Well, I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while
To beät the doust a good six mile
To zee the pleäce the squier plann'd
At Brookwell, now a-meäde by hand;
Wi' oben lawn, an' grove, an' pon',
An' gravel-walks as cleän as bron;
An' grass a'most so soft to tread
As velvet-pile o' silken thread;
An' mounds wi' mæsh, an' rocks wi' flow'rs,
An' ivy-sheäded zummer bow'rs,
An' dribblèn water down below
The stwonèn archès lofty bow.
An' there do sound the watervall
Below a cavern's mæshy wall,
Where peäle-green light do struggle down
A leafy crevice at the crown.
An' there do gush the foamy bow
O' water, white as driven snow:
An' there, a zittèn all alwone,
A little maïd o' marble stwone
Do leän her little cheäk azide
Upon her lily han', an' bide
Bezide the vallèn stream to zee
Her pitcher vill'd avore her knee.
An' then the brook, a-rollèn dark
Below a leänèn yew-tree's bark,
[page 276]Wi' plaÿsome ripples that do run
A-flashèn to the western zun,
Do shoot, at last, wi' foamy shocks,
Athirt a ledge o' craggy rocks,
A-castèn in his heästy flight,
Upon the stwones a robe o' white;
An' then ageän do goo an' vall
Below a bridge's archèd wall,
Where vo'k agwaïn athirt do pass
Vow'r little bwoys a-cast in brass;
An' woone do hold an angler's wand,
Wi' steady hand, above the pond;
An' woone, a-pweïntèn to the stream
His little vinger-tip, do seem
A-showèn to his playmeätes' eyes,
Where he do zee the vishes rise;
An' woone ageän, wi' smilèn lips,
Do put a vish his han' do clips
'Ithin a basket, loosely tied
About his shoulder at his zide:
An' after that the fourth do stand
A-holdèn back his pretty hand
Behind his little ear, to drow
A stwone upon the stream below.
An' then the housèn, that be all
Sich pretty hwomes, vrom big to small,
A-lookèn south, do cluster round
A zunny ledge o' risèn ground,
Avore a wood, a-nestled warm,
In lewth ageän the northern storm,
Where smoke, a-wreathèn blue, do spread
Above the tuns o' dusky red,
An' window-peänes do glitter bright
Wi' burnèn streams o' zummer light,
Below the vine, a-traïn'd to hem
Their zides 'ithin his leafy stem,
[page 277]An' rangle on, wi' flutt'rèn leaves,
Below the houses' thatchen eaves.
An' drough a lawn a-spread avore
The windows, an' the pworchèd door,
A path do wind 'ithin a hatch,
A-vastèn'd wi' a clickèn latch,
An' there up over ruf an' tun,
Do stan' the smooth-wall'd church o' stwone,
Wi' carvèd windows, thin an' tall,
A-reachèn up the lofty wall;
An' battlements, a-stannèn round
The tower, ninety veet vrom ground,
Vrom where a teäp'rèn speer do spring
So high's the mornèn lark do zing.
Zoo I do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while
To beät the doust a good six mile,
To zee the pleäce the squier plann'd
At Brookwell, now a-meäde by hand.
Ah! good Meäster Gwillet, that you mid ha' know'd,
Wer a-bred up at Coomb, an' went little abroad:
An' if he got in among strangers, he velt
His poor heart in a twitter, an' ready to melt;
Or if, by ill luck, in his rambles, he met
Wi' zome maïdens a-titt'rèn, he burn'd wi' a het,
That shot all drough the lim's o'n, an' left a cwold zweat,
The poor little chap wer so shy,
He wer ready to drap, an' to die.
But at last 'twer the lot o' the poor little man
To vall deeply in love, as the best ov us can;
An' 'twer noo easy task vor a shy man to tell
Sich a dazzlèn feäir maïd that he loved her so well;
[page 278]An' woone day when he met her, his knees nearly smote
Woone another, an' then wi' a struggle he bro't
A vew vords to his tongue, wi' some mwore in his droat.
But she, 'ithout doubt, could soon vind
Vrom two words that come out, zix behind.
Zoo at langth, when he vound her so smilèn an' kind,
Why he wrote her zome laïns, vor to tell her his mind,
Though 'twer then a hard task vor a man that wer shy,
To be married in church, wi' a crowd stannèn by.
But he twold her woone day, "I have housen an' lands,
We could marry by licence, if you don't like banns,"
An' he cover'd his eyes up wi' woone ov his han's,
Vor his head seem'd to zwim as he spoke,
An' the aïr look'd so dim as a smoke.
Well! he vound a good naïghbour to goo in his pleäce
Vor to buy the goold ring, vor he hadden the feäce.
An' when he went up vor to put in the banns,
He did sheäke in his lags, an' did sheäke in his han's.
Then they ax'd vor her neäme, an' her parish or town,
An' he gi'ed em a leaf, wi' her neäme a-wrote down;
Vor he coulden ha' twold em outright, vor a poun',
Vor his tongue wer so weak an' so loose,
When he wanted to speak 'twer noo use.
Zoo they went to be married, an' when they got there
All the vo'k wer a-gather'd as if 'twer a feäir,
An' he thought, though his pleäce mid be pleazèn to zome,
He could all but ha' wish'd that he hadden a-come.
The bride wer a-smilèn as fresh as a rwose,
An' when he come wi' her, an' show'd his poor nose.
All the little bwoys shouted, an' cried "There he goes,"
"There he goes." Oh! vor his peärt he velt
As if the poor heart o'n would melt.
An' when they stood up by the chancel together,
Oh! a man mid ha' knock'd en right down wi' a veather,
He did veel zoo asheäm'd that he thought he would rather
He wërden the bridegroom, but only the father.
But, though 'tis so funny to zee en so shy,
Yeet his mind is so lowly, his aïms be so high,
That to do a meän deed, or to tell woone a lie,
You'd vind that he'd shun mwore by half,
Than to stan' vor vo'ks fun, or their laugh.
There Liddy zot bezide her cow,
Upon her lowly seat, O;
A hood did overhang her brow,
Her païl wer at her veet, O;
An' she wer kind, an' she wer feäir,
An' she wer young, an' free o' ceäre;
Vew winters had a-blow'd her heäir,
Bezide the Winter's Willow.
She idden woone a-rear'd in town
Where many a gaÿer lass, O,
Do trip a-smilèn up an' down,
So peäle wi' smoke an' gas, O;
But here, in vields o' greäzèn herds,
Her väice ha' mingled sweetest words
Wi' evenèn cheärms o' busy birds,
Bezide the Winter's Willow.
An' when, at last, wi' beätèn breast,
I knock'd avore her door, O,
She ax'd me in to teäke the best
O' pleäces on the vloor, O;
[page 280]An' smilèn feäir avore my zight,
She blush'd bezide the yollow light
O' bleäzèn brands, while winds o' night
Do sheäke the Winter's Willow.
An' if there's readship in her smile,
She don't begrudge to speäre, O,
To zomebody, a little while,
The empty woaken chair, O;
An' if I've luck upon my zide,
Why, I do think she'll be my bride
Avore the leaves ha' twice a-died
Upon the Winter's Willow.
Above the coach-wheels' rollèn rims
She never rose to ride, O,
Though she do zet her comely lim's
Above the mare's white zide, O;
But don't become too proud to stoop
An' scrub her milkèn païl's white hoop,
Or zit a-milkèn where do droop,
The wet-stemm'd Winter's Willow.
An' I've a cow or two in leäze,
Along the river-zide, O,
An' païls to zet avore her knees,
At dawn an' evenèn-tide, O;
An' there she still mid zit, an' look
Athirt upon the woody nook
Where vu'st I zeed her by the brook
Bezide the Winter's Willow.
Aye, aye, vull rathe the zun mus' rise
To meäke us tired o' zunny skies,
A-sheenèn on the whole day drough,
From mornèn's dawn till evenèn's dew.
When trees be brown an' meäds be green,
An' skies be blue, an' streams do sheen,
An' thin-edg'd clouds be snowy white
Above the bluest hills in zight;
But I can let the daylight goo,
When I've a-met wi'—I know who.
In Spring I met her by a bed
O' laurels higher than her head;
The while a rwose hung white between
Her blushes an' the laurel's green;
An' then in Fall, I went along
The row of elems in the drong,
An' heärd her zing bezide the cows,
By yollow leaves o' meäple boughs;
But Fall or Spring is feäir to view
When day do bring me—I know who.
An' when, wi' wint'r a-comèn roun',
The purple he'th's a-feädèn brown,
An' hangèn vern's a-sheäkèn dead,
Bezide the hill's besheäded head:
An' black-wing'd rooks do glitter bright
Above my head, in peäler light;
[page 282]Then though the birds do still the glee
That sounded in the zummer tree,
My heart is light the winter drough,
In me'th at night, wi'—I know who.
Above the timber's bendèn sh'ouds,
The western wind did softly blow;
An' up avore the knap, the clouds
Did ride as white as driven snow.
Vrom west to east the clouds did zwim
Wi' wind that plied the elem's lim';
Vrom west to east the stream did glide,
A-sheenèn wide, wi' windèn brim.
How feäir, I thought, avore the sky
The slowly-zwimmèn clouds do look;
How soft the win's a-streamèn by;
How bright do roll the weävy brook:
When there, a-passèn on my right,
A-waikèn slow, an' treadèn light,
Young Jessie Lee come by, an' there
Took all my ceäre, an' all my zight.
Vor lovely wer the looks her feäce
Held up avore the western sky:
An' comely wer the steps her peäce
Did meäke a-walkèn slowly by:
But I went east, wi' beätèn breast,
Wi' wind, an' cloud, an' brook, vor rest,
Wi' rest a-lost, vor Jessie gone
So lovely on, toward the west.
Blow on, O winds, athirt the hill;
Zwim on, O clouds; O waters vall,
Down mæshy rocks, vrom mill to mill;
I now can overlook ye all.
But roll, O zun, an' bring to me
My day, if such a day there be,
When zome dear path to my abode
Shall be the road o' Jessie Lee.
As evenèn aïr, in green-treed Spring,
Do sheäke the new-sprung pa'sley bed,
An' wither'd ash-tree keys do swing
An' vall a-flutt'rèn roun' our head:
There, while the birds do zing their zong
In bushes down the ash-tree drong,
Come Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleäce
Your vaïce an' feäce can meäke vor me.
Below the buddèn ashes' height
We there can linger in the lew,
While boughs, a-gilded by the light,
Do sheen avore the sky o' blue:
But there by zettèn zun, or moon
A-risèn, time wull vlee too soon
Wi' Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleäce
Her vaïce an' feäce can meäke vor me.
Down where the darksome brook do flow,
Below the bridge's archèd wall,
Wi' alders dark, a-leanèn low,
Above the gloomy watervall;
There I've a-led ye hwome at night,
Wi' noo feäce else 'ithin my zight
[page 284]But yours so feäir, an' sweet's the pleäce
Your vaïce an' feäce ha' meäde me there.
An' oh! when other years do come,
An' zettèn zuns, wi' yollow gleäre,
Drough western window-peänes, at hwome,
Do light upon my evenèn chair:
While day do weäne, an' dew do vall,
Be wi' me then, or else in call,
As time do vlee, vor sweet's the pleäce
Your vaïce an' feäce do meäke vor me.
Ah! you do smile, a-thinkèn light
O' my true words, but never mind;
Smile on, smile on, but still your flight
Would leäve me little jaÿ behind:
But let me not be zoo a-tried
Wi' you a-lost where I do bide,
O Jessie Lee, in any pleäce
Your vaïce an' feäce ha' blest vor me.
I'm sure that when a soul's a-brought
To this our life ov aïr an' land,
Woone mwore's a-mark'd in God's good thought,
To help, wi' love, his heart an' hand.
An' oh! if there should be in store
An angel here vor my poor door,
'Tis Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleäce
Her vaïce an' feace can meäke vor me.
'Twer where the zun did warm the lewth,
An' win' did whiver in the sheäde,
The sweet-aïr'd beäns were out in blooth,
Down there 'ithin the elem gleäde;
[page 285]A yollow-banded bee did come,
An' softly-pitch, wi' hushèn hum,
Upon a beän, an' there did sip,
Upon a swaÿèn blossom's lip:
An' there cried he, "Aye, I can zee,
This blossom's all a-zent vor me."
A-jilted up an' down, astride
Upon a lofty ho'se a-trot,
The meäster then come by wi' pride,
To zee the beäns that he'd a-got;
An' as he zot upon his ho'se,
The ho'se ageän did snort an' toss
His high-ear'd head, an' at the zight
Ov all the blossom, black an' white:
"Ah! ah!" thought he, the seäme's the bee,
"Theäse beäns be all a-zent vor me."
Zoo let the worold's riches breed
A strife o' claïms, wi' weak and strong,
Vor now what cause have I to heed
Who's in the right, or in the wrong;
Since there do come drough yonder hatch,
An' bloom below the house's thatch,
The best o' maïdens, an' do own
That she is mine, an' mine alwone:
Zoo I can zee that love do gi'e
The best ov all good gifts to me.
Vor whose be all the crops an' land
A-won an' lost, an' bought, an zwold
Or whose, a-roll'd vrom hand to hand,
The highest money that's a-twold?
Vrom man to man a passèn on,
'Tis here to-day, to-morrow gone.
[page 286]But there's a blessèn high above
It all—a soul o' stedvast love:
Zoo let it vlee, if God do gi'e
Sweet Jessie vor a gift to me.
Aye, vull my heart's blood now do roll,
An' gaÿ do rise my happy soul,
An' well they mid, vor here our veet
Avore woone vier ageän do meet;
Vor you've avoun' my feäce, to greet
Wi' welcome words my startlèn ear.
An' who be you, but John o' Weer,
An' I, but William Wellburn.
Here, light a candle up, to shed
Mwore light upon a wold friend's head,
An' show the smile, his feäce woonce mwore
Ha' brought us vrom another shore.
An' I'll heave on a brand avore
The vier back, to meäke good cheer,
O' roarèn fleämes, vor John o' Weer
To chat wi' William Wellburn.
Aye, aye, it mid be true that zome,
When they do wander out vrom hwome,
Do leäve their nearest friends behind,
Bwoth out o' zight, an' out o' mind;
But John an' I ha' ties to bind
Our souls together, vur or near,
For, who is he but John o' Weer.
An' I, but William Wellburn.
Look, there he is, with twinklèn eyes,
An' elbows down upon his thighs.
[page 287]A-chucklèn low, wi' merry grin.
Though time ha' roughen'd up his chin,
'Tis still the seäme true soul 'ithin,
As woonce I know'd, when year by year,
Thik very chap, thik John o' Weer,
Did plaÿ wi' William Wellburn.
Come, John, come; don't be dead-alive
Here, reach us out your clust'r o' vive.
Oh! you be happy. Ees, but that
Woon't do till you can laugh an' chat.
Don't blinky, lik' a purrèn cat,
But leäp an' laugh, an' let vo'k hear
What's happen'd, min, that John o' Weer
Ha' met wi' William Wellburn.
Vor zome, wi' selfishness too strong
Vor love, do do each other wrong;
An' zome do wrangle an' divide
In hets ov anger, bred o' pride;
But who do think that time or tide
Can breed ill-will in friends so dear,
As William wer to John o' Weer,
An' John to William Wellburn?
If other vo'ks do gleen to zee
How lovèn an' how glad we be,
What, then, poor souls, they had but vew
Sich happy days, so long agoo,
As they that I've a-spent wi' you;
But they'd hold woone another dear,
If woone o' them wer John o' Weer,
An' tother William Wellburn.
'Twer where my fondest thoughts do light,
At Fifehead, while we spent the night;
The millwheel's restèn rim wer dry,
An' houn's held up their evenèn cry;
An' lofty, drough the midnight sky,
Above the vo'k, wi' heavy heads,
Asleep upon their darksome beds,
The stars wer all awake, John.
Noo birds o' day wer out to spread
Their wings above the gully's bed,
An' darkness roun' the elem-tree
'D a-still'd the charmy childern's glee.
All he'ths wer cwold but woone, where we
Wer gaÿ, 'tis true, but gaÿ an' wise,
An' laugh'd in light o' maïden's eyes,
That glissen'd wide awake, John.
An' when we all, lik' loosen'd hounds,
Broke out o' doors, wi' merry sounds,
Our friends among the plaÿsome team,
All brought us gwäin so vur's the stream.
But Jeäne, that there, below a gleam
O' light, watch'd woone o's out o' zight;
Vor willènly, vor his "Good night,"
She'd longer bide awake, John.
An' while up Leighs we stepp'd along
Our grassy path, wi' joke an' zong,
There Plumber, wi' its woody ground,
O' slopèn knaps a-screen'd around,
Rose dim 'ithout a breath o' sound,
The wold abode o' squiers a-gone,
Though while they lay a-sleepèn on,
Their stars wer still awake, John.
If I've a-stream'd below a storm,
An' not a-velt the raïn,
An' if I ever velt me warm,
In snow upon the plaïn,
'Twer when, as evenèn skies wer dim,
An' vields below my eyes wer dim,
I went alwone at evenèn-fall,
Athirt the vields to Ivy Hall.
I voun' the wind upon the hill,
Last night, a-roarèn loud,
An' rubbèn boughs a-creakèn sh'ill
Upon the ashes' sh'oud;
But oh! the reelèn copse mid groan;
An' timber's lofty tops mid groan;
The hufflèn winds be music all,
Bezide my road to Ivy Hall.
A sheädy grove o' ribbèd woaks,
Is Wootton's shelter'd nest,
An' woaks do keep the winter's strokes
Vrom Knapton's evenèn rest.
An' woaks ageän wi' bossy stems,
An' elems wi' their mossy stems,
Do rise to screen the leafy wall
An' stwonèn ruf ov Ivy Hall.
The darksome clouds mid fling their sleet.
An' vrost mid pinch me blue,
Or snow mid cling below my veet,
An' hide my road vrom view.
The winter's only jaÿ ov heart,
An' storms do meäke me gaÿ ov heart,
[page 290]When I do rest, at evenèn-fall,
Bezide the he'th ov Ivy Hall.
There leafy stems do clim' around
The mossy stwonèn eaves;
An' there be window-zides a-bound
Wi' quiv'rèn ivy-leaves.
But though the sky is dim 'ithout,
An' feäces mid be grim 'ithout,
Still I ha' smiles when I do call,
At evenèn-tide, at Ivy Hall.
When I wer still a bwoy, an' mother's pride,
A bigger bwoy spoke up to me so kind-like,
"If you do like, I'll treat ye wi' a ride
In theäse wheel-barrow here." Zoo I wer blind-like
To what he had a-workèn in his mind-like,
An' mounted vor a passenger inside;
An' comèn to a puddle, perty wide,
He tipp'd me in, a-grinnèn back behind-like.
Zoo when a man do come to me so thick-like,
An' sheäke my hand, where woonce he pass'd me by,
An' tell me he would do me this or that,
I can't help thinkèn o' the big bwoy's trick-like.
An' then, vor all I can but wag my hat
An' thank en, I do veel a little shy.
No! I don't begrudge en his life,
Nor his goold, nor his housen, nor lands;
Teäke all o't, an' gi'e me my wife,
A wife's be the cheapest ov hands.
[page 291]Lie alwone! sigh alwone! die alwone!
Then be vorgot.
No! I be content wi' my lot.
Ah! where be the vingers so feäir,
Vor to pat en so soft on the feäce,
To mend ev'ry stitch that do tear,
An' keep ev'ry button in pleäce?
Crack a-tore! brack a-tore! back a-tore!
Buttons a-vled!
Vor want ov a wife wi' her thread.
Ah! where is the sweet-perty head
That do nod till he's gone out o' zight?
An' where be the two eärms a-spread,
To show en he's welcome at night?
Dine alwone! pine alwone! whine alwone!
Oh! what a life!
I'll have a friend in a wife.
An' when vrom a meetèn o' me'th
Each husban' do leäd hwome his bride,
Then he do slink hwome to his he'th,
Wi' his eärm a-hung down his cwold zide.
Slinkèn on! blinkèn on! thinkèn on!
Gloomy an' glum;
Nothèn but dullness to come.
An' when he do onlock his door,
Do rumble as hollow's a drum,
An' the veäries a-hid roun' the vloor,
Do grin vor to see en so glum.
Keep alwone! sleep alwone! weep alwone!
There let en bide,
I'll have a wife at my zide.
But when he's a-laid on his bed
In a zickness, O, what wull he do!
Vor the hands that would lift up his head,
An' sheäke up his pillor anew.
Ills to come! pills to come! bills to come!
Noo soul to sheäre
The trials the poor wratch must bear.
Come let's goo down the grove to-night;
The moon is up, 'tis all so light
As day, an' win' do blow enough
To sheäke the leaves, but tiddèn rough.
Come, Esther, teäke, vor wold time's seäke,
Your hooded cloke, that's on the pin,
An' wrap up warm, an' teäke my eärm,
You'll vind it better out than in.
Come, Etty dear; come out o' door,
An' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.
How charmèn to our very souls,
Wer woonce your evenèn maïden strolls,
The while the zettèn zunlight dyed
Wi' red the beeches' western zide,
But back avore your vinger wore
The weddèn ring that's now so thin;
An' you did sheäre a mother's ceäre,
To watch an' call ye eärly in.
Come, Etty dear; come out o' door,
An' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.
An' then ageän, when you could slight
The clock a-strikèn leäte at night,
The while the moon, wi' risèn rim,
Did light the beeches' eastern lim'.
[page 293]When I'd a-bound your vinger round
Wi' thik goold ring that's now so thin,
An' you had nwone but me alwone
To teäke ye leäte or eärly in.
Come, Etty dear; come out o' door,
An' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.
But often when the western zide
O' trees did glow at evenèn-tide,
Or when the leäter moon did light
The beeches' eastern boughs at night,
An' in the grove, where vo'k did rove
The crumpled leaves did vlee an' spin,
You couldèn sheäre the pleasure there:
Your work or childern kept ye in.
Come, Etty dear, come out o' door,
An' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.
But ceäres that zunk your oval chin
Ageän your bosom's lily skin,
Vor all they meäde our life so black,
Be now a-lost behind our back.
Zoo never mwope, in midst of hope,
To slight our blessèns would be sin.
Ha! ha! well done, now this is fun;
When you do like I'll bring ye in.
Here, Etty dear; here, out o' door,
We'll teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.
'Twer Maÿ, but ev'ry leaf wer dry
All day below a sheenèn sky;
The zun did glow wi' yollow gleäre,
An' cowslips blow wi' yollow gleäre,
[page 294]Wi' grægles' bells a-droopèn low,
An' bremble boughs a-stoopèn low;
While culvers in the trees did coo
Above the vallèn dew.
An' there, wi' heäir o' glossy black,
Bezide your neck an' down your back,
You rambled gaÿ a-bloomfen feäir;
By boughs o' maÿ a-bloomèn feäir;
An' while the birds did twitter nigh,
An' water weäves did glitter nigh,
You gather'd cowslips in the lew,
Below the vallèn dew.
An' now, while you've a-been my bride
As years o' flow'rs ha' bloom'd an' died,
Your smilèn feäce ha' been my jaÿ;
Your soul o' greäce ha' been my jaÿ;
An' wi' my evenèn rest a-come,
An' zunsheen to the west a-come,
I'm glad to teäke my road to you
Vrom vields o' vallèn dew.
An' when the raïn do wet the maÿ,
A-bloomèn where we woonce did straÿ,
An' win' do blow along so vast,
An' streams do flow along so vast;
Ageän the storms so rough abroad,
An' angry tongues so gruff abroad,
The love that I do meet vrom you
Is lik' the vallèn dew.
Since I noo mwore do zee your feäce,
Up steäirs or down below,
I'll zit me in the lwonesome pleäce,
Where flat-bough'd beech do grow:
Below the beeches' bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't look to meet ye now,
As I do look at hwome.
Since you noo mwore be at my zide,
In walks in zummer het,
I'll goo alwone where mist do ride,
Drough trees a-drippèn wet:
Below the raïn-wet bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I do grieve at home.
Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard
Your vaïce do never sound,
I'll eat the bit I can avword,
A-vield upon the ground;
Below the darksome bough, my love,
Where you did never dine,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I at hwome do pine.
Since I do miss your vaïce an' feäce
In praÿer at eventide,
I'll praÿ wi' woone said vaïce vor greäce
To goo where you do bide;
Above the tree an' bough, my love,
Where you be gone avore,
An' be a-waïtèn vor me now,
To come vor evermwore.
Ah! Meäster Collins overtook
Our knot o' vo'k a-stannèn still,
Last Zunday, up on Ivy Hill,
To zee how strong the corn did look.
An' he stay'd back awhile an' spoke
A vew kind words to all the vo'k,
Vor good or joke, an' wi' a smile
Begun a-plaÿèn wi' a chile.
The zull, wi' iron zide awry,
Had long a-vurrow'd up the vield;
The heavy roller had a-wheel'd
It smooth vor showers vrom the sky;
The bird-bwoy's cry, a-risèn sh'ill,
An' clacker, had a-left the hill,
All bright but still, vor time alwone
To speed the work that we'd a-done.
Down drough the wind, a-blowèn keen,
Did gleäre the nearly cloudless sky,
An' corn in bleäde, up ancle-high,
'lthin the geäte did quiver green;
An' in the geäte a-lock'd there stood
A prickly row o' thornèn wood
[page 297]Vor vo'k vor food had done their best,
An' left to Spring to do the rest.
"The geäte," he cried, "a-seal'd wi' thorn
Vrom harmvul veet's a-left to hold
The bleäde a-springèn vrom the mwold,
While God do ripen it to corn.
An' zoo in life let us vulvil
Whatever is our Meäker's will,
An' then bide still, wi' peacevul breast,
While He do manage all the rest.
Oh! there be angels evermwore,
A-passèn onward by the door,
A-zent to teäke our jaÿs, or come
To bring us zome—O Meärianne.
Though doors be shut, an' bars be stout,
Noo bolted door can keep em out;
But they wull leäve us ev'ry thing
They have to bring—My Meärianne.
An' zoo the days a-stealèn by,
Wi' zuns a-ridèn drough the sky,
Do bring us things to leäve us sad,
Or meäke us glad—O Meärianne.
The day that's mild, the day that's stern,
Do teäke, in stillness, each his turn;
An' evils at their worst mid mend,
Or even end—My Meärianne.
But still, if we can only bear
Wi' faïth an' love, our païn an' ceäre,
We shan't vind missèn jaÿs a-lost,
Though we be crost—O Meärianne.
[page 298]But all a-took to heav'n, an' stow'd
Where we can't weäste em on the road,
As we do wander to an' fro,
Down here below—My Meärianne.
But there be jaÿs I'd soonest choose
To keep, vrom them that I must lose;
Your workzome hands to help my tweil,
Your cheerful smile—O Meärianne.
The Zunday bells o' yonder tow'r,
The moonlight sheädes o' my own bow'r,
An' rest avore our vier-zide,
At evenèn-tide—My Meärianne.
The church do zeem a touchèn zight,
When vo'k, a-comèn in at door,
Do softly tread the long-aïl'd vloor
Below the pillar'd arches' height,
Wi' bells a-pealèn,
Vo'k a-kneelèn,
Hearts a-healèn, wi' the love
An' peäce a-zent em vrom above.
An' there, wi' mild an' thoughtvul feäce,
Wi' downcast eyes, an' vaïces dum',
The wold an' young do slowly come,
An' teäke in stillness each his pleäce,
A-zinkèn slowly,
Kneelèn lowly,
Seekèn holy thoughts alwone,
In praÿ'r avore their Meäker's throne.
An' there be sons in youthvul pride,
An' fathers weak wi' years an' païn,
An' daughters in their mother's traïn.
The tall wi' smaller at their zide;
Heads in murnèn
Never turnèn,
Cheäks a-burnèn, wi' the het
O' youth, an' eyes noo tears do wet.
There friends do settle, zide by zide,
The knower speechless to the known;
Their vaïce is there vor God alwone
To flesh an' blood their tongues be tied.
Grief a-wringèn,
Jaÿ a-zingèn,
Pray'r a-bringèn welcome rest
So softly to the troubled breast.
An' while I zot, wi' thoughtvul mind,
Up where the lwonesome Coombs do wind,
An' watch'd the little gully slide
So crookèd to the river-zide;
I thought how wrong the Stour did zeem
To roll along his ramblèn stream,
A-runnèn wide the left o' south,
To vind his mouth, the right-hand zide.
But though his stream do teäke, at mill.
An' eastward bend by Newton Hill,
An' goo to lay his welcome boon
O' daïly water round Hammoon,
[page 300]An' then wind off ageän, to run
By Blanvord, to the noonday zun,
'Tis only bound by woone rule all,
An' that's to vall down steepest ground.
An' zoo, I thought, as we do bend
Our waÿ drough life, to reach our end,
Our God ha' gi'ed us, vrom our youth,
Woone rule to be our guide—His truth.
An' zoo wi' that, though we mid teäke
Wide rambles vor our callèns' seäke,
What is, is best, we needen fear,
An' we shall steer to happy rest.
Aye, Meäster Collins wer a-blest
Wi' greäce, an' now's a-gone to rest;
An' though his heart did beät so meek
'S a little child's, when he did speak,
The godly wisdom ov his tongue
Wer dew o' greäce to wold an' young.
'Twer woonce, upon a zummer's tide,
I zot at Brookwell by his zide,
Avore the leäke, upon the rocks,
Above the water's idle shocks,
As little plaÿsome weäves did zwim
Ageän the water's windy brim,
Out where the lofty tower o' stwone
Did stan' to years o' wind an' zun;
An' where the zwellèn pillars bore
A pworch above the heavy door,
Wi' sister sheädes a-reachèn cool
Athirt the stwones an' sparklèn pool.
I spoke zome word that meäde en smile,
O' girt vo'k's wealth an' poor vo'k's tweil,
As if I pin'd, vor want ov greäce,
To have a lord's or squier's pleäce.
"No, no," he zaid, "what God do zend
Is best vor all o's in the end,
An' all that we do need the mwost
Do come to us wi' leäst o' cost;—
Why, who could live upon the e'th
'Ithout God's gïft ov aïr vor breath?
Or who could bide below the zun
If water didden rise an' run?
An' who could work below the skies
If zun an' moon did never rise?
Zoo aïr an' water, an' the light,
Be higher gifts, a-reckon'd right,
Than all the goold the darksome claÿ
Can ever yield to zunny daÿ:
But then the aïr is roun' our heads,
Abroad by day, or on our beds;
Where land do gi'e us room to bide,
Or seas do spread vor ships to ride;
An' He do zend his waters free,
Vrom clouds to lands, vrom lands to sea:
An' mornèn light do blush an' glow,
'Ithout our tweil—'ithout our ho.
"Zoo let us never pine, in sin,
Vor gifts that ben't the best to win;
The heaps o' goold that zome mid pile,
Wi' sleepless nights an' peaceless tweil;
Or manor that mid reach so wide
As Blackmwore is vrom zide to zide,
Or kingly swaÿ, wi' life or death,
Vor helpless childern ov the e'th:
[page 302]Vor theäse ben't gifts, as He do know,
That He in love should vu'st bestow;
Or else we should have had our sheäre
O'm all wi' little tweil or ceäre.
"Ov all His choicest gifts, His cry
Is, 'Come, ye moneyless, and buy.'
Zoo blest is he that can but lift
His prayer vor a happy gift."
Zoo then the leädy an' the squier,
At Chris'mas, gather'd girt an' small,
Vor me'th, avore their roarèn vier,
An! roun' their bwoard, 'ithin the hall;
An' there, in glitt'rèn rows, between
The roun'-rimm'd pleätes, our knives did sheen,
Wi' frothy eäle, an' cup an' can,
Vor maïd an' man, at Herrenston.
An' there the jeints o' beef did stand,
Lik' cliffs o' rock, in goodly row;
Where woone mid quarry till his hand
Did tire, an' meäke but little show;
An' after we'd a-took our seat,
An' greäce had been a-zaid vor meat,
We zet to work, an' zoo begun
Our feäst an' fun at Herrenston.
An' mothers there, bezide the bwoards,
Wi' little childern in their laps,
Did stoop, wi' lovèn looks an' words,
An' veed em up wi' bits an' draps;
[page 303]An' smilèn husbands went in quest
O' what their wives did like the best;
An' you'd ha' zeed a happy zight,
Thik merry night, at Herrenston.
An' then the band, wi' each his leaf
O' notes, above us at the zide,
Play'd up the praïse ov England's beef
An' vill'd our hearts wi' English pride;
An' leafy chaïns o' garlands hung,
Wi' dazzlèn stripes o' flags, that swung
Above us, in a bleäze o' light,
Thik happy night, at Herrenston.
An' then the clerk, avore the vier,
Begun to lead, wi' smilèn feäce,
A carol, wi' the Monkton quire,
That rung drough all the crowded pleäce.
An' dins' o' words an' laughter broke
In merry peals drough clouds o' smoke;
Vor hardly wer there woone that spoke,
But pass'd a joke, at Herrenston.
Then man an' maïd stood up by twos,
In rows, drough passage, out to door,
An' gaïly beät, wi' nimble shoes,
A dance upon the stwonèn floor.
But who is worthy vor to tell,
If she that then did bear the bell,
Wer woone o' Monkton, or o' Ceäme,
Or zome sweet neäme ov Herrenston.