I went hwome in the dead o' the night,
When the vields wer all empty o' vo'k,
An' the tuns at their cool-winded height
Wer all dark, an' all cwold 'ithout smoke;
An' the heads o' the trees that I pass'd
Wer a-swayèn wi' low-ruslèn sound,
An' the doust wer a-whirl'd wi' the blast,
Aye, a smeech wi' the wind on the ground.
Then I come by the young widow's hatch,
Down below the wold elem's tall head,
But noo vinger did lift up the latch,
Vor the vo'k wer so still as the dead;
[page 410]But inside, to a tree a-meäde vast,
Wer the childern's light swing, a-hung low,
An' a-rock'd by the brisk-blowèn blast,
Aye, a-swung by the win' to an' fro.
Vor the childern, wi' pillow-borne head,
Had vorgotten their swing on the lawn,
An' their father, asleep wi' the dead,
Had vorgotten his work at the dawn;
An' their mother, a vew stilly hours,
Had vorgotten where he sleept so sound,
Where the wind wer a-sheäkèn the flow'rs,
Aye, the blast the feäir buds on the ground.
Oh! the moon, wi' his peäle lighted skies,
Have his sorrowless sleepers below.
But by day to the zun they must rise
To their true lives o' tweil an' ov ho.
Then the childern wull rise to their fun,
An' their mother mwore sorrow to veel,
While the aïr is a-warm'd by the zun,
Aye, the win' by the day's vi'ry wheel.
Avore the time when zuns went down
On zummer's green a-turn'd to brown,
When sheädes o' swaÿèn wheat-eärs vell
Upon the scarlet pimpernel;
The while you still mid goo, an' vind
'Ithin the geärden's mossy wall,
Sweet blossoms, low or risèn tall,
To meäke a tutty to your mind,
In churchyard heav'd, wi' grassy breast,
The greäve-mound ov a beäby's rest.
An' when a high day broke, to call
A throng 'ithin the churchyard wall,
The mother brought, wi' thoughtvul mind,
The feäirest buds her eyes could vind,
To trim the little greäve, an' show
To other souls her love an' loss,
An' meäde a Seävior's little cross
O' brightest flow'rs that then did blow,
A-droppèn tears a-sheenèn bright,
Among the dew, in mornèn light
An' woone sweet bud her han' did pleäce
Up where did droop the Seävior's feäce;
An' two she zet a-bloomèn bright,
Where reach'd His hands o' left an' right;
Two mwore feäir blossoms, crimson dyed,
Did mark the pleäces ov his veet,
An' woone did lie, a-smellèn sweet,
Up where the spear did wound the zide
Ov Him that is the life ov all
Greäve sleepers, whether big or small.
The mother that in faïth could zee
The Seävior on the high cross tree
Mid be a-vound a-grievèn sore,
But not to grieve vor evermwore,
Vor He shall show her faïthvul mind,
His chaïce is all that she should choose,
An' love that here do grieve to lose,
Shall be, above, a jaÿ to vind,
Wi' Him that evermwore shall keep
The souls that He do lay asleep.
The stream-be-wander'd dell did spread
Vrom height to woody height,
An' meäds did lie, a grassy bed,
Vor elem-sheädèn light.
The milkmaïd by her white-horn'd cow,
Wi' païl so white as snow,
Did zing below the elem bough
A-swaÿèn to an' fro.
An' there the evenèn's low-shot light
Did smite the high tree-tops,
An' rabbits vrom the grass, in fright,
Did leäp 'ithin the copse.
An' there the shepherd wi' his crook.
An' dog bezide his knee,
Went whisslèn by, in aïr that shook
The ivy on the tree.
An' on the hill, ahead, wer bars
A-showèn dark on high,
Avore, as eet, the evenèn stars
Did twinkle in the sky,
An' then the last sweet evenèn-tide
That my long sheäde vell there,
I went down Brindon's thymy zide,
To my last sleep at Ware.
The Frome, wi' ever-water'd brink,
Do run where shelvèn hills do zink
Wi' housen all a-cluster'd roun'
The parish tow'rs below the down.
[page 413]An' now, vor woonce, at leäst, ov all
The pleäcen where the stream do vall,
There's woone that zome to-day mid vind,
Wi' things a-suited to their mind.
An' that's out where the Fancy Feäir
Is on at Maïden Newton.
An' vo'k, a-smarten'd up, wull hop
Out here, as ev'ry traïn do stop,
Vrom up the line, a longish ride,
An' down along the river-zide.
An' zome do beät, wi' heels an' tooes,
The leänes an' paths, in nimble shoes,
An' bring, bezides, a biggish knot,
Ov all their childern that can trot,
A-vlockèn where the Fancy Feäir
Is here at Maïden Newton.
If you should goo, to-day, avore
A Chilfrome house or Downfrome door,
Or Frampton's park-zide row, or look
Drough quiet Wraxall's slopy nook,
Or elbow-streeted Catt'stock, down
By Castlehill's cwold-winded crown,
An' zee if vo'k be all at hwome,
You'd vind em out—they be a-come
Out hither, where the Fancy Feäir
Is on at Maïden Newton.
Come, young men, come, an' here you'll vind
A gift to please a maïden's mind;
Come, husbands, here be gifts to please
Your wives, an' meäke em smile vor days;
Come, so's, an' buy at Fancy Feäir
A keepseäke vor your friends elsewhere;
[page 414]You can't but stop an' spend a cwein
Wi' leädies that ha' goods so fine;
An' all to meake, vor childern's seäke,
The School at Maïden Newton.
Above the leafless hazzle-wride
The wind-drove raïn did quickly vall,
An' on the meäple's ribby zide
Did hang the raïn-drops quiv'rèn ball;
Out where the brook o' foamy yollow
Roll'd along the meäd's deep hollow,
An' noo birds wer out to beät,
Wi' flappèn wings, the vleèn wet
O' zunless clouds on flow'rless ground.
How time do bring the seasons round!
The moss, a-beät vrom trees, did lie
Upon the ground in ashen droves,
An' western wind did huffle high,
Above the sheds' quick-drippèn oves.
An' where the ruslèn straw did sound
So dry, a-shelter'd in the lew,
I staïed alwone, an' weather-bound,
An' thought on times, long years agoo,
Wi' water-floods on flow'rless ground.
How time do bring the seasons round!
We then, in childhood plaÿ, did seem
In work o' men to teäke a peärt,
A-drevèn on our wild bwoy team,
Or lwoadèn o' the tiny cart.
Or, on our little refters, spread
The zedgen ruf above our head,
[page 415]But coulden tell, as now we can,
Where each would goo to tweil a man.
O jaÿs a-lost, an' jaÿs a-vound,
How Providence do bring things round!
Where woonce along the sky o' blue
The zun went roun' his longsome bow,
An' brighten'd, to my soul, the view
About our little farm below.
There I did plaÿ the merry geäme,
Wi' childern ev'ry holitide,
But coulden tell the vaïce or neäme
That time would vind to be my bride.
O hwome a-left, O wife a-vound,
How Providence do bring things round!
An' when I took my manhood's pleäce,
A husband to a wife's true vow,
I never thought by neäme or feäce
O' childern that be round me now.
An' now they all do grow vrom small,
Drough life's feäir sheäpes to big an' tall,
I still be blind to God's good plan,
To pleäce em out as wife, or man.
O thread o' love by God unwound,
How He in time do bring things round;
Well, aye, last evenèn, as I shook
My locks ov haÿ by Leecombe brook.
The yollow zun did weakly glance
Upon the winter meäd askance,
A-castèn out my narrow sheäde
Athirt the brook, an' on the meäd.
[page 416]The while ageän my lwonesome ears
Did russle weatherbeäten spears,
Below the withy's leafless head
That overhung the river's bed;
I there did think o' days that dried
The new-mow'd grass o' zummer-tide,
When white-sleev'd mowers' whetted bleädes
Rung sh'ill along the green-bough'd gleädes,
An' maïdens gaÿ, wi' plaÿsome chaps,
A-zot wi' dinners in their laps,
Did talk wi' merry words that rung
Around the ring, vrom tongue to tongue;
An' welcome, when the leaves ha' died,
Be zummer thoughts in winter-tide.
I'm out, when, in the Winter's blast,
The zun, a-runnèn lowly round,
Do mark the sheädes the hedge do cast
At noon, in hoarvrost, on the ground,
I'm out when snow's a-lyèn white
In keen-aïr'd vields that I do pass,
An' moonbeams, vrom above, do smite
On ice an' sleeper's window-glass.
I'm out o' door,
When win' do zweep,
By hangèn steep,
Or hollow deep,
At Lindenore.
O welcome is the lewth a-vound
By rustlèn copse, or ivied bank,
Or by the haÿ-rick, weather-brown'd
By barken-grass, a-springèn rank;
[page 417]Or where the waggon, vrom the team
A-freed, is well a-housed vrom wet,
An' on the dousty cart-house beam
Do hang the cobweb's white-lin'd net.
While storms do roar,
An' win' do zweep,
By hangèn steep,
Or hollow deep,
At Lindenore.
An' when a good day's work's a-done
An' I do rest, the while a squall
Do rumble in the hollow tun,
An' ivy-stems do whip the wall.
Then in the house do sound about
My ears, dear vaïces vull or thin,
A praÿèn vor the souls vur out
At sea, an' cry wi' bibb'rèn chin—
Oh! shut the door.
What soul can sleep,
Upon the deep,
When storms do zweep
At Lindenore.
"Can all be still, when win's do blow?
Look down the grove an' zee
The boughs a-swingèn on the tree,
An' beäten weäves below.
Zee how the tweilèn vo'k do bend
Upon their windward track,
Wi' ev'ry string, an' garment's end,
A-flutt'rèn at their back."
[page 418]I cried, wi' sorrow sore a-tried,
An' hung, wi' Jenny at my zide,
My head upon my breast.
Wi' strokes o' grief so hard to bear,
'Tis hard vor souls to rest.
Can all be dull, when zuns do glow?
Oh! no; look down the grove,
Where zides o' trees be bright above;
An' weäves do sheen below;
An' neäked stems o' wood in hedge
Do gleäm in streäks o' light,
An' rocks do gleäre upon the ledge
O' yonder zunny height,
"No, Jeäne, wi' trials now withdrawn,
Lik' darkness at a happy dawn."
I cried, "Noo mwore despair;
Wi' our lost peace ageän a-vound,
'Tis wrong to harbour ceäre."
When wind wer keen,
Where ivy-green
Did clwosely wind
Roun' woak-tree rind,
An' ice shone bright,
An' meäds wer white, wi' thin-spread snow
Then on the pond, a-spreadèn wide,
We bwoys did zweep along the slide,
A-strikèn on in merry row.
There ruddÿ-feäced,
In busy heäste,
[page 419]We all did wag
A spankèn lag,
To win good speed,
When we, straïght-knee'd, wi' foreright tooes,
Should shoot along the slipp'ry track,
Wi' grindèn sound, a-gettèn slack,
The slower went our clumpèn shoes.
Vor zome slow chap,
Did teäke mishap,
As he did veel
His hinder heel
A-het a thump,
Wi' zome big lump, o' voot an' shoe.
Down vell the voremost wi' a squall,
An' down the next went wi' a sprawl,
An' down went all the laughèn crew.
As to an' fro,
In merry row,
We all went round
On ice, on ground
The maïdens nigh
A-stannèn shy, did zee us slide,
An' in their eäprons small, did vwold
Their little hands, a-got red-cwold,
Or slide on ice o' two veet wide.
By leafless copse,
An' beäre tree-tops,
An' zun's low beams,
An' ice-boun' streams,
An' vrost-boun' mill,
A-stannèn still. Come wind, blow on,
An' gi'e the bwoys, this Chris'mas tide,
The glitt'rèn ice to meäke a slide,
As we had our slide, years agone.
As I do zew, wi' nimble hand,
In here avore the window's light,
How still do all the housegear stand
Around my lwonesome zight.
How still do all the housegear stand
Since Willie now 've a-left the land.
The rwose-tree's window-sheädèn bow
Do hang in leaf, an' win'-blow'd flow'rs,
Avore my lwonesome eyes do show
Theäse bright November hours.
Avore my lwonesome eyes do show
Wi' nwone but I to zee em blow.
The sheädes o' leafy buds, avore
The peänes, do sheäke upon the glass,
An' stir in light upon the vloor,
Where now vew veet do pass,
An' stir in light upon the vloor,
Where there's a-stirrèn nothèn mwore.
This win' mid dreve upon the maïn,
My brother's ship, a-plowèn foam,
But not bring mother, cwold, nor raïn,
At her now happy hwome.
But not bring mother, cwold, nor raïn,
Where she is out o' pain.
Zoo now that I'm a-mwopèn dumb,
A-keepèn father's house, do you
Come of'en wi' your work vrom hwome,
Vor company. Now do.
Come of'en wi' your work vrom hwome,
Up here a-while. Do come.
'Twer at night, an' a keen win' did blow
Vrom the east under peäle-twinklèn stars,
All a-zweepèn along the white snow;
On the groun', on the trees, on the bars,
Vrom the hedge where the win' russled drough,
There a light-russlèn snow-doust did vall;
An' noo pleäce wer a-vound that wer lew,
But the shed, or the ivy-hung wall.
Then I knock'd at the wold passage door
Wi' the win'-driven snow on my locks;
Till, a-comèn along the cwold vloor,
There my Jenny soon answer'd my knocks.
Then the wind, by the door a-swung wide,
Flung some snow in her clear-bloomèn feäce,
An' she blink'd wi' her head all a-zide,
An' a-chucklèn, went back to her pleäce.
An' in there, as we zot roun' the brands,
Though the talkers wer maïnly the men,
Bloomèn Jeäne, wi' her work in her hands,
Did put in a good word now an' then.
An' when I took my leave, though so bleäk
Wer the weather, she went to the door,
Wi' a smile, an' a blush on the cheäk
That the snow had a-smitten avore.
We zot bezide the leäfy wall,
Upon the bench at evenfall,
While aunt led off our minds vrom ceäre
Wi' veäiry teäles, I can't tell where:
[page 422]An' vound us woone among her stock
O' feäbles, o' the girt Year-clock.
His feäce wer blue's the zummer skies,
An' wide's the zight o' lookèn eyes,
For hands, a zun wi' glowèn feäce,
An' peäler moon wi' swifter peäce,
Did wheel by stars o' twinklèn light,
By bright-wall'd day, an' dark-treed night;
An' down upon the high-sky'd land,
A-reachèn wide, on either hand,
Wer hill an' dell wi' win'-swaÿ'd trees,
An' lights a-zweepèn over seas,
An' gleamèn cliffs, an' bright-wall'd tow'rs,
Wi' sheädes a-markèn on the hours;
An' as the feäce, a-rollèn round,
Brought comely sheäpes along the ground.
The Spring did come in winsome steäte
Below a glowèn raïnbow geäte;
An' fan wi' aïr a-blowèn weak,
Her glossy heäir, an' rwosy cheäk,
As she did shed vrom oben hand,
The leäpèn zeed on vurrow'd land;
The while the rook, wi' heästy flight,
A-floatèn in the glowèn light,
Did bear avore her glossy breast
A stick to build her lofty nest,
An' strong-limb'd Tweil, wi' steady hands,
Did guide along the vallow lands
The heavy zull, wi' bright-sheär'd beam,
Avore the weäry oxen team,
Wi' Spring a-gone there come behind
Sweet Zummer, jaÿ ov ev'ry mind,
Wi' feäce a-beamèn to beguile
Our weäry souls ov ev'ry tweil.
While birds did warble in the dell
In softest aïr o' sweetest smell;
[page 423]An' she, so winsome-feäir did vwold
Her comely limbs in green an' goold,
An' wear a rwosy wreath, wi' studs
O' berries green, an' new-born buds,
A-fring'd in colours vier-bright,
Wi' sheäpes o' buttervlees in flight.
When Zummer went, the next ov all
Did come the sheäpe o' brown-feäc'd Fall,
A-smilèn in a comely gown
O' green, a-shot wi' yellow-brown,
A-border'd wi' a goolden stripe
O' fringe, a-meäde o' corn-ears ripe,
An' up ageän her comely zide,
Upon her rounded eärm, did ride
A perty basket, all a-twin'd
O' slender stems wi' leaves an' rind,
A-vill'd wi' fruit the trees did shed,
All ripe, in purple, goold, an' red;
An' busy Leäbor there did come
A-zingèn zongs ov harvest hwome,
An' red-ear'd dogs did briskly run
Roun' cheervul Leisure wi' his gun,
Or stan' an' mark, wi' stedvast zight,
The speckled pa'tridge rise in flight.
An' next ageän to mild-feäc'd Fall
Did come peäle Winter, last ov all,
A-bendèn down, in thoughtvul mood,
Her head 'ithin a snow-white hood
A-deck'd wi' icy-jewels, bright
An' cwold as twinklèn stars o' night;
An' there wer weary Leäbor, slack
O' veet to keep her vrozen track,
A-lookèn off, wi' wistful eyes,
To reefs o' smoke, that there did rise
A-meltèn to the peäle-feäc'd zun,
Above the houses' lofty tun.
[page 424]An' there the girt Year-clock did goo
By day an' night, vor ever true,
Wi' mighty wheels a-rollèn round
'Ithout a beät, 'ithout a sound.
No, no, why you've noo wife at hwome
Abidèn up till you do come,
Zoo leäve your hat upon the pin,
Vor I'm your waïter. Here's your inn,
Wi' chair to rest, an' bed to roost;
You have but little work to do
This vrosty time at hwome in mill,
Your vrozen wheel's a-stannèn still,
The sleepèn ice woont grind vor you.
No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night,
Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill.
As I come by, to-day, where stood
Wi' neäked trees, the purple wood,
The scarlet hunter's ho'ses veet
Tore up the sheäkèn ground, wind-fleet,
Wi' reachèn heads, an' pankèn hides;
The while the flat-wing'd rooks in vlock.
Did zwim a-sheenèn at their height;
But your good river, since last night,
Wer all a-vroze so still's a rock.
No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night,
Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill.
Zee how the hufflèn win' do blow,
A-whirlèn down the giddy snow:
Zee how the sky's a-weärèn dim,
Behind the elem's neäked lim'.
[page 425]That there do leän above the leäne:
Zoo teäke your pleäce bezide the dogs,
An' sip a drop o' hwome-brew'd eäle,
An' zing your zong or tell your teäle,
While I do baït the vier wi' logs.
No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night,
Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill.
Your meäre's in steäble wi' her hocks
In straw above her vetterlocks,
A-reachèn up her meäney neck,
An' pullèn down good hay vrom reck,
A-meäkèn slight o' snow an' sleet;
She don't want you upon her back,
To vall upon the slippery stwones
On Hollyhül, an' break your bwones,
Or miss, in snow, her hidden track.
No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night,
Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill.
Here, Jenny, come pull out your key
An' hansel, wi' zome tidy tea,
The zilver pot that we do owe
To your prize butter at the show,
An' put zome bread upon the bwoard.
Ah! he do smile; now that 'ull do,
He'll stay. Here, Polly, bring a light,
We'll have a happy hour to-night,
I'm thankvul we be in the lew.
No, no, he woont goo hwome to-night,
Not Robin White, o' Craglin mill.
Why woonce, at Chris'mas-tide, avore
The wold year wer a-reckon'd out,
The humstrums here did come about,
A-soundèn up at ev'ry door.
But now a bow do never screäpe
A humstrum, any where all round,
An' zome can't tell a humstrum's sheäpe,
An' never heärd his jinglèn sound.
As ing-an-ing did ring the string,
As ang-an-ang the wires did clang.
The strings a-tighten'd lik' to crack
Athirt the canister's tin zide,
Did reach, a glitt'rèn, zide by zide,
Above the humstrum's hollow back.
An' there the bwoy, wi' bended stick,
A-strung wi' heäir, to meäke a bow,
Did dreve his elbow, light'nèn quick,
Athirt the strings from high to low.
As ing-an-ing did ring the string,
As ang-an-ang the wires did clang.
The mother there did stan' an' hush
Her child, to hear the jinglèn sound,
The merry maïd, a-scrubbèn round
Her white-steäv'd païl, did stop her brush.
The mis'ess there, vor wold time's seäke,
Had gifts to gi'e, and smiles to show,
An' meäster, too, did stan' an' sheäke
His two broad zides, a-chucklèn low,
While ing-an-ing did ring the string,
While ang-an-ang the wires did clang.
The plaÿers' pockets wer a-strout,
Wi' wold brown pence, a-rottlèn in,
Their zwangèn bags did soon begin,
Wi' brocks an' scraps, to plim well out.
The childern all did run an' poke
Their heads vrom hatch or door, an' shout
A-runnèn back to wolder vo'k.
Why, here! the humstrums be about!
As ing-an-ing did ring the string,
As ang-an-ang the wires did clang.
When hillborne Paladore did show
So bright to me down miles below.
As woonce the zun, a-rollèn west,
Did brighten up his hill's high breast.
Wi' walls a-lookèn dazzlèn white,
Or yollow, on the grey-topp'd height
Of Paladore, as peäle day wore
Awaÿ so feäir.
Oh! how I wish'd that I wer there.
The pleäce wer too vur off to spy
The livèn vo'k a-passèn by;
The vo'k too vur vor aïr to bring
The words that they did speak or zing.
All dum' to me wer each abode,
An' empty wer the down-hill road
Vrom Paladore, as peäle day wore
Awaÿ so feäir;
But how I wish'd that I wer there.
But when I clomb the lofty ground
Where livèn veet an' tongues did sound,
[page 428]At feäir, bezide your bloomèn feäce,
The pertiest in all the pleäce,
As you did look, wi' eyes as blue
As yonder southern hills in view,
Vrom Paladore—O Polly dear,
Wi' you up there,
How merry then wer I at feäir.
Since vu'st I trod thik steep hill-zide
My grievèn soul 'v a-been a-tried
Wi' païn, an' loss o' worldly geär,
An' souls a-gone I wanted near;
But you be here to goo up still,
An' look to Blackmwore vrom the hill
O' Paladore. Zoo, Polly dear,
We'll goo up there,
An' spend an hour or two at feäir.
The wold brown meäre's a-brought vrom grass,
An' rubb'd an' cwomb'd so bright as glass;
An' now we'll hitch her in, an' start
To feäir upon the new green cart,
An' teäke our little Poll between
Our zides, as proud's a little queen,
To Paladore. Aye, Poll a dear,
Vor now 'tis feäir,
An' she's a longèn to goo there.
While Paladore, on watch, do straïn
Her eyes to Blackmwore's blue-hill'd pläin,
While Duncliffe is the traveller's mark,
Or cloty Stour's a-rollèn dark;
Or while our bells do call, vor greäce,
The vo'k avore their Seävior's feäce,
Mid Paladore, an' Poll a dear,
Vor ever know
O' peäce an' plenty down below.
The beäten path where vo'k do meet
A-comèn on vrom vur an' near;
How many errands had the veet
That wore en out along so clear!
Where eegrass bleädes be green in meäd,
Where bennets up the leäze be brown,
An' where the timber bridge do leäd
Athirt the cloty brook to town,
Along the path by mile an' mile,
Athirt the yield, an' brook, an' stile,
There runnèn childern's hearty laugh
Do come an' vlee along—win' swift:
The wold man's glossy-knobbèd staff
Do help his veet so hard to lift;
The maïd do bear her basket by,
A-hangèn at her breäthèn zide;
An' ceäreless young men, straïght an' spry,
Do whissle hwome at eventide,
Along the path, a-reachèn by
Below tall trees an' oben sky.
There woone do goo to jaÿ a-head;
Another's jaÿ's behind his back.
There woone his vu'st long mile do tread,
An' woone the last ov all his track.
An' woone mid end a hopevul road,
Wi' hopeless grief a-teäkèn on,
As he that leätely vrom abroad
Come hwome to seek his love a-gone,
Noo mwore to tread, wi' comely eäse,
The beäten path athirt the leäze.
In tweilsome hardships, year by year,
He drough the worold wander'd wide,
Still bent, in mind, both vur an' near
To come an' meäke his love his bride.
An' passèn here drough evenèn dew
He heästen'd, happy, to her door,
But vound the wold vo'k only two,
Wi' noo mwore vootsteps on the vloor,
To walk ageän below the skies,
Where beäten paths do vall an' rise;
Vor she wer gone vrom e'thly eyes
To be a-kept in darksome sleep,
Until the good ageän do rise
A-jaÿ to souls they left to weep.
The rwose wer doust that bound her brow;
The moth did eat her Zunday ceäpe;
Her frock wer out o' fashion now;
Her shoes wer dried up out o' sheäpe—
The shoes that woonce did glitter black
Along the leäzes beäten track.
Ov all the roads that ever bridge
Did bear athirt a river's feäce,
Or ho'ses up an' down the ridge
Did wear to doust at ev'ry peäce,
I'll teäke the Stalton leäne to tread,
By banks wi' primrwose-beds bespread,
An' steätely elems over head,
Where Ruth do come a-ridèn.
An' I would rise when vields be grey
Wi' mornèn dew, avore 'tis dry,
An' beät the doust droughout the day
To bluest hills ov all the sky;
[page 431]If there, avore the dusk o' night,
The evenèn zun, a-sheenèn bright,
Would pay my leäbors wi' the zight
O' Ruth—o' Ruth a-ridèn.
Her healthy feäce is rwosy feäir,
She's comely in her gaït an' lim',
An' sweet's the smile her feäce do wear,
Below her cap's well-rounded brim;
An' while her skirt's a-spreädèn wide,
In vwolds upon the ho'se's zide,
He'll toss his head, an' snort wi' pride,
To trot wi' Ruth a-ridèn.
An' as her ho'se's rottlèn peäce
Do slacken till his veet do beät
A slower trot, an' till her feäce
Do bloom avore the tollman's geäte;
Oh! he'd be glad to oben wide
His high-back'd geäte, an' stand azide,
A-givèn up his toll wi' pride,
Vor zight o' Ruth a-ridèn.
An' oh! that Ruth could be my bride,
An' I had ho'ses at my will,
That I mid teäke her by my zide,
A-ridèn over dell an' hill;
I'd zet wi' pride her litty tooe
'Ithin a stirrup, sheenèn new,
An' leäve all other jaÿs to goo
Along wi' Ruth a-ridèn.
If maïdens that be weäk an' peäle
A-mwopèn in the house's sheäde,
Would wish to be so blithe and heäle
As you did zee young Ruth a-meäde;
[page 432]Then, though the zummer zun mid glow,
Or though the Winter win' mid blow,
They'd leäp upon the saddle's bow,
An' goo, lik' Ruth, a-ridèn.
While evenèn light do sof'ly gild
The moss upon the elem's bark,
Avore the zingèn bird's a-still'd,
Or woods be dim, or day is dark,
Wi' quiv'rèn grass avore his breast,
In cowslip beds, do lie at rest,
The ho'se that now do goo the best
Wi' rwosy Ruth a-ridèn.
The grass mid sheen when wat'ry beäds
O' dew do glitter on the meäds,
An' thorns be bright when quiv'rèn studs
O' raïn do hang upon their buds—
As jewels be a-meäde by art
To zet the plaïnest vo'k off smart.
But sheäkèn ivy on its tree,
An' low-bough'd laurel at our knee,
Be bright all daÿ, without the gleäre,
O' drops that duller leäves mid weär—
As Jeäne is feäir to look upon
In plaïnest gear that she can don.
My love is good, my love is feäir,
She's comely to behold, O,
In ev'rything that she do wear,
Altho' 'tis new or wold, O.
[page 433]My heart do leäp to see her walk,
So straïght do step her veet, O,
My tongue is dum' to hear her talk,
Her vaïce do sound so sweet, O.
The flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green
Do bear but vew, so good an' true.
When she do zit, then she do seem
The feäirest to my zight, O,
Till she do stan' an' I do deem,
She's feäirest at her height, O.
An' she do seem 'ithin a room
The feäirest on a floor, O,
Till I ageän do zee her bloom
Still feäirer out o' door, O.
Where flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green
Do bear but vew, so good an' true.
An' when the deäisies be a-press'd
Below her vootsteps waïght, O,
Do seem as if she look'd the best
Ov all in walkèn gaït, O.
Till I do zee her zit upright
Behind the ho'ses neck, O,
A-holdèn wi' the raïn so tight
His tossèn head in check, O,
Where flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green
Do bear but vew, so good an' true.
I wish I had my own free land
To keep a ho'se to ride, O,
I wish I had a ho'se in hand
To ride en at her zide, O.
Vor if I wer as high in rank
As any duke or lord, O,
[page 434]Or had the goold the richest bank
Can shovel from his horde, O,
I'd love her still, if even then
She wer a leäser in a glen.
Oh! I vu'st know'd o' my true love,
As the bright moon up above,
Though her brightness wer my pleasure,
She wer heedless o' my love.
Tho' 'twer all gaÿ to my eyes,
Where her feäir feäce did arise,
She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts,
Than the high moon in the skies.
Oh! I vu'st heärd her a-zingèn,
As a sweet bird on a tree,
Though her zingèn wer my pleasure,
'Twer noo zong she zung to me.
Though her sweet vaïce that wer nigh,
Meäde my wild heart to beat high,
She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts,
Than the birds would passers by.
Oh! I vu'st know'd her a-weepèn,
As a raïn-dimm'd mornèn sky,
Though her teär-draps dimm'd her blushes,
They wer noo draps I could dry.
Ev'ry bright tear that did roll,
Wer a keen païn to my soul,
But noo heärt's pang she did then veel,
Wer vor my words to console.
Hurrah! my lads, vor Do'set men!
A-muster'd here in red ageän;
All welcome to your ranks, a-spread
Up zide to zide, to stand, or wheel,
An' welcome to your files, to head
The steady march wi' tooe to heel;
Welcome to marches slow or quick!
Welcome to gath'rèns thin or thick;
God speed the Colonel on the hill,*
An' Mrs Bingham,† off o' drill.
When you've a-handled well your lock,
An' flung about your rifle stock
Vrom han' to shoulder, up an' down;
When you've a-lwoaded an' a-vired,
Till you do come back into town,
Wi' all your loppèn limbs a-tired,
An you be dry an' burnèn hot,
Why here's your tea an' coffee pot
At Mister Greenèn's penny till,
Wi' Mrs Bingham off o' drill.
Last year John Hinley's mother cried,
"Why my bwoy John is quite my pride!
[page 436]Vor he've a-been so good to-year,
An' han't a-mell'd wi' any squabbles,
An' han't a-drown'd his wits in beer,
An' han't a-been in any hobbles.
I never thought he'd turn out bad,
He always wer so good a lad;
But now I'm sure he's better still,
Drough Mrs Bingham, off o' drill."
Jeäne Hart, that's Joey Duntley's chaïce,
Do praise en up wi' her sweet vaïce,
Vor he's so strait's a hollyhock
(Vew hollyhocks be up so tall),
An' he do come so true's the clock
To Mrs Bingham's coffee-stall;
An' Jeäne do write, an' brag o' Joe
To teäke the young recruits in tow,
An' try, vor all their good, to bring em,
A-come from drill, to Mrs Bingham.
God speed the Colonel, toppèn high,
An' officers wi' sworded thigh,
An' all the sargeants that do bawl
All day enough to split their droats,
An' all the corporals, and all
The band a-plaÿèn up their notes,
An' all the men vrom vur an' near
We'll gi'e em all a hearty cheer.
An' then another cheerèn still
Vor Mrs Bingham, off o' drill.
* Poundbury, Dorchester, the drill ground.
† The colonel's wife, who opened a room with a coffee-stall,
and entertainments for the men off drill.