Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect
by William Barnes
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[Transcriber's Note: The Pronunciation Guide and Word List are at the end of the book.]






Two of the three Collections of these Dorset Poems have been, for some time, out of print, and the whole of the three sets are now brought out in one volume.

I have little more to say for them, than that the writing of them as glimpses of life and landscape in Dorset, which often open to my memory and mindsight, has given me very much pleasure; and my happiness would be enhanced if I could believe that you would feel my sketches to be so truthful and pleasing as to give you even a small share of pleasure, such as that of the memories from which I have written them.

This edition has a list of such Dorset words as are found in the Poems, with some hints on Dorset word shapes, and I hope that they will be found a fully good key to the meanings of the verse.

Yours kindly,


June 1879.




The Spring 3 The Woodlands 4 Leaedy-Day, an' Ridden House 5 Easter Zunday 8 Easter Monday 9 Dock-Leaves 9 The Blackbird 10 Woodcom' Feaest 12 The Milk-Maid o' the Farm 13 The Girt Woak Tree that's in the Dell 15 Vellen o' the Tree 16 Bringen Woone Gwain o' Zundays 17 Evenen Twilight 18 Evenen in the Village 20 May 20 Bob the Fiddler 22 Hope in Spring 23 The White Road up athirt the Hill 24 The Woody Hollow 25 Jenny's Ribbons 26 Eclogue:—The 'Lotments 28 Eclogue:—A Bit o' Sly Coorten 30


Evenen, an' Maidens out at Door 34 The Shepherd o' the Farm 35 Vields in the Light 36 Whitsuntide an' Club Walken 37 Woodley 39 The Brook that Ran by Gramfer's 41 Sleep did come wi' the Dew 42 Sweet Music in the Wind 43 Uncle an' Aunt 44 Haven Woones Fortune a-twold 46 Jeaene's Wedden Day in Mornen 47 Rivers don't gi'e out 49 Meaeken up a Miff 50 Hay-Meaeken 51 Hay-Carren 52 Eclogue:—The Best Man in the Vield 54 Where we did keep our Flagon 57 Week's End in Zummer, in the Wold Vo'k's Time 58 The Meaed a-mow'd 60 The Sky a-cleaeren 61 The Evenen Star o' Zummer 62 The Clote 63 I got two Vields 65 Polly be-en upzides wi' Tom 66 Be'mi'ster 67 Thatchen o' the Rick 68 Bees a-Zwarmen 69 Readen ov a Head-stwone 70 Zummer Evenen Dance 71 Eclogue:—The Veaeiries 72


Corn a-turnen Yollow 76 A-Haulen o' the Corn 77 Harvest Hwome:—The vu'st Peaert 78 Harvest Hwome:—Second Peaert 79 A Zong ov Harvest Hwome 80 Poll's Jack-Daw 82 The Ivy 83 The Welshnut Tree 84 Jenny out vrom Hwome 86 Grenley Water 86 The Veaeiry Veet that I do meet 87 Mornen 88 Out a-Nutten 90 Teaeken in Apples 91 Meaeple Leaves be Yollow 92 Night a-zetten in 93 The Weather-beaeten Tree 94 Shrodon Feaeir:—The vu'st Peaert 95 Shrodon Feaeir:—The rest o't 96 Martin's Tide 97 Guy Faux's Night 99 Eclogue:—The Common a-took in 100 Eclogue:—Two Farms in Woone 102


The Vrost 105 A Bit o' Fun 106 Fanny's Be'th-day 107 What Dick an' I did 109 Grammer's Shoes 111 Zunsheen in the Winter 112 The Weepen Leaedy 113 The Happy Days when I wer Young 115 In the Stillness o' the Night 116 The Settle an' the Girt Wood Vire 117 The Carter 118 Chris'mas Invitation 120 Keepen up o' Chris'mas 121 Zitten out the Wold Year 122 Woak wer Good Enough Woonce 123 Lullaby 124 Meaery-Ann's Child 125 Eclogue:—Father Come Hwome 126 Eclogue:—A Ghost 129


A Zong 133 The Maid vor my Bride 134 The Hwomestead 135 The Farmer's Woldest Dā'ter 136 Uncle out o' Debt an' out o' Danger 137 The Church an' Happy Zunday 140 The Wold Waggon 141 The Dreven o' the Common 142 The Common a-took in 143 A Wold Friend 145 The Rwose that Deck'd her Breast 145 Nanny's Cow 147 The Shep'erd Bwoy 148 Hope a-left Behind 149 A Good Father 150 The Beam in Grenley Church 151 The Vaices that be Gone 152 Poll 153 Looks a-know'd Avore 154 The Music o' the Dead 155 The Pleaece a Teaele's a-twold o' 156 Aunt's Tantrums 158 The Stwonen Pworch 159 Farmer's Sons 160 Jeaene 161 The Dree Woaks 162 The Hwomestead a-vell into Hand 164 The Guide Post 166 Gwain to Feaeir 167 Jeaene o' Grenley Mill 168 The Bells ov Alderburnham 169 The Girt Wold House o' Mossy Stwone 170 A Witch 173 Eclogue:—The Times 175

* * * * *


Blackmwore Maidens 185 My Orcha'd in Linden Lea 186 Bishop's Caundle 187 Hay Meaeken—Nunchen Time 189 A Father out an' Mother Hwome 191 Riddles 192 Day's Work a-done 196 Light or Sheaede 197 The Waggon a-stooded 197 Gwain down the Steps 201 Ellen Brine ov Allenburn 202 The Motherless Child 203 The Leaedy's Tower 204 Fatherhood 208 The Maid o' Newton 211 Childhood 212 Meaery's Smile 213 Meaery Wedded 214 The Stwonen Bwoy 215 The Young that died in Beauty 217 Faeir Emily of Yarrow Mill 218 The Scud 219 Minden House 221 The Lovely Maid ov Elwell Meaed 222 Our Fathers' Works 224 The Wold vo'k Dead 225 Culver Dell and the Squire 227 Our Be'thplace 229 The Window freaemed wi' Stwone 230 The Waterspring in the Leaene 231 The Poplars 232 The Linden on the Lawn 233 Our abode in Arby Wood 235 Slow to come, quick agone 236 The Vier-zide 236 Knowlwood 238 Hallowed Pleaeces 240 The Wold Wall 242 Bleaeke's House 243 John Bleaeke at Hwome 245 Milken Time 247 When Birds be Still 248 Riden Hwome at Night 249 Zun-zet. 250 Spring 252 The Zummer Hedge 253 The Water Crowvoot 254 The Lilac 255 The Blackbird 256 The Slanten light o' Fall 257 Thissledown 259 The May-tree 259 The Lydlinch Bells 260 The Stage Coach 261 Wayfeaeren 263 The Leaene 265 The Railroad 267 The Railroad 268 Seats 268 Sound o' Water 270 Trees be Company 270 A Pleaece in Zight 272 Gwain to Brookwell 273 Brookwell 275 The Shy Man 277 The Winter's Willow 279 I know Who 281 Jessie Lee 282 True Love 283 The Beaen-vield 284 Wold Friends a-met 286 Fifehead 288 Ivy Hall 289 False Friends-like 290 The Bachelor 290 Married Peaeir's Love-walk 292 A Wife a-prais'd 293 The Wife a-lost 295 The Thorns in the Geaete 296 Angels by the Door 297 Vo'k a-comen into Church 298 Woone Rule 299 Good Meaester Collins 300 Herrenston 302 Out at Plough 304 The Bwoat 306 The Pleaece our own agean 307 Eclogue:—John an' Thomas 308 Pentridge by the River 310 Wheat 311 The Meaed in June 313 Early risen 315 Zelling woone's Honey 316 Dobbin Dead 317 Happiness 319 Gruffmoody Grim 320 The Turn o' the Days 322 The Sparrow Club 323 Gammony Gay 325 The Heaere 327 Nanny Gill 329 Moonlight on the Door 330 My Love's Guardian Angel 331 Leeburn Mill 332 Praise o' Do'set 333


Woone Smile Mwore 339 The Echo 340 Vull a Man 341 Naighbour Playmeaetes 343 The Lark 345 The Two Churches 345 Woak Hill 347 The Hedger 348 In the Spring 349 The Flood in Spring 350 Comen Hwome 351 Grammer a-crippled 352 The Castle Ruins 354 Eclogue:—John jealous 355 Early Playmeaete 359 Picken o' Scroff 360 Good Night 361 Went Hwome 362 The Hollow Woak 363 Childern's Childern 364 The Rwose in the Dark 365 Come 366 Zummer Winds 367 The Neaeme Letters 368 The New House a-getten Wold 370 Zunday 370 The Pillar'd Geaete 371 Zummer Stream 373 Zummer Stream 373 Linda Deaene 374 Eclogue:—Come an' zee us 376 Lindenore 377 Me'th below the Tree 378 Treat well your Wife 379 The Child an' the Mowers 381 The Love Child 382 Hawthorn Down 383 Oben Vields 385 What John wer a-tellen 386 Sheaedes 387 Times o' Year 387 Eclogue:—Racketen Joe 388 Zummer an' Winter 391 To Me 392 Two an' Two 393 The Lew o' the Rick 394 The Wind in Woone's Feaece 395 Tokens 396 Tweil 396 Fancy 398 The Broken Heart 399 Evenen Light 400 Vields by Watervalls 401 The Wheel Routs 402 Nanny's new Abode 403 Leaves a-vallen 404 Lizzie 405 Blessens a-left 406 Fall Time 407 Fall 408 The Zilver-weed 409 The Widow's House 409 The Child's Greaeve 410 Went vrom Hwome 412 The Fancy Feaeir 412 Things do Come Round 414 Zummer Thoughts in Winter Time 415 I'm out o' Door 416 Grief an' Gladness 417 Sliden 418 Lwonesomeness 420 A Snowy Night 421 The Year-clock 421 Not goo Hwome To-night 424 The Humstrum 426 Shaftesbury Feaeir 427 The Beaeten Path 429 Ruth a-riden 430 Beauty Undecked 432 My love is good 432 Heedless o' my love 434 The Do'set Militia 435 A Do'set Sale 437 Don't ceaere 437 Changes 439 Kindness 440 Withstanders 441 Daniel Dwithen 442 Turnen things off 444 The Giants in Treaedes 445 The Little Worold 447 Bad News 448 The Turnstile 449 The Better vor zeen o' you 450 Pity 451 John Bloom in Lon'on 453 A Lot o' Maidens 456





When wintry weather's all a-done, An' brooks do sparkle in the zun, An' naisy-builden rooks do vlee Wi' sticks toward their elem tree; When birds do zing, an' we can zee Upon the boughs the buds o' spring,— Then I'm as happy as a king, A-vield wi' health an' zunsheen.

Vor then the cowslip's hangen flow'r A-wetted in the zunny show'r, Do grow wi' vi'lets, sweet o' smell, Bezide the wood-screen'd graegle's bell; Where drushes' aggs, wi' sky-blue shell, Do lie in mossy nest among The thorns, while they do zing their zong At evenen in the zunsheen.

An' God do meaeke his win' to blow An' rain to vall vor high an' low, An' bid his mornen zun to rise Vor all alike, an' groun' an' skies Ha' colors vor the poor man's eyes: An' in our trials He is near, To hear our mwoan an' zee our tear, An' turn our clouds to zunsheen.

An' many times when I do vind Things all goo wrong, an' vo'k unkind, To zee the happy veeden herds, An' hear the zingen o' the birds, Do soothe my sorrow mwore than words; Vor I do zee that 'tis our sin Do meaeke woone's soul so dark 'ithin, When God would gi'e woone zunsheen.


O spread ageaen your leaves an' flow'rs, Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands! Here underneath the dewy show'rs O' warm-air'd spring-time, zunny woodlands! As when, in drong or open ground, Wi' happy bwoyish heart I vound The twitt'ren birds a-builden round Your high-bough'd hedges, zunny woodlands.

You gie'd me life, you gie'd me jay, Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands You gie'd me health, as in my play I rambled through ye, zunny woodlands! You gie'd me freedom, vor to rove In airy meaed or sheaedy grove; You gie'd me smilen Fanney's love, The best ov all o't, zunny woodlands!

My vu'st shrill skylark whiver'd high, Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands! To zing below your deep-blue sky An' white spring-clouds, O zunny woodlands! An' boughs o' trees that woonce stood here, Wer glossy green the happy year That gie'd me woone I lov'd so dear, An' now ha' lost, O zunny woodlands!

O let me rove ageaen unspied, Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands! Along your green-bough'd hedges' zide, As then I rambled, zunny woodlands! An' where the missen trees woonce stood, Or tongues woonce rung among the wood, My memory shall meaeke em good, Though you've a-lost em, zunny woodlands!


Aye, back at Leaedy-Day, you know, I come vrom Gullybrook to Stowe; At Leaedy-Day I took my pack O' rottletraps, an' turn'd my back Upon the weather-beaeten door, That had a-screen'd, so long avore, The mwost that theaese zide o' the greaeve, I'd live to have, or die to seaeve! My childern, an' my vier-pleaece, Where Molly wi' her cheerful feaece, When I'd a-trod my wat'ry road Vrom night-bedarken'd vields abrode, Wi' nimble hands, at evenen, blest Wi' vire an' vood my hard-won rest; The while the little woones did clim', So sleek-skinn'd, up from lim' to lim', Till, strugglen hard an' clingen tight, They reach'd at last my feaece's height. All tryen which could soonest hold My mind wi' little teaeles they twold. An' ridden house is such a caddle, I shan't be over keen vor mwore ō't, Not yet a while, you mid be sure ō't,— I'd rather keep to woone wold staddle.

Well, zoo, avore the east begun To redden wi' the comen zun, We left the beds our mossy thatch Wer never mwore to overstratch, An' borrow'd uncle's wold hoss Dragon, To bring the slowly lumbren waggon, An' when he come, we vell a-packen The bedsteads, wi' their rwopes an' zacken; An' then put up the wold eaerm-chair, An' cwoffer vull ov e'then-ware, An' vier-dogs, an' copper kittle, Wi' crocks an' saucepans, big an' little; An' fryen-pan, vor aggs to slide In butter round his hissen zide, An' gridire's even bars, to bear The drippen steaeke above the gleaere O' brightly-glowen coals. An' then, All up o' top o' them ageaen The woaken bwoard, where we did eat Our croust o' bread or bit o' meat,— An' when the bwoard wer up, we tied Upon the reaeves, along the zide, The woaeken stools, his glossy meaetes, Bwoth when he's beaere, or when the pleaetes Do clatter loud wi' knives, below Our merry feaeces in a row. An' put between his lags, turn'd up'ard, The zalt-box an' the corner cupb'ard. An' then we laid the wold clock-ceaese, All dumb, athirt upon his feaece, Vor we'd a-left, I needen tell ye, Noo works 'ithin his head or belly. An' then we put upon the pack The settle, flat upon his back; An' after that, a-tied in pairs In woone another, all the chairs, An' bits o' lumber wo'th a ride, An' at the very top a-tied, The childern's little stools did lie, Wi' lags a-turn'd toward the sky: Zoo there we lwoaded up our scroff, An' tied it vast, an' started off. An',—as the waggon cooden car all We had to teaeke,—the butter-barrel An' cheese-wring, wi' his twinen screw, An' all the pails an' veaets, an' blue Wold milk leads, and a vew things mwore, Wer all a-carr'd the day avore, And when the mwost ov our wold stuff Wer brought outside o' thik brown ruf, I rambled roun' wi' narrow looks, In fusty holes an' darksome nooks, To gather all I still mid vind, O' rags or sticks a-left behind. An' there the unlatch'd doors did creak, A-swung by winds, a-streamen weak Drough empty rooms, an' meaeken sad My heart, where me'th woonce meaede me glad. Vor when a man do leaeve the he'th An' ruf where vu'st he drew his breath, Or where he had his bwoyhood's fun, An' things wer woonce a-zaid an' done That took his mind, do touch his heart A little bit, I'll answer vor't. Zoo ridden house is such a caddle, That I would rather keep my staddle.


Last Easter Jim put on his blue Frock cwoat, the vu'st time—vier new; Wi' yollow buttons all o' brass, That glitter'd in the zun lik' glass; An' pok'd 'ithin the button-hole A tutty he'd a-begg'd or stole. A span-new wes'co't, too, he wore, Wi' yollow stripes all down avore; An' tied his breeches' lags below The knee, wi' ribbon in a bow; An' drow'd his kitty-boots azide, An' put his laggens on, an' tied His shoes wi' strings two vingers wide, Because 'twer Easter Zunday.

An' after mornen church wer out He come back hwome, an' stroll'd about All down the vields, an' drough the leaene, Wi' sister Kit an' cousin Jeaene, A-turnen proudly to their view His yollow breast an' back o' blue. The lambs did play, the grounds wer green, The trees did bud, the zun did sheen; The lark did zing below the sky, An' roads wer all a-blown so dry, As if the zummer wer begun; An' he had sich a bit o' fun! He meaede the maidens squeael an' run, Because 'twer Easter Zunday.


An' zoo o' Monday we got drough Our work betimes, an ax'd a vew Young vo'k vrom Stowe an' Coom, an' zome Vrom uncle's down at Grange, to come. An' they so spry, wi' merry smiles, Did beaet the path an' leaep the stiles, Wi' two or dree young chaps bezide, To meet an' keep up Easter tide: Vor we'd a-zaid avore, we'd git Zome friends to come, an' have a bit O' fun wi' me, an' Jeaene, an' Kit, Because 'twer Easter Monday.

An' there we play'd away at quaits, An' weigh'd ourzelves wi' sceaeles an' waights; An' jump'd to zee who jump'd the spryest, An' sprung the vurdest an' the highest; An' rung the bells vor vull an hour. An' play'd at vives ageaen the tower. An' then we went an' had a tait, An' cousin Sammy, wi' his waight, Broke off the bar, he wer so fat! An' toppled off, an' vell down flat Upon his head, an' squot his hat, Because 'twer Easter Monday.


The dock-leaves that do spread so wide Up yonder zunny bank's green zide, Do bring to mind what we did do At play wi' dock-leaves years agoo: How we,—when nettles had a-stung Our little hands, when we wer young,— Did rub em wi' a dock, an' zing "Out nettl', in dock. In dock, out sting." An' when your feaece, in zummer's het, Did sheen wi' tricklen draps o' zweat, How you, a-zot bezide the bank, Didst toss your little head, an' pank, An' teaeke a dock-leaf in your han', An' whisk en lik' a leaedy's fan; While I did hunt, 'ithin your zight, Vor streaky cockle-shells to fight.

In all our play-geaemes we did bruise The dock-leaves wi' our nimble shoes; Bwoth where we merry chaps did fling You maidens in the orcha'd swing, An' by the zaw-pit's dousty bank, Where we did tait upon a plank. —(D'ye mind how woonce, you cou'den zit The bwoard, an' vell off into pit?) An' when we hunted you about The grassy barken, in an' out Among the ricks, your vlee-en frocks An' nimble veet did strik' the docks. An' zoo they docks, a-spread so wide Up yonder zunny bank's green zide, Do bring to mind what we did do, Among the dock-leaves years agoo.


Ov all the birds upon the wing Between the zunny show'rs o' spring,— Vor all the lark, a-swingen high, Mid zing below a cloudless sky. An' sparrows, clust'ren roun' the bough, Mid chatter to the men at plough,— The blackbird, whisslen in among The boughs, do zing the gayest zong.

Vor we do hear the blackbird zing His sweetest ditties in the spring, When nippen win's noo mwore do blow Vrom northern skies, wi' sleet or snow, But drēve light doust along between The leaene-zide hedges, thick an' green; An' zoo the blackbird in among The boughs do zing the gayest zong.

'Tis blithe, wi' newly-open'd eyes, To zee the mornen's ruddy skies; Or, out a-haulen frith or lops Vrom new-plēsh'd hedge or new-vell'd copse, To rest at noon in primrwose beds Below the white-bark'd woak-trees' heads; But there's noo time, the whole daey long, Lik' evenen wi' the blackbird's zong.

Vor when my work is all a-done Avore the zetten o' the zun, Then blushen Jeaene do walk along The hedge to meet me in the drong, An' stay till all is dim an' dark Bezides the ashen tree's white bark; An' all bezides the blackbird's shrill An' runnen evenen-whissle's still.

An' there in bwoyhood I did rove Wi' pryen eyes along the drove To vind the nest the blackbird meaede O' grass-stalks in the high bough's sheaede: Or clim' aloft, wi' clingen knees, Vor crows' aggs up in swayen trees, While frighten'd blackbirds down below Did chatter o' their little foe. An' zoo there's noo pleaece lik' the drong, Where I do hear the blackbird's zong.


Come, Fanny, come! put on thy white, 'Tis Woodcom' feaest, good now! to-night. Come! think noo mwore, you silly maid, O' chicken drown'd, or ducks a-stray'd; Nor mwope to vind thy new frock's tail A-tore by hitchen in a nail; Nor grieve an' hang thy head azide, A-thinken o' thy lam' that died. The flag's a-vleen wide an' high, An' ringen bells do sheaeke the sky; The fifes do play, the horns do roar, An' boughs be up at ev'ry door: They 'll be a-dancen soon,—the drum 'S a-rumblen now. Come, Fanny, come! Why father's gone, an' mother too. They went up leaene an hour agoo; An' at the green the young and wold Do stan' so thick as sheep in vwold: The men do laugh, the bwoys do shout,— Come out you mwopen wench, come out, An' go wi' me, an' show at leaest Bright eyes an' smiles at Woodcom' feaest.

Come, let's goo out, an' fling our heels About in jigs an' vow'r-han' reels; While aell the stiff-lagg'd wolder vo'k, A-zitten roun', do talk an' joke An' smile to zee their own wold rigs. A-show'd by our wild geaemes an' jigs. Vor ever since the vwold church speer Vu'st prick'd the clouds, vrom year to year, When grass in meaed did reach woone's knees, An' blooth did kern in apple-trees, Zome merry day 'v' a-broke to sheen Above the dance at Woodcom' green, An' all o' they that now do lie So low all roun' the speer so high, Woonce, vrom the biggest to the leaest, Had merry hearts at Woodcom' feaest.

Zoo keep it up, an' gi'e it on To other vo'k when we be gone. Come otit; vor when the zetten zun Do leaeve in sheaede our harmless fun, The moon a-risen in the east Do gi'e us light at Woodcom' feaest. Come, Fanny, come! put on thy white, 'Tis merry Woodcom' feaest to night: There's nothen vor to mwope about,— Come out, you leaezy jeaede, come out! An' thou wult be, to woone at leaest, The prettiest maid at Woodcom' feaest.


O Poll's the milk-maid o' the farm! An' Poll's so happy out in groun', Wi' her white pail below her eaerm As if she wore a goolden crown.

An' Poll don't zit up half the night, Nor lie vor half the day a-bed; An' zoo her eyes be sparklen bright, An' zoo her cheaeks be bloomen red.

In zummer mornens, when the lark Do rouse the litty lad an' lass To work, then she's the vu'st to mark Her steps along the dewy grass.

An' in the evenen, when the zun Do sheen ageaen the western brows O' hills, where bubblen brooks do run, There she do zing bezide her cows.

An' ev'ry cow of hers do stand, An' never overzet her pail; Nor try to kick her nimble hand, Nor switch her wi' her heavy tail.

Noo leaedy, wi' her muff an' vail, Do walk wi' sich a steaetely tread As she do, wi' her milken pail A-balanc'd on her comely head.

An' she, at mornen an' at night, Do skim the yollow cream, an' mwold An' wring her cheeses red an' white, An' zee the butter vetch'd an' roll'd.

An' in the barken or the ground, The chaps do always do their best To milk the vu'st their own cows round, An' then help her to milk the rest.

Zoo Poll's the milk-maid o' the farm! An' Poll's so happy out in groun', Wi' her white pail below her eaerm, As if she wore a goolden crown.


The girt woak tree that's in the dell! There's noo tree I do love so well; Vor times an' times when I wer young, I there've a-climb'd, an' there've a-zwung, An' pick'd the eaecorns green, a-shed In wrestlen storms vrom his broad head. An' down below's the cloty brook Where I did vish with line an' hook, An' beaet, in playsome dips and zwims, The foamy stream, wi' white-skinn'd lim's. An' there my mother nimbly shot Her knitten-needles, as she zot At evenen down below the wide Woak's head, wi' father at her zide. An' I've a-played wi' many a bwoy, That's now a man an' gone awoy; Zoo I do like noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.

An' there, in leaeter years, I roved Wi' thik poor maid I fondly lov'd,— The maid too feaeir to die so soon,— When evenen twilight, or the moon, Cast light enough 'ithin the pleaece To show the smiles upon her feaece, Wi' eyes so clear's the glassy pool, An' lips an' cheaeks so soft as wool. There han' in han', wi' bosoms warm, Wi' love that burn'd but thought noo harm, Below the wide-bough'd tree we past The happy hours that went too vast; An' though she'll never be my wife, She's still my leaeden star o' life. She's gone: an' she've a-left to me Her mem'ry in the girt woak tree; Zoo I do love noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell

An' oh! mid never ax nor hook Be brought to spweil his steaetely look; Nor ever roun' his ribby zides Mid cattle rub ther heaeiry hides; Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep His lwonesome sheaede vor harmless sheep; An' let en grow, an' let en spread, An' let en live when I be dead. But oh! if men should come an' vell The girt woak tree that's in the dell, An' build his planks 'ithin the zide O' zome girt ship to plough the tide, Then, life or death! I'd goo to sea, A sailen wi' the girt woak tree: An' I upon his planks would stand, An' die a-fighten vor the land,— The land so dear,—the land so free,— The land that bore the girt woak tree; Vor I do love noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.


Aye, the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun' Wer a-stannen this mornen, an' now's a-cut down. Aye, the girt elem tree, so big roun' an' so high, Where the mowers did goo to their drink, an' did lie In the sheaede ov his head, when the zun at his heighth Had a-drove em vrom mowen, wi' het an' wi' drith, Where the hay-meaekers put all their picks an' their reaekes, An' did squot down to snabble their cheese an' their ceaekes, An' did vill vrom their flaggons their cups wi' their eaele, An' did meaeke theirzelves merry wi' joke an' wi' teaele.

Ees, we took up a rwope an' we tied en all round At the top o'n, wi' woone end a-hangen to ground, An' we cut, near the ground, his girt stem a'most drough, An' we bent the wold head o'n wi' woone tug or two; An' he sway'd all his limbs, an' he nodded his head, Till he vell away down like a pillar o' lead: An' as we did run vrom en, there; clwose at our backs, Oh! his boughs come to groun' wi' sich whizzes an' cracks; An' his top wer so lofty that, now he is down, The stem o'n do reach a-most over the groun'. Zoo the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun' Wer a-stannen this mornen, an' now's a-cut down.


Ah! John! how I do love to look At theaese green hollor, an' the brook Among the withies that do hide The stream, a-growen at the zide; An' at the road athirt the wide An' shallow vword, where we young bwoys Did peaert, when we did goo half-woys, To bring ye gwain o' Zundays.

Vor after church, when we got hwome, In evenen you did always come To spend a happy hour or two Wi' us, or we did goo to you; An' never let the comers goo Back hwome alwone, but always took A stroll down wi' em to the brook To bring em gwain o' Zundays.

How we did scote all down the groun', A-pushen woone another down! Or challengen o' zides in jumps Down over bars, an' vuzz, an' humps; An' peaert at last wi' slaps an' thumps, An' run back up the hill to zee Who'd get hwome soonest, you or we. That brought ye gwain o' Zundays.

O' leaeter years, John, you've a-stood My friend, an' I've a-done you good; But tidden, John, vor all that you Be now, that I do like ye zoo, But what you wer vor years agoo: Zoo if you'd stir my heart-blood now. Tell how we used to play, an' how You brought us gwain o' Zundays.

[Footnote A: "To bring woone gwain,"—to bring one going; to bring one on his way.]


Ah! they vew zummers brought us round The happiest days that we've a-vound, When in the orcha'd, that did stratch To westward out avore the patch Ov high-bough'd wood, an' shelve to catch The western zun-light, we did meet Wi' merry tongues an' skippen veet At evenen in the twilight.

The evenen air did fan, in turn, The cheaeks the midday zun did burn. An' zet the russlen leaves at play, An' meaeke the red-stemm'd brembles sway In bows below the snow-white may; An' whirlen roun' the trees, did sheaeke Jeaene's raven curls about her neck, They evenens in the twilight.

An' there the yollow light did rest Upon the bank toward the west, An' twitt'ren birds did hop in drough The hedge, an' many a skippen shoe Did beaet the flowers, wet wi' dew, As underneaeth the tree's wide limb Our merry sheaepes did jumpy, dim, They evenens in the twilight.

How sweet's the evenen dusk to rove Along wi' woone that we do love! When light enough is in the sky To sheaede the smile an' light the eye 'Tis all but heaven to be by; An' bid, in whispers soft an' light 'S the ruslen ov a leaf, "Good night," At evenen in the twilight.

An' happy be the young an' strong, That can but work the whole day long So merry as the birds in spring; An' have noo ho vor any thing Another day mid teaeke or bring; But meet, when all their work's a-done, In orcha'd vor their bit o' fun At evenen in the twilight.


Now the light o' the west is a-turn'd to gloom, An' the men be at hwome vrom ground; An' the bells be a-zenden all down the Coombe From tower, their mwoansome sound. An' the wind is still, An' the house-dogs do bark, An' the rooks be a-vled to the elems high an' dark, An' the water do roar at mill.

An' the flickeren light drough the window-peaene Vrom the candle's dull fleaeme do shoot, An' young Jemmy the smith is a-gone down leaene, A-playen his shrill-vaiced flute. An' the miller's man Do zit down at his ease On the seat that is under the cluster o' trees. Wi' his pipe an' his cider can.


Come out o' door, 'tis Spring! 'tis May The trees be green, the vields be gay; The weather's warm, the winter blast, Wi' all his train o' clouds, is past; The zun do rise while vo'k do sleep, To teaeke a higher daily zweep, Wi' cloudless feaece a-flingen down His sparklen light upon the groun'.

The air's a-streamen soft,—come drow The windor open; let it blow In drough the house, where vire, an' door A-shut, kept out the cwold avore. Come, let the vew dull embers die, An' come below the open sky; An' wear your best, vor fear the groun' In colours gay mid sheaeme your gown: An' goo an' rig wi' me a mile Or two up over geaete an' stile, Drough zunny parrocks that do leaed, Wi' crooked hedges, to the meaed, Where elems high, in steaetely ranks, Do rise vrom yollow cowslip-banks, An' birds do twitter vrom the spray O' bushes deck'd wi' snow-white may; An' gil'cups, wi' the deaeisy bed, Be under ev'ry step you tread.

We'll wind up roun' the hill, an' look All down the thickly-timber'd nook, Out where the squier's house do show His grey-wall'd peaks up drough the row O' sheaedy elems, where the rook Do build her nest; an' where the brook Do creep along the meaeds, an' lie To catch the brightness o' the sky; An' cows, in water to their knees, Do stan' a-whisken off the vlees.

Mother o' blossoms, and ov all That's feaeir a-yield vrom Spring till Fall, The gookoo over white-weaev'd seas Do come to zing in thy green trees, An' buttervlees, in giddy flight, Do gleaem the mwost by thy gay light Oh! when, at last, my fleshly eyes Shall shut upon the vields an' skies, Mid zummer's zunny days be gone, An' winter's clouds be comen on: Nor mid I draw upon the e'th, O' thy sweet air my leaetest breath; Alassen I mid want to stay Behine' for thee, O flow'ry May!


Oh! Bob the fiddler is the pride O' chaps an' maidens vur an' wide; They can't keep up a merry tide, But Bob is in the middle. If merry Bob do come avore ye, He'll zing a zong, or tell a story; But if you'd zee en in his glory, Jist let en have a fiddle.

Aye, let en tuck a crowd below His chin, an' gi'e his vist a bow, He'll dreve his elbow to an' fro', An' play what you do please. At Maypolen, or feaest, or feaeir, His eaerm wull zet off twenty peaeir, An' meaeke em dance the groun' dirt-beaere, An' hop about lik' vlees.

Long life to Bob! the very soul O' me'th at merry feaest an' pole; Vor when the crowd do leaeve his jowl, They'll all be in the dumps. Zoo at the dance another year, At Shillinston or Hazelbur', Mid Bob be there to meaeke em stir, In merry jigs, their stumps!


In happy times a while agoo, My lively hope, that's now a-gone Did stir my heart the whole year drough, But mwost when green-bough'd spring come on; When I did rove, wi' litty veet, Drough deaeisy-beds so white's a sheet, But still avore I us'd to meet The blushen cheaeks that bloom'd vor me!

An' afterward, in lightsome youth, When zummer wer a-comen on, An' all the trees wer white wi' blooth, An' dippen zwallows skimm'd the pon'; Sweet hope did vill my heart wi' jay, An' tell me, though thik spring wer gay, There still would come a brighter May, Wi' blushen cheaeks to bloom vor me!

An' when, at last, the time come roun', An' brought a lofty zun to sheen Upon my smilen Fanny, down Drough nēsh young leaves o' yollow green; How charmen wer the het that glow'd, How charmen wer the sheaede a-drow'd, How charmen wer the win' that blow'd Upon her cheaeks that bloom'd vor me!

But hardly did they times begin, Avore I vound em short to stay: An' year by year do now come in, To peaert me wider vrom my jay, Vor what's to meet, or what's to peaert, Wi' maidens kind, or maidens smart, When hope's noo longer in the heart, An' cheaeks noo mwore do bloom vor me!

But there's a worold still to bless The good, where zickness never rose; An' there's a year that's winterless, Where glassy waters never vroze; An' there, if true but e'thly love Do seem noo sin to God above, 'S a smilen still my harmless dove, So feaeir as when she bloom'd vor me!


When hot-beam'd zuns do strik right down, An' burn our zweaty feaezen brown; An' zunny slopes, a-lyen nigh, Be back'd by hills so blue's the sky; Then, while the bells do sweetly cheem Upon the champen high-neck'd team, How lively, wi' a friend, do seem The white road up athirt the hill.

The zwellen downs, wi' chalky tracks A-climmen up their zunny backs, Do hide green meaeds an' zedgy brooks. An' clumps o' trees wi' glossy rooks, An' hearty vo'k to laugh an' zing, An' parish-churches in a string, Wi' tow'rs o' merry bells to ring, An' white roads up athirt the hills.

At feaest, when uncle's vo'k do come To spend the day wi' us at hwome, An' we do lay upon the bwoard The very best we can avvword, The wolder woones do talk an' smoke, An' younger woones do play an' joke, An' in the evenen all our vo'k Do bring em gwain athirt the hill.

An' while the green do zwarm wi' wold An' young, so thick as sheep in vwold, The bellows in the blacksmith's shop, An' miller's moss-green wheel do stop, An' lwonesome in the wheelwright's shed 'S a-left the wheelless waggon-bed; While zwarms o' comen friends do tread The white road down athirt the hill.

An' when the winden road so white, A-climmen up the hills in zight, Do leaed to pleaezen, east or west, The vu'st a-known, an' lov'd the best, How touchen in the zunsheen's glow, Or in the sheaedes that clouds do drow Upon the zunburnt downs below, 'S the white road up athirt the hill.

What peaceful hollows here the long White roads do windy round among! Wi' deaeiry cows in woody nooks, An' haymeaekers among their pooks, An' housen that the trees do screen From zun an' zight by boughs o' green! Young blushen beauty's hwomes between The white roads up athirt the hills.


If mem'ry, when our hope's a-gone, Could bring us dreams to cheat us on, Ov happiness our hearts voun' true In years we come too quickly drough; What days should come to me, but you, That burn'd my youthvul cheaeks wi' zuns O' zummer, in my playsome runs About the woody hollow.

When evenen's risen moon did peep Down drough the hollow dark an' deep, Where gigglen sweethearts meaede their vows In whispers under waggen boughs; When whisslen bwoys, an' rott'len ploughs Wer still, an' mothers, wi' their thin Shrill vaices, call'd their daughters in, From walken in the hollow;

What souls should come avore my zight, But they that had your zummer light? The litsome younger woones that smil'd Wi' comely feaezen now a-spweil'd; Or wolder vo'k, so wise an' mild, That I do miss when I do goo To zee the pleaece, an' walk down drough The lwonesome woody hollow?

When wrongs an' overbearen words Do prick my bleeden heart lik' swords, Then I do try, vor Christes seaeke, To think o' you, sweet days! an' meaeke My soul as 'twer when you did weaeke My childhood's eyes, an' when, if spite Or grief did come, did die at night In sleep 'ithin the hollow.


Jean ax'd what ribbon she should wear 'Ithin her bonnet to the feaeir? She had woone white, a-gi'ed her when She stood at Meaery's chrissenen; She had woone brown, she had woone red, A keepseaeke vrom her brother dead, That she did like to wear, to goo To zee his greaeve below the yew.

She had woone green among her stock, That I'd a-bought to match her frock; She had woone blue to match her eyes, The colour o' the zummer skies, An' thik, though I do like the rest, Is he that I do like the best, Because she had en in her heaeir When vu'st I walk'd wi' her at feaeir.

The brown, I zaid, would do to deck Thy heaeir; the white would match thy neck; The red would meaeke thy red cheaek wan A-thinken o' the gi'er gone; The green would show thee to be true; But still I'd sooner zee the blue, Because 'twer he that deck'd thy heaeir When vu'st I walk'd wi' thee at feaeir.

Zoo, when she had en on, I took Her han' 'ithin my elbow's crook, An' off we went athirt the weir An' up the meaed toward the feaeir; The while her mother, at the geaete, Call'd out an' bid her not stay leaete, An' she, a-smilen wi' her bow O' blue, look'd roun' and nodded, No.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]


John and Richard.


Zoo you be in your groun' then, I do zee, A-worken and a-zingen lik' a bee. How do it answer? what d'ye think about it? D'ye think 'tis better wi' it than without it? A-recknen rent, an' time, an' zeed to stock it, D'ye think that you be any thing in pocket?


O', 'tis a goodish help to woone, I'm sure o't. If I had not a-got it, my poor bwones Would now ha' eaech'd a-cracken stwones Upon the road; I wish I had zome mwore o't.


I wish the girt woones had a-got the greaece To let out land lik' this in ouer pleaece; But I do fear there'll never be nwone vor us, An' I can't tell whatever we shall do: We be a-most starven, an' we'd goo To 'merica, if we'd enough to car us.


Why 'twer the squire, good now! a worthy man, That vu'st brought into ouer pleaece the plan, He zaid he'd let a vew odd eaecres O' land to us poor leaeb'ren men; An', faith, he had enough o' teaekers Vor that, an' twice so much ageaen. Zoo I took zome here, near my hovel, To exercise my speaede an' shovel; An' what wi' dungen, diggen up, an' zeeden, A-thinnen, cleaenen, howen up an' weeden, I, an' the biggest o' the childern too, Do always vind some useful jobs to do.


Aye, wi' a bit o' ground, if woone got any, Woone's bwoys can soon get out an' eaern a penny; An' then, by worken, they do learn the vaster The way to do things when they have a meaester; Vor woone must know a deael about the land Bevore woone's fit to lend a useful hand, In geaerden or a-vield upon a farm.


An' then the work do keep em out o' harm; Vor vo'ks that don't do nothen wull be vound Soon doen woorse than nothen, I'll be bound. But as vor me, d'ye zee, with theaese here bit O' land, why I have ev'ry thing a'mwost: Vor I can fatten vowels for the spit, Or zell a good fat goose or two to rwoast; An' have my beaens or cabbage, greens or grass, Or bit o' wheat, or, sich my happy feaete is, That I can keep a little cow, or ass, An' a vew pigs to eat the little teaeties.


An' when your pig's a-fatted pretty well Wi' teaeties, or wi' barley an' some bran, Why you've a-got zome vlitches vor to zell, Or hang in chimney-corner, if you can.


Aye, that's the thing; an' when the pig do die, We got a lot ov offal for to fry, An' netlens for to bwoil; or put the blood in, An' meaeke a meal or two o' good black-pudden.


I'd keep myzelf from parish, I'd be bound, If I could get a little patch o' ground.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]


John and Fanny.


Now, Fanny, 'tis too bad, you teazen maid! How leaete you be a' come! Where have ye stay'd? How long you have a-meaede me wait about! I thought you werden gwain to come ageaen: I had a mind to goo back hwome ageaen. This idden when you promis'd to come out.


Now 'tidden any good to meaeke a row, Upon my word, I cooden come till now. Vor I've a-been kept in all day by mother, At work about woone little job an' t'other. If you do want to goo, though, don't ye stay Vor me a minute longer, I do pray.


I thought you mid be out wi' Jemmy Bleaeke,


An' why be out wi' him, vor goodness' seaeke?


You walk'd o' Zunday evenen wi'n, d'ye know, You went vrom church a-hitch'd up in his eaerm.


Well, if I did, that werden any harm. Lauk! that _is_ zome'at to teaeke notice o'_.


He took ye roun' the middle at the stile, An' kiss'd ye twice 'ithin the ha'f a mile.


Ees, at the stile, because I shoulden vall, He took me hold to help me down, that's all; An' I can't zee what very mighty harm He could ha' done a-lenden me his eaerm. An' as vor kissen o' me, if he did, I didden ax en to, nor zay he mid: An' if he kiss'd me dree times, or a dozen, What harm wer it? Why idden he my cousin? An' I can't zee, then, what there is amiss In cousin Jem's jist gi'en me a kiss.


Well, he shan't kiss ye, then; you shan't be kiss'd By his girt ugly chops, a lanky houn'! If I do zee'n, I'll jist wring up my vist An' knock en down. I'll squot his girt pug-nose, if I don't miss en; I'll warn I'll spweil his pretty lips vor kissen!


Well, John, I'm sure I little thought to vind That you had ever sich a jealous mind. What then! I s'pose that I must be a dummy, An' mussen goo about nor wag my tongue To any soul, if he's a man, an' young; Or else you'll work yourzelf up mad wi' passion, An' talk away o' gi'en vo'k a drashen, An' breaken bwones, an' beaeten heads to pummy! If you've a-got sich jealous ways about ye, I'm sure I should be better off 'ithout ye.


Well, if girt Jemmy have a-won your heart, We'd better break the coortship off, an' peaert.


He won my heart! There, John, don't talk sich stuff; Don't talk noo mwore, vor you've a-zaid enough. If I'd a-lik'd another mwore than you, I'm sure I shoulden come to meet ye zoo; Vor I've a-twold to father many a storry, An' took o' mother many a scwolden vor ye. [weeping.] But 'twull be over now, vor you shan't zee me Out wi' ye noo mwore, to pick a quarrel wi' me.


Well, Fanny, I woon't zay noo mwore, my dear. Let's meaeke it up. Come, wipe off thik there tear. Let's goo an' zit o' top o' theaese here stile, An' rest, an' look about a little while.


Now goo away, you crabbed jealous chap! You shan't kiss me,—you shan't! I'll gi' ye a slap.


Then you look smilen; don't you pout an' toss Your head so much, an' look so very cross.


Now, John! don't squeeze me roun' the middle zoo. I woon't stop here noo longer, if you do. Why, John! be quiet, wull ye? Fie upon it! Now zee how you've a-wrumpl'd up my bonnet! Mother'ill zee it after I'm at hwome, An' gi'e a guess directly how it come.


Then don't you zay that I be jealous, Fanny.


I wull: vor you be jealous, Mister Jahnny. There's zomebody a-comen down the groun' Towards the stile. Who is it? Come, get down I must run hwome, upon my word then, now; If I do stay, they'll kick up sich a row. Good night. I can't stay now.


Then good night, Fanny! Come out a-bit to-morrow evenen, can ye?



Now the sheaedes o' the elems do stratch mwore an' mwore, Vrom the low-zinken zun in the west o' the sky; An' the maidens do stand out in clusters avore The doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

An' their cwombs be a-zet in their bunches o' heaeir, An' their currels do hang roun' their necks lily-white, An' their cheaeks they be rwosy, their shoulders be beaere, Their looks they be merry, their limbs they be light.

An' the times have a-been—but they cant be noo mwore— When I had my jay under evenen's dim sky, When my Fanny did stan' out wi' others avore Her door, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

An' up there, in the green, is her own honey-zuck, That her brother train'd up roun' her window; an' there Is the rwose an' the jessamy, where she did pluck A flow'r vor her bosom or bud vor her heaeir.

An' zoo smile, happy maidens! vor every feaece, As the zummers do come, an' the years do roll by, Will soon sadden, or goo vur away vrom the pleaece, Or else, lik' my Fanny, will wither an' die.

But when you be a-lost vrom the parish, zome mwore Will come on in your pleaezen to bloom an' to die; An' the zummer will always have maidens avore Their doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

Vor daughters ha' mornen when mothers ha' night, An' there's beauty alive when the feaeirest is dead; As when woone sparklen weaeve do zink down vrom the light, Another do come up an' catch it instead.

Zoo smile on, happy maidens! but I shall noo mwore Zee the maid I do miss under evenen's dim sky; An' my heart is a-touch'd to zee you out avore The doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.


Oh! I be shepherd o' the farm, Wi' tinklen bells an' sheep-dog's bark, An' wi' my crook a-thirt my eaerm, Here I do rove below the lark.

An' I do bide all day among The bleaeten sheep, an' pitch their vwold; An' when the evenen sheaedes be long, Do zee em all a-penn'd an' twold.

An' I do zee the frisken lam's, Wi' swingen tails an' woolly lags, A-playen roun' their veeden dams An' pullen o' their milky bags.

An' I bezide a hawthorn tree, Do' zit upon the zunny down, While sheaedes o' zummer clouds do vlee Wi' silent flight along the groun'.

An' there, among the many cries O' sheep an' lambs, my dog do pass A zultry hour, wi' blinken eyes, An' nose a-stratch'd upon the grass;

But, in a twinklen, at my word, He's all awake, an' up, an' gone Out roun' the sheep lik' any bird, To do what he's a-zent upon.

An' I do goo to washen pool, A-sousen over head an' ears, The shaggy sheep, to cleaen their wool An' meaeke em ready vor the sheaers.

An' when the shearen time do come, Then we do work vrom dawn till dark; Where zome do shear the sheep, and zome Do mark their zides wi' meaesters mark.

An' when the shearen's all a-done, Then we do eat, an' drink, an' zing, In meaester's kitchen till the tun Wi' merry sounds do sheaeke an' ring.

Oh! I be shepherd o' the farm, Wi' tinklen bells an' sheep dog's bark, An' wi' my crook a-thirt my eaerm, Here I do rove below the lark.


Woone's heart mid leaep wi' thoughts o' jay In comen manhood light an' gay When we do teaeke the worold on Vrom our vore-elders dead an' gone; But days so feaeir in hope's bright eyes Do often come wi' zunless skies: Woone's fancy can but be out-done, Where trees do sway an' brooks do run, By risen moon or zetten zun.

Vor when at evenen I do look All down theaese hangen on the brook, Wi' weaeves a-leaepen clear an' bright, Where boughs do sway in yollow light; Noo hills nor hollows, woods nor streams, A-voun' by day or zeed in dreams, Can ever seem so fit to be Good angel's hwomes, though they do gi'e But pain an' tweil to such as we.

An' when by moonlight darksome sheaedes Do lie in grass wi' dewy bleaedes, An' worold-hushen night do keep The proud an' angry vast asleep, When I can think, as I do rove, Ov only souls that I do love; Then who can dream a dream to show, Or who can think o' moons to drow, A sweeter light to rove below?


Ees, last Whit-Monday, I an' Meaery Got up betimes to mind the deaeiry; An' gi'ed the milken pails a scrub, An' dress'd, an' went to zee the club. Vor up at public-house, by ten O'clock the pleaece wer vull o' men, A-dress'd to goo to church, an' dine, An' walk about the pleaece in line. Zoo off they started, two an' two, Wi' painted poles an' knots o' blue, An' girt silk flags,—I wish my box 'D a-got em all in ceaepes an' frocks,— A-weaeven wide an' flappen loud In playsome winds above the crowd; While fifes did squeak an' drums did rumble, An' deep beaezzoons did grunt an' grumble, An' all the vo'k in gath'ren crowds Kick'd up the doust in smeechy clouds, That slowly rose an' spread abrode In streamen air above the road. An' then at church there wer sich lots O' hats a-hangen up wi' knots, An' poles a-stood so thick as iver, The rushes stood beside a river. An' Mr Goodman gi'ed em warnen To spend their evenen lik' their mornen; An' not to pray wi' mornen tongues, An' then to zwear wi' evenen lungs: Nor vu'st sheaeke hands, to let the wrist Lift up at last a bruisen vist: Vor clubs were all a-meaen'd vor friends, He twold em, an' vor better ends Than twiten vo'k an' picken quarrels, An' tipplen cups an' empten barrels,— Vor meaeken woone man do another In need the kindness ov a brother.

An' after church they went to dine 'Ithin the long-wall'd room behine The public-house, where you remember, We had our dance back last December. An' there they meaede sich stunnen clatters Wi' knives an' forks, an' pleaetes an' platters; An' waiters ran, an' beer did pass Vrom tap to jug, vrom jug to glass: An' when they took away the dishes, They drink'd good healths, an' wish'd good wishes, To all the girt vo'k o' the land, An' all good things vo'k took in hand; An' woone cried hip, hip, hip! an' hollow'd, An' tothers all struck in, an' vollow'd; An' grabb'd their drink wi' eager clutches, An' swigg'd it wi' sich hearty glutches, As vo'k, stark mad wi' pweison stuff, That thought theirzelves not mad enough.

An' after that they went all out In rank ageaen, an' walk'd about, An' gi'ed zome parish vo'k a call; An', then went down to Narley Hall An' had zome beer, an' danc'd between The elem trees upon the green. An' down along the road they done All sorts o' mad-cap things vor fun; An' danc'd, a-poken out their poles, An' pushen bwoys down into holes: An' Sammy Stubbs come out o' rank, An' kiss'd me up ageaen the bank, A saucy chap; I ha'nt vor'gied en Not yet,—in short, I han't a-zeed en. Zoo in the dusk ov evenen, zome Went back to drink, an' zome went hwome.


Sweet Woodley! oh! how fresh an' gay Thy leaenes an' vields be now in May, The while the broad-leav'd clotes do zwim In brooks wi' gil'cups at the brim; An' yollow cowslip-beds do grow By thorns in blooth so white as snow; An' win' do come vrom copse wi' smells O' graegles wi' their hangen bells!

Though time do dreve me on, my mind Do turn in love to thee behind, The seaeme's a bulrush that's a-shook By wind a-blowen up the brook: The curlen stream would dreve en down, But playsome air do turn en roun', An' meaeke en seem to bend wi' love To zunny hollows up above.

Thy tower still do overlook The woody knaps an' winden brook, An' leaene's wi' here an' there a hatch, An' house wi' elem-sheaeded thatch, An' vields where chaps do vur outdo The Zunday sky, wi' cwoats o' blue; An' maidens' frocks do vur surpass The whitest deaesies in the grass.

What peals to-day from thy wold tow'r Do strike upon the zummer flow'r, As all the club, wi' dousty lags, Do walk wi' poles an' flappen flags, An' wind, to music, roun' between A zwarm o' vo'k upon the green! Though time do dreve me on, my mind Do turn wi' love to thee behind.


When snow-white clouds wer thin an' vew Avore the zummer sky o' blue, An' I'd noo ho but how to vind Zome play to entertain my mind; Along the water, as did wind Wi' zedgy shoal an' hollow crook, How I did ramble by the brook That ran all down vrom gramfer's.

A-holden out my line beyond The clote-leaves, wi' my withy wand, How I did watch, wi' eager look, My zwimmen cork, a-zunk or shook By minnows nibblen at my hook, A-thinken I should catch a breaece O' perch, or at the leaest some deaece, A-zwimmen down vrom gramfer's.

Then ten good deaeries wer a-ved Along that water's winden bed, An' in the lewth o' hills an' wood A half a score farm-housen stood: But now,—count all o'm how you would, So many less do hold the land,— You'd vind but vive that still do stand, A-comen down vrom gramfer's.

There, in the midst ov all his land, The squier's ten-tunn'd house did stand, Where he did meaeke the water clim' A bank, an' sparkle under dim Bridge arches, villen to the brim His pon', an' leaepen, white as snow, Vrom rocks a-glitt'ren in a bow, An' runnen down to gramfer's.

An' now woone wing is all you'd vind O' thik girt house a-left behind; An' only woone wold stwonen tun 'S a-stannen to the rain an' zun,— An' all's undone that he'd a-done; The brook ha' now noo call to stay To vill his pon' or clim' his bay, A-runnen down to gramfer's.

When woonce, in heavy rain, the road At Grenley bridge wer overflow'd, Poor Sophy White, the pleaeces pride, A-gwain vrom market, went to ride Her pony droo to tother zide; But vound the stream so deep an' strong, That took her off the road along The hollow down to gramfer's.

'Twer dark, an' she went on too vast To catch hold any thing she pass'd; Noo bough hung over to her hand, An' she could reach noo stwone nor land, Where woonce her little voot could stand; Noo ears wer out to hear her cries, Nor wer she woonce a-zeen by eyes, Till took up dead at gramfer's.


O when our zun's a-zinken low, How soft's the light his feaece do drow Upon the backward road our mind Do turn an' zee a-left behind; When we, in childhood's days did vind Our jay among the gil'cup flow'rs, All drough the zummer's zunny hours; An' sleep did come wi' the dew.

An' afterwards, when we did zweat A tweilen in the zummer het, An' when our daily work wer done Did meet to have our evenen fun: Till up above the zetten zun The sky wer blushen in the west, An' we laid down in peace to rest, An' sleep did come wi' the dew.

Ah! zome do turn—but tidden right— The night to day, an' day to night; But we do zee the vu'st red streak O' mornen, when the day do break; Zoo we don't grow up peaele an' weak, But we do work wi' health an' strength, Vrom mornen drough the whole day's length, An' sleep do come wi' the dew.

An' when, at last, our e'thly light Is jist a-drawen in to night, We mid be sure that God above, If we be true when he do prove Our stedvast faith an' thankvul love, Wull do vor us what mid be best, An' teaeke us into endless rest, As sleep do come wi' the dew.


When evenen is a-drawen in, I'll steal vrom others' naisy din; An' where the whirlen brook do roll Below the walnut-tree, I'll stroll An' think o' thee wi' all my soul, Dear Jenny; while the sound o' bells Do vlee along wi' mwoansome zwells, Sweet music in the wind!

I'll think how in the rushy leaeze O' zunny evenens jis' lik' theaese, In happy times I us'd to zee Thy comely sheaepe about the tree, Wi' pail a-held avore thy knee; An' lissen'd to thy merry zong That at a distance come along, Sweet music in the wind!

An' when wi' me you walk'd about O' Zundays, after church wer out. Wi' hangen eaerm an' modest look; Or zitten in some woody nook We lissen'd to the leaves that shook Upon the poplars straight an' tall, Or rottle o' the watervall, Sweet music in the wind!

An' when the playvul air do vlee, O' moonlight nights, vrom tree to tree, Or whirl upon the sheaeken grass, Or rottle at my window glass: Do seem,—as I do hear it pass,— As if thy vaice did come to tell Me where thy happy soul do dwell, Sweet music in the wind!


How happy uncle us'd to be O' zummer time, when aunt an' he O' Zunday evenens, eaerm in eaerm, Did walk about their tiny farm, While birds did zing an' gnats did zwarm, Drough grass a'most above their knees, An' roun' by hedges an' by trees Wi' leafy boughs a-swayen.

His hat wer broad, his cwoat wer brown, Wi' two long flaps a-hangen down; An' vrom his knee went down a blue Knit stocken to his buckled shoe; An' aunt did pull her gown-tail drough Her pocket-hole, to keep en neat, As she mid walk, or teaeke a seat By leafy boughs a-zwayen.

An' vu'st they'd goo to zee their lots O' pot-eaerbs in the geaerden plots; An' he, i'-may-be, by the hatch, Would zee aunt's vowls upon a patch O' zeeds, an' vow if he could catch Em wi' his gun, they shoudden vlee Noo mwore into their roosten tree, Wi' leafy boughs a-swayen.

An' then vrom geaerden they did pass Drough orcha'd out to zee the grass, An' if the apple-blooth, so white, Mid be at all a-touch'd wi' blight; An' uncle, happy at the zight, Did guess what cider there mid be In all the orcha'd, tree wi' tree, Wi' tutties all a-swayen.

An' then they stump'd along vrom there A-vield, to zee the cows an' meaere; An' she, when uncle come in zight, Look'd up, an' prick'd her ears upright, An' whicker'd out wi' all her might; An' he, a-chucklen, went to zee The cows below the sheaedy tree, Wi' leafy boughs a-swayen.

An' last ov all, they went to know How vast the grass in meaed did grow An' then aunt zaid 'twer time to goo In hwome,—a-holden up her shoe, To show how wet he wer wi' dew. An' zoo they toddled hwome to rest, Lik' doves a-vleen to their nest In leafy boughs a-swayen.


In leaene the gipsies, as we went A-milken, had a-pitch'd their tent, Between the gravel-pit an' clump O' trees, upon the little hump: An' while upon the grassy groun' Their smoken vire did crack an' bleaeze, Their shaggy-cwoated hoss did greaeze Among the bushes vurder down.

An' zoo, when we brought back our pails, The woman met us at the rails, An' zaid she'd tell us, if we'd show Our han's, what we should like to know. Zoo Poll zaid she'd a mind to try Her skill a bit, if I would vu'st; Though, to be sure, she didden trust To gipsies any mwore than I.

Well; I agreed, an' off all dree O's went behind an elem tree, An' after she'd a-zeed 'ithin My han' the wrinkles o' the skin, She twold me—an' she must a-know'd That Dicky met me in the leaene,— That I'd a-walk'd, an' should ageaen, Wi' zomebody along thik road.

An' then she twold me to bewar O' what the letter M stood vor. An' as I walk'd, o' Monday night, Drough Meaed wi' Dicky overright The Mill, the Miller, at the stile, Did stan' an' watch us teaeke our stroll, An' then, a blabben dousty-poll! Twold Mother o't. Well wo'th his while!

An' Poll too wer a-bid bewar O' what the letter F stood vor; An' then, because she took, at Feaeir, A bosom-pin o' Jimmy Heaere, Young Franky beaet en black an' blue. 'Tis F vor Feaeir; an' 'twer about A Fearen Frank an' Jimmy foueght, Zoo I do think she twold us true.

In short, she twold us all about What had a-vell, or would vall out; An' whether we should spend our lives As maidens, or as wedded wives; But when we went to bundle on, The gipsies' dog were at the rails A-lappen milk vrom ouer pails,— A pretty deael o' Poll's wer gone.


At last Jeaene come down stairs, a-drest Wi' wedden knots upon her breast, A-blushen, while a tear did lie Upon her burnen cheaek half dry; An' then her Robert, drawen nigh Wi' tothers, took her han' wi' pride, To meaeke her at the church his bride, Her wedden day in mornen.

Wi' litty voot an' beaeten heart She stepp'd up in the new light cart, An' took her bridemaid up to ride Along wi' Robert at her zide: An' uncle's meaere look'd roun' wi' pride To zee that, if the cart wer vull, 'Twer Jenny that he had to pull, Her wedden day in mornen.

An' aunt an' uncle stood stock-still, An' watch'd em trotten down the hill; An' when they turn'd off out o' groun' Down into leaene, two tears run down Aunt's feaece; an' uncle, turnen roun', Sigh'd woonce, an' stump'd off wi' his stick, Because did touch en to the quick To peaert wi' Jeaene thik mornen.

"Now Jeaene's agone," Tom mutter'd, "we Shall mwope lik' owls 'ithin a tree; Vor she did zet us all agog Vor fun, avore the burnen log." An' as he zot an' talk'd, the dog Put up his nose athirt his thighs, But coulden meaeke en turn his eyes, Jeaene's wedden day in mornen.

An' then the naighbours round us, all By woones an' twos begun to call, To meet the young vo'k, when the meaere Mid bring em back a married peaeir: An' all o'm zaid, to Robert's sheaere, There had a-vell the feaerest feaece, An' kindest heart in all the pleaece, Jeaene's wedden day in mornen.


The brook I left below the rank Ov alders that do sheaede his bank, A-runnen down to dreve the mill Below the knap, 's a runnen still; The creepen days an' weeks do vill Up years, an' meaeke wold things o' new, An' vok' do come, an' live, an' goo, But rivers don't gi'e out, John.

The leaves that in the spring do shoot Zo green, in fall be under voot; May flow'rs do grow vor June to burn, An' milk-white blooth o' trees do kern, An' ripen on, an' vall in turn; The miller's moss-green wheel mid rot, An' he mid die an' be vorgot, But rivers don't gi'e out, John.

A vew short years do bring an' rear A maid—as Jeaene wer—young an' feaeir, An' vewer zummer-ribbons, tied In Zunday knots, do feaede bezide Her cheaek avore her bloom ha' died: Her youth won't stay,—her rwosy look 'S a feaeden flow'r, but time's a brook To run an' not gi'e out, John.

An' yet, while things do come an' goo, God's love is steadvast, John, an' true; If winter vrost do chill the ground, 'Tis but to bring the zummer round, All's well a-lost where He's a-vound, Vor if 'tis right, vor Christes seaeke He'll gi'e us mwore than he do teaeke,— His goodness don't gi'e out, John.


Vorgi'e me, Jenny, do! an' rise Thy hangen head an' teary eyes, An' speak, vor I've a-took in lies, An' I've a-done thee wrong; But I wer twold,—an' thought 'twer true,— That Sammy down at Coome an' you Wer at the feaeir, a-walken drough The pleaece the whole day long.

An' tender thoughts did melt my heart, An' zwells o' viry pride did dart Lik' lightnen drough my blood; a-peaert Ov your love I should scorn, An' zoo I vow'd, however sweet Your looks mid be when we did meet, I'd trample ye down under veet, Or let ye goo forlorn.

But still thy neaeme would always be The sweetest, an' my eyes would zee Among all maidens nwone lik' thee Vor ever any mwore; Zoo by the walks that we've a-took By flow'ry hedge an' zedgy brook, Dear Jenny, dry your eyes, an' look As you've a-look'd avore.

Look up, an' let the evenen light But sparkle in thy eyes so bright, As they be open to the light O' zunzet in the west; An' let's stroll here vor half an hour, Where hangen boughs do meaeke a bow'r Above theaese bank, wi' eltrot flow'r An' robinhoods a-drest.


'Tis merry ov a zummer's day, Where vo'k be out a-meaeken hay; Where men an' women, in a string, Do ted or turn the grass, an' zing, Wi' cheemen vaices, merry zongs, A-tossen o' their sheenen prongs Wi' eaerms a-zwangen left an' right, In colour'd gowns an' shirtsleeves white; Or, wider spread, a reaeken round The rwosy hedges o' the ground, Where Sam do zee the speckled sneaeke, An' try to kill en wi' his reaeke; An' Poll do jump about an' squall, To zee the twisten slooworm crawl.

'Tis merry where a gay-tongued lot Ov hay-meaekers be all a-squot, On lightly-russlen hay, a-spread Below an elem's lofty head, To rest their weary limbs an' munch Their bit o' dinner, or their nunch; Where teethy reaekes do lie all round By picks a-stuck up into ground. An' wi' their vittles in their laps, An' in their hornen cups their draps O' cider sweet, or frothy eaele, Their tongues do run wi' joke an' teaele.

An' when the zun, so low an' red, Do sheen above the leafy head O' zome broad tree, a-rizen high Avore the vi'ry western sky, 'Tis merry where all han's do goo Athirt the groun', by two an' two, A-reaeken, over humps an' hollors, The russlen grass up into rollers. An' woone do row it into line, An' woone do clwose it up behine; An' after them the little bwoys Do stride an' fling their eaerms all woys, Wi' busy picks, an' proud young looks A-meaeken up their tiny pooks. An' zoo 'tis merry out among The vo'k in hay-vield all day long.


'Tis merry ov a zummer's day, When vo'k be out a-haulen hay, Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground, Do meaeke the staddle big an' round; An' grass do stand in pook, or lie In long-back'd weaeles or parsels, dry. There I do vind it stir my heart To hear the frothen hosses snort, A-haulen on, wi' sleek heaeir'd hides, The red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides. Aye; let me have woone cup o' drink, An' hear the linky harness clink, An' then my blood do run so warm, An' put sich strangth 'ithin my eaerm, That I do long to toss a pick, A-pitchen or a-meaeken rick.

The bwoy is at the hosse's head, An' up upon the waggon bed The lwoaders, strong o' eaerm do stan', At head, an' back at tail, a man, Wi' skill to build the lwoad upright An' bind the vwolded corners tight; An' at each zide ō'm, sprack an' strong, A pitcher wi' his long-stem'd prong, Avore the best two women now A-call'd to reaeky after plough.

When I do pitchy, 'tis my pride Vor Jenny Hine to reaeke my zide, An' zee her fling her reaeke, an' reach So vur, an' teaeke in sich a streech; An' I don't shatter hay, an' meaeke Mwore work than needs vor Jenny's reaeke. I'd sooner zee the weaeles' high rows Lik' hedges up above my nose, Than have light work myzelf, an' vind Poor Jeaene a-beaet an' left behind; Vor she would sooner drop down dead. Than let the pitchers get a-head.

'Tis merry at the rick to zee How picks do wag, an' hay do vlee. While woone's unlwoaden, woone do teaeke The pitches in; an' zome do meaeke The lofty rick upright an' roun', An' tread en hard, an' reaeke en down, An' tip en, when the zun do zet, To shoot a sudden vall o' wet. An' zoo 'tis merry any day Where vo'k be out a-carren hay.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]


Sam and Bob.


That's slowish work, Bob. What'st a-been about? Thy pooken don't goo on not over sprack. Why I've a-pook'd my weaele, lo'k zee, clear out, An' here I be ageaen a-turnen back.


I'll work wi' thee then, Sammy, any day, At any work dost like to teaeke me at, Vor any money thou dost like to lay. Now, Mister Sammy, what dost think o' that? My weaele is nearly twice so big as thine, Or else, I warnt, I shouldden be behin'.


Ah! hang thee, Bob! don't tell sich whoppen lies. My weaele's the biggest, if do come to size. 'Tis jist the seaeme whatever bist about; Why, when dost goo a-tedden grass, you sloth, Another hand's a-fwo'c'd to teaeke thy zwath, An' ted a half way back to help thee out; An' then a-reaeken rollers, bist so slack, Dost keep the very bwoys an' women back. An' if dost think that thou canst challenge I At any thing,—then, Bob, we'll teaeke a pick a-piece, An' woonce theaese zummer, goo an' try To meaeke a rick a-piece. A rick o' thine wull look a little funny, When thou'st a-done en, I'll bet any money.


You noggerhead! last year thou meaed'st a rick, An' then we had to trig en wi' a stick. An' what did John that tipp'd en zay? Why zaid He stood a-top o'en all the while in dread, A-thinken that avore he should a-done en He'd tumble over slap wi' him upon en.


You yoppen dog! I warnt I meaede my rick So well's thou meaed'st thy lwoad o' hay last week. They hadden got a hundred yards to haul en, An' then they vound 'twer best to have en boun', Vor if they hadden, 'twould a-tumbl'd down; An' after that I zeed en all but vallen, An' trigg'd en up wi' woone o'm's pitchen pick, To zee if I could meaeke en ride to rick; An' when they had the dumpy heap unboun', He vell to pieces flat upon the groun'.


Do shut thy lyen chops! What dosten mind Thy pitchen to me out in Gully-plot, A-meaeken o' me wait (wast zoo behind) A half an hour vor ev'ry pitch I got? An' how didst groun' thy pick? an' how didst quirk To get en up on end? Why hadst hard work To rise a pitch that wer about so big 'S a goodish crow's nest, or a wold man's wig! Why bist so weak, dost know, as any roller: Zome o' the women vo'k will beaet thee hollor.


You snub-nos'd flopperchops! I pitch'd so quick, That thou dost know thou hadst a hardish job To teaeke in all the pitches off my pick; An' dissen zee me groun' en, nother, Bob. An' thou bist stronger, thou dost think, than I? Girt bandy-lags! I jist should like to try. We'll goo, if thou dost like, an' jist zee which Can heave the mwost, or car the biggest nitch.


There, Sam, do meaeke me zick to hear thy braggen! Why bissen strong enough to car a flagon.


You grinnen fool! why I'd zet thee a-blowen, If thou wast wi' me vor a day a-mowen. I'd wear my cwoat, an' thou midst pull thy rags off, An' then in half a zwath I'd mow thy lags off.


Thee mow wi' me! Why coossen keep up wi' me: Why bissen fit to goo a-vield to skimmy, Or mow down docks an' thistles! Why I'll bet A shillen, Samel, that thou cassen whet.


Now don't thee zay much mwore than what'st a-zaid, Or else I'll knock thee down, heels over head.


Thou knock me down, indeed! Why cassen gi'e A blow half hard enough to kill a bee.


Well, thou shalt veel upon thy chops and snout.


Come on, then, Samel; jist let's have woone bout.


When we in mornen had a-drow'd The grass or russlen hay abrode, The lit'some maidens an' the chaps, Wi' bits o' nunchens in their laps, Did all zit down upon the knaps Up there, in under hedge, below The highest elem o' the row, Where we did keep our flagon.

There we could zee green vields at hand, Avore a hunderd on beyand, An' rows o' trees in hedges roun' Green meaeds, an' zummerleaezes brown, An' thorns upon the zunny down, While aier, vrom the rocken zedge In brook, did come along the hedge, Where we did keep our flagon.

There laughen chaps did try in play To bury maidens up in hay, As gigglen maidens tried to roll The chaps down into zome deep hole, Or sting wi' nettles woone o'm's poll; While John did hele out each his drap O' eaele or cider, in his lap Where he did keep the flagon.

Woone day there spun a whirlwind by Where Jenny's clothes wer out to dry; An' off vled frocks, a'most a-catch'd By smock-frocks wi' their sleeves outstratch'd, An' caps a-frill'd an' eaeperns patch'd; An' she a-steaeren in a fright, Wer glad enough to zee em light Where we did keep our flagon.

An' when white clover wer a-sprung Among the eegrass, green an' young, An' elder-flowers wer a-spread Among the rwosen white an' red, An' honeyzucks wi' hangen head,— O' Zunday evenens we did zit To look all roun' the grounds a bit, Where we'd a-kept our flagon.


His aunt an' uncle,—ah! the kind Wold souls be often in my mind: A better couple never stood In shoes, an' vew be voun' so good. She cheer'd the work-vo'k in their tweils Wi' timely bits an' draps, an' smiles; An' he paid all o'm at week's end, Their money down to goo an' spend.

In zummer, when week's end come roun' The hay-meaekers did come vrom groun', An' all zit down, wi' weary bwones, Within the yard a-peaeved wi' stwones, Along avore the peaeles, between The yard a-steaen'd an' open green. There women zot wi' bare-neck'd chaps, An' maidens wi' their sleeves an' flaps To screen vrom het their eaerms an' polls. An' men wi' beards so black as coals: Girt stocky Jim, an' lanky John, An' poor wold Betty dead an' gone; An' cleaen-grown Tom so spry an' strong, An' Liz the best to pitch a zong, That now ha' nearly half a score O' childern zwarmen at her door; An' whindlen Ann, that cried wi' fear To hear the thunder when 'twer near,— A zickly maid, so peaele's the moon, That voun' her zun goo down at noon; An' blushen Jeaene so shy an' meek, That seldom let us hear her speak, That wer a-coorted an' undone By Farmer Woodley's woldest son; An' after she'd a-been vorzook, Wer voun' a-drown'd in Longmeaed brook.

An' zoo, when he'd a-been all roun', An' paid em all their wages down, She us'd to bring vor all, by teaele A cup o' cider or ov eaele, An' then a tutty meaede o' lots O' blossoms vrom her flower-nots, To wear in bands an' button-holes At church, an' in their evenen strolls. The pea that rangled to the oves, An' columbines an' pinks an' cloves, Sweet rwosen vrom the prickly tree, An' jilliflow'rs, an' jessamy; An' short-liv'd pinies, that do shed Their leaves upon a eaerly bed. She didden put in honeyzuck: She'd nwone, she zaid, that she could pluck Avore wild honeyzucks, a-vound In ev'ry hedge ov ev'ry ground.

Zoo maid an' woman, bwoy an' man, Went off, while zunzet air did fan Their merry zunburnt feaezen; zome Down leaene, an' zome drough parrocks hwome.

Ah! who can tell, that ha'nt a-vound, The sweets o' week's-end comen round! When Zadurday do bring woone's mind Sweet thoughts o' Zunday clwose behind; The day that's all our own to spend Wi' God an' wi' an e'thly friend. The worold's girt vo'k, wi' the best O' worldly goods mid be a-blest; But Zunday is the poor man's peaert, To seaeve his soul an' cheer his heart.


When sheaedes do vall into ev'ry hollow, An' reach vrom trees half athirt the groun'; An' banks an' walls be a-looken yollow, That be a-turn'd to the zun gwain down; Drough hay in cock, O, We all do vlock, O, Along our road vrom the meaed a-mow'd.

An' when the last swayen lwoad's a-started Up hill so slow to the lofty rick, Then we so weary but merry-hearted, Do shoulder each ō's a reaeke an' pick, Wi' empty flagon, Behind the waggon, To teaeke our road vrom the meaed a-mow'd.

When church is out, an' we all so slowly About the knap be a-spreaden wide, How gay the paths be where we do strolly Along the leaene an' the hedge's zide; But nwone's a voun', O, Up hill or down, O, So gay's the road drough the meaed a-mow'd.

An' when the visher do come, a-drowen His flutt'ren line over bleaedy zedge, Drough groun's wi' red thissle-heads a-blowen, An' watchen o't by the water's edge; Then he do love, O, The best to rove, O, Along his road drough the meaed a-mow'd.


The dreven scud that overcast The zummer sky is all a-past, An' softer air, a-blowen drough The quiv'ren boughs, do sheaeke the vew Last rain drops off the leaves lik' dew; An' peaeviers, now a-getten dry, Do steam below the zunny sky That's now so vast a-cleaeren.

The sheaedes that wer a-lost below The stormy cloud, ageaen do show Their mocken sheaepes below the light; An' house-walls be a-looken white, An' vo'k do stir woonce mwore in zight, An' busy birds upon the wing Do whiver roun' the boughs an' zing, To zee the sky a-clearen.

Below the hill's an ash; below The ash, white elder-flow'rs do blow: Below the elder is a bed O' robinhoods o' blushen red; An' there, wi' nunches all a-spread, The hay-meaekers, wi' each a cup O' drink, do smile to zee hold up The rain, an' sky a-cleaeren.

'Mid blushen maidens, wi' their zong, Still draw their white-stemm'd reaekes among The long-back'd weaeles an' new-meaede pooks, By brown-stemm'd trees an' cloty brooks; But have noo call to spweil their looks By work, that God could never meaeke Their weaker han's to underteaeke, Though skies mid be a-cleaeren.

'Tis wrong vor women's han's to clips The zull an' reap-hook, speaedes an' whips; An' men abroad, should leaeve, by right, Woone faithful heart at hwome to light Their bit o' vier up at night, An' hang upon the hedge to dry Their snow-white linen, when the sky In winter is a-cleaeren.


When vu'st along theaese road vrom mill, I zeed ye hwome all up the hill, The poplar tree, so straight an' tall, Did rustle by the watervall; An' in the leaeze the cows wer all A-lyen down to teaeke their rest An' slowly zunk toward the west The evenen star o' zummer.

In parrock there the hay did lie In weaele below the elems, dry; An' up in hwome-groun' Jim, that know'd We all should come along thik road, D a-tied the grass in knots that drow'd Poor Poll, a-watchen in the West Woone brighter star than all the rest,— The evenen star o' zummer.

The stars that still do zet an' rise, Did sheen in our forefather's eyes; They glitter'd to the vu'st men's zight, The last will have em in their night; But who can vind em half so bright As I thought thik peaele star above My smilen Jeaene, my zweet vu'st love, The evenen star o' zummer.

How sweet's the mornen fresh an' new, Wi' sparklen brooks an' glitt'ren dew; How sweet's the noon wi' sheaedes a-drow'd Upon the groun' but leaetely mow'd, An' bloomen flowers all abrode; But sweeter still, as I do clim', Theaese woody hill in evenen dim 'S the evenen star o' zummer.



O zummer clote! when the brook's a-gliden So slow an' smooth down his zedgy bed, Upon thy broad leaves so seaefe a-riden The water's top wi' thy yollow head, By alder's heads, O, An' bulrush beds, O. Thou then dost float, goolden zummer clote!

The grey-bough'd withy's a-leaenen lowly Above the water thy leaves do hide; The benden bulrush, a-swayen slowly, Do skirt in zummer thy river's zide; An' perch in shoals, O, Do vill the holes, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

Oh! when thy brook-drinken flow'r's a-blowen, The burnen zummer's a-zetten in; The time o' greenness, the time o' mowen, When in the hay-vield, wi' zunburnt skin, The vo'k do drink, O, Upon the brink, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

Wi' eaerms a-spreaden, an' cheaeks a-blowen, How proud wer I when I vu'st could zwim Athirt the pleaece where thou bist a-growen, Wi' thy long more vrom the bottom dim; While cows, knee-high, O, In brook, wer nigh, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

Ov all the brooks drough the meaeds a-winden, Ov all the meaeds by a river's brim, There's nwone so feaeir o' my own heart's vinden, As where the maidens do zee thee swim, An' stan' to teaeke, O, Wi' long-stemm'd reaeke, O, Thy flow'r afloat, goolden zummer clote!


I got two vields, an' I don't ceaere What squire mid have a bigger sheaere. My little zummer-leaeze do stratch All down the hangen, to a patch O' meaed between a hedge an' rank Ov elems, an' a river bank. Where yollow clotes, in spreaden beds O' floaten leaves, do lift their heads By benden bulrushes an' zedge A-swayen at the water's edge, Below the withy that do spread Athirt the brook his grey-leav'd head. An' eltrot flowers, milky white, Do catch the slanten evenen light; An' in the meaeple boughs, along The hedge, do ring the blackbird's zong; Or in the day, a-vleen drough The leafy trees, the whoa'se gookoo Do zing to mowers that do zet Their zives on end, an' stan' to whet. From my wold house among the trees A leaene do goo along the leaeze O' yollow gravel, down between Two mossy banks vor ever green. An' trees, a-hangen overhead, Do hide a trinklen gully-bed, A-cover'd by a bridge vor hoss Or man a-voot to come across. Zoo wi' my hwomestead, I don't ceaere What squire mid have a bigger sheaere!


Ah! yesterday, d'ye know, I voun' Tom Dumpy's cwoat an' smock-frock, down Below the pollard out in groun'; An' zoo I slyly stole An' took the smock-frock up, an' tack'd The sleeves an' collar up, an' pack'd Zome nice sharp stwones, all fresh a-crack'd 'Ithin each pocket-hole.

An' in the evenen, when he shut Off work, an' come an' donn'd his cwoat, Their edges gi'ed en sich a cut, How we did stan' an' laugh! An' when the smock-frock I'd a-zow'd Kept back his head an' hands, he drow'd Hizzelf about, an' teaev'd, an' blow'd, Lik' any up-tied calf.

Then in a veag away he flung His frock, an' after me he sprung, An' mutter'd out sich dreats, an' wrung His vist up sich a size! But I, a-runnen, turn'd an' drow'd Some doust, a-pick'd up vrom the road, Back at en wi' the wind, that blow'd It right into his eyes.

An' he did blink, an' vow he'd catch Me zomehow yet, an' be my match. But I wer nearly down to hatch Avore he got vur on; An' up in chammer, nearly dead Wi' runnen, lik' a cat I vled, An' out o' window put my head To zee if he wer gone.

An' there he wer, a-prowlen roun' Upon the green; an' I look'd down An' told en that I hoped he voun' He mussen think to peck Upon a body zoo, nor whip The meaere to drow me off, nor tip Me out o' cart ageaen, nor slip Cut hoss-heaeir down my neck.


Sweet Be'mi'ster, that bist a-bound By green an' woody hills all round, Wi' hedges, reachen up between A thousan' vields o' zummer green, Where elems' lofty heads do drow Their sheaedes vor hay-meakers below, An' wild hedge-flow'rs do charm the souls O' maidens in their evenen strolls.

When I o' Zunday nights wi' Jeaene Do saunter drough a vield or leaene, Where elder-blossoms be a-spread Above the eltrot's milk-white head, An' flow'rs o' blackberries do blow Upon the brembles, white as snow, To be outdone avore my zight By Jeaen's gay frock o' dazzlen white;

Oh! then there's nothen that's 'ithout Thy hills that I do ho about,— Noo bigger pleaece, noo gayer town, Beyond thy sweet bells' dyen soun', As they do ring, or strike the hour, At evenen vrom thy wold red tow'r. No: shelter still my head, an' keep My bwones when I do vall asleep.


As I wer out in meaed last week, A-thatchen o' my little rick, There green young ee-grass, ankle-high, Did sheen below the cloudless sky; An' over hedge in tother groun', Among the bennets dry an' brown, My dun wold meaere, wi' neck a-freed Vrom Zummer work, did snort an' veed; An' in the sheaede o' leafy boughs, My vew wold ragged-cwoated cows Did rub their zides upon the rails, Or switch em wi' their heaeiry tails.

An' as the mornen zun rose high Above my mossy roof clwose by, The blue smoke curreled up between The lofty trees o' feaeden green: A zight that's touchen when do show A busy wife is down below, A-worken hard to cheer woone's tweil Wi' her best feaere, an' better smile. Mid women still in wedlock's yoke Zend up, wi' love, their own blue smoke, An' husbands vind their bwoards a-spread By faithvul hands when I be dead, An' noo good men in ouer land Think lightly o' the wedden band. True happiness do bide alwone Wi' them that ha' their own he'th-stwone To gather wi' their childern roun', A-smilen at the worold's frown.

My bwoys, that brought me thatch an' spars, Wer down a-taiten on the bars, Or zot a-cutten wi' a knife, Dry eltrot-roots to meaeke a fife; Or dreven woone another round The rick upon the grassy ground. An', as the aier vrom the west Did fan my burnen feaece an' breast, An' hoppen birds, wi' twitt'ren beaks, Did show their sheenen spots an' streaks, Then, wi' my heart a-vill'd wi' love An' thankvulness to God above, I didden think ov anything That I begrudg'd o' lord or king; Vor I ha' round me, vur or near, The mwost to love an' nwone to fear, An' zoo can walk in any pleaece, An' look the best man in the feaece. What good do come to eaechen heads, O' lien down in silken beds? Or what's a coach, if woone do pine To zee woone's naighbour's twice so fine? Contentment is a constant feaest, He's richest that do want the leaest.


Avore we went a-milken, vive Or six o's here wer all alive A-teaeken bees that zwarm'd vrom hive; An' we'd sich work to catch The hummen rogues, they led us sich A dance all over hedge an' ditch; An' then at last where should they pitch, But up in uncle's thatch?

Dick rung a sheep-bell in his han'; Liz beaet a cannister, an' Nan Did bang the little fryen-pan Wi' thick an' thumpen blows; An' Tom went on, a-carren roun' A bee-pot up upon his crown, Wi' all his edge a-reachen down Avore his eyes an' nose.

An' woone girt bee, wi' spitevul hum, Stung Dicky's lip, an' meaede it come All up amost so big's a plum; An' zome, a-vleen on, Got all roun' Liz, an' meaede her hop An' scream, a-twirlen lik' a top, An' spring away right backward, flop Down into barken pon':

An' Nan' gi'ed Tom a roguish twitch Upon a bank, an' meaede en pitch Right down, head-voremost, into ditch,— Tom coulden zee a wink. An' when the zwarm wer seaefe an' sound In mother's bit o' bee-pot ground, She meaede us up a treat all round O' sillibub to drink.


As I wer readen ov a stwone In Grenley church-yard all alwone, A little maid ran up, wi' pride To zee me there, an' push'd a-zide A bunch o' bennets that did hide A verse her father, as she zaid, Put up above her mother's head, To tell how much he loved her:

The verse wer short, but very good, I stood an' larn'd en where I stood:— "Mid God, dear Meaery, gi'e me greaece To vind, lik' thee, a better pleaece, Where I woonce mwore mid zee thy feaece; An' bring thy childern up to know His word, that they mid come an' show Thy soul how much I lov'd thee."

"Where's father, then," I zaid, "my chile?" "Dead too," she answer'd wi' a smile; "An' I an' brother Jim do bide At Betty White's, o' tother zide O' road." "Mid He, my chile," I cried, "That's father to the fatherless, Become thy father now, an' bless, An' keep, an' leaed, an' love thee."

Though she've a-lost, I thought, so much, Still He don't let the thoughts o't touch Her litsome heart by day or night; An' zoo, if we could teaeke it right, Do show He'll meaeke his burdens light To weaker souls, an' that his smile Is sweet upon a harmless chile, When they be dead that lov'd it.


Come out to the parrock, come out to the tree, The maidens an' chaps be a-waiten vor thee; There's Jim wi' his fiddle to play us some reels, Come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels.

Come, all the long grass is a-mow'd an' a-carr'd, An' the turf is so smooth as a bwoard an' so hard; There's a bank to zit down, when y'ave danced a reel drough, An' a tree over head vor to keep off the dew.

There be rwoses an' honeyzucks hangen among The bushes, to put in thy weaest; an' the zong O' the nightingeaele's heaerd in the hedges all roun'; An' I'll get thee a glow-worm to stick in thy gown.

There's Meaery so modest, an' Jenny so smart, An' Mag that do love a good rompse to her heart; There's Joe at the mill that do zing funny zongs, An' short-lagged Dick, too, a-waggen his prongs.

Zoo come to the parrock, come out to the tree, The maidens an' chaps be a-waiten vor thee; There's Jim wi' his fiddle to play us some reels,— Come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]


Simon an' Samel.


There's what the vo'k do call a veaeiry ring Out there, lo'k zee. Why, 'tis an oddish thing.


Ah! zoo do seem. I wunder how do come! What is it that do meaeke it, I do wonder?


Be hang'd if I can tell, I'm sure! But zome Do zay do come by lightnen when do thunder; An' zome do say sich rings as thik ring there is, Do grow in dancen-tracks o' little veaeiries, That in the nights o' zummer or o' spring Do come by moonlight, when noo other veet Do tread the dewy grass, but their's, an' meet An' dance away together in a ring.


An' who d'ye think do work the fiddlestick? A little veaeiry too, or else wold Nick!


Why, they do zay, that at the veaeiries' ball, There's nar a fiddle that's a-heaer'd at all; But they do play upon a little pipe A-meaede o' kexes or o' straws, dead ripe, A-stuck in row (zome short an' longer zome) Wi' slime o' snails, or bits o' plum-tree gum, An' meaeke sich music that to hear it sound, You'd stick so still's a pollard to the ground.


What do em dance? 'Tis plain by theaese green wheels, They don't frisk in an' out in dree-hand reels; Vor else, instead o' theaese here girt round O, The'd cut us out a figure aight (8), d'ye know.


Oh! they ha' jigs to fit their little veet. They woulden dance, you know, at their fine ball, The dree an' vow'r han' reels that we do sprawl An' kick about in, when we men do meet.


An' zoo have zome vo'k, in their midnight rambles, A-catch'd the veaeiries, then, in theaesem gambols.


Why, yes; but they be off lik' any shot, So soon's a man's a-comen near the spot


But in the day-time where do veaeiries hide? Where be their hwomes, then? where do veaeiries bide?


Oh! they do get away down under ground, In hollow pleaezen where they can't be vound. But still my gramfer, many years agoo, (He liv'd at Grenley-farm, an milk'd a deaeiry), If what the wolder vo'k do tell is true, Woone mornen eaerly vound a veaeiry.

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