Though cool avore the sheenèn sky

Do vall the sheädes below the copse,

The timber-trees, a-reachèn high,

Ha' zunsheen on their lofty tops,

Where yonder land's a-lyèn plow'd,

An' red, below the snow-white cloud,

An' vlocks o' pitchèn rooks do vwold

Their wings to walk upon the mwold.

While floods be low,

An' buds do grow,

An' aïr do blow, a-broad, O.

But though the aïr is cwold below

The creakèn copses' darksome screen,

The truest sheäde do only show

How strong the warmer zun do sheen;

An' even times o' grief an' païn,

Ha' good a-comèn in their traïn,

An' 'tis but happiness do mark

The sheädes o' sorrow out so dark.

As tweils be sad,

Or smiles be glad,

Or times be bad, at hwome, O

An' there, as sheenèn wheels do spin

Vull speed along the dousty rwoad,

He can but stan', an' wish 'ithin

His mind to be their happy lwoad,

That he mid gaïly ride, an' goo

To towns the rwoad mid teäke en drough,

An' zee, for woonce, the zights behind

The bluest hills his eyes can vind,

O' towns, an' tow'rs,

An' downs, an' flow'rs,

In zunny hours, abroad, O.

But still, vor all the weather's feäir,

Below a cloudless sky o' blue,

The bwoy at plough do little ceäre

How vast the brightest day mid goo;

Vor he'd be glad to zee the zun

A-zettèn, wi' his work a-done,

That he, at hwome, mid still injaÿ

His happy bit ov evenèn plaÿ,

So light's a lark

Till night is dark,

While dogs do bark, at hwome, O.

Pentridge!—oh! my heart's a-zwellèn

Vull o' jaÿ wi' vo'k a-tellèn

Any news o' thik wold pleäce,

An' the boughy hedges round it,

An' the river that do bound it

Wi' his dark but glis'nèn feäce.

Vor there's noo land, on either hand,

To me lik' Pentridge by the river.

Be there any leaves to quiver

On the aspen by the river?

Doo he sheäde the water still,

Where the rushes be a-growèn,

Where the sullen Stour's a-flowèn

Drough the meäds vrom mill to mill?

Vor if a tree wer dear to me,

Oh! 'twer thik aspen by the river.

There, in eegrass new a-shootèn,

I did run on even vootèn,

Happy, over new-mow'd land;

Or did zing wi' zingèn drushes

While I plaïted, out o' rushes,

Little baskets vor my hand;

Bezide the clote that there did float,

Wi' yollow blossoms, on the river.

When the western zun's a vallèn,

What sh'ill vaïce is now a-callèn

Hwome the deäiry to the païls;

Who do dreve em on, a-flingèn

Wide-bow'd horns, or slowly zwingèn

Right an' left their tufty taïls?

As they do goo a-huddled drough

The geäte a-leädèn up vrom river.

Bleäded grass is now a-shootèn

Where the vloor wer woonce our vootèn,

While the hall wer still in pleäce.

Stwones be looser in the wallèn;

Hollow trees be nearer vallèn;

Ev'ry thing ha' chang'd its feäce.

But still the neäme do bide the seäme—

'Tis Pentridge—Pentridge by the river.

An' while the screamèn bird-bwoy shook

Wi' little zun-burnt hand,

His clacker at the bright-wing'd rook,

About the zeeded land;

His meäster there did come an' stop

His bridle-champèn meäre,

Wi' thankvul heart, to zee his crop

A-comèn up so feäir.

As there awhile

By geäte or stile,

He gi'ed the chile

A cheerèn smile,

By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

At last, wi' eärs o' darksome red,

The yollow stalks did ply,

A-swaÿèn slow, so heavy 's lead,

In aïr a-blowèn by;

An' then the busy reapers laid

In row their russlèn grips,

An' sheäves, a-leänèn head by head,

Did meäke the stitches tips.

Zoo food's a-vound,

A-comèn round,

Vrom zeed in ground,

To sheaves a-bound,

By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

Zoo let the merry thatcher veel

Fine weather on his brow,

As he, in happy work, do kneel

Up roun' the new-built mow,

That now do zwell in sich a size,

An' rise to sich a height,

That, oh! the miller's wistful eyes

Do sparkle at the zight

An' long mid stand,

A happy band,

To till the land,

Wi' head an' hand,

By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

Ah! how the looks o' sky an' ground

Do change wi' months a-stealèn round,

When northern winds, by starry night,

Do stop in ice the river's flight;

Or brooks in winter raïns do zwell,

Lik' rollèn seas athirt the dell;

Or trickle thin in zummer-tide;

Among the mossy stwones half dried;

But still, below the zun or moon,

The feàrest vield's the meäd in June.

An' I must own, my heart do beät

Wi' pride avore my own blue geäte,

Where I can bid the steätely tree

Be cast, at langth, avore my knee;

An' clover red, an' deäzies feaïr,

An' gil'cups wi' their yollow gleäre,

Be all a-match'd avore my zight

By wheelèn buttervlees in flight,

The while the burnèn zun at noon

Do sheen upon my meäd in June.

An' there do zing the swingèn lark

So gaÿ's above the finest park,

An' day do sheäde my trees as true

As any steätely avenue;

An' show'ry clouds o' Spring do pass

To shed their raïn on my young grass,

An' aïr do blow the whole day long,

To bring me breath, an' teäke my zong,

An' I do miss noo needvul boon

A-gi'ed to other meäds in June.

An' when the bloomèn rwose do ride

Upon the boughy hedge's zide,

We haymeäkers, in snow-white sleeves,

Do work in sheädes o' quiv'rèn leaves,

In afternoon, a-liftèn high

Our reäkes avore the viery sky,

A-reäken up the hay a-dried

By day, in lwongsome weäles, to bide

In chilly dew below the moon,

O' shorten'd nights in zultry June.

Vor all the aiër that do bring

My little meäd the breath o' Spring,

By day an' night's a-flowèn wide

Above all other vields bezide;

Vor all the zun above my ground

'S a-zent vor all the naïghbours round,

An' raïn do vall, an' streams do flow,

Vor lands above, an' lands below,

My bit o' meäd is God's own boon,

To me alwone, vrom June to June.

The aïr to gi'e your cheäks a hue

O' rwosy red, so feaïr to view,

Is what do sheäke the grass-bleädes gray

At breäk o' day, in mornèn dew;

Vor vo'k that will be rathe abrode,

Will meet wi' health upon their road.

But bidèn up till dead o' night,

When han's o' clocks do stan' upright,

By candle-light, do soon consume

The feäce's bloom, an' turn it white.

An' light a-cast vrom midnight skies

Do blunt the sparklèn ov the eyes.

Vor health do weäke vrom nightly dreams

Below the mornèn's eärly beams,

An' leäve the dead-aïr'd houses' eaves,

Vor quiv'rèn leaves, an' bubblèn streams,

A-glitt'rèn brightly to the view,

Below a sky o' cloudless blue.

Why, his heart's lik' a popple, so hard as a stwone,

Vor 'tis money, an' money's his ho,

An' to handle an' reckon it up vor his own,

Is the best o' the jaÿs he do know.

Why, vor money he'd gi'e up his lags an' be leäme,

Or would peärt wi' his zight an' be blind,

Or would lose vo'k's good will, vor to have a bad neäme,

Or his peace, an' have trouble o' mind.

But wi' ev'ry good thing that his meänness mid bring,

He'd paÿ vor his money,

An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

He did whisper to me, "You do know that you stood

By the Squier, wi' the vote that you had,

You could ax en to help ye to zome'hat as good,

Or to vind a good pleäce vor your lad."

"Aye, aye, but if I wer beholdèn vor bread

To another," I zaid, "I should bind

All my body an' soul to the nod of his head,

An' gi'e up all my freedom o' mind."

An' then, if my païn wer a-zet wi' my gaïn,

I should paÿ vor my money,

An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

Then, if my bit o' brook that do wind so vur round,

Wer but his, why, he'd straïghten his bed,

An' the wold stunpole woak that do stan' in my ground,

Shoudden long sheäde the grass wi' his head.

But if I do vind jaÿ where the leaves be a-shook

On the limbs, wi' their sheädes on the grass,

Or below, in the bow o' the withy-bound nook,

That the rock-washèn water do pass,

Then wi' they jaÿs a-vled an' zome goold in their stead,

I should pay vor my money,

An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

No, be my lot good work, wi' the lungs well in plaÿ,

An' good rest when the body do tire,

Vor the mind a good conscience, wi' hope or wi' jaÿ,

Vor the body, good lewth, an' good vire,

There's noo good o' goold, but to buy what 'ull meäke

Vor our happiness here among men;

An' who would gi'e happiness up vor the seäke

O' zome money to buy it ageän?

Vor 'twould seem to the eyes ov a man that is wise,

Lik' money vor money,

Or zellèn woone's honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

2. I do veel vor ye, Thomas, vor I be a-feär'd

You've a-lost your wold meäre then, by what I've a-heärd.

1. Ees, my meäre is a-gone, an' the cart's in the shed

Wi' his wheelbonds a-rustèn, an' I'm out o' bread;

Vor what be my han's vor to eärn me a croust,

Wi' noo meäre's vower legs vor to trample the doust.

2. Well, how did it happen? He vell vrom the brim

Ov a cliff, as the teäle is, an' broke ev'ry lim'.

1. Why, I gi'ed en his run, an' he shook his wold meäne,

An' he rambled a-veedèn in Westergap Leäne;

An' there he must needs goo a-riggèn, an' crope

Vor a vew bleädes o' grass up the wo'st o' the slope;

Though I should ha' thought his wold head would ha' know'd

That vor stiff lags, lik' his, the best pleäce wer the road.

2. An' you hadden a-kept en so short, he must clim',

Lik' a gwoat, vor a bleäde, at the risk ov a lim'.

1. Noo, but there, I'm a-twold, he did clim' an' did slide,

An' did screäpe, an' did slip, on the shelvèn bank-zide,

An' at langth lost his vootèn, an' roll'd vrom the top,

Down, thump, kick, an' higgledly, piggledly, flop.

2. Dear me, that is bad! I do veel vor your loss,

Vor a vew years agoo, Thomas, I lost my ho'se.

1. How wer't? If I heärd it, I now ha' vorgot;

Wer the poor thing bewitch'd or a-pweison'd, or what?

2. He wer out, an' a-meäkèn his way to the brink

O' the stream at the end o' Church Leäne, vor to drink;

An' he met wi' zome yew-twigs the men had a-cast

Vrom the yew-tree, in churchyard, the road that he past.

He wer pweison'd. (1.) O dear, 'tis a hard loss to bear,

Vor a tranter's whole bread is a-lost wi' his meäre;

But ov all churches' yew-trees, I never zet eyes

On a tree that would come up to thik woone vor size.

2. Noo, 'tis long years agone, but do linger as clear

In my mind though as if I'd a-heärd it to year.

When King George wer in Do'set, an' show'd us his feäce

By our very own doors, at our very own pleäce,

That he look'd at thik yew-tree, an' nodded his head,

An' he zaid,—an' I'll tell ye the words that he zaid:—

"I'll be bound, if you'll sarch my dominions all drough.

That you woon't vind the fellow to thik there wold yew."

Ah! you do seem to think the ground,

Where happiness is best a-vound,

Is where the high-peäl'd park do reach

Wi' elem-rows, or clumps o' beech;

Or where the coach do stand avore

The twelve-tunn'd house's lofty door,

Or men can ride behin' their hounds

Vor miles athirt their own wide grounds,

An' seldom wi' the lowly;

Upon the green that we do tread,

Below the welsh-nut's wide-limb'd head,

Or grass where apple trees do spread?

No, so's; no, no: not high nor low:

'Tis where the heart is holy.

'Tis true its veet mid tread the vloor,

'Ithin the marble-pillar'd door,

Where day do cast, in high-ruf'd halls.

His light drough lofty window'd walls;

An' wax-white han's do never tire

Wi' strokes ov heavy work vor hire,

An' all that money can avword

Do lwoad the zilver-brighten'd bwoard:

Or mid be wi' the lowly,

Where turf's a-smwolderèn avore

The back, to warm the stwonèn vloor

An' love's at hwome 'ithin the door?

No, so's; no, no; not high nor low:

'Tis where the heart is holy.

Aye, a sad life his wife must ha' led,

Vor so snappish he's leätely a-come,

That there's nothèn but anger or dread

Where he is, abroad or at hwome;

He do wreak all his spite on the bwones

O' whatever do vlee, or do crawl;

He do quarrel wi' stocks, an' wi' stwones,

An' the raïn, if do hold up or vall;

There is nothèn vrom mornèn till night

Do come right to Gruffmoody Grim.

Woone night, in his anger, he zwore

At the vier, that didden burn free:

An' he het zome o't out on the vloor,

Vor a vlanker it cast on his knee.

Then he kicked it vor burnèn the child,

An' het it among the cat's heaïrs;

An' then beät the cat, a-run wild,

Wi' a spark on her back up the steaïrs:

Vor even the vier an' fleäme

Be to bleäme wi' Gruffmoody Grim.

Then he snarl'd at the tea in his cup,

Vor 'twer all a-got cwold in the pot,

But 'twer woo'se when his wife vill'd it up

Vrom the vier, vor 'twer then scaldèn hot;

Then he growl'd that the bread wer sich stuff

As noo hammer in parish could crack,

An' flung down the knife in a huff;

Vor the edge o'n wer thicker'n the back.

Vor beäkers an' meäkers o' tools

Be all fools wi' Gruffmoody Grim.

Oone day as he vish'd at the brook,

He flung up, wi' a quick-handed knack,

His long line, an' his high-vleèn hook

Wer a-hitch'd in zome briars at his back.

Then he zwore at the brembles, an' prick'd

His beäre hand, as he pull'd the hook free;

An' ageän, in a rage, as he kick'd

At the briars, wer a-scratch'd on the knee.

An' he wish'd ev'ry bremble an' briar

Wer o' vier, did Gruffmoody Grim.

Oh! he's welcome, vor me, to breed dread

Wherever his sheäde mid alight,

An' to live wi' noo me'th round his head,

An' noo feäce wi' a smile in his zight;

But let vo'k be all merry an' zing

At the he'th where my own logs do burn,

An' let anger's wild vist never swing

In where I have a door on his durn;

Vor I'll be a happier man,

While I can, than Gruffmoody Grim.

An' then let my child clim' my lag,

An' I'll lift en, wi' love, to my chin;

Or my maïd come an' coax me to bag

Vor a frock, an' a frock she shall win;

Or, then if my wife do meäke light

O' whatever the bwoys mid ha' broke,

It wull seem but so small in my zight,

As a leaf a-het down vrom a woak

An' not meäke me ceäper an' froth

Vull o' wrath, lik' Gruffmoody Grim.

O the wings o' the rook wer a-glitterèn bright,

As he wheel'd on above, in the zun's evenèn light,

An' noo snow wer a-left, but in patches o' white,

On the hill at the turn o' the days.

An' along on the slope wer the beäre-timber'd copse,

Wi' the dry wood a-sheäkèn, wi' red-twiggèd tops.

Vor the dry-flowèn wind, had a-blow'd off the drops

O' the raïn, at the turn o' the days.

There the stream did run on, in the sheäde o' the hill,

So smooth in his flowèn, as if he stood still,

An' bright wi' the skylight, did slide to the mill,

By the meäds, at the turn o' the days.

An' up by the copse, down along the hill brow,

Wer vurrows a-cut down, by men out at plough,

So straïght as the zunbeams, a-shot drough the bough

O' the tree at the turn o' the days.

Then the boomèn wold clock in the tower did mark

His vive hours, avore the cool evenèn wer dark,

An' ivy did glitter a-clung round the bark

O' the tree, at the turn o' the days.

An' womèn a-fraïd o' the road in the night,

Wer a-heästenèn on to reach hwome by the light,

A-castèn long sheädes on the road, a-dried white,

Down the hill, at the turn o' the days.

The father an' mother did walk out to view

The moss-bedded snow-drop, a-sprung in the lew,

An' hear if the birds wer a-zingèn anew,

In the boughs, at the turn o' the days.

An' young vo'k a-laughèn wi' smooth glossy feäce,

Did hie over vields, wi' a light-vooted peäce,

To friends where the tow'r did betoken a pleäce

Among trees, at the turn o' the days.

Last night the merry farmers' sons,

Vrom biggest down to leäst, min,

Gi'ed in the work of all their guns,

An' had their sparrow feäst, min.

An' who vor woone good merry soul

Should goo to sheäre their me'th, min,

But Gammon Gaÿ, a chap so droll,

He'd meäke ye laugh to death, min.

Vor heads o' sparrows they've a-shot

They'll have a prize in cwein, min,

That is, if they can meäke their scot,

Or else they'll paÿ a fine, min.

An' all the money they can teäke

'S a-gather'd up there-right, min,

An' spent in meat an' drink, to meäke

A supper vor the night, min.

Zoo when they took away the cloth,

In middle of their din, min,

An' cups o' eäle begun to froth,

Below their merry chin, min.

An' when the zong, by turn or chaïce,

Went roun' vrom tongue to tongue, min,

Then Gammon pitch'd his merry vaïce,

An' here's the zong he zung, min.

If you'll but let your clackers rest

Vrom jabberèn an' hootèn,

I'll teäke my turn, an' do my best,

To zing o' sparrow shootèn.

Since every woone mus' pitch his key,

An' zing a zong, in coo'se, lads,

Why sparrow heads shall be to-day

The heads o' my discoo'se, lads.

We'll zend abroad our viery haïl

Till ev'ry foe's a-vled, lads,

An' though the rogues mid all turn taïl,

We'll quickly show their head, lads.

In corn, or out on oben ground,

In bush, or up in tree, lads,

If we don't kill em, I'll be bound,

We'll meäke their veathers vlee, lads.

Then teäke a drap vor harmless fun,

But not enough to quarrel;

Though where a man do like the gun,

He can't but need the barrel.

O' goodly feäre, avore we'll start,

We'll zit an' teäke our vill, min;

Our supper-bill can be but short,

'Tis but a sparrow-bill, min.

Oh! thik Gammony Gaÿ is so droll,

That if he's at hwome by the he'th,

Or wi' vo'k out o' door, he's the soul

O' the meetèn vor antics an' me'th;

He do cast off the thoughts ov ill luck

As the water's a-shot vrom a duck;

He do zing where his naïghbours would cry

He do laugh where the rest o's would sigh:

Noo other's so merry o' feäce,

In the pleäce, as Gammony Gaÿ.

An' o' workèn days, Oh! he do wear

Such a funny roun' hat,—you mid know't—

Wi' a brim all a-strout roun' his heäir,

An' his glissenèn eyes down below't;

An' a cwoat wi' broad skirts that do vlee

In the wind ov his walk, round his knee;

An' a peäir o' girt pockets lik' bags,

That do swing an' do bob at his lags:

While me'th do walk out drough the pleäce,

In the feäce o' Gammony Gaÿ.

An' if he do goo over groun'

Wi' noo soul vor to greet wi' his words,

The feäce o'n do look up an' down,

An' round en so quick as a bird's;

An' if he do vall in wi' vo'k,

Why, tidden vor want ov a joke,

If he don't zend em on vrom the pleäce

Wi' a smile or a grin on their feäce:

An' the young wi' the wold have a-heärd

A kind word vrom Gammony Gaÿ.

An' when he do whissel or hum,

'Ithout thinkèn o' what he's a-doèn,

He'll beät his own lags vor a drum,

An' bob his gaÿ head to the tuèn;

An' then you mid zee, 'etween whiles,

His feäce all alive wi' his smiles,

An' his gaÿ-breathèn bozom do rise,

An' his me'th do sheen out ov his eyes:

An' at last to have praïse or have bleäme,

Is the seäme to Gammony Gaÿ.

When he drove his wold cart out, an' broke

The nut o' the wheel at a butt.

There wer "woo'se things," he cried, wi' a joke.

"To grieve at than crackèn a nut."

An' when he tipp'd over a lwoad

Ov his reed-sheaves woone day on the rwoad,

Then he spet in his han's, out o' sleeves,

An' whissel'd, an' flung up his sheaves,

As very vew others can wag,

Eärm or lag, but Gammony Gaÿ.

When our tun wer' o' vier he rod

Out to help us, an' meäde us sich fun,

Vor he clomb up to dreve in a wad

O' wet thorns, to the he'th, vrom the tun;

An' there he did stamp wi' his voot,

To push down the thorns an' the zoot,

Till at last down the chimney's black wall

Went the wad, an' poor Gammon an' all:

An' seäfe on the he'th, wi' a grin

On his chin pitch'd Gammony Gaÿ.

All the house-dogs do waggle their taïls,

If they do but catch zight ov his feäce;

An' the ho'ses do look over raïls,

An' do whicker to zee'n at the pleäce;

An' he'll always bestow a good word

On a cat or a whisselèn bird;

An' even if culvers do coo,

Or an owl is a-cryèn "Hoo, hoo,"

Where he is, there's always a joke

To be spoke, by Gammony Gaÿ.

Ah! they wer times, when Nanny Gill

Went so'jerèn ageänst her will,

Back when the King come down to view

His ho'se an' voot, in red an' blue,

An' they did march in rows,

An' wheel in lines an' bows,

Below the King's own nose;

An' guns did pwoint, an' swords did gleäre,

A-fightèn foes that werden there.

Poor Nanny Gill did goo to zell

In town her glitt'rèn macarel,

A-pack'd wi' ceäre, in even lots,

A-ho'seback in a peäir o' pots.

An' zoo when she did ride

Between her panniers wide,

Red-cloked in all her pride,

Why, who but she, an' who but broke

The road avore her scarlet cloke!

But Nanny's ho'se that she did ride,

Woonce carr'd a sword ageän his zide,

An' had, to prick en into rank,

A so'jer's spurs ageän his flank;

An' zoo, when he got zight

O' swords a-gleamèn bright,

An' men agwaïn to fight,

He set his eyes athirt the ground,

An' prick'd his ears to catch the sound.

But no! he went away vull bound,

As vast as he could tear the ground,

An' took, in line, a so'jer's pleäce,

Vor Nanny's cloke an' frighten'd feäce;

While vo'k did laugh an' shout

To zee her cloke stream out,

As she did wheel about,

A-cryèn, "Oh! la! dear!" in fright,

The while her ho'se did plaÿ sham fight.