Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 22

Vor all busy kinsvo'k, my love will be still A-zet upon thee lik' the vir in the hill; An' though they mid worry, an' dreaten, an' mock, My head's in the storm, but my root's in the rock.

Zoo, Jenny, don't sobby! vor I shall be true; Noo might under heaven shall peart me vrom you.

My heart will be cwold, Jenny, when I do slight The zwell o' thy bosom, thy eyes' sparklen light.

THE MAID VOR MY BRIDE.

Ah! don't tell o' madens! the woone vor my bride Is little lik' too many madens bezide,-- Not branten, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind.

She's straght an' she's slender, but not over tall, Wi' lim's that be lightsome, but not over small; The goodness o' heaven do breathe in her feace, An' a queen, to be steately, must walk wi' her peace.

Her frocks be a-meade all becomen an' plan, An' clean as a blossom undimm'd by a stan; Her bonnet ha' got but two ribbons, a-tied Up under her chin, or let down at the zide.

When she do speak to woone, she don't steare an' grin; There's sense in her looks, vrom her eyes to her chin, An' her words be so kind, an' her speech is so meek, As her eyes do look down a-beginnen to speak.

Her skin is so white as a lily, an' each Ov her cheaks is so downy an' red as a peach; She's pretty a-zitten; but oh! how my love Do watch her to madness when woonce she do move.

An' when she do walk hwome vrom church drough the groun', Wi' woone earm in mine, an' wi' woone a-hung down, I do think, an' do veel mwore o' sheame than o' pride, That do meake me look ugly to walk by her zide.

Zoo don't talk o' maden's! the woone vor my bride Is but little lik' too many madens bezide,-- Not branten, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind.

THE HWOMESTEAD.

If I had all the land my zight Can overlook vrom Chalwell hill, Vrom Sherborn left to Blanvord right, Why I could be but happy still.

An' I be happy wi' my spot O' freehold ground an' mossy cot, An' shoulden get a better lot If I had all my will.

My orcha'd's wide, my trees be young; An' they do bear such heavy crops, Their boughs, lik' onion-rwopes a-hung, Be all a-trigg'd to year, wi' props.

I got some gearden groun' to dig, A parrock, an' a cow an' pig; I got zome cider vor to swig, An' eale o' malt an' hops.

I'm landlord o' my little farm, I'm king 'ithin my little pleace; I don't break laws, an' don't do harm, An' bent a-fear'd o' noo man's feace.

When I'm a-cover'd wi' my thatch, Noo man do deare to lift my latch; Where honest han's do shut the hatch, There fear do leave the pleace.

My lofty elem trees do screen My brown-ruf'd house, an' here below, My geese do strut athirt the green, An' hiss an' flap their wings o' snow; As I do walk along a rank Ov apple trees, or by a bank, Or zit upon a bar or plank, To see how things do grow.

THE FARMER'S WOLDEST D[=A]'TER.

No, no! I ben't a-runnen down The pretty maden's o' the town, Nor wishen o'm noo harm; But she that I would marry vu'st, To sheare my good luck or my crust, 'S a-bred up at a farm.

In town, a mad do zee mwore life, An' I don't under-reate her; But ten to woone the sprackest wife 'S a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter.

Vor she do veed, wi' tender ceare, The little woones, an' peart their heair, An' keep em neat an' pirty; An' keep the saucy little chaps O' bwoys in trim wi' dreats an' slaps, When they be wild an' dirty.

Zoo if you'd have a bus'len wife, An' childern well look'd after, The mad to help ye all drough life 'S a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter.

An' she can iorn up an' vwold A book o' clothes w' young or wold, An' zalt an' roll the b.u.t.ter; An' meake brown bread, an' elder wine, An' zalt down meat in pans o' brine, An' do what you can put her.

Zoo if you've wherewi', an' would vind A wife wo'th looken [=a]'ter, Goo an' get a farmer in the mind To gi'e ye his woldest d[=a]'ter.

Her heart's so innocent an' kind, She idden thoughtless, but do mind Her mother an' her duty; An' liven blushes, that do spread Upon her healthy feace o' red, Do heighten all her beauty; So quick's a bird, so neat's a cat, So cheerful in her neatur, The best o' madens to come at 'S a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter.

UNCLE OUT O' DEBT AN' OUT O' DANGER.

Ees; uncle had thik small hwomestead, The leazes an' the bits o' mead, Besides the orcha'd in his prime, An' copse-wood vor the winter time.

His wold black meare, that draw'd his cart, An' he, wer seldom long apeart; Vor he work'd hard an' pad his woy, An' zung so litsom as a bwoy, As he toss'd an' work'd, An' blow'd an' quirk'd, "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feace a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peair Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."

His meare's long vlexy vetlocks grow'd Down roun' her hoofs so black an' brode; Her head hung low, her tal reach'd down A-bobben nearly to the groun'.

The cwoat that uncle mwostly wore Wer long behind an' straght avore,

An' in his shoes he had girt buckles, An' breeches b.u.t.ton'd round his huckles; An' he zung wi' pride, By's wold meare's zide, "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feace a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peair Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."

An' he would work,--an' lwoad, an' shoot, An' spur his heaps o' dung or zoot; Or car out ha, to sar his vew Milch cows in corners dry an' lew; Or dreve a zyve, or work a pick, To pitch or meake his little rick; Or thatch en up wi' straw or zedge, Or stop a shard, or gap, in hedge; An' he work'd an' flung His earms, an' zung "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feace a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peair Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."

An' when his meare an' he'd a-done Their work, an' tired ev'ry bwone, He zot avore the vire, to spend His evenen wi' his wife or friend; An' wi' his lags out-stratch'd vor rest, An' woone hand in his wes'coat breast, While burnen sticks did hiss an' crack, An' fleames did bleazy up the back, There he zung so proud In a bakky cloud, "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feace a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peair Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."

From market how he used to ride, Wi' pot's a-b.u.mpen by his zide Wi' things a-bought--but not vor trust, Vor what he had he pad vor vu'st; An' when he trotted up the yard, The calves did bleary to be sar'd, An' pigs did scoat all drough the muck, An' geese did hiss, an' hens did cluck; An' he zung aloud, So pleased an' proud, "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feace a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peair Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."

When he wer joggen hwome woone night Vrom market, after candle-light, (He mid a-took a drop o' beer, Or midden, vor he had noo fear,) Zome ugly, long-lagg'd, herren ribs, Jump'd out an' ax'd en vor his dibs; But he soon gi'ed en such a mawlen, That there he left en down a-sprawlen, While he jogg'd along Wi' his own wold zong, "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feace a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peair Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare."

THE CHURCH AN' HAPPY ZUNDAY.

Ah! ev'ry day mid bring a while O' ease vrom all woone's ceare an' tweil, The welcome evenen, when 'tis sweet Vor tired friends wi' weary veet, But litsome hearts o' love, to meet; An' yet while weekly times do roll, The best vor body an' vor soul 'S the church an' happy Zunday.

Vor then our loosen'd souls do rise Wi' holy thoughts beyond the skies, As we do think o' _Him_ that shed His blood vor us, an' still do spread His love upon the live an' dead; An' how He gi'ed a time an' pleace To gather us, an' gi'e us greace,-- The church an' happy Zunday.

There, under leanen mossy stwones, Do lie, vorgot, our fathers' bwones, That trod this groun' vor years agoo, When things that now be wold wer new; An' comely madens, mild an' true, That meade their sweet-hearts happy brides, An' come to kneel down at their zides At church o' happy Zundays.

'Tis good to zee woone's naghbours come Out drough the churchyard, vlocken hwome, As woone do nod, an' woone do smile, An' woone do toss another's chile; An' zome be sheaken han's, the while Poll's uncle, chucken her below Her chin, do tell her she do grow, At church o' happy Zundays.

Zoo while our blood do run in vans O' liven souls in theasum plans, Mid happy housen smoky round The church an' holy bit o' ground; An' while their wedden bells do sound, Oh! mid em have the means o' greace, The holy day an' holy pleace, The church an' happy Zunday.