Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 62

Woone year longer, woone year wider, Vrom the friends that death ha' took, As the hours do teake the rider Vrom the hand that last he shook.

No. If he do ride at night Vrom the zide the zun went under, Woone hour vrom his western light Needen meake woone hour asunder; Woone hour onward, woone hour nigher To the hopeful eastern skies, Where his mornen rim o' vier Soon agean shall meet his eyes.

Leaves be now a-scatter'd round In the wind, a-blowen bleaker, An' if we do walk the ground Wi' our life-strangth woone year weaker.

Woone year weaker, woone year nigher To the pleace where we shall vind Woone that's deathless vor the dier, Voremost they that dropp'd behind.

LIZZIE.

O Lizzie is so mild o' mind, Vor ever kind, an' ever true; A-smilen, while her lids do rise To show her eyes as bright as dew.

An' comely do she look at night, A-dancen in her skirt o' white, An' blushen wi' a rwose o' red Bezide her glossy head.

Feair is the rwose o' blushen hue, Behung wi' dew, in mornen's hour, Feair is the rwose, so sweet below The noontide glow, bezide the bow'r.

Vull feair, an' eet I'd rather zee The rwose a-gather'd off the tree, An' bloomen still with blossom red, By Lizzie's glossy head.

Mid peace droughout her e'thly day, Betide her way, to happy rest, An' mid she, all her weanen life, Or mad or wife, be loved and blest.

Though I mid never zing anew To neame the mad so feair an' true, A-blushen, wi' a rwose o' red, Bezide her glossy head.

BLESSENS A-LEFT.

Lik' souls a-toss'd at sea I bore Sad strokes o' trial, shock by shock, An' now, lik' souls a-cast ash.o.r.e To rest upon the beaten rock, I still do seem to hear the sound O' weaves that drove me vrom my track, An' zee my strugglen hopes a-drown'd, An' all my jas a-floated back.

By storms a-toss'd, I'll gi'e G.o.d prase, Wi' much a-lost I still ha' jas.

My peace is rest, my fath is hope, An' freedom's my unbounded scope.

Vor fath mid blunt the sting o' fear, An' peace the pangs ov ills a-vound, An' freedom vlee vrom evils near, Wi' wings to vwold on other ground, Wi' much a-lost, my loss is small, Vor though ov e'thly goods bereft, A thousand times well worth em all Be they good blessens now a-left.

What e'th do own, to e'th mid vall, But what's my own my own I'll call, My fath, an' peace, the gifts o' greace, An' freedom still to s.h.i.+ft my pleace.

When I've a-had a tree to screen My meal-rest vrom the high zunn'd-sky, Or ivy-holden wall between My head an' win's a-rustlen by, I had noo call vor han's to bring Their seav'ry danties at my nod, But stoop'd a-drinken vrom the spring, An' took my meal, wi' thanks to G.o.d, Wi' fath to keep me free o' dread, An' peace to sleep wi' steadvast head, An' freedom's hands, an' veet unbound To woone man's work, or woone seame ground.

FALL TIME.

The gather'd clouds, a-hangen low, Do meake the woody ridge look dim; An' ran-vill'd streams do brisker flow, Arisen higher to their brim.

In the tree, vrom lim' to lim', Leaves do drop Vrom the top, all slowly down, Yollow, to the gloomy groun'.

The rick's a-tipp'd an' weather-brown'd, An' thatch'd wi' zedge a-dried an' dead; An' orcha'd apples, red half round, Have all a-happer'd down, a-shed Underneath the trees' wide head.

Ladders long, Rong by rong, to clim' the tall Trees, be hung upon the wall.

The crumpled leaves be now a-shed In mornen winds a-blowen keen; When they wer green the moss wer dead, Now they be dead the moss is green.

Low the evenen zun do sheen By the boughs, Where the cows do swing their tals Over the merry milkers' pals.

FALL.

Now the yollow zun, a-runnen Daily round a smaller bow, Still wi' cloudless sky's a-zunnen All the sheenen land below.

Vewer blossoms now do blow, But the fruit's a-showen Reds an' blues, an' purple hues, By the leaves a-glowen.

Now the childern be a-pryen Roun' the berried bremble-bow, Zome a-laughen, woone a-cryen Vor the slent her frock do show.

Bwoys be out a-pullen low Slooe-boughs, or a-runnen Where, on zides of hazzle-wrides, Nuts do hang a-zunnen.

Where do reach roun' wheat-ricks yollow Oves o' thatch, in long-drawn ring, There, by stubbly hump an' hollow, Russet-dappled dogs do spring.

Soon my apple-trees wull fling Bloomen b.a.l.l.s below em, That shall hide, on ev'ry zide Ground where we do drow em.

THE ZILVER-WEED.

The zilver-weed upon the green, Out where my sons an' daughters play'd, Had never time to bloom between The litty steps o' bwoy an' mad.

But rwose-trees down along the wall, That then wer all the maden's ceare, An' all a-trimm'd an' tran'd, did bear Their bloomen buds vrom Spring to Fall.

But now the zilver leaves do show To zummer day their goolden crown, Wi' noo swift shoe-zoles' litty blow, In merry pla to beat em down.

An' where vor years zome busy hand Did tran the rwoses wide an' high; Now woone by woone the trees do die, An' vew of all the row do stand.

THE WIDOW'S HOUSE.

I went hwome in the dead o' the night, When the vields wer all empty o' vo'k, An' the tuns at their cool-winded height Wer all dark, an' all cwold 'ithout smoke; An' the heads o' the trees that I pa.s.s'd Wer a-swayen wi' low-ruslen sound, An' the doust wer a-whirl'd wi' the blast, Aye, a smeech wi' the wind on the ground.

Then I come by the young widow's hatch, Down below the wold elem's tall head, But noo vinger did lift up the latch, Vor the vo'k wer so still as the dead; But inside, to a tree a-meade vast, Wer the childern's light swing, a-hung low, An' a-rock'd by the brisk-blowen blast, Aye, a-swung by the win' to an' fro.

Vor the childern, wi' pillow-borne head, Had vorgotten their swing on the lawn, An' their father, asleep wi' the dead, Had vorgotten his work at the dawn; An' their mother, a vew stilly hours, Had vorgotten where he sleept so sound, Where the wind wer a-sheaken the flow'rs, Aye, the blast the feair buds on the ground.

Oh! the moon, wi' his peale lighted skies, Have his sorrowless sleepers below.

But by day to the zun they must rise To their true lives o' tweil an' ov ho.

Then the childern wull rise to their fun, An' their mother mwore sorrow to veel, While the ar is a-warm'd by the zun, Aye, the win' by the day's vi'ry wheel.

THE CHILD'S GREaVE.