After many long years had a-run,

The while I wer a-gone vrom the pleäce,

I come back to the vields, where the zun

Ov her childhood did show me her feäce.

There her father, years wolder, did stoop.

An' her brother, wer now a-grow'd staïd,

An' the apple tree lower did droop.

Out in the orcha'd where we had a-plaÿ'd,

There wer zome things a-seemèn the seäme,

But Meäry's a-married awaÿ.

There wer two little childern a-zent,

Wi' a message to me, oh! so feaïr

As the mother that they did zoo ment,

When in childhood she plaÿ'd wi' me there.

Zoo they twold me that if I would come

Down to Coomb, I should zee a wold friend,

Vor a plaÿmeäte o' mine wer at hwome,

An' would staÿ till another week's end.

At the dear pworchèd door, could I dare

To zee Meäry a-married awaÿ!

On the flower-not, now all a-trod

Stwony hard, the green grass wer a-spread,

An' the long-slighted woodbine did nod

Vrom the wall, wi' a loose-hangèn head.

An' the martin's clay nest wer a-hung

Up below the brown oves, in the dry,

An' the rooks had a-rock'd broods o' young

On the elems below the Maÿ sky;

But the bud on the bed, coulden bide,

Wi' young Meäry a-married awaÿ.

There the copse-wood, a-grow'd to a height,

Wer a-vell'd, an' the primrwose in blooth,

Among chips on the ground a-turn'd white,

Wer a-quiv'rèn, all beäre ov his lewth.

The green moss wer a-spread on the thatch,

That I left yollow reed, an' avore

The small green, there did swing a new hatch,

Vor to let me walk into the door.

Oh! the rook did still rock o'er the rick,

But wi' Meäry a-married awaÿ.

Oh! the wood wer a-vell'd in the copse,

An' the moss-bedded primrwose did blow;

An' vrom tall-stemmèd trees' leafless tops,

There did lie but slight sheädes down below.

An' the sky wer a-showèn, in drough

By the tree-stems, the deepest o' blue,

Wi' a light that did vall on an' off

The dry ground, a-strew'd over wi' scroff.

There the hedge that wer leätely so high,

Wer a-plush'd, an' along by the zide,

Where the waggon 'd a-haul'd the wood by,

There did reach the deep wheelrouts, a-dried.

An' the groun' wi' the sticks wer bespread,

Zome a-cut off alive, an' zome dead.

An' vor burnèn, well wo'th reäkèn off,

By the childern a-pickèn o' scroff.

There wer woone bloomèn child wi' a cloak

On her shoulders, as green as the ground;

An' another, as gray as the woak,

Wi' a bwoy in a brown frock, a-brown'd.

An' woone got up, in plaÿ, vor to taït,

On a woak-limb, a-growèn out straïght.

But she soon wer a-taïted down off,

By her meätes out a-pickèn o' scroff.

When they childern do grow to staïd vo'k,

An' goo out in the worold, all wide

Vrom the copse, an' the zummerleäze woak,

Where at last all their elders ha' died,

They wull then vind it touchèn to bring,

To their minds, the sweet springs o' their spring,

Back avore the new vo'k did turn off

The poor childern a-pickèn o' scroff.

While down the meäds wound slow,

Water vor green-wheel'd mills,

Over the streams bright bow,

Win' come vrom dark-back'd hills.

Birds on the win' shot along down steep

Slopes, wi' a swift-swung zweep.

Dim weän'd the red streak'd west

Lim'-weary souls "Good rest."

Up on the plough'd hill brow,

Still wer the zull's wheel'd beam,

Still wer the red-wheel'd plough,

Free o' the strong limb'd team,

Still wer the shop that the smith meäde ring,

Dark where the sparks did spring;

Low shot the zun's last beams.

Lim'-weary souls "Good dreams."

Where I vrom dark bank-sheädes

Turn'd up the west hill road,

Where all the green grass bleädes

Under the zunlight glow'd.

Startled I met, as the zunbeams play'd

Light, wi' a zunsmote maïd,

Come vor my day's last zight,

Zun-brighten'd maïd "Good night."

Upon the slope, the hedge did bound

The yield wi' blossom-whited zide,

An' charlock patches, yollow-dyed,

Did reach along the white-soil'd ground,

An' vo'k, a-comèn up vrom meäd,

Brought gil'cup meal upon the shoe;

Or went on where the road did leäd,

Wi' smeechy doust from heel to tooe.

As noon did smite, wi' burnèn light,

The road so white, to Meldonley.

An' there wer timber'd knaps, that show'd

Cool sheädes, vor rest, on grassy ground,

An' thatch-brow'd windows, flower-bound,

Where I could wish wer my abode.

I pass'd the maïd avore the spring,

An' shepherd by the thornèn tree;

An' heärd the merry dréver zing,

But met noo kith or kin to me,

Till I come down, vrom Meldon's crown

To rufs o' brown, at Meldonley.

The woaken tree, so hollow now,

To souls ov other times wer sound,

An' reach'd on ev'ry zide a bough

Above their heads, a-gather'd round,

But zome light veet

That here did meet

In friendship sweet, vor rest or jaÿ,

Shall be a-miss'd another Maÿ.

Theäse year do show, wi' snow-white cloud,

An' deäsies in a sprinkled bed,

An' green-bough birds a-whislèn loud,

The looks o' zummer days a-vled;

An' grass do grow,

An' men do mow,

An' all do show the wold times' feäce

Wi' new things in the wold things' pleäce.

Oh! if my ling'rèn life should run,

Drough years a-reckoned ten by ten,

Below the never-tirèn zun,

Till beäbes ageän be wives an' men;

An' stillest deafness should ha' bound

My ears, at last, vrom ev'ry sound;

Though still my eyes in that sweet light,

Should have the zight o' sky an' ground:

Would then my steäte

In time so leäte,

Be jaÿ or païn, be païn or jaÿ?

If I should zee among em all,

In merry youth, a-glidèn by,

My son's bwold son, a-grown man-tall,

Or daughter's daughter, woman-high;

An' she mid smile wi' your good feäce,

Or she mid walk your comely peäce,

But seem, although a-chattèn loud,

So dumb's a cloud, in that bright pleäce:

Would youth so feäir,

A-passèn there,

Be jaÿ or païn, be païn or jaÿ.

'Tis seldom strangth or comeliness

Do leäve us long. The house do show

Men's sons wi' mwore, as they ha' less,

An' daughters brisk, vor mothers slow.

A dawn do clear the night's dim sky,

Woone star do zink, an' woone goo high,

An' livèn gifts o' youth do vall,

Vrom girt to small, but never die:

An' should I view,

What God mid do,

Wi' jaÿ or païn, wi' païn or jaÿ?

In zummer, leäte at evenèn tide,

I zot to spend a moonless hour

'Ithin the window, wi' the zide

A-bound wi' rwoses out in flow'r,

Bezide the bow'r, vorsook o' birds,

An' listen'd to my true-love's words.

A-risèn to her comely height,

She push'd the swingèn ceäsement round;

And I could hear, beyond my zight,

The win'-blow'd beech-tree softly sound,

On higher ground, a-swayèn slow,

On drough my happy hour below.

An' tho' the darkness then did hide

The dewy rwose's blushèn bloom,

He still did cast sweet aïr inside

To Jeäne, a-chattèn in the room;

An' though the gloom did hide her feäce,

Her words did bind me to the pleäce.

An' there, while she, wi' runnèn tongue,

Did talk unzeen 'ithin the hall,

I thought her like the rwose that flung

His sweetness vrom his darken'd ball,

'Ithout the wall, an' sweet's the zight

Ov her bright feäce by mornèn light.

Wull ye come in eärly Spring,

Come at Easter, or in Maÿ?

Or when Whitsuntide mid bring

Longer light to show your waÿ?

Wull ye come, if you be true,

Vor to quicken love anew.

Wull ye call in Spring or Fall?

Come now soon by zun or moon?

Wull ye come?

Ees come to ye, an' come vor ye, is my word,

I wull come.

Let me work, but mid noo tie

Hold me vrom the oben sky,

When zummer winds, in plaÿsome flight,

Do blow on vields in noon-day light,

Or ruslèn trees, in twilight night.

Sweet's a stroll,

By flow'ry knowl, or blue-feäcèd pool

That zummer win's do ruffle cool.

When the moon's broad light do vill

Plaïns, a-sheenèn down the hill;

A-glitterèn on window glass,

O then, while zummer win's do pass

The rippled brook, an' swaÿèn grass,

Sweet's a walk,

Where we do talk, wi' feäces bright,

In whispers in the peacevul night.

When the swaÿèn men do mow

Flow'ry grass, wi' zweepèn blow,

In het a-most enough to dry

The flat-spread clote-leaf that do lie

Upon the stream a-stealèn by,

Sweet's their rest,

Upon the breast o' knap or mound

Out where the goocoo's vaïce do sound.

Where the sleek-heäir'd maïd do zit

Out o' door to zew or knit,

Below the elem where the spring

'S a-runnèn, an' the road do bring

The people by to hear her zing,

On the green,

Where she's a-zeen, an' she can zee,

O gaÿ is she below the tree.

Come, O zummer wind, an' bring

Sounds o' birds as they do zing,

An' bring the smell o' bloomèn maÿ,

An' bring the smell o' new-mow'd haÿ;

Come fan my feäce as I do straÿ,

Fan the heäir

O' Jessie feäir; fan her cool,

By the weäves o' stream or pool.

When high-flown larks wer on the wing,

A warm-aïr'd holiday in Spring,

We stroll'd, 'ithout a ceäre or frown,

Up roun' the down at Meldonley;

An' where the hawthorn-tree did stand

Alwone, but still wi' mwore at hand,

We zot wi' sheädes o' clouds on high

A-flittèn by, at Meldonley.

An' when the vields o' wheat did spread

Vrom hedge to hedge in sheets o' red.

An' bennets wer a-sheäkèn brown.

Upon the down at Meldonley,

We stroll'd ageän along the hill,

An' at the hawthorn-tree stood still,

To zee J. L. vor Jessie Lee,

An' my T. D., at Meldonley.

The grey-poll'd bennet-stems did hem

Each half-hid letter's zunken rim,

By leädy's-vingers that did spread

In yollow red, at Meldonley.

An' heärebells there wi' light blue bell

Shook soundless on the letter L,

To ment the bells when L vor Lee

Become a D at Meldonley.

Vor Jessie, now my wife, do strive

Wi' me in life, an' we do thrive;

Two sleek-heäired meäres do sprackly pull

My waggon vull, at Meldonley;

An' small-hoof'd sheep, in vleeces white,

Wi' quickly-pankèn zides, do bite

My thymy grass, a-mark'd vor me

In black, T. D., at Meldonley.

The eegrass, vor a while unwrung

By hoof or shoe, 's a sheenèn bright,

An' clover flowers be a-sprung

On new-mow'd knaps in beds o' white,

An' sweet wild rwoses, up among

The hedge-row boughs, do yield their smells.

To aïer that do bear along

The loud-rung peals o' Zunday bells,

Upon the day o' days the best,

The day o' greäce an' peäce an' rest.

By brightshod veet, in peäir an' peäir,

Wi' comely steps the road's a-took

To church, an' work-free han's do beär

Woone's walkèn stick or sister's book;

An' there the bloomèn niece do come

To zee her aunt, in all her best;

Or married daughter do bring hwome

Her vu'st sweet child upon her breast,

As she do seek the holy pleäce,

The day o' rest an' peäce an' greäce.

Another time as I come by

The house, below a dark-blue sky,

The pillar'd geäte wer oben wide,

An' who should be a-show'd inside,

But she, the comely maïd whose hymn

Woonce meäde my giddy braïn to zwim,

A-zittèn in the sheäde to zew,

A-clad in robes as white as snow.

What then? could I so low

Look out a meäte ov higher steäte

So gaÿ 'ithin a pillar'd geäte,

Wi' high walls round the smooth-mow'd ground?

Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

Long years stole by, a-glidèn slow,

Wi' winter cwold an' zummer glow,

An' she wer then a widow, clad

In grey; but comely, though so sad;

Her husband, heartless to his bride,

Spent all her store an' wealth, an' died,

Though she noo mwore could now rejaïce,

Yet sweet did sound her zongless vaïce.

But had she, in her woe,

The higher steäte she had o' leäte

'Ithin the lofty pillar'd geäte,

Wi' stwonèn balls upon the walls?

Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

But while she vell, my Meäker's greäce

Led me to teäke a higher pleäce,

An' lighten'd up my mind wi' lore,

An' bless'd me wi' a worldly store;

But still noo winsome feäce or vaïce,

Had ever been my wedded chaïce;

An' then I thought, why do I mwope

Alwone without a jaÿ or hope?

Would she still think me low?

Or scorn a meäte, in my feäir steäte,

In here 'ithin a pillar'd geäte,

A happy pleäce wi' her kind feäce?

Oh, no! my hope, no, no.

I don't stand out 'tis only feäte

Do gi'e to each his wedded meäte;

But eet there's woone above the rest,

That every soul can like the best.

An' my wold love's a-kindled new,

An' my wold dream's a-come out true;

But while I had noo soul to sheäre

My good an' ill, an' jäy an ceäre,

Should I have bliss below,

In gleämèn pleäte an' lofty steäte

'Ithin the lofty pillar'd geäte,

Wi' feäirest flow'rs, an' ponds an' tow'rs?

Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

There by the path, in grass knee-high,

Wer buttervlees in giddy flight,

All white above the deäisies white,

Or blue below the deep blue sky.

Then glowèn warm wer ev'ry brow,

O' maïd, or man, in zummer het,

An' warm did glow the cheäks I met

That time, noo mwore to meet em now.

As brooks, a-slidèn on their bed,

My season-measur'd time's a-vled.

Vrom yonder window, in the thatch,

Did sound the maïdens' merry words,

As I did stand, by zingèn birds,

Bezide the elem-sheäded hatch.

'Tis good to come back to the pleäce,

Back to the time, to goo noo mwore;

'Tis good to meet the younger feäce

A-mentèn others here avore.

As streams do glide by green mead-grass,

My zummer-brighten'd years do pass.

When sparklèn brooks an' grassy ground,

By keen-aïr'd Winter's vrost wer bound,

An' star-bright snow did streak the forms

O' beäre-lim'd trees in darksome storms,

Sweet Linda Deäne did lightly glide,

Wi' snow-white robe an' rwosy feäce,

Upon the smooth-vloor'd hall, to treäce

The merry dance o' Chris'mas tide;

But oh! not mine be balls so fine

As Linda Deäne's at Ellendon.

Sweet Linda Deäne do match the skies

Wi' sheenèn blue o' glisnèn eyes,

An' feaïrest blossoms do but show

Her forehead's white, an' feäce's glow;

But there's a winsome jaÿ above,

The brightest hues ov e'th an' skies.

The dearest zight o' many eyes,

Would be the smile o' Linda's love;

But high above my lowly love

Is Linda Deäne ov Ellendon.

At Lindenore upon the steep,

Bezide the trees a-reachèn high,

The while their lower limbs do zweep

The river-stream a-flowèn by;

By grægle bells in beds o' blue,

Below the tree-stems in the lew,

Calm aïr do vind the rwose-bound door,

Ov Ellen Dare o' Lindenore.

Vor there the town, wi' zun-bright walls,

Do sheen vur off, by hills o' grey,

An' town-vo'k ha' but seldom calls

O' business there, from day to day:

But Ellen didden leäve her ruf

To be admir'd, an' that's enough—

Vor I've a-vound 'ithin her door,

Feäir Ellen Dare o' Lindenore.

O when theäse elems' crooked boughs,

A'most too thin to sheäde the cows,

Did slowly swing above the grass

As winds o' Spring did softly pass,

An' zunlight show'd the shiftèn sheäde,

While youthful me'th wi' laughter loud,

Did twist his lim's among the crowd

Down there below; up there above

Wer bright-ey'd me'th below the tree.

Down there the merry vo'k did vill

The stwonèn doorway, now so still;

An' zome did joke, wi' ceäsement wide,

Wi' other vo'k a-stood outside,

Wi' words that head by head did heed.

Below blue sky an' blue-smok'd tun,

'Twer jaÿ to zee an' hear their fun,

But sweeter jaÿ up here above

Wi' bright-ey'd me'th below the tree.

Now unknown veet do beät the vloor,

An' unknown han's do shut the door,

An' unknown men do ride abrode,

An' hwome ageän on thik wold road,

Drough geätes all now a-hung anew.

Noo mind but mine ageän can call

Wold feäces back around the wall,

Down there below, or here above,

Wi' bright-ey'd me'th below the tree.

Aye, pride mid seek the crowded pleäce

To show his head an' frownèn feäce,

An' pleasure vlee, wi' goold in hand,

Vor zights to zee vrom land to land,

Where winds do blow on seas o' blue:—

Noo wealth wer mine to travel wide

Vor jaÿ, wi' Pleasure or wi' Pride:

My happiness wer here above

The feäst, wi' me'th below the tree.

The wild rwose now do hang in zight,

To mornèn zun an' evenèn light,

The bird do whissle in the gloom,

Avore the thissle out in bloom,

But here alwone the tree do leän.

The twig that woonce did whiver there

Is now a limb a-wither'd beäre:

Zoo I do miss the sheäde above

My head, an' me'th below the tree.

Think how her girlhood met noo ceäre

To peäle the bloom her feäce did weär,

An' how her glossy temple prest

Her pillow down, in still-feäced rest,

While sheädes o' window bars did vall

In moonlight on the gloomy wall,

In cool-aïr'd nights o' June;

The while her lids, wi' bendèn streäks

O' lashes, met above her cheäks,

A-bloomèn to the moon.

Think how she left her childhood's pleäce,

An' only sister's long-known feäce,

An' brother's jokes so much a-miss'd,

An' mother's cheäk, the last a-kiss'd;

An' how she lighted down avore

Her new abode, a husband's door,

Your weddèn night in June;

Wi' heart that beät wi' hope an' fear,

While on each eye-lash hung a tear,

A-glisnèn to the moon.

Zoo don't zit thoughtless at your cup

An' keep your wife a-wäitèn up,

The while the clock's a-tickèn slow

The chilly hours o' vrost an' snow,

Until the zinkèn candle's light

Is out avore her drowsy sight,

A-dimm'd wi' grief too soon;

A-leävèn there alwone to murn

The feädèn cheäk that woonce did burn,

A-bloomèn to the moon.

O, aye! they had woone child bezide,

An' a finer your eyes never met,

'Twer a dear little fellow that died

In the zummer that come wi' such het;

By the mowers, too thoughtless in fun,

He wer then a-zent off vrom our eyes,

Vrom the light ov the dew-dryèn zun,—

Aye! vrom days under blue-hollow'd skies.

He went out to the mowers in meäd,

When the zun wer a-rose to his height,

An' the men wer a-swingèn the sneäd,

Wi' their eärms in white sleeves, left an' right;

An' out there, as they rested at noon,

O! they drench'd en vrom eäle-horns too deep,

Till his thoughts wer a-drown'd in a swoon;

Aye! his life wer a-smother'd in sleep.

Then they laid en there-right on the ground,

On a grass-heap, a-zweltrèn wi' het,

Wi' his heäir all a-wetted around

His young feäce, wi' the big drops o' zweat;

In his little left palm he'd a-zet,

Wi' his right hand, his vore-vinger's tip,

As for zome'hat he woulden vorget,—

Aye! zome thought that he woulden let slip.

Then they took en in hwome to his bed,

An' he rose vrom his pillow noo mwore,

Vor the curls on his sleek little head

To be blown by the wind out o' door.

Vor he died while the häy russled grey

On the staddle so leätely begun:

Lik' the mown-grass a-dried by the day,—

Aye! the zwath-flow'r's a-killed by the zun.

Where the bridge out at Woodley did stride,

Wi' his wide arches' cool sheäded bow,

Up above the clear brook that did slide

By the popples, befoam'd white as snow:

As the gilcups did quiver among

The white deäisies, a-spread in a sheet.

There a quick-trippèn maïd come along,—

Aye, a girl wi' her light-steppèn veet.

An' she cried "I do praÿ, is the road

Out to Lincham on here, by the meäd?"

An' "oh! ees," I meäde answer, an' show'd

Her the way it would turn an' would leäd:

"Goo along by the beech in the nook,

Where the childern do play in the cool,

To the steppèn stwones over the brook,—

Aye, the grey blocks o' rock at the pool."

"Then you don't seem a-born an' a-bred,"

I spoke up, "at a place here about;"

An' she answer'd wi' cheäks up so red

As a pi'ny but leäte a-come out,

"No, I liv'd wi' my uncle that died

Back in Eäpril, an' now I'm a-come

Here to Ham, to my mother, to bide,—

Aye, to her house to vind a new hwome."

The while my eärms did swing

Wi' work I had on hand,

The quick-wing'd lark did zing

Above the green-tree'd land,

An' bwoys below me chafed

The dog vor fun,

An' he, vor all they laef'd,

Did meäke em run.

The south zide o' the hill,

My own tun-smoke rose blue,—

In North Coomb, near the mill,

My mother's wer in view—

Where woonce her vier vor all

Ov us did burn,

As I have childern small

Round mine in turn.

An' zoo I still wull cheer

Her life wi' my small store,

As she do drop a tear

Bezide her lwonesome door.

The love that I do owe

Her ruf, I'll paÿ,

An' then zit down below

My own wi' jaÿ.