Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 24

When the warm zummer breeze do blow over the hill, An' the vlock's a-spread over the ground; When the vace o' the busy wold sheep dog is still, An' the sheep-bells do tinkle all round; Where noo tree vor a sheade but the thorn is a-vound, There, a zingen a zong, Or a-whislen among The sheep, the young shep'erd do bide all day long.

When the storm do come up wi' a thundery cloud That do shut out the zunlight, an' high Over head the wild thunder do rumble so loud, An' the lightnen do flash vrom the sky, Where noo shelter's a-vound but his hut, that is nigh, There out ov all harm, In the dry an' the warm, The poor little shep'erd do smile at the storm.

When the cwold winter win' do blow over the hill, An' the h.o.r.e-vrost do whiten the gra.s.s, An' the breath o' the no'th is so cwold, as to chill The warm blood ov woone's heart as do pa.s.s; When the ice o' the pond is so slipp'ry as gla.s.s, There, a-zingen a zong, Or a-whislen among The sheep, the poor shep'erd do bide all day long.

When the shearen's a-come, an' the shearers do pull In the sheep, hangen back a-gwan in, Wi' their roun' zides a-heaven in under their wool, To come out all a-clipp'd to the skin; When the feasten, an' zingen, an fun do begin, Vor to help em, an' sheare All their me'th an' good feare, The poor little shep'erd is sure to be there.

HOPE A-LEFT BEHIND.

Don't try to win a maden's heart, To leave her in her love,--'tis wrong: 'Tis bitter to her soul to peart Wi' woone that is her sweetheart long.

A mad's vu'st love is always strong; An' if do fal, she'll linger on, Wi' all her best o' pleasure gone, An' hope a-left behind her.

Thy poor lost Jenny wer a-grow'd So kind an' thoughtvul vor her years, When she did meet wi' vo'k a-know'd The best, her love did speak in tears.

She walk'd wi' thee, an' had noo fears O' thy unkindness, till she zeed Herzelf a-cast off lik' a weed, An' hope a-left behind her.

Thy slight turn'd peale her cherry lip; Her sorrow, not a-zeed by eyes, Wer lik' the mildew, that do nip A bud by darksome midnight skies.

The day mid come, the zun mid rise, But there's noo hope o' day nor zun; The storm ha' blow'd, the harm's a-done, An' hope's a-left behind her.

The time will come when thou wouldst gi'e The worold vor to have her smile, Or meet her by the parrock tree, Or catch her jumpen off the stile; Thy life's avore thee vor a while, But thou wilt turn thy mind in time, An' zee the deed as 'tis,--a crime, An' hope a-left behind thee.

Zoo never win a maden's heart, But her's that is to be thy bride, An' pla drough life a manly peart, An' if she's true when time ha' tried Her mind, then teake her by thy zide.

True love will meake thy hards.h.i.+ps light, True love will meake the worold bright, When hope's a-left behind thee.

A GOOD FATHER.

No; mind thy father. When his tongue Is keen, he's still thy friend, John, Vor wolder vo'k should warn the young How wickedness will end, John; An' he do know a wicked youth Would be thy manhood's beane, An' zoo would bring thee back agean 'Ithin the ways o' truth.

An' mind en still when in the end His leabour's all a-done, John, An' let en vind a steadvast friend In thee his thoughtvul son, John; Vor he did win what thou didst lack Avore couldst work or stand, An' zoo, when time do num' his hand, Then pay his leabour back.

An' when his bwones be in the dust, Then honour still his neame, John; An' as his G.o.dly soul wer just, Let thine be voun' the seame, John.

Be true, as he wer true, to men, An' love the laws o' G.o.d; Still tread the road that he've a-trod, An' live wi' him agean.

THE BEAM IN GRENLEY CHURCH.

In church at Grenley woone mid zee A beam vrom wall to wall; a tree That's longer than the church is wide, An' zoo woone end o'n's drough outside,-- Not cut off short, but bound all round Wi' lead, to keep en seafe an' sound.

Back when the builders vu'st begun The church,--as still the teale do run,-- A man work'd wi' em; no man knew Who 'twer, nor whither he did goo.

He wer as harmless as a chile, An' work'd 'ithout a frown or smile, Till any woaths or strife did rise To overcast his sparklen eyes:

An' then he'd call their minds vrom strife, To think upon another life.

He wer so strong, that all alwone He lifted beams an' blocks o' stwone, That others, with the girtest pans, Could hardly wag wi' bars an' chans; An' yet he never used to sta O' Zat.u.r.days, to teake his pa.

Woone day the men wer out o' heart, To have a beam a-cut too short; An' in the evenen, when they shut Off work, they left en where 'twer put; An' while dumb night went softly by Towards the vi'ry western sky, A-lullen birds, an' shutten up The deaisy an' the b.u.t.ter cup, They went to lay their heavy heads An' weary bwones upon their beds.

An' when the dewy mornen broke, An' show'd the worold, fresh awoke, Their G.o.dly work agean, they vound The beam they left upon the ground A-put in pleace, where still do bide, An' long enough to reach outzide.

But he unknown to tother men Wer never there at work agean: Zoo whether he mid be a man Or angel, wi' a helpen han', Or whether all o't wer a dream, They didden deare to cut the beam.

THE VACES THAT BE GONE.

When evenen sheades o' trees do hide A body by the hedge's zide, An' twitt'ren birds, wi' plasome flight, Do vlee to roost at comen night, Then I do saunter out o' zight In orcha'd, where the pleace woonce rung Wi' laughs a-laugh'd an' zongs a-zung By vaces that be gone.

There's still the tree that bore our swing, An' others where the birds did zing; But long-leav'd docks do overgrow The groun' we trampled heare below, Wi' merry skippens to an' fro Bezide the banks, where Jim did zit A-plaen o' the clarinit To vaces that be gone.

How mother, when we us'd to stun Her head wi' all our nasy fun, Did wish us all a-gone vrom hwome: An' now that zome be dead, an' zome A-gone, an' all the pleace is dum', How she do wish, wi' useless tears, To have agean about her ears The vaces that be gone.

Vor all the madens an' the bwoys But I, be marri'd off all woys, Or dead an' gone; but I do bide At hwome, alwone, at mother's zide, An' often, at the evenen-tide, I still do saunter out, wi' tears, Down drough the orcha'd, where my ears Do miss the vaces gone.

POLL.

When out below the trees, that drow'd Their scraggy lim's athirt the road, While evenen zuns, a'most a-zet, Gi'ed goolden light, but little het, The merry chaps an' madens met, An' look'd to zomebody to neame Their bit o' fun, a dance or geame, 'Twer Poll they cl.u.s.ter'd round.

An' after they'd a-had enough O' snappen tongs, or blind-man's buff, O' winter nights, an' went an' stood Avore the vire o' bleazen wood, Though there wer madens kind an' good, Though there wer madens feair an' tall, 'Twer Poll that wer the queen o'm all, An' Poll they cl.u.s.ter'd round.

An' when the childern used to catch A glimpse o' Poll avore the hatch, The little things did run to meet Their friend wi' skippen tott'ren veet An' thought noo other kiss so sweet As hers; an' nwone could vind em out Such geames to meake em jump an' shout, As Poll they cl.u.s.ter'd round.

An' now, since she've a-left em, all The pleace do miss her, girt an' small.

In van vor them the zun do sheen Upon the lwonesome rwoad an' green; Their zwing do hang vorgot between The leanen trees, vor they've a-lost The best o' madens, to their cost, The mad they cl.u.s.ter'd round.

LOOKS A-KNOW'D AVORE.

While zome, a-gwan from pleace to pleace, Do daily meet wi' zome new feace, When my day's work is at an end, Let me zit down at hwome, an' spend A happy hour wi' zome wold friend, An' by my own vire-zide rejace In zome wold naghbour's welcome vace, An' looks I know'd avore, John.

Why is it, friends that we've a-met By zuns that now ha' long a-zet, Or winter vires that bleazed for wold An' young vo'k, now vor ever cwold, Be met wi' ja that can't be twold?

Why, 'tis because they friends have all Our youthvul spring ha' left our fall,-- The looks we know'd avore, John.