Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 5

Well, f.a.n.n.y, I woon't zay noo mwore, my dear.

Let's meake it up. Come, wipe off thik there tear.

Let's goo an' zit o' top o' thease here stile, An' rest, an' look about a little while.

f.a.n.n.y.

Now goo away, you crabbed jealous chap!

You shan't kiss me,--you shan't! I'll gi' ye a slap.

JOHN.

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

f.a.n.n.y.

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.

JOHN.

Then don't you zay that I be jealous, f.a.n.n.y.

f.a.n.n.y.

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 sta, they'll kick up sich a row.

Good night. I can't sta now.

JOHN.

Then good night, f.a.n.n.y!

Come out a-bit to-morrow evenen, can ye?

SUMMER.

EVENeN, AN' MAIDENS OUT AT DOOR.

Now the sheades o' the elems do stratch mwore an' mwore, Vrom the low-zinken zun in the west o' the sky; An' the madens do stand out in cl.u.s.ters avore The doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

An' their cwombs be a-zet in their bunches o' heair, An' their currels do hang roun' their necks lily-white, An' their cheaks they be rwosy, their shoulders be beare, 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 ja under evenen's dim sky, When my f.a.n.n.y 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 tran'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 heair.

An' zoo smile, happy madens! vor every feace, As the zummers do come, an' the years do roll by, Will soon sadden, or goo vur away vrom the pleace, Or else, lik' my f.a.n.n.y, will wither an' die.

But when you be a-lost vrom the parish, zome mwore Will come on in your pleazen to bloom an' to die; An' the zummer will always have madens 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 feairest is dead; As when woone sparklen weave do zink down vrom the light, Another do come up an' catch it instead.

Zoo smile on, happy madens! but I shall noo mwore Zee the mad 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.

THE SHEPHERD O' THE FARM.

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

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

An' I do zee the frisken lam's, Wi' swingen tals 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 sheades o' zummer clouds do vlee Wi' silent flight along the groun'.

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

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 s.h.a.ggy sheep, to clean their wool An' meake em ready vor the shears.

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' measters mark.

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

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

VIELDS IN THE LIGHT.

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

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