Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 50

THIRD COLLECTION.

WOONE SMILE MWORE.

O! Meary, when the zun went down, Woone night in Spring, wi' vi'ry rim, Behind thik nap wi' woody crown, An' left your smilen feace so dim; Your little sister there, inside, Wi' bellows on her little knee, Did blow the vier, a-glearen wide Drough window-peanes, that I could zee,-- As you did stan' wi' me, avore The house, a-pearten,--woone smile mwore.

The chatt'ren birds, a-risen high, An' zinken low, did swiftly vlee Vrom shrinken moss, a-growen dry, Upon the leanen apple tree.

An' there the dog, a-whippen wide His heairy tal, an' comen near, Did fondly lay agean your zide His coal-black nose an' russet ear: To win what I'd a-won avore, Vrom your ga feace, his woone smile mwore.

An' while your mother bustled sprack, A-getten supper out in hall, An' cast her sheade, a-whiv'ren black Avore the vier, upon the wall; Your brother come, wi' easy peace, In drough the slammen geate, along The path, wi' healthy-bloomen feace, A-whis'len shrill his last new zong; An' when he come avore the door, He met vrom you his woone smile mwore.

Now you that wer the daughter there, Be mother on a husband's vloor, An' mid ye meet wi' less o' ceare Than what your hearty mother bore; An' if abroad I have to rue The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed, Mid I come hwome to sheare wi' you What's needvul free o' pinchen need: An' vind that you ha' still in store, My evenen meal, an' woone smile mwore.

THE ECHO.

About the tow'r an' churchyard wall, Out nearly overright our door, A tongue ov wind did always call Whatever we did call avore.

The vace did mock our neames, our cheers, Our merry laughs, our hands' loud claps, An' mother's call "Come, come, my dears"

--_my dears_; Or "Do as I do bid, bad chaps"

--_bad chaps_.

An' when o' Zundays on the green, In frocks an' cwoats as ga as new, We walk'd wi' shoes a-meade to sheen So black an' bright's a vull-ripe slooe We then did hear the tongue ov ar A-mocken mother's vace so thin, "Come, now the bell do goo vor pra'r"

--_vor pray'r_; "'Tis time to goo to church; come in"

--_come in_.

The night when little Anne, that died, Begun to zicken, back in Ma, An' she, at dusk ov evenen-tide, Wer out wi' others at their pla, Within the churchyard that do keep Her little bed, the vace o' thin Dark ar, mock'd mother's call "To sleep"

--_to sleep_; "'Tis bed time now, my love, come in"

--_come in_.

An' when our Jeane come out so smart A-married, an' we help'd her in To Henry's newly-panted cart, The while the wheels begun to spin, An' her ga nods, vor all she smil'd, Did sheake a tear-drop vrom each eye, The vace mock'd mother's call, "Dear child"

--_dear child_; "G.o.d bless ye evermwore; good bye"

--_good bye_.

VULL A MAN.

No, I'm a man, I'm vull a man, You beat my manhood, if you can.

You'll be a man if you can teake All steates that household life do meake.

The love-toss'd child, a-croodlen loud, The bwoy a-screamen wild in pla, The tall grown youth a-steppen proud, The father stad, the house's sta.

No; I can boast if others can, I'm vull a man.

A young-cheak'd mother's tears mid vall, When woone a-lost, not half man-tall, Vrom little hand, a-called vrom pla, Do leave noo tool, but drop a ta, An' die avore he's father-free To sheape his life by his own plan; An' vull an angel he shall be, But here on e'th not vull a man, No; I could boast if others can, I'm vull a man.

I woonce, a child, wer father-fed, An' I've a vound my childern bread; My earm, a sister's trusty crook, Is now a fathvul wife's own hook; An' I've a-gone where vo'k did zend, An' gone upon my own free mind, An' of'en at my own wits' end.

A-led o' G.o.d while I wer blind.

No; I could boast if others can I'm vull a man.

An' still, ov all my tweil ha' won, My loven mad an' merry son, Though each in turn's a ja an' ceare, 'Ve a-had, an' still shall have, their sheare: An' then, if G.o.d should bless their lives, Why I mid zend vrom son to son My life, right on drough men an' wives, As long, good now, as time do run.

No; I could boast if others can, I'm vull a man.

NAIGHBOUR PLA[:Y]MEaTES.

O ja betide the dear wold mill, My naghbour plameates' happy hwome, Wi' rollen wheel, an' leapen foam, Below the overhangen hill, Where, wide an' slow, The stream did flow, An' flags did grow, an' lightly vlee Below the grey-leav'd withy tree, While clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour, Wi' whirlen stwone, an' streamen flour, Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.

An' there in geames by evenen skies, When Meary zot her down to rest, The broach upon her panken breast, Did quickly vall an' lightly rise, While swans did zwim In steately trim.

An' swifts did skim the water, bright Wi' whirlen froth, in western light; An' clack, clack, clack, that happy hour, Wi' whirlen stwone, an' streamen flour, Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.

Now mortery jeints, in streaks o' white, Along the gearden wall do show In Ma, an' cherry boughs do blow, Wi' bloomen tutties, snowy white, Where rollen round, Wi' rumblen sound, The wheel woonce drown'd the vace so dear To me. I fan would goo to hear The clack, clack, clack, vor woone short hour, Wi' whirlen stwone, an' streamen flour, Bezide the mill on cloty Stour.

But should I vind a-heaven now Her breast wi' ar o' thik dear pleace?

Or zee dark locks by such a brow, Or het o' pla on such a feace?

No! She's now stad, An' where she pla'd, There's noo such mad that now ha' took The pleace that she ha' long vorsook, Though clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour, Wi' whirlen stwone an' streamen flour, Do goo the mill by cloty Stour.

An' still the pulley rwope do heist The wheat vrom red-wheeled waggon beds.

An' ho'ses there wi' lwoads of grist, Do stand an' toss their heavy heads; But on the vloor, Or at the door, Do show noo mwore the kindly feace Her father show'd about the pleace, As clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour, Wi' whirlen stwone, an' streamen flour, Did goo his mill by cloty Stour.

THE LARK.

As I, below the mornen sky, Wer out a worken in the lew O' black-stemm'd thorns, a-springen high, Avore the worold-bounden blue, A-reaken, under woak tree boughs, The orts a-left behin' by cows.

Above the grey-grow'd thistle rings, An' deaisy-buds, the lark, in flight, Did zing a-loft, wi' flappen wings, Tho' mwore in hearen than in zight; The while my bwoys, in plavul me'th, Did run till they wer out o' breath.

Then woone, wi' han'-besheaded eyes, A-stoppen still, as he did run, Look'd up to zee the lark arise A-zingen to the high-gone zun; The while his brother look'd below Vor what the groun' mid have to show

Zoo woone did watch above his head The bird his hands could never teake; An' woone, below, where he did tread, Vound out the nest within the breake; But, aggs be only woonce a-vound, An' uncaught larks agean mid sound.

THE TWO CHURCHES.