Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect Part 65

THE HUMSTRUM.

Why woonce, at Chris'mas-tide, avore The wold year wer a-reckon'd out, The humstrums here did come about, A-sounden up at ev'ry door.

But now a bow do never screape A humstrum, any where all round, An' zome can't tell a humstrum's sheape, An' never heard his jinglen sound.

As _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string, As _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang.

The strings a-tighten'd lik' to crack Athirt the canister's tin zide, Did reach, a glitt'ren, zide by zide, Above the humstrum's hollow back.

An' there the bwoy, wi' bended stick, A-strung wi' heair, to meake a bow, Did dreve his elbow, light'nen quick, Athirt the strings from high to low.

As _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string, As _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang.

The mother there did stan' an' hush Her child, to hear the jinglen sound, The merry mad, a-scrubben round Her white-steav'd pal, did stop her brush.

The mis'ess there, vor wold time's seake, Had gifts to gi'e, and smiles to show, An' measter, too, did stan' an' sheake His two broad zides, a-chucklen low, While _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string, While _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang.

The plaers' pockets wer a-strout, Wi' wold brown pence, a-rottlen in, Their zw.a.n.gen bags did soon begin, Wi' brocks an' sc.r.a.ps, to plim well out.

The childern all did run an' poke Their heads vrom hatch or door, an' shout A-runnen back to wolder vo'k.

Why, here! the humstrums be about!

As _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string, As _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang.

SHAFTESBURY FEaIR.

When hillborne Paladore did show So bright to me down miles below.

As woonce the zun, a-rollen west, Did brighten up his hill's high breast.

Wi' walls a-looken dazzlen white, Or yollow, on the grey-topp'd height Of Paladore, as peale day wore Awa so feair.

Oh! how I wish'd that I wer there.

The pleace wer too vur off to spy The liven vo'k a-pa.s.sen by; The vo'k too vur vor ar to bring The words that they did speak or zing.

All dum' to me wer each abode, An' empty wer the down-hill road Vrom Paladore, as peale day wore Awa so feair; But how I wish'd that I wer there.

But when I clomb the lofty ground Where liven veet an' tongues did sound, At feair, bezide your bloomen feace, The pertiest in all the pleace, As you did look, wi' eyes as blue As yonder southern hills in view, Vrom Paladore--O Polly dear, Wi' you up there, How merry then wer I at feair.

Since vu'st I trod thik steep hill-zide My grieven soul 'v a-been a-tried Wi' pan, an' loss o' worldly gear, An' souls a-gone I wanted near; But you be here to goo up still, An' look to Blackmwore vrom the hill O' Paladore. Zoo, Polly dear, We'll goo up there, An' spend an hour or two at feair.

The wold brown meare's a-brought vrom gra.s.s, An' rubb'd an' cwomb'd so bright as gla.s.s; An' now we'll hitch her in, an' start To feair upon the new green cart, An' teake our little Poll between Our zides, as proud's a little queen, To Paladore. Aye, Poll a dear, Vor now 'tis feair, An' she's a longen to goo there.

While Paladore, on watch, do stran Her eyes to Blackmwore's blue-hill'd plain, While Duncliffe is the traveller's mark, Or cloty Stour's a-rollen dark; Or while our bells do call, vor greace, The vo'k avore their Seavior's feace, Mid Paladore, an' Poll a dear, Vor ever know O' peace an' plenty down below.

THE BEaTEN PATH.

The beaten path where vo'k do meet A-comen on vrom vur an' near; How many errands had the veet That wore en out along so clear!

Where eegra.s.s bleades be green in mead, Where bennets up the leaze be brown, An' where the timber bridge do lead Athirt the cloty brook to town, Along the path by mile an' mile, Athirt the yield, an' brook, an' stile,

There runnen childern's hearty laugh Do come an' vlee along--win' swift: The wold man's glossy-k.n.o.bbed staff Do help his veet so hard to lift; The mad do bear her basket by, A-hangen at her breathen zide; An' ceareless young men, straght an' spry, Do whissle hwome at eventide, Along the path, a-reachen by Below tall trees an' oben sky.

There woone do goo to ja a-head; Another's ja's behind his back.

There woone his vu'st long mile do tread, An' woone the last ov all his track.

An' woone mid end a hopevul road, Wi' hopeless grief a-teaken on, As he that leately vrom abroad Come hwome to seek his love a-gone, Noo mwore to tread, wi' comely ease, The beaten path athirt the leaze.

In tweilsome hards.h.i.+ps, year by year, He drough the worold wander'd wide, Still bent, in mind, both vur an' near To come an' meake his love his bride.

An' pa.s.sen here drough evenen dew He heasten'd, happy, to her door, But vound the wold vo'k only two, Wi' noo mwore vootsteps on the vloor, To walk agean below the skies, Where beaten paths do vall an' rise;

Vor she wer gone vrom e'thly eyes To be a-kept in darksome sleep, Until the good agean do rise A-ja to souls they left to weep.

The rwose wer doust that bound her brow; The moth did eat her Zunday ceape; Her frock wer out o' fas.h.i.+on now; Her shoes wer dried up out o' sheape-- The shoes that woonce did glitter black Along the leazes beaten track.

RUTH A-RIDeN.

Ov all the roads that ever bridge Did bear athirt a river's feace, Or ho'ses up an' down the ridge Did wear to doust at ev'ry peace, I'll teake the Stalton leane to tread, By banks wi' primrwose-beds bespread, An' steately elems over head, Where Ruth do come a-riden.

An' I would rise when vields be grey Wi' mornen dew, avore 'tis dry, An' beat the doust droughout the day To bluest hills ov all the sky; If there, avore the dusk o' night, The evenen zun, a-sheenen bright, Would pay my leabors wi' the zight O' Ruth--o' Ruth a-riden.

Her healthy feace is rwosy feair, She's comely in her gat an' lim', An' sweet's the smile her feace do wear, Below her cap's well-rounded brim; An' while her skirt's a-spreaden wide, In vwolds upon the ho'se's zide, He'll toss his head, an' snort wi' pride, To trot wi' Ruth a-riden.

An' as her ho'se's rottlen peace Do slacken till his veet do beat A slower trot, an' till her feace Do bloom avore the tollman's geate; Oh! he'd be glad to oben wide His high-back'd geate, an' stand azide, A-given up his toll wi' pride, Vor zight o' Ruth a-riden.

An' oh! that Ruth could be my bride, An' I had ho'ses at my will, That I mid teake her by my zide, A-riden over dell an' hill; I'd zet wi' pride her litty tooe 'Ithin a stirrup, sheenen new, An' leave all other jas to goo Along wi' Ruth a-riden.

If madens that be weak an' peale A-mwopen in the house's sheade, Would wish to be so blithe and heale As you did zee young Ruth a-meade; Then, though the zummer zun mid glow, Or though the Winter win' mid blow, They'd leap upon the saddle's bow, An' goo, lik' Ruth, a-riden.

While evenen light do sof'ly gild The moss upon the elem's bark, Avore the zingen bird's a-still'd, Or woods be dim, or day is dark, Wi' quiv'ren gra.s.s avore his breast, In cowslip beds, do lie at rest, The ho'se that now do goo the best Wi' rwosy Ruth a-riden.

BEAUTY UNDECKED.

The gra.s.s mid sheen when wat'ry beads O' dew do glitter on the meads, An' thorns be bright when quiv'ren studs O' ran do hang upon their buds-- As jewels be a-meade by art To zet the planest vo'k off smart.

But sheaken ivy on its tree, An' low-bough'd laurel at our knee, Be bright all da, without the gleare, O' drops that duller leaves mid wear-- As Jeane is feair to look upon In planest gear that she can don.

MY LOVE IS GOOD.

My love is good, my love is feair, She's comely to behold, O, In ev'rything that she do wear, Altho' 'tis new or wold, O.