of elision before it thus, 'ch, a proof that the I in iche was sometimes dropped in a common and rapid pronunciation; and a proof too, that, we, the descendants of the Anglo-Saxons, have chosen the initial letter only of that pronoun, which initial letter the Anglo-Saxons had in very many instances discarded!

It is singular enough that Shakspeare has the 'ch for iche, I, and ise, for I, within the distance of a few lines, in King Lear, Act IV. scene 6. But perhaps not more singular than that, in Somersetshire at the present time, may be heard for the pronoun I, utchy or ichè, 'ch, and ise. To the absence originally of general literary information, and to the very recent rise of the study of grammatical analysis, are these anomalies and irregularities to be attributed.

We see, therefore, that 'ch'ud, ch'am, and 'ch'ill, are simply the Anglo-Saxon ich, contracted and combined with the respective verbs would, am, and will; that the 'c' and 'ch', as quoted in the lines given by Miss Ham, are contracts for the Anglo-Saxon iche or I, and nothing else. It may be also observed, that in more than one modern work containing specimens of the dialect of Scotland and the North of England, and in, I believe, some of Sir Walter Scott's novels, the word ise is employed, so that the auxiliary verb will or shall is designed to be included in that word; and the printing or it thus, I'se, indicates that it is so designed to be employed. Now, if this be a copy of the living dialect of Scotland (which I beg leave respectfully to doubt), it is a "barbarism" which the Somerset dialect does not possess. The ise in the west is simply a pronoun and nothing else; it is, however, often accompanied by a contracted verb, as ise'll for I will.

In concluding these observations on the first personal pronoun it may be added, that the object of the writer has been to state facts, without the accompaniment of that learning which is by some persons deemed so essential in inquiries of this kind. The best learning is that which conveys to us a knowledge of facts. Should any one be disposed to convince himself of the correctness of the data here laid before him, by researches among our old authors, as well as from living in the west, there is no doubt as to the result to which lie must come. Perhaps, however, it may be useful to quote one or two specimens of our more early Anglo- Saxon, to prove their analogy to the present dialect in Somersetshire.

The first specimen is from Robert of Gloucester, who lived in the time of Henry II., that is, towards the latter end of the twelfth century; it is quoted by Drayton, in the notes to his Pulyolbion, song xvii.

 "The meste wo that here vel bi King Henry's days,
 In this lond, icholle beginne to tell yuf ich may."

Vel, for fell, the preterite of to fall, is precisely the sound given to the same word at the present time in Somersetshire. We see that icholle, for I shall, follows the same rule as the contracts 'ch'ud, 'ch'am, and 'ch'ill. It is very remarkable that sholl, for shall, is almost invariably employed in Somersetshire, at the present time. Yuf I am disposed to consider a corruption or mistake for gyf (give), that is, if, the meaning and origin of which have been long ago settled by Horne Tooke in his Purley.

The next specimen is assuredly of a much more modern date; though quoted by Mr Dibdin, in his Metrical History of England, as from an old ballad.

  "Ch'ill tell thee what, good fellow,
  Before the vriars went hence,
  A bushel of the best wheate
  Was zold for vourteen pence,
  And vorty egges a penny,
  That were both good and new,
  And this che say myself have seene,
  And yet I am no Jew."

With a very few alterations, indeed, these lines would become the South Somerset of the present day.

No. II.—ER, EN, A—IT HET—THEEAZE, THEEAZAM, THIZZAM—THIC,
THILK—TWORDM—WORDN—ZINO.

There are in Somersetshire (besides that particular, portion in the southern parts of the country in which the Anglo-Saxon iche or utchy and its contracts prevail) two distinct and very different dialects, the boundaries of which are strongly marked by the River Parret. To the east and north of that river, and of the town of Bridgewater, a dialect is used which is essentially, (even now) the dialect of all the peasantry of not only that part of Somersetshire, but of Dorsetshire, Wiltshire, Gloucestershire, Hampshire, Surrey, Sussex, and Kent; and even in the suburban village of Lewisham, will be found many striking remains of it. There can be no doubt that this dialect was some centuries ago the language of the inhabitants of all the south and of much of the west portion of our island; but it is in its greatest purity[Footnote: Among other innumerable proofs that Somersetshire is one of the strongholds of our old Anglo-Saxon, are the sounds which are there generally given to the vowels A and E. A has, for the most part, the same sound as we give to that letter in the word father in our polished dialect: in the words tâll, câll, bâll, and vâll (fall), &c., it is thus pronounced. The E has the sound which we give in our polished dialect to the a in pane, cane, &c., both which sounds, it may be observed, are even now given to these letters on the Continent, in very many places, particularly in Holland and in Germany. The name of Dr. Gall, the founder of the science of phrenology, is pronounced Gâll, as we of the west pronounce tâll, bâll, &c.] and most abundant in the county of Somerset. No sooner, however, do we cross the Parret and proceed from Combwich [Footnote: Pronounced Cummidge. We here see the disposition in our language to convert wich into idge; as Dulwich and Greenwich often pronounced by the vulgar Dullidge, Greenidge.] to Cannington (three miles from Bridgewater) than another dialect becomes strikingly apparent. Here we have no more of the zees, the hires, the veels, and the walks, and a numerous et cætera, which we find in the eastern portion of the county, in the third person singular of the verbs, but instead we have he zeeth, he sees, he veel'th, he feels, he walk'th, he walks, and so on through the whole range of the similar part of every verb. This is of itself a strong and distinguishing characteristic; but this dialect has many more; one is the very different sounds given to almost every word which is employed, and which thus strongly characterize the persons who use them. [Footnote: I cannot pretend to account for this very singular and marked distinction in our western dialects; the fact, however, is so; and it may be added, too, that there can be no doubt both these dialects are the children of our Anglo-Saxon parent.]

Another is that er for he in the nominative case is most commonly employed; thus for, he said he would not, is used Er zad er ood'n—Er ont goor, for, he will not go, &c.

Again ise or ees, for I is also common. Many other peculiarities and contractions in this dialect are to a stranger not a little puzzling; and if we proceed so far westward as the confines of Exmoor, they are, to a plain Englishman, very often unintelligible. Her or rather hare is most always used instead of the nominative she. Har'th a dood it, she has done it; Hare zad har'd do't. She said she would do it. This dialect pervades, not only the western portion of Somersetshire, but the whole of Devonshire. As my observations in these papers apply chiefly to the dialect east of the Parret, it is not necessary to proceed further in our present course; yet as er is also occasionally used instead of he in that dialect it becomes useful to point out its different application in the two portions of the county. In the eastern part it is used very rarely if ever in the beginning of sentences; but frequently thus: A did, did er? He did, did he? Wordn er gwain? Was he not going? Ool er goo? will he go?

We may here advert to the common corruption, I suppose I must call it, of a for he used so generally in the west. As a zed a'd do it for, lie said he would do it. Shakespeare has given this form of the pronoun in the speeches of many of his low characters which, of course, strikingly demonstrates its then very general use among the vulgar; but it is in his works usually printed with a comma thus 'a, to show, probably that it is a corrupt enunciation of he. This comma is, however, very likely an addition by some editor.

Another form of the third personal pronoun employed only in the objective case is found in the west, namely en for him, as a zid en or, rather more commonly, a zid'n, he saw him. Many cases however, occur in which en is fully heard; as gee't to en, give it to him. It is remarkable that Congreve, in his comedy of "Love for Love" has given to Ben the Sailor in that piece many expressions found in the west. "Thof he be my father I an't bound prentice to en." It should be noted here that he be is rarely if ever heard in the west, but he's or he is. We be, you be, and thâ be are nevertheless very common. Er, employed as above, is beyond question aboriginal Saxon; en has been probably adopted as being more euphonious than him. [Footnote: I have not met with en for him in any of our more early writers; and I am therefore disposed to consider it as of comparatively modern introduction, and one among the very few changes in language introduced by the yeomanry, a class of persons less disposed to changes of any kind than any other in society, arising, doubtless, from their isolated position. It must be admitted, nevertheless, that this change if occasionally adopted in our polished dialect would afford an agreeable variety by no means unmusical. In conversation with a very learned Grecian on this subject, he seemed to consider because the learned are constantly, and sometimes very capriciously, introducing new words into our language, that such words as en might be introduced for similar reasons, namely, mere fancy or caprice; on this subject I greatly differ from him: our aboriginal Saxon population has never corrupted our language nor destroyed its energetic character half so much as the mere classical scholar. Hence the necessity, in order to a complete knowledge of our mother tongue, that we should study the Anglo-Saxon still found in the provinces.

Het for it is still also common amongst the peasantry. In early Saxon writers, it was usually written hit, sometimes hyt.

  "Als hit in heaven y-doe,
  Evar in yearth beene it also."
  Metrical Lord's Prayer of 1160.

Of theeäze, used as a demonstrative pronoun, both in the singular and plural, for this and these, it maybe observed, as well as of the pronunciation of many other words in the west, that we have no letters or combination of letters which, express exactly the sounds there given to such words. Theeäze is here marked as a dissyllable, but although it is sometimes decidedly two syllables, its sounds are not always thus apparent in Somerset enunciation. What is more remarkable in this world, is its equal application to the singular and the plural. Thus we say theeäze man and theäze men. But in the plural are also employed other forms of the same pronoun, namely theeäzam, theeäzamy and thizzum. This last word is, of course, decidedly the Anglo-Saxon ðissum. In the west we say therefore theeäzam here, theeäzamy here, and thizzam here for these, or these here; and sometimes without the pleonastic and unnecessary here.

For the demonstrative those of our polished dialect them, or themmy, and often them there or themmy there are the usual synonyms; as, gee I themmy there shoes; that is, give me those shoes. The objective pronoun me, is very sparingly employed indeed—I, in general supplying its place as in the preceding sentence: to this barbarism in the name of my native dialect, I must plead guilty!— if barbarism our metropolitan critics shall be pleased to term it. [Footnote: By the way I must just retort upon our polished dialect, that it has gone over to the other extreme in avoidance of the I, using me in many sentences where I ought most decidedly to be employed. It was me [Footnote: I am aware that some of our lexicographers have attempted a defence of this solecism by deriving it from the French c'est moi; but, I think it is from their affected dislike of direct egotism; and that, whenever they can, they avoid the I in order that they might not be thought at once vulgar and egotistic!] is constantly dinned in our ears for it was I: as well as indeed one word more, although not a pronoun, this is, the almost constant use in London of the verb to lay for the verb to lie, and ketch for catch. If we at head-quarters commit such blunders can we wonder at our provincial detachments falling into similar errors? none certainly more gross than this!]

Thic is in the Somersetshire dialect (namely that to which I have particularly directed my attention and which prevails on the east side of the Parret) invariably employed for that. Thic house, that house; thic man, that man: in the west of the county it is thiky, or thecky. Sometimes thic has the force and meaning of a personal pronoun, as:

  Catch and scrabble
  Thic that's yable:—
  Catch and scramble
  He who's able.

Again, thic that dont like it mid leave it,—he who does not like it may leave it. It should be noted that th in all the pronouns above mentioned has the obtuse sound as heard in then and this and not the thin sound as heard in both, thin, and many other words of our polished dialect. Chaucer employed the pronoun thic very often, but he spells it thilk; he does not appear, however, to have always restricted it to the meaning implied in our that and to the present Somerset thic. Spenser has also employed thilk in his Shepherd's Calendar several times.

"Seest not thilk same hawthorn stud How bragly it begins to bud
And utter his tender head?" "Our blonket leveries been all too sad
For thilk same season, when all is yclad With pleasance."

I cannot conclude without a few observations on three very remarkable Somersetshire words, namely twordn, wordn, and zino. They are living evidences of the contractions with which that dialect very much abounds.

Twordn means it was not; and is composed of three words, namely it, wor, and not; wor is the past tense, or, as it is sometimes called, the preterite of the verb to be, in the third person singular; [Footnote: It should be observed here that was is rather uncommon among the Somersetshire peasantry—wor, or war, being there the synonyms; thus Spenser in his 'Shepherd's Calendar.'"

  "The kid,—
  Asked the cause of his great distress,
  And also who
  and whence that he wer
  You say he was there, and I say that a wordn;
  You say that 'twas he, and I tell you that twordn;
  You ask, will he go? I reply, not as I know;
  You say that he will, and _I_must say, no,
    Zino!]

and such is the indistinctness with which the sound of the vowel in were is commonly expressed in Somersetshire, that wor, wer, or war, will nearly alike convey it, the sound of the e being rarely if ever long; twordn is therefore composed, as stated, of three words; but it will be asked what business has the d in it? To this it may be replied that d and t are, as is well known, often converted in our language the one into the other; but by far the most frequently d is converted into t. Here, however, the t is not only converted into d, but instead of being placed after n, as analogy requires thus, twornt, it is placed before it for euphony I dare say. Such is the analysis of this singular and, if not euphonious, most certainly expressive word.

Wordn admits of a similar explanation; but this word is composed of two words only, war and not; instead of wornt, which analogy requires, a d is placed before n for a similar reason that the d is placed before n in twordn, namely for euphony; wordn is decidedly another of the forcible words.