Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 43

I voun' the wind upon the hill, Last night, a-roaren loud, An' rubben boughs a-creaken sh'ill Upon the ashes' sh'oud; But oh! the reelen copse mid groan; An' timber's lofty tops mid groan; The hufflen winds be music all, Bezide my road to Ivy Hall.

A sheady grove o' ribbed woaks, Is Wootton's shelter'd nest, An' woaks do keep the winter's strokes Vrom Knapton's evenen rest.

An' woaks agean wi' bossy stems, An' elems wi' their mossy stems, Do rise to screen the leafy wall An' stwonen ruf ov Ivy Hall.

The darksome clouds mid fling their sleet.

An' vrost mid pinch me blue, Or snow mid cling below my veet, An' hide my road vrom view.

The winter's only ja ov heart, An' storms do meake me ga ov heart, When I do rest, at evenen-fall, Bezide the he'th ov Ivy Hall.

There leafy stems do clim' around The mossy stwonen eaves; An' there be window-zides a-bound Wi' quiv'ren ivy-leaves.

But though the sky is dim 'ithout, An' feaces mid be grim 'ithout, Still I ha' smiles when I do call, At evenen-tide, at Ivy Hall.

FALSE FRIENDS-LIKE.

When I wer still a bwoy, an' mother's pride, A bigger bwoy spoke up to me so kind-like, "If you do like, I'll treat ye wi' a ride In thease wheel-barrow here." Zoo I wer blind-like To what he had a-worken in his mind-like, An' mounted vor a pa.s.senger inside; An' comen to a puddle, perty wide, He tipp'd me in, a-grinnen back behind-like.

Zoo when a man do come to me so thick-like, An' sheake my hand, where woonce he pa.s.s'd me by, An' tell me he would do me this or that, I can't help thinken o' the big bwoy's trick-like.

An' then, vor all I can but wag my hat An' thank en, I do veel a little shy.

THE BACHELOR.

No! I don't begrudge en his life, Nor his goold, nor his housen, nor lands; Teake all o't, an' gi'e me my wife, A wife's be the cheapest ov hands.

Lie alwone! sigh alwone! die alwone!

Then be vorgot.

No! I be content wi' my lot.

Ah! where be the vingers so feair, Vor to pat en so soft on the feace, To mend ev'ry st.i.tch that do tear, An' keep ev'ry b.u.t.ton in pleace?

Crack a-tore! brack a-tore! back a-tore!

b.u.t.tons a-vled!

Vor want ov a wife wi' her thread.

Ah! where is the sweet-perty head That do nod till he's gone out o' zight?

An' where be the two earms a-spread, To show en he's welcome at night?

Dine alwone! pine alwone! whine alwone!

Oh! what a life!

I'll have a friend in a wife.

An' when vrom a meeten o' me'th Each husban' do lead hwome his bride, Then he do slink hwome to his he'th, Wi' his earm a-hung down his cwold zide.

Slinken on! blinken on! thinken on!

Gloomy an' glum; Nothen but dullness to come.

An' when he do onlock his door, Do rumble as hollow's a drum, An' the vearies a-hid roun' the vloor, Do grin vor to see en so glum.

Keep alwone! sleep alwone! weep alwone!

There let en bide, I'll have a wife at my zide.

But when he's a-laid on his bed In a zickness, O, what wull he do!

Vor the hands that would lift up his head, An' sheake up his pillor anew.

Ills to come! pills to come! bills to come!

Noo soul to sheare The trials the poor wratch must bear.

MARRIED PEaIR'S LOVE WALK.

Come let's goo down the grove to-night; The moon is up, 'tis all so light As day, an' win' do blow enough To sheake the leaves, but tidden rough.

Come, Esther, teake, vor wold time's seake, Your hooded cloke, that's on the pin, An' wrap up warm, an' teake my earm, You'll vind it better out than in.

Come, Etty dear; come out o' door, An' teake a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

How charmen to our very souls, Wer woonce your evenen maden strolls, The while the zetten zunlight dyed Wi' red the beeches' western zide, But back avore your vinger wore The wedden ring that's now so thin; An' you did sheare a mother's ceare, To watch an' call ye early in.

Come, Etty dear; come out o' door, An' teake a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

An' then agean, when you could slight The clock a-striken leate at night, The while the moon, wi' risen rim, Did light the beeches' eastern lim'.

When I'd a-bound your vinger round Wi' thik goold ring that's now so thin, An' you had nwone but me alwone To teake ye leate or early in.

Come, Etty dear; come out o' door, An' teake a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

But often when the western zide O' trees did glow at evenen-tide, Or when the leater moon did light The beeches' eastern boughs at night, An' in the grove, where vo'k did rove The crumpled leaves did vlee an' spin, You coulden sheare the pleasure there: Your work or childern kept ye in.

Come, Etty dear, come out o' door, An' teake a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

But ceares that zunk your oval chin Agean your bosom's lily skin, Vor all they meade our life so black, Be now a-lost behind our back.

Zoo never mwope, in midst of hope, To slight our blessens would be sin.

Ha! ha! well done, now this is fun; When you do like I'll bring ye in.

Here, Etty dear; here, out o' door, We'll teake a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

A WIFE A-PRAS'D.

'Twer Ma, but ev'ry leaf wer dry All day below a sheenen sky; The zun did glow wi' yollow gleare, An' cowslips blow wi' yollow gleare, Wi' graegles' bells a-droopen low, An' bremble boughs a-stoopen low; While culvers in the trees did coo Above the vallen dew.

An' there, wi' heair o' glossy black, Bezide your neck an' down your back, You rambled ga a-bloomen feair; By boughs o' ma a-bloomen feair; An' while the birds did twitter nigh, An' water weaves did glitter nigh, You gather'd cowslips in the lew, Below the vallen dew.

An' now, while you've a-been my bride As years o' flow'rs ha' bloom'd an' died, Your smilen feace ha' been my ja; Your soul o' greace ha' been my ja; An' wi' my evenen rest a-come, An' zunsheen to the west a-come, I'm glad to teake my road to you Vrom vields o' vallen dew.

An' when the ran do wet the ma, A-bloomen where we woonce did stra, An' win' do blow along so vast, An' streams do flow along so vast; Agean the storms so rough abroad, An' angry tongues so gruff abroad, The love that I do meet vrom you Is lik' the vallen dew.

An' you be sprack's a bee on wing, In search ov honey in the Spring: The dawn-red sky do meet ye up; The birds vu'st cry do meet ye up; An' wi' your feace a-smilen on, An' busy hands a-tweilen on, You'll vind zome useful work to do Until the vallen dew.