T. Well here, then, Mister auctioneer,
Be theäse the virs, I bought, out here?
A. The firs, the fir-poles, you bought? Who?
'Twas furze, not firs, I sold to you.
T. I bid vor virs, and not vor vuzzen,
Vor vir-poles, as I thought, two dozen.
A. Two dozen faggots, and I took
Your bidding for them. Here's the book.
T. I wont have what I diddèn buy.
I don't want vuzzen, now. Not I.
Why firs an' furze do sound the seäme.
Why don't ye gi'e a thing his neäme?
Aye, firs and furze! Why, who can tell
Which 'tis that you do meän to zell?
No, no, be kind enough to call
Em virs, and vuzzen, then, that's all.
At the feäst, I do mind very well, all the vo'ks
Wer a-took in a happerèn storm,
But we chaps took the maïdens, an' kept em wi' clokes
Under shelter, all dry an' all warm;
An' to my lot vell Jeäne, that's my bride,
That did titter, a-hung at my zide;
Zaid her aunt, "Why the vo'k 'ull talk finely o' you,"
An', cried she, "I don't ceäre if they do."
When the time o' the feäst wer ageän a-come round,
An' the vo'k wer a-gather'd woonce mwore,
Why she guess'd if she went there, she'd soon be a-vound
An' a-took seäfely hwome to her door.
Zaid her mother, "'Tis sure to be wet."
Zaid her cousin, "'T'ull raïn by zunzet."
Zaid her aunt, "Why the clouds there do look black an' blue,"
An' zaid she, "I don't ceäre if they do."
An' at last, when she own'd I mid meäke her my bride,
Vor to help me, an' sheäre all my lot,
An' wi' faïthvulness keep all her life at my zide,
Though my waÿ mid be happy or not.
Zaid her naïghbours, "Why wedlock's a clog,
An' a wife's a-tied up lik' a dog."
Zaid her aunt, "You'll vind trials enough vor to rue,"
An', zaid she, "I don't ceäre if I do."
Now she's married, an' still in the midst ov her tweils
She's as happy's the daylight is long,
She do goo out abroad wi' her feäce vull o' smiles,
An' do work in the house wi' a zong.
An', zays woone, "She don't grieve, you can tell."
Zays another, "Why, don't she look well!"
Zays her aunt, "Why the young vo'k do envy you two,"
An', zays she, "I don't ceäre if they do."
Now vor me I can zing in my business abrode,
Though the storm do beät down on my poll,
There's a wife-brighten'd vier at the end o' my road,
An' her love vor the jaÿ o' my soul.
Out o' door I wi' rogues mid be tried:
Out o' door be brow-beäten wi' pride;
Men mid scowl out o' door, if my wife is but true—
Let em scowl, "I don't ceäre if they do."
By time's a-brought the mornèn light,
By time the light do weäne;
By time's a-brought the young man's might,
By time his might do weäne;
The Winter snow do whitèn grass,
The zummer flow'rs do brightèn grass,
Vor zome things we do lose wi' païn,
We've mwore that mid be jaÿ to gaïn,
An' my dear life do seem the seäme
While at my zide
There still do bide
Your welcome feäce an' hwomely neäme.
Wï' ev'ry day that woonce come on
I had to choose a jaÿ,
Wi' many that be since a-gone
I had to lose a jaÿ.
Drough longsome years a-wanderèn,
Drough lwonesome rest a-ponderèn,
Woone peaceful daytime wer a-bro't
To heal the heart another smote;
But my dear life do seem the seäme
While I can hear,
A-soundèn near,
Your answ'rèn vaïce an' long-call'd neäme.
An' oh! that hope, when life do dawn,
Should rise to light our waÿ,
An' then, wi' weänèn het withdrawn,
Should soon benight our waÿ.
Whatever mid beval me still,
Wherever chance mid call me still,
[page 440]Though leäte my evenèn tweil mid cease,
An' though my night mid lose its peace,
My life will seem to me the seäme
While you do sheäre
My daily ceäre,
An' answer to your long-call'd neäme.
Good Meäster Collins heärd woone day
A man a-talkèn, that did zay
It woulden answer to be kind,
He thought, to vo'k o' grov'lèn mind,
Vor they would only teäke it wrong,
That you be weak an' they be strong.
"No," cried the goodman, "never mind,
Let vo'k be thankless,—you be kind;
Don't do your good for e'thly ends
At man's own call vor man's amends.
Though souls befriended should remaïn
As thankless as the sea vor raïn,
On them the good's a-lost 'tis true,
But never can be lost to you.
Look on the cool-feäced moon at night
Wi' light-vull ring, at utmost height,
A-castèn down, in gleamèn strokes,
His beams upon the dim-bough'd woaks,
To show the cliff a-risèn steep,
To show the stream a-vallèn deep,
To show where windèn roads do leäd,
An' prickly thorns do ward the meäd.
While sheädes o' boughs do flutter dark
Upon the woak-trees' moon-bright bark.
There in the lewth, below the hill,
The nightèngeäle, wi' ringèn bill,
[page 441]Do zing among the soft-aïr'd groves,
While up below the house's oves
The maïd, a-lookèn vrom her room
Drough window, in her youthvul bloom,
Do listen, wi' white ears among
Her glossy heäirlocks, to the zong.
If, then, the while the moon do lïght
The lwonesome zinger o' the night,
His cwold-beam'd light do seem to show
The prowlèn owls the mouse below.
What then? Because an evil will,
Ov his sweet good, mid meäke zome ill,
Shall all his feäce be kept behind
The dark-brow'd hills to leäve us blind?"
When weakness now do strive wi' might
In struggles ov an e'thly trial,
Might mid overcome the right,
An' truth be turn'd by might's denial;
Withstanders we ha' mwost to feär,
If selfishness do wring us here,
Be souls a-holdèn in their hand,
The might an' riches o' the land.
But when the wicked, now so strong,
Shall stan' vor judgment, peäle as ashes,
By the souls that rued their wrong,
Wi' tears a-hangèn on their lashes—
Then wïthstanders they shall deäre
The leäst ov all to meet wi' there,
Mid be the helpless souls that now
Below their wrongvul might mid bow.
Sweet childern o' the dead, bereft
Ov all their goods by guile an' forgèn;
Souls o' driven sleäves that left
Their weäry limbs a-mark'd by scourgèn;
They that God ha' call'd to die
Vor truth ageän the worold's lie,
An' they that groan'd an' cried in vaïn,
A-bound by foes' unrighteous chaïn.
The maïd that selfish craft led on
To sin, an' left wi' hope a-blighted;
Starvèn workmen, thin an' wan,
Wi' hopeless leäbour ill requited;
Souls a-wrong'd, an' call'd to vill
Wi' dread, the men that us'd em ill.
When might shall yield to right as pliant
As a dwarf avore a giant.
When there, at last, the good shall glow
In starbright bodies lik' their Seäviour,
Vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show,
The marks o' man's unkind beheäviour:
Wi' speechless tongue, an' burnèn cheak,
The strong shall bow avore the weäk,
An' vind that helplessness, wi' right,
Is strong beyond all e'thly might.
Dan Dwithen wer the chap to show
His naïghbours mwore than they did know,
Vor he could zee, wi' half a thought,
What zome could hardly be a-taught;
An' he had never any doubt
Whatever 'twer, but he did know't,
An' had a-reach'd the bottom o't,
Or soon could meäke it out.
Wi' narrow feäce, an' nose so thin
That light a'most shone drough the skin,
As he did talk, wi' his red peäir
O' lips, an' his vull eyes did steäre,
What nippy looks friend Daniel wore,
An' how he smiled as he did bring
Such reasons vor to clear a thing,
As dather'd vo'k the mwore!
When woonce there come along the road
At night, zome show-vo'k, wi' a lwoad
Ov half the wild outlandïsh things
That crawl'd, or went wi' veet, or wings;
Their elephant, to stratch his knees,
Walk'd up the road-zide turf, an' left
His tracks a-zunk wi' all his heft
As big's a vinny cheese.
An' zoo next mornèn zome vo'k vound
The girt round tracks upon the ground,
An' view'd em all wi' stedvast eyes,
An' wi' their vingers spann'd their size,
An' took their depth below the brink:
An' whether they mid be the tracks
O' things wi' witches on their backs,
Or what, they coulden think.
At last friend Dan come up, an' brought
His wit to help their dizzy thought,
An' lookèn on an' off the ea'th,
He cried, a-drawèn a vull breath,
Why, I do know; what, can't ye zee 't?
I'll bet a shillèn 'twer a deer
Broke out o' park, an' sprung on here,
Wi' quoits upon his veet.
Upzides wi' Polly! no, he'd vind
That Poll would soon leäve him behind.
To turn things off! oh! she's too quick
To be a-caught by ev'ry trick.
Woone day our Jimmy stole down steäirs
On merry Polly unaweäres,
The while her nimble tongue did run
A-tellèn, all alive wi' fun,
To sister Anne, how Simon Heäre
Did hanker after her at feäir.
"He left," cried Polly, "cousin Jeäne,
An' kept wi' us all down the leäne,
An' which way ever we did leäd
He vollow'd over hill an' meäd;
An' wi' his head o' shaggy heäir,
An' sleek brown cwoat that he do weäre,
An' collar that did reach so high
'S his two red ears, or perty nigh,
He swung his täil, wi' steps o' pride,
Back right an' left, vrom zide to zide,
A-walkèn on, wi' heavy strides
A half behind, an' half upzides."
"Who's that?" cried Jimmy, all agog;
An' thought he had her now han'-pat,
"That's Simon Heäre," but no, "Who's that?"
Cried she at woonce, "Why Uncle's dog,
Wi' what have you a-been misled
I wonder. Tell me what I zaid."
Woone evenèn as she zot bezide
The wall the ranglèn vine do hide,
A-prattlèn on, as she did zend
Her needle, at her vinger's end.
[page 445]On drough the work she had in hand,
Zome bran-new thing that she'd a-plann'd,
Jim overheärd her talk ageän
O' Robin Hine, ov Ivy Leäne,
"Oh! no, what he!" she cried in scorn,
"I wouldèn gie a penny vor'n;
The best ov him's outzide in view;
His cwoat is gaÿ enough, 'tis true,
But then the wold vo'k didden bring
En up to know a single thing,
An' as vor zingèn,—what do seem
His zingèn's nothèn but a scream."
"So ho!" cried Jim, "Who's that, then, Meäry,
That you be now a-talkèn o'?"
He thought to catch her then, but, no,
Cried Polly, "Oh! why Jeäne's caneäry,
Wi' what have you a-been misled,
I wonder. Tell me what I zaid."
Vier, Aïr, E'th, Water, wer a-meäde
Good workers, each o'm in his treäde,
An' Aïr an' Water, wer a-match
Vor woone another in a mill;
The giant Water at a hatch,
An' Aïr on the windmill hill.
Zoo then, when Water had a-meäde
Zome money, Äir begrudg'd his treäde,
An' come by, unaweäres woone night,
An' vound en at his own mill-head,
An' cast upon en, iron-tight,
[page 446]An icy cwoat so stiff as lead.
An' there he wer so good as dead
Vor grindèn any corn vor bread.
Then Water cried to Vier, "Alack!
Look, here be I, so stiff's a log,
Thik fellor Aïr do keep me back
Vrom grindèn. I can't wag a cog.
If I, dear Vier, did ever souse
Your nimble body on a house,
When you wer on your merry pranks
Wi' thatch or refters, beams or planks,
Vorgi'e me, do, in pity's neäme,
Vor 'twerden I that wer to bleäme,
I never wagg'd, though I be'nt cringèn,
Till men did dreve me wi' their engine.
Do zet me free vrom theäse cwold jacket,
Vor I myzelf shall never crack it."
"Well come," cried Vier, "My vo'k ha' meäde
An engine that 'ull work your treäde.
If E'th is only in the mood,
While I do work, to gi'e me food,
I'll help ye, an' I'll meäke your skill
A match vor Mister Aïr's wold mill."
"What food," cried E'th, "'ull suit your bwoard?"
"Oh! trust me, I ben't over nice,"
Cried Vier, "an' I can eat a slice
Ov any thing you can avword."
"I've lots," cried E'th, "ov coal an' wood."
"Ah! that's the stuff," cried Vier, "that's good."
Zoo Vier at woonce to Water cried,
"Here, Water, here, you get inside
O' theäse girt bwoiler. Then I'll show
How I can help ye down below,
An' when my work shall woonce begin
You'll be a thousand times so strong,
An' be a thousand times so long
[page 447]An' big as when you vu'st got in.
An' I wull meäke, as sure as death,
Thik fellor Aïr to vind me breath,
An' you shall grind, an' pull, an' dreve,
An' zaw, an' drash, an' pump, an' heave,
An' get vrom Aïr, in time, I'll lay
A pound, the drevèn ships at sea."
An' zoo 'tis good to zee that might
Wull help a man a-wrong'd, to right.
My hwome wer on the timber'd ground
O' Duncombe, wi' the hills a-bound:
Where vew from other peärts did come,
An' vew did travel vur from hwome,
An' small the worold I did know;
But then, what had it to bestow
But Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir?
'Twer wide enough if she wer there.
In our deep hollow where the zun
Did eärly leäve the smoky tun,
An' all the meäds a-growèn dim,
Below the hill wi' zunny rim;
Oh! small the land the hills did bound,
But there did walk upon the ground
Young Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir:
'Twer wide enough if she wer there.
O' leäte upon the misty plaïn
I staÿ'd vor shelter vrom the raïn,
Where sharp-leav'd ashès' heads did twist
In hufflèn wind, an' driftèn mist,
[page 448]An' small the worold I could zee;
But then it had below the tree
My Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir:
'Twer wide enough if she wer there.
An' I've a house wi' thatchen ridge,
Below the elems by the bridge:
Wi' small-peän'd windows, that do look
Upon a knap, an' ramblèn brook;
An' small's my house, my ruf is low,
But then who mid it have to show
But Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir?
'Tis fine enough if peace is there.
I do mind when there broke bitter tidèns,
Woone day, on their ears,
An' their souls wer a-smote wi' a stroke
As the lightnèn do vall on the woak,
An' the things that wer bright all around em
Seem'd dim drough their tears.
Then unheeded wer things in their vingers,
Their grief wer their all.
All unheeded wer zongs o' the birds,
All unheeded the child's perty words,
All unheeded the kitten a-rollèn
The white-threaded ball.
Oh! vor their minds the daylight around em
Had nothèn to show.
Though it brighten'd their tears as they vell,
An' did sheen on their lips that did tell,
In their vaïces all thrillèn an' mwoansome,
O' nothèn but woe.
But they vound that, by Heavenly mercy,
The news werden true;
An' they shook, wi' low laughter, as quick
As a drum when his blows do vall thick,
An' wer eärnest in words o' thanksgivèn,
Vor mercies anew.
Ah! sad wer we as we did peäce
The wold church road, wi' downcast feäce,
The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep
Above our child a-left asleep,
Wer now a-zingèn all alive
Wi' tother bells to meäke the vive.
But up at woone pleäce we come by,
'Twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry:
On Steän-cliff road, 'ithin the drong,
Up where, as vo'k do pass along,
The turnèn stile, a-païnted white,
Do sheen by day an' show by night.
Vor always there, as we did goo
To church, thik stile did let us drough,
Wi' spreadèn eärms that wheel'd to guide
Us each in turn to tother zide.
An' vu'st ov all the traïn he took
My wife, wi' winsome gaït an' look;
An' then zent on my little maïd,
A-skippèn onward, overjaÿ'd
To reach ageän the pleäce o' pride,
Her comely mother's left han' zide.
An' then, a-wheelèn roun', he took
On me, 'ithin his third white nook.
An' in the fourth, a-sheäkèn wild,
He zent us on our giddy child.
But eesterday he guided slow
My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe,
An' then my little maïd in black,
A-walkèn softly on her track;
An' after he'd a-turn'd ageän,
To let me goo along the leäne,
He had noo little bwoy to vill
His last white eärms, an' they stood still.
'Twer good what Meäster Collins spoke
O' spite to two poor spitevul vo'k,
When woone twold tother o' the two
"I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."
If soul to soul, as Christians should,
Would always try to do zome good,
"How vew," he cried, "would zee our feäce
A-brighten'd up wi' smiles o' greäce,
An' tell us, or could tell us true,
I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."
A man mus' be in evil ceäse
To live 'ithin a land o' greäce,
Wi' nothèn that a soul can read
O' goodness in his word or deed;
To still a breast a-heav'd wi' sighs,
Or dry the tears o' weepèn eyes;
To staÿ a vist that spite ha' wrung,
Or cool the het ov anger's tongue:
Or bless, or help, or gi'e, or lend;
Or to the friendless stand a friend,
An' zoo that all could tell en true,
"I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."
Oh! no, mid all o's try to spend
Our passèn time to zome good end,
An' zoo vrom day to day teäke heed,
By mind, an' han', by word or deed;
To lessen evil, and increase
The growth o' righteousness an' peäce,
A-speakèn words o' lovèn-kindness,
Openèn the eyes o' blindness;
Helpèn helpless striver's weakness,
Cheerèn hopeless grievers' meekness,
Meäkèn friends at every meetèn,
Veel the happier vor their greetèn;
Zoo that vew could tell us true,
"I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."
No, let us even try to win
Zome little good vrom sons o' sin,
An' let their evils warn us back
Vrom teäkèn on their hopeless track,
Where we mid zee so clear's the zun
That harm a-done is harm a-won,
An' we mid cry an' tell em true,
"I be even the better vor zeèn o' you."
Good Meäster Collins! aye, how mild he spoke
Woone day o' Mercy to zome cruel vo'k.
"No, no. Have Mercy on a helpless head,
An' don't be cruel to a zoul," he zaid.
"When Babylon's king woonce cast 'ithin
The viery furnace, in his spite,
The vetter'd souls whose only sin
Wer praÿer to the God o' might,
He vound a fourth, 'ithout a neäme,
A-walkèn wi' em in the fleäme.
[page 452]An' zoo, whenever we mid hurt,
Vrom spite, or vrom disdaïn,
A brother's soul, or meäke en smert
Wi' keen an' needless païn,
Another that we midden know
Is always wi' en in his woe.
Vor you do know our Lord ha' cried,
"By faïth my bretheren do bide
In me the livèn vine,
As branches in a livèn tree;
Whatever you've a-done to mine
Is all a-done to me.
Oh! when the new-born child, the e'th's new guest,
Do lie an' heave his little breast,
In pillow'd sleep, wi' sweetest breath
O' sinless days drough rwosy lips a-drawn;
Then, if a han' can smite en in his dawn
O' life to darksome death,
Oh! where can Pity ever vwold
Her wings o' swiftness vrom their holy flight,
To leäve a heart o' flesh an' blood so cwold
At such a touchèn zight?
An' zoo mid meek-soul'd Pity still
Be zent to check our evil will,
An' keep the helpless soul from woe,
An' hold the hardened heart vrom sin.
Vor they that can but mercy show
Shall all their Father's mercy win."
John Bloom he wer a jolly soul,
A grinder o' the best o' meal,
Bezide a river that did roll,
Vrom week to week, to push his wheel.
His flour wer all a-meäde o' wheat;
An' fit for bread that vo'k mid eat;
Vor he would starve avore he'd cheat.
"'Tis pure," woone woman cried;
"Aye, sure," woone mwore replied;
"You'll vind it nice. Buy woonce, buy twice,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.
Athirt the chest he wer so wide
As two or dree ov me or you.
An' wider still vrom zide to zide,
An' I do think still thicker drough.
Vall down, he coulden, he did lie
When he wer up on-zide so high
As up on-end or perty nigh.
"Meäke room," woone naïghbour cried;
"'Tis Bloom," woone mwore replied;
"Good morn t'ye all, bwoth girt an' small,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.
Noo stings o' conscience ever broke
His rest, a-twitèn o'n wi' wrong,
Zoo he did sleep till mornèn broke,
An' birds did call en wi' their zong.
But he did love a harmless joke,
An' love his evenèn whiff o' smoke,
A-zittèn in his cheäir o' woak.
[page 454]"Your cup," his daughter cried;
"Vill'd up," his wife replied;
"Aye, aye; a drap avore my nap,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.
When Lon'on vok did meäke a show
O' their girt glassen house woone year,
An' people went, bwoth high an' low,
To zee the zight, vrom vur an' near,
"O well," cried Bloom, "why I've a right
So well's the rest to zee the zight;
I'll goo, an' teäke the raïl outright."
"Your feäre," the booker cried;
"There, there," good Bloom replied;
"Why this June het do meäke woone zweat,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller,
Then up the guard did whissle sh'ill,
An' then the engine pank'd a-blast,
An' rottled on so loud's a mill,
Avore the traïn, vrom slow to vast.
An' oh! at last how they did spank
By cuttèn deep, an' high-cast bank
The while their iron ho'se did pank.
"Do whizzy," woone o'm cried;
"I'm dizzy," woone replied;
"Aye, here's the road to hawl a lwoad,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.
In Lon'on John zent out to call
A tidy trap, that he mid ride
To zee the glassen house, an' all
The lot o' things a-stow'd inside.
"Here, Boots, come here," cried he, "I'll dab
A sixpence in your han' to nab
Down street a tidy little cab."
[page 455]"A feäre," the boots then cried;
"I'm there," the man replied.
"The glassen pleäce, your quickest peäce,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.
The steps went down wi' rottlèn slap,
The zwingèn door went open wide:
Wide? no; vor when the worthy chap
Stepp'd up to teäke his pleäce inside,
Breast-foremost, he wer twice too wide
Vor thik there door. An' then he tried
To edge in woone an' tother zide.
"'Twont do," the drever cried;
"Can't goo," good Bloom replied;
"That you should bring theäse vooty thing!"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.
"Come," cried the drever. "Pay your feäre
You'll teäke up all my time, good man."
"Well," answer'd Bloom, "to meäke that square,
You teäke up me, then, if you can."
"I come at call," the man did nod.
"What then?" cried Bloom, "I han't a-rod,
An' can't in thik there hodmadod."
"Girt lump," the drever cried;
"Small stump," good Bloom replied;
"A little mite, to meäke so light,
O' jolly Bloom the miller."
"You'd best be off now perty quick,"
Cried Bloom. "an' vind a lighter lwoad,
Or else I'll vetch my voot, an' kick
The vooty thing athirt the road."
"Who is the man?" they cried, "meäke room,"
"A halfstarv'd Do'set man," cried Bloom;
[page 456]"You be?" another cried;
"Hee! Hee!" woone mwore replied.
"Aye, shrunk so thin, to bwone an' skin,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.
"Come on. Be sprack, a-laggèn back."
"Oh! be there any cows to hook?"
"Lauk she's afraïd, a silly maïd,"
Cows? No, the cows be down by brook.
"O here then, oh! here is a lot."
"A lot o' what? what is it? what?"
"Why blackberries, as thick
As ever they can stick."
"I've dewberries, oh! twice
As good as they; so nice."
"Look here. Theäse boughs be all but blue
Wi' snags."
"Oh! gi'e me down a vew."
"Come here, oh! do but look."
"What's that? what is it now?"
"Why nuts a-slippèn shell."
"Hee! hee! pull down the bough."
"I wish I had a crook."
"There zome o'm be a-vell."
(One sings)
"I wish I was on Bimport Hill
I would zit down and cry my vill."
"Hee! hee! there's Jenny zomewhere nigh,
A-zingèn that she'd like to cry."
[page 457](Jenny sings)
"I would zit down and cry my vill
Until my tears would dreve a mill."
"Oh! here's an ugly crawlèn thing,
A sneäke." "A slooworm; he wont sting."
"Hee! hee! how she did squal an' hop,
A-spinnèn roun' so quick's a top."
"Look here, oh! quick, be quick."
"What is it? what then? where?"
"A rabbit." "No, a heäre."
"Ooh! ooh! the thorns do prick,"
"How he did scote along the ground
As if he wer avore a hound."
"Now mind the thistles." "Hee, hee, hee,
Why they be knapweeds."
"No." "They be."
"I've zome'hat in my shoe."
"Zit down, an' sheäke it out."
"Oh! emmets, oh! ooh, ooh,
A-crawlèn all about."
"What bird is that, O harken, hush.
How sweetly he do zing."
"A nightingeäle." "La! no, a drush."
"Oh! here's a funny thing."
"Oh! how the bull do hook,
An' bleäre, an' fling the dirt."
"Oh! wont he come athirt?"
"No, he's beyond the brook."
"O lauk! a hornet rose
Up clwose avore my nose."
"Oh! what wer that so white
Rush'd out o' thik tree's top?"
"An owl." "How I did hop,
How I do sheäke wi' fright."
"A musheroom." "O lau!
[page 458]A twoadstool! Pwoison! Augh."
"What's that, a mouse?"
"O no,
Teäke ceäre, why 'tis a shrow."
"Be sure don't let en come
An' run athirt your shoe
He'll meäke your voot so numb
That you wont veel a tooe."†
"Oh! what wer that so loud
A-rumblèn?" "Why a clap
O' thunder. Here's a cloud
O' raïn. I veel a drap."
"A thunderstorm. Do raïn.
Run hwome wi' might an' main."
"Hee! hee! oh! there's a drop
A-trïckled down my back. Hee! hee!"
"My head's as wet's a mop."
"Oh! thunder," "there's a crack. Oh! Oh!"
"Oh! I've a-got the stitch, Oh!"
"Oh! I've a-lost my shoe, Oh!"
"There's Fanny into ditch, Oh!"
"I'm wet all drough an' drough, Oh!"
* The idea, though but little of the substance, of this poem,
will be found in a little Italian poem called Caccia, written
by Franco Sacchetti.
† The folklore is, that if a shrew-mouse run over a person's
foot, it will lame him.
1. ee in beet.
2. e in Dorset (a sound between 1 and 3.)
3. a in mate.
4. i in birth.
5. a in father.
6. aw in awe.
7. o in dote.
8. oo in rood.
In Dorset words which are forms of book-English ones, the Dorset words differ from the others mainly by Grimm's law, that "likes shift into likes," and I have given a few hints by which the putting of an English heading for the Dorset one will give the English word. If the reader is posed by dreaten, he may try for dr, thr, which will bring out threaten. See Dr under D.
A | B | C | D |
E | F | G | H |
J | K | L | M |
N |O | P | Q |
R | S | T | U |
V | W | Y |Z