The Dialect of the West of England; Particularly Somersetshire Part 31

Bit Jerry snaur'd za loud, tha naise Tha gennelmen did gally; Tha'd haf a mind ta turn en out; A war dreamin o' his Mally!

It war the morkit da as rawl'd Tha cawch athin Bejwater; Tha drauv tip ta the Crown-Inn door, Ther Ma-game man com'd ater.

"Here Maester Water! Lock-y-zee!

A-ma-be you mid thenk Thic mon a snauren in tha cawch Is auvercome wi' drenk.

Bit 'tis not not jitchy theng we knaw; A is a cunjerin mon, Vor on c.o.c.k-hill we vound en ly'd Iz stick stif in his hon.

Iz vace war cover'd thick wi' vlies An b.l.o.o.d.y stouts a plenty; Nif he'd o pumple voot bezide, An a brumstick vor'n to zit ascride, O' wizards a mid be thawt tha pride, Amangst a kit o' twenty."

"Lord zur! an why d'ye bring en here To gally all tha people?

Why zuggers! nif we frunt en than, He'll auver-dro tha steeple.

I bag ye, zur, to take en vooath; There! how iz teeth da chatter; Lawk zur! vor Christ--look there again!

A'll witchify Bejwater!"

Tha gennelman stood by an smiled To zee tha bussle risin: Yor zoon, droo-out tha morkit wide Tha news wor gwon saprisin.

An round about tha cawch tha dring'd-- Tha countryman and townsman; An young an awld, an man an maid-- Wi' now an tan, an here an there, Amang tha crowd to gape an stare, A doctor and a gownsman.

Jitch naise an bother wakid zoon Poor hormless Jerry Nutty, A look'd astunn'd;--a cood'n speak!

An daver'd war iz tutty.

A niver in his life avaur 'ad been athin Bejwater; A thawt, an if a war alive, That zummet war tha matter.

Tha houzen cling'd together zaw!

Tha gennelmen an ladies!

Tha blacksmith's, brazier's hammers too!

An smauk whauriver trade is.

Bit how a com'd athin a cawch A war amaz'd at thenkin; A thawt, vor sartin, a must be A auvercome wi' drenkin.

Tha ax'd en nif a'd please to g'out An ta tha yalhouse g'in; Bit tha zo clooase about en dring'd A cood'n goo athin.

Ta g'under 'em or g'auver 'em A try'd booath grate and small; Bit g'under, g'auver, g'in, or g'out, A cood'n than at all.

"Lord bless ye! gennel-vawk!" zed he, I'm come to Gla.s.senberry To zee tha Torr an Hawly Thorn; What makes ye look za merry?"

"Why mister wizard? dwont ye knaw, Thease town is call'd Bejwater!"

Cried out a whipper-snapper man: Tha all bust out in laughter.

"I be'nt a wizard, zur!" a zed; "Bit I'm a little t.i.tch'd; [Footnote: Touched.]

"Or, witherwise, you mid well thenk I'm, zure anow, bewitch'd!"

Thaw Jerry war, vor all tha wordle, Like very zel o' quiet, A veel'd iz blood ta bwile athin At jitchy zort o' riot;

Za out a jump'd amangst 'em all!

A made a desperd bussle; Zum hirn'd awa--zum made a ston; Wi' zum a had a tussle.

Iz stick now sar'd 'em justice good; It war a tough groun ash; Upon ther heads a pla'd awa, An round about did drash.

Tha belg'd, tha raur'd, tha scamper'd all.

A zoon voun rum ta stoory; A thawt a'd be reveng'd at once, Athout a judge or jury.

An, thaw a brawk navy-body's bwons, A gid zum b.l.o.o.d.y nawzes; Tha pirty maids war fainty too; Hirn'd vrom ther cheaks tha rawzes.

Thinks he, me gennelmen! when nex I goo to Gla.s.senbery, Yea shant ha jitch a rig wi' I, Nor at my cost be merry.

Zaw, havin clear'd izzel a wa.

Right whim went Jerry Nutty; A flourished roun iz wakin stick; An vleng'd awa iz tutty.

A LEGEND OF GLAs...o...b..RY.

[First Printed in "Graphic Ill.u.s.trator, p. 124.]

I cannot do better than introduce here "_A Legend of Glas...o...b..ry_," made up, not from books, but from oral tradition once very prevalent in and near Glas...o...b..ry, which had formerly one of the richest Abbeys in England; the ruins are still attractive.

Who hath not hir'd o' _Avalon?_ [Footnote: "The Isle of ancient Avelon."--Drayton.]

'Twar talked o' much an long agon,-- Tha wonders o' tha _Holy Thorn_, Tha "wich, zoon ater Christ war born, Here a planted war by _Arimathe_, Thic Joseph that com'd auver sea, An planted Kirstianity.

Tha za that whun a landed vust, (Zich plazen war in G.o.d's own trust) A stuck iz staff into tha groun An auver iz shoulder lookin roun, Whatever mid iz lot bevall, A cried aloud "_Now, weary all_!"

Tha staff het budded an het grew, An at Kirsmas bloom'd tha whol da droo.

An still het blooms at Kirsmas bright, But best tha za at dork midnight, A pruf o' this nif pruf you will.

Iz voun in tha name o' _Weary-all-hill!_ Let tell _Pumparles_ or lazy _Brue_.

That what iz tauld iz vor sartin true!

["The story of the Holy Thorn was a long time credited by the vulgar and credulous. There is a species of White Thorn which blossoms about Christmas; it is well known to naturalists so as to excite no surprise."]

MR. GUY.

The incident on which this story is founded, occurred in the early part of the last century; hence the allusion to making a _will_ before making a journey to the metropolis.

Mr. Guywar a gennelman O' Huntspill, well knawn As a grazier, a hirch one, Wi' lons o' hiz awn.

A oten went ta Lunnun Hiz cattle vor ta zill; All tha horses that a rawd Niver minded hadge or hill.

A war afeard o' naw one; A niver made hiz will, Like wither vawk, avaur a went His cattle vor ta zill.

One time a'd bin ta Lunnun An zawld iz cattle well; A brought awa a power o' gawld, As I've a hired tell.