Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 29

SECOND COLLECTION.

BLACKMWORE MAIDENS.

The primrwose in the sheade do blow, The cowslip in the zun, The thyme upon the down do grow, The clote where streams do run; An' where do pretty madens grow An' blow, but where the tow'r Do rise among the bricken tuns, In Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you could zee their comely gat, An' prett feaces' smiles, A-trippen on so light o' waght, An' steppen off the stiles; A-gwan to church, as bells do swing An' ring 'ithin the tow'r, You'd own the pretty madens' pleace Is Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you vrom Wimborne took your road, To Stower or Paladore, An' all the farmers' housen show'd Their daughters at the door; You'd cry to bachelors at hwome-- "Here, come: 'ithin an hour You'll vind ten madens to your mind, In Blackmwore by the Stour."

An' if you look'd 'ithin their door, To zee em in their pleace, A-doen housework up avore Their smilen mother's feace; You'd cry--"Why, if a man would wive An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r, Then let en look en out a wife In Blackmwore by the Stour."

As I upon my road did pa.s.s A school-house back in Ma, There out upon the beaten gra.s.s Wer madens at their pla; An' as the pretty souls did tweil An' smile, I cried, "The flow'r O' beauty, then, is still in bud In Blackmwore by the Stour."

MY ORCHA'D IN LINDEN LEA.

'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded, By the woak tree's mossy moot, The sheenen gra.s.s-bleades, timber-sheaded, Now do quiver under voot; An' birds do whissle over head, An' water's bubblen in its bed, An' there vor me the apple tree Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

When leaves that leately wer a-springen Now do feade 'ithin the copse, An' panted birds do hush their zingen Up upon the timber's tops; An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red, In cloudless zunsheen, over head, Wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

Let other vo'k meake money vaster In the ar o' dark-room'd towns, I don't dread a peevish measter; Though noo man do heed my frowns, I be free to goo abrode, Or teake agean my hwomeward road To where, vor me, the apple tree Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

BISHOP'S CAUNDLE.

At peace day, who but we should goo To Caundle vor an' hour or two: As ga a day as ever broke Above the heads o' Caundle vo'k, Vor peace, a-come vor all, did come To them wi' two new friends at hwome.

Zoo while we kept, wi' nimble peace, The wold dun tow'r avore our feace, The ar, at last, begun to come Wi' drubbens ov a beaten drum; An' then we heard the horns' loud droats Pla off a tuen's upper notes; An' then agean a-risen chearm Vrom tongues o' people in a zwarm: An' zoo, at last, we stood among The merry feaces o' the drong.

An' there, wi' garlands all a-tied In wreaths an' bows on every zide, An' color'd flags, a fluttren high An' bright avore the sheenen sky, The very guide-post wer a-drest Wi' posies on his earms an' breast.

At last, the vo'k zwarm'd in by scores An' hundreds droo the high barn-doors, To dine on English feare, in ranks, A-zot on chairs, or stools, or planks, By bwoards a-reachen, row an' row, Wi' cloths so white as driven snow.

An' while they took, wi' merry cheer, Their pleaces at the meat an' beer, The band did blow an' beat aloud Their merry tuens to the crowd; An' slowly-zwingen flags did spread Their hangen colors over head.

An' then the vo'k, wi' ja an' pride, Stood up in stillness, zide by zide, Wi' downcast heads, the while their friend Rose up avore the teable's end, An' zaid a timely greace, an' blest The welcome meat to every guest.

An' then arose a mingled nase O' knives an' pleates, an' cups an' tras, An' tongues wi' merry tongues a-drown'd Below a deaf'nen storm o' sound.

An' zoo, at last, their worthy host Stood up to gi'e em all a twoast, That they did drink, wi' shouts o' glee, An' whirlen earms to dree times dree.

An' when the bwoards at last wer beare Ov all the cloths an' goodly feare, An' froth noo longer rose to zwim Within the beer-mugs sheenen rim, The vo'k, a-streamen drough the door, Went out to geames they had in store An' on the blue-reav'd waggon's bed, Above his vower wheels o' red, Musicians zot in rows, an' pla'd Their tuens up to chap an' mad, That beat, wi' plasome tooes an' heels, The level ground in nimble reels.

An' zome agean, a-zet in line, An' starten at a given sign, Wi' outreach'd breast, a-breathen quick Droo op'nen lips, did nearly kick Their polls, a-runnen sich a peace, Wi' streamen heair, to win the reace.

An' in the house, an' on the green, An' in the shrubb'ry's leafy screen, On ev'ry zide we met sich lots O' smilen friends in happy knots, That I do think, that drough the feast In Caundle, vor a day at least, You woudden vind a scowlen feace Or dumpy heart in all the pleace.

HAY MEAKEN--NUNCHEN TIME.

_Anne an' John a-ta'ken o't._

A. Back here, but now, the jobber John Come by, an' cried, "Well done, zing on, I thought as I come down the hill, An' heard your zongs a-ringen sh'ill, Who woudden like to come, an' fling A peair o' p.r.o.ngs where you did zing?"

J. Aye, aye, he woudden vind it pla, To work all day a-meaken ha, Or pitchen o't, to earms a-spread By lwoaders, yards above his head, 'T'ud meake en wipe his drippen brow.

A. Or else a-reaken after plow.

J. Or worken, wi' his nimble pick, A-stiffled wi' the ha, at rick.

A. Our Company would suit en best, When we do teake our bit o' rest, At nunch, a-gather'd here below The sheade thease wide-bough'd woak do drow, Where hissen froth mid rise, an' float In horns o' eale, to wet his droat.

J. Aye, if his zwellen han' could drag A meat-slice vrom his dinner bag.

'T'ud meake the busy little chap Look rather glum, to zee his lap Wi' all his meal ov woone dry croust, An' vinny cheese so dry as doust.

A. Well, I don't grumble at my food, 'Tis wholesome, John, an' zoo 'tis good.

J. Whose reake is that a-lyen there?

Do look a bit the woo'se vor wear.

A. Oh! I mus' get the man to meake A tooth or two vor thik wold reake, 'Tis leabour lost to strik a stroke Wi' him, wi' half his teeth a-broke.

J. I should ha' thought your han' too fine To break your reake, if I broke mine.

A. The ramsclaws thin'd his wooden gum O' two teeth here, an' here were zome That broke when I did reake a patch O' groun' wi' Jimmy, vor a match: An' here's a gap ov woone or two A-broke by Simon's clumsy shoe, An' when I gi'ed his poll a poke, Vor better luck, another broke.

In what a veag have you a-swung Your pick, though, John? His stem's a-sprung.

J. When I an' Simon had a het O' pooken, yonder, vor a bet, The p.r.o.ngs o'n gi'ed a tump a poke, An' then I vound the stem a-broke, But they do meake the stems o' picks O' stuff so brittle as a kicks.

A. There's poor wold Jeane, wi' wrinkled skin, A-tellen, wi' her peaked chin, Zome teale ov her young days, poor soul.

Do meake the young-woones smile. 'Tis droll.

What is it? Stop, an' let's goo near.

I do like thease wold teales. Let's hear.

A FATHER OUT, AN' MOTHER HWOME.

The snow-white clouds did float on high In shoals avore the sheenen sky, An' runnen weaves in pon' did chease Each other on the water's feace, As hufflen win' did blow between The new-leav'd boughs o' sheenen green.

An' there, the while I walked along The path, drough leaze, above the drong, A little mad, wi' bloomen feace, Went on up hill wi' nimble peace, A-leanen to the right-han' zide, To car a basket that did ride, A-hangen down, wi' all his heft, Upon her elbow at her left.

An' yet she hardly seem'd to bruise The gra.s.s-bleades wi' her tiny shoes, That pa.s.s'd each other, left an' right.

In steps a'most too quick vor zight.

But she'd a-left her mother's door A-bearen vrom her little store Her father's welcome bit o' food, Where he wer out at work in wood; An' she wer bless'd wi' mwore than zwome-- A father out, an' mother hwome.