The Dialect of the West of England; Particularly Somersetshire Part 29

Good bwye ye dun Elves! who, on whings made o'leather, Still roun my poorch whiver an' whiver at night; Aw ma naw hord-horted, unveelin disturber, Destray your snug nests, an your pla by moonlight.

Good bwye ta thee Bower!--ta thy moss an thy ivy-- To tha flowers that aroun thee all blossomin graw; When I'm gwon, oolt thou grieve?--bit 'tis foolish to ax it; What is ther that's shower in this wordle belaw?

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur my mother za thoughtvul, As zumtimes she war droo er care vor us all, Er lessins wi' kindness, wi' tenderness gid us; An ax'd, war she dead, what ood us bevall.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha nightingale's music, In tha midnight o' Ma-time, rawze loud on the ear; Whaur tha colley awak'd, wi' tha zun, an a zingin A went, wi' tha dirsh, in a voice vull and clear.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! I must goo ta tha city.

Whaur, I'm tawld, that the smawk makes it dork at noon da; Bit nif it is true, I'm afeard that I always And iver sholl thenk on tha cot thatch'd wi' stra.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! there is One that rains awver, An watches tha wordle, wi' wisdom divine; Than why shood I mang, wi' tha many, my ma-bes; Bin there's reads.h.i.+p in Him, an to him I resign.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! shood I niver behauld thee Again; still I thank thee vor all that is past!

Thy friendly ruf shelter'd--while mother watch'd awver.

An haw'd vor my comfort vrom vust unto last.

Good bwye ta thee Cot; vor the time ma be longful Beforn I on thy drashall again zet my eye; Thy tutties ool blossom, an daver an blossom Again and again--zaw good bwye, an good bwye!

f.a.n.n.y FEAR

The melancholy incident related in the following story, actually occurred a few years ago at Shapwick.

Good Gennel-vawk! an if you please To lissen to my storry, A ma-be 'tis a jitch a one, Ool make ye zummet zorry.

'Tis not a hoozay tale of grief, A put wi' ort together, That where you cry, or where you laugh, Da matter not a veather;

Bit 'tis a tale vor sartin true, Wi' reads.h.i.+p be it spawken; I knaw it all, begummers! well, By tale, eese, an by tawken.

The maid's right name war f.a.n.n.y FEAR, A tidy body lookin; An she cood brew, and she cood bake, An dumplins bwile, and skimmer cake; An all the like o' cookin.

Upon a Zunday aternoon, Beforne the door a stanin, To zee er chubby cheaks za hird, An whitist lilies roun 'em spird, A damas rawze her han in,

Ood do your hort good; an er eyes, Dork, vull, an bright, an sporklin; Tha country lads could not goo by, Bit look tha must--she iver shy, Ood blish--tha timid lorklin!

Her dame war to her desperd kind; She knaw'd er well dezarvin: She gid her good advice an claws, At which she niver toss'd her naws, As zum ool, thawf pon starvin.

She oten yarly upp'd to goo A milkin o' tha dairy; The meads ring'd loudly wi' er zong; Aw how she birshed the gra.s.s along, As lissom as a vairy!

She war as happy as a prince; Naw princess moor o' pleasure When well-at-eased cood iver veel; She ly'd her head upon her peel, An vound athin a treasure.

There war a dessent comly youth, Who took'd to her a likin; An when a don'd in zunday claws, You'd thenk en zummet I suppaws, A look'd so desperd strikin.

His vace war like a zummer da, When all the birds be zingin; Smiles an good nature dimplin stood, An moor besides, an all za good, Much pleasant promise bringin.

Now Jan war sawber, and afeard Nif he in haste shood morry, That he mid long repent thereof; An zo a thwart 'twar best not, thawf To sta mid make en zorry.

Jan oten pa.s.s'd the happy door, There f.a.n.n.y stood a scrubbin; An f.a.n.n.y hired hiz pleasant voice, An thawt--"An if she had er choice!"

An veel'd athin a drubbin.

Bit Jan did'n hulder long iz thawts; Vor thorough iv'ry cranny, Hirn'd of iz Lort tha warm hird tide; An a cood na moor iz veelins bide, Bit tell 'em must to f.a.n.n.y.

To f.a.n.n.y, than, one Whitsun eve, A tawld er how a lov'd er; Naw dove, a zed to er cood be Moor faithvul than to her ood he; His hort had long appruv'd er.

Wi' timourous blis.h.i.+n, f.a.n.n.y zed, "A maid mist not believe ye; Vor men ool tell ther lovin tale, And awver seely maids prevail-- Bit I dwont like ta grieve ye:

Vor nif za be you now za true-- That you've for I a fancy: (Aw Jan! I dwont veel desperd well, An what's tha caze, I cannot tell), You'll za na moor to Nancy."

Twar zaw begin'd their zweetortin; Booath still liv'd in their places; Zometimes tha met bezides tha stile; Wi' pleasant look an tender smile Gaz'd in each wither's faces.

In spreng-time oten on tha nap Ood Jan and f.a.n.n.y linger; An when war vooas'd to za "good bwye,"

Ood meet again, wi' draps in eye, While haup ood pwint er vinger.

Zo pa.s.s'd tha das--tha moons awa, An haup still whiver'd nigh; Nif f.a.n.n.y's dreams high pleasures vill, Of her Jan's thawts the lidden still, An oten too the zigh.

Bit still Jan had not got wherewi'

To venter eet to morry; Alas-a-da! when poor vawk love, How much restraint how many pruv; How zick zum an how zorry.

Aw you who live in houzen grate, An wherewi' much possessin, You knaw not, ma-be, care not you, What pangs jitch tender horts pursue, How grate nor how distressin.

Jan sar'd a varmer vour long years, An now iz haups da brighten: A gennelman of high degree Choos'd en iz hunsman vor to be; His f.a.n.n.y's hort da lighten!

"Now, Fan," zed he, "nif I da live, Nex zummer thee bist mine; Sir John ool gee me wauges good, Ama-be too zum vier ood!"

His Fan's dork eyes did s.h.i.+ne.

"To haw vor thee, my Fan," a cried, "I iver sholl delight; Thawf I be poor, 'tool be my pride To ha my Fan vor a buxom bride-- My lidden da an night."

A took er gently in iz orms An kiss'd er za zweetly too; His Fan, vor jay, not a word cood speak, Bit a big roun tear rawl'd down er cheak, It zimm'd as thawf er hort ood break-- She cood hordly thenk it true.

To zee our hunsman goo abroad, His houns behind en volly; His tossel'd cap--his whip's smort smack, His hoss a prancin wi' tha crack, His whissle, horn, an holler, back!

Ood cure all malancholy.

It happ'd on a dork an wintry night, Tha stormy wine a blawin; Tha houns made a naise an a dismal yell; Jitch as zum vawk za da death vaurtell, The cattle loud war lawin.

Tha hunsman wakid an down a went; A thawt ta keep 'em quiet; A niver stopped izzel ta dress, Bit a went in iz s.h.i.+rt vor readiness A voun a dirdful riot.

Bit all thic night a did not come back; All night tha dogs did raur; In tha mornin tha look'd on tha kannel stwons An zeed 'em cover'd wi' gaur an bwons, The vlesh all vrom 'em a taur.

His head war left--the head o' Jan Who lov'd hiz f.a.n.n.y za well; An a bizzy gossip, as gossips be Who've work o' ther awn bit vrom it vlee, To f.a.n.n.y went ta tell.

She hirn'd, she vleed ta meet tha man Who corr'd er dear Jan's head: An when she zeed en all blood an gaur, She drapp'd down speechless jist avaur, As thauf she had bin dead.

Poor f.a.n.n.y com'd ta erzel again, Bit her senses left her vor iver!

An all she zed, ba da or night-- Vor sleep it left her eye-lids quite-- War, "why did he goo in the cawld ta s.h.i.+ver?-- Niver, O Jan! sholl I zee the, niver!"