Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 33

FATHERHOOD.

Let en zit, wi' his dog an' his cat, Wi' their noses a-turn'd to the vier, An' have all that a man should desire; But there idden much reads.h.i.+p in that.

Whether vo'k mid have childern or no, Wou'dden meake mighty odds in the man; They do bring us mwore ja wi' mwore ho, An' wi' nwone we've less ja wi' less pan We be all lik' a zull's idle sheare out, An' shall rust out, unless we do wear out, Lik' do-nothen, rue-nothen, Dead alive dumps.

As vor me, why my life idden bound To my own heart alwone, among men; I do live in myzelf, an' agean In the lives o' my childern all round: I do live wi' my bwoy in his pla, An' agean wi' my mad in her zongs; An' my heart is a-stirr'd wi' their ja, An' would burn at the zight o' their wrongs.

I ha' nine lives, an' zoo if a half O'm do cry, why the rest o'm mid laugh All so plavully, javully, Happy wi' hope.

Tother night I come hwome a long road, When the weather did sting an' did vreeze; An' the snow--vor the day had a-snow'd-- Wer avroze on the boughs o' the trees; An' my tooes an' my vingers wer num', An' my veet wer so lumpy as logs, An' my ears wer so red's a c.o.c.k's cwom'; An' my nose wer so cwold as a dog's; But so soon's I got hwome I vorgot Where my limbs wer a-cwold or wer hot, When wi' loud cries an' proud cries They coll'd me so cwold.

Vor the vu'st that I happen'd to meet Come to pull my girtcwoat vrom my earm, An' another did rub my feace warm, An' another hot-slipper'd my veet; While their mother did cast on a stick, Vor to keep the red vier alive; An' they all come so busy an' thick As the bees vlee-en into their hive, An' they meade me so happy an' proud, That my heart could ha' crow'd out a-loud; They did tweil zoo, an' smile zoo, An' coll me so cwold.

As I zot wi' my teacup, at rest, There I pull'd out the tas I did bring; Men a-kicken, a-wagg'd wi' a string, An' goggle-ey'd dolls to be drest; An' oh! vrom the childern there sprung Such a charm when they handled their tas, That vor pleasure the bigger woones wrung Their two hands at the zight o' their jas; As the bwoys' bigger vaces vell in Wi' the madens a-t.i.tteren thin, An' their dancen an' prancen, An' little mouth's laughs.

Though 'tis hard stripes to breed em all up, If I'm only a-blest vrom above, They'll meake me amends wi' their love, Vor their pillow, their pleate, an' their cup; Though I shall be never a-spweil'd Wi' the sarvice that money can buy; Still the hands ov a wife an' a child Be the blessens ov low or ov high; An' if there be mouths to be ved, He that zent em can zend me their bread, An' will smile on the chile That's a-new on the knee.

THE MAID O' NEWTON.

In zummer, when the knaps wer bright In cool-ar'd evenen's western light, An' ha that had a-dried all day, Did now lie grey, to dewy night; I went, by happy chance, or doom, Vrom Broadwoak Hill, athirt to Coomb, An' met a mad in all her bloom: The fearest mad o' Newton.

She bore a basket that did ride So light, she didden lean azide; Her feace wer oval, an' she smil'd So sweet's a child, but walk'd wi' pride.

I spoke to her, but what I zaid I didden know; wi' thoughts a-vled, I spoke by heart, an' not by head, Avore the mad o' Newton.

I call'd her, oh! I don't know who, 'Twer by a neame she never knew; An' to the heel she stood upon, She then brought on her hinder shoe, An' stopp'd avore me, where we met, An' wi' a smile woone can't vorget, She zaid, wi' eyes a-zwimmen wet, "No, I be woone o' Newton."

Then on I rambled to the west, Below the zunny hangen's breast, Where, down athirt the little stream, The brudge's beam did lie at rest: But all the birds, wi' lively glee, Did chirp an' hop vrom tree to tree, As if it wer vrom pride, to zee Goo by the mad o' Newton.

By fancy led, at evenen's glow, I woonce did goo, a-roven slow, Down where the elems, stem by stem, Do stan' to hem the grove below; But after that, my veet vorzook The grove, to seek the little brook At Coomb, where I mid zometimes look, To meet the mad o' Newton.

CHILDHOOD.

Aye, at that time our days wer but vew, An' our lim's wer but small, an' a-growen; An' then the feair worold wer new, An' life wer all hopevul an' ga; An' the times o' the sprouten o' leaves, An' the cheak-burnen seasons o' mowen, An' binden o' red-headed sheaves, Wer all welcome seasons o' ja.

Then the housen seem'd high, that be low, An' the brook did seem wide that is narrow, An' time, that do vlee, did goo slow, An' veelens now feeble wer strong, An' our worold did end wi' the neames Ov the Sha'sbury Hill or Bulbarrow; An' life did seem only the geames That we pla'd as the days rolled along.

Then the rivers, an' high-timber'd lands, An' the zilvery hills, 'ithout buyen, Did seem to come into our hands Vrom others that own'd em avore; An' all zickness, an' sorrow, an' need, Seem'd to die wi' the wold vo'k a-dyen, An' leave us vor ever a-freed Vrom evils our vorefathers bore.

But happy be childern the while They have elders a-liven to love em, An' teake all the wearisome tweil That zome hands or others mus' do; Like the low-headed shrubs that be warm, In the lewth o' the trees up above em, A-screen'd vrom the cwold blowen storm That the timber avore em must rue.

MEaRY'S SMILE.

When mornen winds, a-blowen high, Do zweep the clouds vrom all the sky, An' laurel-leaves do glitter bright, The while the newly broken light Do brighten up, avore our view, The vields wi' green, an' hills wi' blue; What then can highten to my eyes The cheerful feace ov e'th an' skies, But Meary's smile, o' Morey's Mill, My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

An' when, at last, the evenen dews Do now begin to wet our shoes; An' night's a-riden to the west, To stop our work, an' gi'e us rest, Oh! let the candle's ruddy gleare But brighten up her sheenen heair; Or else, as she do walk abroad, Let moonlight show, upon the road, My Meary's smile, o' Morey's Mill, My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

An' O! mid never tears come on, To wash her feace's blushes wan, Nor kill her smiles that now do pla Like sparklen weaves in zunny Ma; But mid she still, vor all she's gone Vrom souls she now do smile upon, Show others they can vind woone ja To turn the hardest work to pla.

My Meary's smile, o' Morey's Mill, My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

MEaRY WEDDED.

The zun can zink, the stars mid rise, An' woods be green to sheenen skies; The c.o.c.k mid crow to mornen light, An' workvo'k zing to vallen night; The birds mid whissle on the spra, An' childern leap in merry pla, But our's is now a lifeless pleace, Vor we've a-lost a smilen feace-- Young Meary Mead o' merry mood, Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded.

The dog that woonce wer glad to bear Her fondlen vingers down his heair, Do lean his head agean the vloor, To watch, wi' heavy eyes, the door; An' men she zent so happy hwome O' Zadurdays, do seem to come To door, wi' downcast hearts, to miss Wi' smiles below the clematis, Young Meary Mead o' merry mood, Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded.

When they do draw the evenen blind, An' when the evenen light's a-tin'd, The cheerless vier do drow a gleare O' light agean her empty chair; An' wordless gaps do now meake thin Their talk where woonce her vace come in.

Zoo lwonesome is her empty pleace, An' blest the house that ha' the feace O' Meary Mead, o' merry mood, Now she's a-woo'd and wedded.

The day she left her father's he'th, Though sad, wer kept a day o' me'th, An' dry-wheel'd waggons' empty beds Wer left 'ithin the tree-screen'd sheds; An' all the hosses, at their ease, Went snorten up the flow'ry lease, But woone, the smartest for the road, That pull'd away the dearest lwoad-- Young Meary Mead o' merry mood, That wer a-woo'd an' wedded.

THE STWONEN BWOY UPON THE PILLAR.

Wi' smokeless tuns an' empty halls, An' moss a-clingen to the walls, In ev'ry wind the lofty tow'rs Do teake the zun, an' bear the show'rs; An' there, 'ithin a geat a-hung, But vasten'd up, an' never swung, Upon the pillar, all alwone, Do stan' the little bwoy o' stwone; 'S a poppy bud mid linger on, Vorseaken, when the wheat's a-gone.

An' there, then, wi' his bow let slack, An' little quiver at his back, Drough het an' wet, the little chile Vrom day to day do stan' an' smile.

When vu'st the light, a-risen weak, At break o' day, do smite his cheak, Or while, at noon, the leafy bough Do cast a sheade a-thirt his brow, Or when at night the warm-breath'd cows Do sleep by moon-belighted boughs; An' there the while the rooks do bring Their scroff to build their nest in Spring, Or zwallows in the zummer day Do cling their little huts o' clay, 'Ithin the ranless sheades, below The steadvast arches' mossy bow.

Or when, in Fall, the woak do shed The leaves, a-wither'd, vrom his head, An' western win's, a-blowen cool, Do dreve em out athirt the pool, Or Winter's clouds do gather dark An' wet, wi' ran, the elem's bark, You'll zee his pretty smile betwixt His little sheade-mark'd lips a-fix'd; As there his little sheape do bide Drough day an' night, an' time an' tide, An' never change his size or dress, Nor overgrow his prettiness.

But, oh! thik child, that we do vind In childhood still, do call to mind A little bwoy a-call'd by death, Long years agoo, vrom our sad he'th; An' I, in thought, can zee en dim The seame in feace, the seame in lim', My heair mid whiten as the snow, My limbs grow weak, my step wear slow, My droopen head mid slowly vall Above the han'-staff's glossy ball, An' yeet, vor all a wid'nen span Ov years, mid change a liven man, My little child do still appear To me wi' all his childhood's gear, 'Ithout a beard upon his chin, 'Ithout a wrinkle in his skin, A-liven on, a child the seame In look, an' sheape, an' size, an' neame.

THE YOUNG THAT DIED IN BEAUTY.

If souls should only sheen so bright In heaven as in e'thly light, An' nothen better wer the cease, How comely still, in sheape an' feace, Would many reach thik happy pleace,-- The hopeful souls that in their prime Ha' seem'd a-took avore their time-- The young that died in beauty.

But when woone's lim's ha' lost their strangth A-tweilen drough a lifetime's langth, An' over cheaks a-growen wold The slowly-weasten years ha' rolled, The deep'nen wrinkle's hollow vwold; When life is ripe, then death do call Vor less ov thought, than when do vall On young vo'ks in their beauty.