Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 63

Avore the time when zuns went down On zummer's green a-turn'd to brown, When sheades o' swaen wheat-ears vell Upon the scarlet pimpernel; The while you still mid goo, an' vind 'Ithin the gearden's mossy wall, Sweet blossoms, low or risen tall, To meake a tutty to your mind, In churchyard heav'd, wi' gra.s.sy breast, The greave-mound ov a beaby's rest.

An' when a high day broke, to call A throng 'ithin the churchyard wall, The mother brought, wi' thoughtvul mind, The feairest buds her eyes could vind, To trim the little greave, an' show To other souls her love an' loss, An' meade a Seavior's little cross O' brightest flow'rs that then did blow, A-droppen tears a-sheenen bright, Among the dew, in mornen light

An' woone sweet bud her han' did pleace Up where did droop the Seavior's feace; An' two she zet a-bloomen bright, Where reach'd His hands o' left an' right; Two mwore feair blossoms, crimson dyed, Did mark the pleaces ov his veet, An' woone did lie, a-smellen sweet, Up where the spear did wound the zide Ov Him that is the life ov all Greave sleepers, whether big or small.

The mother that in fath could zee The Seavior on the high cross tree Mid be a-vound a-grieven sore, But not to grieve vor evermwore, Vor He shall show her fathvul mind, His chace is all that she should choose, An' love that here do grieve to lose, Shall be, above, a ja to vind, Wi' Him that evermwore shall keep The souls that He do lay asleep.

WENT VROM HWOME.

The stream-be-wander'd dell did spread Vrom height to woody height, An' meads did lie, a gra.s.sy bed, Vor elem-sheaden light.

The milkmad by her white-horn'd cow, Wi' pal so white as snow, Did zing below the elem bough A-swaen to an' fro.

An' there the evenen's low-shot light Did smite the high tree-tops, An' rabbits vrom the gra.s.s, in fright, Did leap 'ithin the copse.

An' there the shepherd wi' his crook.

An' dog bezide his knee, Went whisslen by, in ar that shook The ivy on the tree.

An' on the hill, ahead, wer bars A-showen dark on high, Avore, as eet, the evenen stars Did twinkle in the sky, An' then the last sweet evenen-tide That my long sheade vell there, I went down Brindon's thymy zide, To my last sleep at Ware.

THE FANCY FEaIR AT MADEN NEWTON.

The Frome, wi' ever-water'd brink, Do run where shelven hills do zink Wi' housen all a-cl.u.s.ter'd roun'

The parish tow'rs below the down.

An' now, vor woonce, at least, ov all The pleacen where the stream do vall, There's woone that zome to-day mid vind, Wi' things a-suited to their mind.

An' that's out where the Fancy Feair Is on at Maden Newton.

An' vo'k, a-smarten'd up, wull hop Out here, as ev'ry tran do stop, Vrom up the line, a longish ride, An' down along the river-zide.

An' zome do beat, wi' heels an' tooes, The leanes an' paths, in nimble shoes, An' bring, bezides, a biggish knot, Ov all their childern that can trot, A-vlocken where the Fancy Feair Is here at Maden Newton.

If you should goo, to-day, avore A _Chilfrome_ house or _Downfrome_ door, Or _Frampton's_ park-zide row, or look Drough quiet _Wraxall's_ slopy nook, Or elbow-streeted _Catt'stock_, down By _Castlehill's_ cwold-winded crown, An' zee if vo'k be all at hwome, You'd vind em out--they be a-come Out hither, where the Fancy Feair Is on at Maden Newton.

Come, young men, come, an' here you'll vind A gift to please a maden's mind; Come, husbands, here be gifts to please Your wives, an' meake em smile vor days; Come, so's, an' buy at Fancy Feair A keepseake vor your friends elsewhere; You can't but stop an' spend a cwein Wi' leadies that ha' goods so fine; An' all to meake, vor childern's seake, The School at Maden Newton.

THINGS DO COME ROUND.

Above the leafless hazzle-wride The wind-drove ran did quickly vall, An' on the meaple's ribby zide Did hang the ran-drops quiv'ren ball; Out where the brook o' foamy yollow Roll'd along the mead's deep hollow, An' noo birds wer out to beat, Wi' flappen wings, the vleen wet O' zunless clouds on flow'rless ground.

How time do bring the seasons round!

The moss, a-beat vrom trees, did lie Upon the ground in ashen droves, An' western wind did huffle high, Above the sheds' quick-drippen oves.

An' where the ruslen straw did sound So dry, a-shelter'd in the lew, I staed alwone, an' weather-bound, An' thought on times, long years agoo, Wi' water-floods on flow'rless ground.

How time do bring the seasons round!

We then, in childhood pla, did seem In work o' men to teake a peart, A-dreven on our wild bwoy team, Or lwoaden o' the tiny cart.

Or, on our little refters, spread The zedgen ruf above our head, But coulden tell, as now we can, Where each would goo to tweil a man.

O jas a-lost, an' jas a-vound, How Providence do bring things round!

Where woonce along the sky o' blue The zun went roun' his longsome bow, An' brighten'd, to my soul, the view About our little farm below.

There I did pla the merry geame, Wi' childern ev'ry holitide, But coulden tell the vace or neame That time would vind to be my bride.

O hwome a-left, O wife a-vound, How Providence do bring things round!

An' when I took my manhood's pleace, A husband to a wife's true vow, I never thought by neame or feace O' childern that be round me now.

An' now they all do grow vrom small, Drough life's feair sheapes to big an' tall, I still be blind to G.o.d's good plan, To pleace em out as wife, or man.

O thread o' love by G.o.d unwound, How He in time do bring things round;

ZUMMER THOUGHTS IN WINTER TIME.

Well, aye, last evenen, as I shook My locks ov ha by Leecombe brook.

The yollow zun did weakly glance Upon the winter mead askance, A-casten out my narrow sheade Athirt the brook, an' on the mead.

The while agean my lwonesome ears Did russle weatherbeaten spears, Below the withy's leafless head That overhung the river's bed; I there did think o' days that dried The new-mow'd gra.s.s o' zummer-tide, When white-sleev'd mowers' whetted bleades Rung sh'ill along the green-bough'd gleades, An' madens ga, wi' plasome chaps, A-zot wi' dinners in their laps, Did talk wi' merry words that rung Around the ring, vrom tongue to tongue; An' welcome, when the leaves ha' died, Be zummer thoughts in winter-tide.

I'M OUT O' DOOR.

I'm out, when, in the Winter's blast, The zun, a-runnen lowly round, Do mark the sheades the hedge do cast At noon, in h.o.a.rvrost, on the ground, I'm out when snow's a-lyen white In keen-ar'd vields that I do pa.s.s, An' moonbeams, vrom above, do smite On ice an' sleeper's window-gla.s.s.

I'm out o' door, When win' do zweep, By hangen steep, Or hollow deep, At Lindenore.

O welcome is the lewth a-vound By rustlen copse, or ivied bank, Or by the ha-rick, weather-brown'd By barken-gra.s.s, a-springen rank; Or where the waggon, vrom the team A-freed, is well a-housed vrom wet, An' on the dousty cart-house beam Do hang the cobweb's white-lin'd net.

While storms do roar, An' win' do zweep, By hangen steep, Or hollow deep, At Lindenore.

An' when a good day's work's a-done An' I do rest, the while a squall Do rumble in the hollow tun, An' ivy-stems do whip the wall.

Then in the house do sound about My ears, dear vaces vull or thin, A praen vor the souls vur out At sea, an' cry wi' bibb'ren chin-- Oh! shut the door.

What soul can sleep, Upon the deep, When storms do zweep At Lindenore.

GRIEF AN' GLADNESS.

"Can all be still, when win's do blow?