There's what the vo'k do call a veÄiry ring

Out there, lo'k zee. Why, 'tis an oddish thing.

Ah! zoo do seem. I wunder how do come!

What is it that do meÄke it, I do wonder?

Be hang'd if I can tell, I'm sure! But zome

Do zay do come by lightnÈn when do thunder;

An' zome do say sich rings as thÍk ring there is,

Do grow in dancÈn-tracks o' little veÄiries,

That in the nights o' zummer or o' spring

Do come by moonlight, when noo other veet

Do tread the dewy grass, but their's, an' meet

An' dance away together in a ring.

An' who d'ye think do work the fiddlestick?

A little veÄiry too, or else wold Nick!

Why, they do zay, that at the veÄiries' ball,

There's nar a fiddle that's a-heÄr'd at all;

But they do plaÿ upon a little pipe

A-meÄde o' kexes or o' straws, dead ripe,

A-stuck in row (zome short an' longer zome)

Wi' slime o' snaÏls, or bits o' plum-tree gum,

An' meÄke sich music that to hear it sound,

You'd stick so still's a pollard to the ground.

What do em dance? 'Tis plaÏn by theÄse green wheels,

They don't frisk in an' out in dree-hand reels;

Vor else, instead o' theÄse here girt round O,

The'd cut us out a figure aÏght (8), d'ye know.

Oh! they ha' jigs to fit their little veet.

They woulden dance, you know, at their fine ball,

The dree an' vow'r han' reels that we do sprawl

An' kick about in, when we men do meet.

An' zoo have zome vo'k, in their midnight rambles,

A-catch'd the veÄiries, then, in theÄsem gambols.

Why, yes; but they be off lik' any shot,

So soon's a man's a-comÈn near the spot

But in the day-time where do veÄiries hide?

Where be their hwomes, then? where do veÄiries bide?

Oh! they do get awaÿ down under ground,

In hollow pleÄzen where they can't be vound.

But still my gramfer, many years agoo,

(He liv'd at Grenley-farm, an milk'd a deÄiry),

If what the wolder vo'k do tell is true,

Woone mornÈn eÄrly vound a veÄiry.

An' did he stop, then, wi' the good wold bwoy?

Or did he soon contrive to slip awoy?

Why, when the vo'k were all asleep, a-bed,

The veÄiries us'd to come, as 'tis a-zaid,

Avore the vire wer cwold, an' dance an hour

Or two at dead o' night upon the vloor;

Var they, by only utterÈn a word

Or charm, can come down chimney lik' a bird;

Or draw their bodies out so long an' narrow,

That they can vlee drough keyholes lik' an arrow.

An' zoo woone midnight, when the moon did drow

His light drough window, roun' the vloor below,

An' crickets roun' the bricken he'th did zing,

They come an' danced about the hall in ring;

The windless copse ha' sheÄdy boughs,

Wi' blackbirds' evenÈn whistles;

The hills ha' sheep upon their brows,

The zummerleÄze ha' thistles:

The meÄds be gaÿ in grassy Maÿ,

But, oh! vrom hill to hollow,

Let me look down upon a groun'

O' corn a-turnÈn yollow.

An' pease do grow in tangled beds,

An' beÄns be sweet to snuff, O;

The teÄper woats do bend their heads,

The barley's beard is rough, O.

The turnip green is fresh between

The corn in hill or hollow,

But I'd look down upon a groun'

O' wheat a-turnÈn yollow.

'Tis merry when the brawny men

Do come to reap it down, O,

Where glossy red the poppy head

'S among the stalks so brown, O.

'Tis merry while the wheat's in hile,

Or when, by hill or hollow,

The leÄzers thick do stoop to pick

The ears so ripe an' yollow.

Ah! yesterday, you know, we carr'd

The piece o' corn in ZidelÈn Plot,

An' work'd about it pretty hard,

An' vound the weather pretty hot.

'Twer all a-tied an' zet upright

In tidy hile o' Monday night;

Zoo yesterday in afternoon

We zet, in eÄrnest, ev'ry woone

A-haulÈn o' the corn.

The hosses, wi' the het an' lwoad,

Did froth, an' zwang vrom zide to zide,

A-gwaÏn along the dousty road,

An' seem'd as if they would a-died.

An' wi' my collar all undone,

An' neck a-burnÈn wi' the zun,

I got, wi' work, an' doust, an' het,

So dry at last, I coulden spet,

A-haulÈn o' the corn.

At uncle's orcha'd, gwaÏn along,

I begged some apples, vor to quench

My drith, o' Poll that wer among

The trees: but she, a saucy wench,

Toss'd over hedge some crabs vor fun.

I squaÏl'd her, though, an' meÄde her run;

An' zoo she gie'd me, vor a treat,

A lot o' stubberds vor to eat.

A-haulÈn o' the corn.

An' up at rick, JeÄne took the flagon,

An' gi'ed us out zome eÄle; an' then

I carr'd her out upon the waggon,

Wi' bread an' cheese to gi'e the men.

Since we wer striplÈns naÏghbour John,

The good wold merry times be gone:

But we do like to think upon

What we've a-zeed an' done.

When I wer up a hardish lad,

At harvest hwome the work-vo'k had

Sich suppers, they wer jumpÈn mad

Wi' feÄstÈn an' wi' fun.

At uncle's, I do mind, woone year,

I zeed a vill o' hearty cheer;

Fat beef an' puddÈn, eÄle an' beer,

Vor ev'ry workman's crop

An' after they'd a-gie'd God thanks,

They all zot down, in two long ranks,

Along a teÄble-bwoard o' planks,

Wi' uncle at the top.

An' there, in platters, big and brown,

Wer red fat beÄcon, an' a roun'

O' beef wi' gravy that would drown

A little rwoastÈn pig;

Wi' beÄns an' teÄties vull a zack,

An' cabbage that would meÄke a stack,

An' puddÈns brown, a-speckled black

Wi' figs, so big's my wig.

Zoo after supper wer a-done,

They clear'd the teÄbles, an' begun

To have a little bit o' fun,

As long as they mid stop.

The wold woones took their pipes to smoke,

An' tell their teÄles, an' laugh an' joke,

A-lookÈn at the younger vo'k,

That got up vor a hop.

Woone screÄp'd away, wi' merry grin,

A fiddle stuck below his chin;

An' woone o'm took the rollÈn pin,

An' beÄt the fryÈn pan.

An' then a maÏd, all up tip-tooe,

Vell down; an' woone o'm wi' his shoe

Slit down her pocket-hole in two,

Vrom top a-most to bottom.

An' when they had a-danc'd enough,

They got a-plaÿÈn blindman's buff,

An' sard the maÏdens pretty rough,

When woonce they had a-got em.

An' zome did drink, an' laugh, an' roar,

An' lots o' teÄles they had in store,

O' things that happen'd years avore

To them, or vo'k they know'd.

An' zome did joke, an' zome did zing,

An' meÄke the girt wold kitchen ring;

Till uncle's cock, wi' flappÈn wing,

Stratch'd out his neck an' crow'd.

The ground is clear. There's nar a ear

O' stannÈn corn a-left out now,

Vor win' to blow or raÏn to drow;

'Tis all up seÄfe in barn or mow.

Here's health to them that plough'd an' zow'd;

Here's health to them that reap'd an' mow'd,

An' them that had to pitch an' lwoad,

Or tip the rick at Harvest Hwome.

The happy zight,—the merry night,

The men's delight,—the Harvest Hwome.

Ah! Jimmy vow'd he'd have the law

Ov ouer cousin Poll's Jack-daw,

That had by day his withy jaÏl

A-hangÈn up upon a naÏl,

AgeÄn the elem tree, avore

The house, jist over-right the door,

An' twitted vo'k a-passÈn by

A-most so plaÏn as you or I;

Vor hardly any day did pass

'Ithout Tom's teachÈn o'm zome sa'ce;

Till by-an'-by he call'd em all

'Soft-polls' an' 'gawkeys,' girt an' small.

An' zoo, as Jim went down along

The leÄne a-whisslÈn ov a zong,

The saucy Daw cried out by rote

"Girt Soft-poll!" lik' to split his droat.

An' when Tom catch'd a glimpse o' Jim,

A-lookÈn all so red an' slim,

An' slinkÈn on, he vled, red hot,

Down leÄne to catch en, lik' a shot;

But Jim, that thought he'd better trust

To lags than vistes, tried em vu'st.

An' Poll, that zeed Tom woulden catch

En, stood a-smilÈn at the hatch.

An' zoo he vollow'd en for two

Or dree stwones' drows, an' let en goo.

Upon theÄse knap I'd sooner be

The ivy that do climb the tree,

Than bloom the gaÿest rwose a-tied

An' trimm'd upon the house's zide.

The rwose mid be the maÏdens' pride,

But still the ivy's wild an' free;

An' what is all that life can gi'e,

'Ithout a free light heart, John?

The creepÈn sheÄde mid steal too soon

Upon the rwose in afternoon;

But here the zun do drow his het

Vrom when do rise till when do zet,

Oh! why do vo'k so often chaÏn

Their pinÈn minds vor love o' gaÏn,

An' gi'e their innocence to rise

A little in the worold's eyes?

If pride could lift us to the skies,

What man do value God do slight,

An' all is nothÈn in his zight

'Ithout an honest heart, John.

An ugly feÄce can't bribe the brooks

To show it back young han'some looks,

Nor crooked vo'k intice the light

To cast their zummer sheÄdes upright:

Noo goold can blind our MeÄker's zight.

An' what's the odds what cloth do hide

The bosom that do hold inside

A free an' honest heart, John?

When in the evenÈn the zun's a-zinkÈn,

A drowÈn sheÄdes vrom the yollow west,

An' mother, weary, 's a-zot a thinkÈn,

Wi' vwolded eÄrms by the vire at rest,

Then we do zwarm, O,

Wi' such a charm, O,

So vull o' glee by the welshnut tree.

A-leÄvÈn father in-doors, a-leinÈn'

In his girt chair in his easy shoes,

There we do plaÿ 'thread the woman's needle.'

An' slap the maÏdens a-dartÈn drough:

Or try who'll ax em the hardest riddle,

Or soonest tell woone a-put us, true;

Or zit an' ring, O,

The bells, ding, ding, O,

Upon our knee by the welshnut tree.

An' zome do goo out, an' hide in orcha't,

An' tothers, slily a-stealÈn by,

Where there's a dark cunnÈn pleÄce, do sarch it,

Till they do zee em an' cry, "I spy,"

An' thik a-vound, O,

Do gi'e a bound, O,

To get off free to the welshnut tree.

Poll went woone night, that we midden vind her,

Inzide a woak wi' a hollow moot,

An' drough a hole near the groun' behind her,

I pok'd a stick in, an' catch'd her voot;

An' out she scream'd, O,

An' jump'd, an' seem'd, O,

A-mÓst to vlee to the welshnut tree.

An' when, at last, at the drashel, mother

Do call us, smilÈn, in-door to rest,

Then we do cluster by woone another,

To zee hwome them we do love the best:

An' then do sound, O,

"Good night," all round, O,

To end our glee by the welshnut tree.

O wild-reÄvÈn west winds; as you do roar on,

The elems do rock an' the poplars do ply,

An' weÄve do dreve weÄve in the dark-water'd pon',—

Oh! where do ye rise vrom, an' where do ye die?

O wild-reÄvÈn winds I do wish I could vlee

Wi' you, lik' a bird o' the clouds, up above

The ridge o' the hill an' the top o' the tree,

To where I do long vor, an' vo'k I do love.

Or else that in under theÄse rock I could hear,

In the soft-zwellÈn sounds you do leÄve in your road,

Zome words you mid bring me, vrom tongues that be dear,

Vrom friends that do love me, all scatter'd abrode.

O wild-reÄvÈn winds! if you ever do roar

By the house an' the elems vrom where I'm a-come,

Breathe up at the window, or call at the door,

An' tell you've a-voun' me a-thinkÈn o' hwome.

The sheÄdeless darkness o' the night

Can never blind my mem'ry's zight;

An' in the storm, my fancy's eyes

Can look upon their own blue skies.

The laggÈn moon mid faÏl to rise,

But when the daylight's blue an' green

Be gone, my fancy's zun do sheen

At hwome at Grenley Water.

As when the work-vo'k us'd to ride

In waggon, by the hedge's zide,

There I do seem ageÄn to ride

The hosses to the water-zide,

An' zee the visher fling his hook

Below the withies by the brook;

Or Fanny, wi' her blushÈn look,

Car on her paÏl, or come to dip

Wi' ceÄreful step, her pitcher's lip

Down into Grenley Water.

If I'd a farm wi' vower ploughs,

An' vor my deÄiry fifty cows;

If Grenley Water winded down

Drough two good miles o' my own groun';

If half ov Ashknowle Hill wer brown

Wi' my own corn,—noo growÈn pride

Should ever meÄke me cast azide

The maÏd o' Grenley Water.

When dewy fall's red leaves do vlee

Along the grass below the tree,

Or lie in yollow beds a-shook

Upon the shallow-water'd brook,

Or drove 'ithin a sheÄdy nook;

Then softly, in the evenÈn, down

The knap do steal along the groun'

The veÄiry veet that I do meet

Below the row o' beech trees.

When vu'st the breakÈn day is red,

An' grass is dewy wet,

An' roun' the blackberry's a-spread

The spider's gliss'nÈn net,

Then I do dreve the cows across

The brook that's in a vog,

While they do trot, an' bleÄre, an' toss

Their heads to hook the dog;

Vor the cock do gi'e me warnÈn,

An' light or dark,

So brisk's a lark,

I'm up at break o' mornÈn.

Avore the maÏden's sleep's a-broke

By window-strikÈn zun,

We can't keep back the daily zun,

The wind is never still,

An' never ha' the streams a-done

A-runnÈn down at hill.

Zoo they that ha' their work to do,

Should do't so soon's they can;

Vor time an' tide will come an' goo,

An' never waÏt vor man,

As the cock do gi'e me warnÈn;

When, light or dark,

So brisk's a lark,

I'm up so rathe in mornÈn.

We've leÄzes where the aÏr do blow,

An' meÄds wi' deÄiry cows,

An' copse wi' lewth an' sheÄde below

The overhangÈn boughs.

An' when the zun, noo time can tire,

'S a-quench'd below the west,

Then we've, avore the bleÄzÈn vire,

A settle vor to rest,—

To be up ageÄn nex' mornÈn

So brisk's a lark,

When, light or dark,

The cock do gi'e us warnÈn.

Last week, when we'd a haul'd the crops,

We went a-nuttÈn out in copse,

Wi' nuttÈn-bags to bring hwome vull,

An' beaky nuttÈn-crooks to pull

The bushes down; an' all o's wore

Wold clothes that wer in rags avore,

An' look'd, as we did skip an' zing,

Lik' merry gipsies in a string,

A-gwaÏn a-nuttÈn.

Zoo drough the stubble, over rudge

An' vurrow, we begun to trudge;

An' Sal an' Nan agreed to pick

Along wi' me, an' Poll wi' Dick;

An' they went where the wold wood, high

An' thick, did meet an' hide the sky;

But we thought we mid vind zome good

Ripe nuts among the shorter wood,

The best vor nuttÈn.

We voun' zome bushes that did feÄce

The downcast zunlight's highest pleÄce,

Where clusters hung so ripe an' brown,

That some slipp'd shell an' vell to groun'.

But Sal wi' me zoo hitch'd her lag

In brembles, that she coulden wag;

While Poll kept clwose to Dick, an' stole

The nuts vrom's hinder pocket-hole,

While he did nutty.

An' Nanny thought she zaw a sneÄke,

An' jump'd off into zome girt breÄke,

An' tore the bag where she'd a-put

Her sheÄre, an' shatter'd ev'ry nut.

An' twold ov all the luck we had

Among the bushes, good an' bad!

Till all the maÏdens left the bwoys,

An' skipp'd about the leÄze all woys

Vor musherooms, to car back zome,

A treat vor father in at hwome.

Zoo off we trudg'd wi' clothes in slents

An' libbets, jis' lik' Jack-o'-lents,

Vrom copse a-nuttÈn.

We took the apples in last week,

An' got, by night, zome eÄchÈn backs

A-stoopÈn down all day to pick

So many up in mawns an' zacks.

An' there wer Liz so proud an' prim,

An' dumpy Nan, an' Poll so sly;

An' dapper Tom, an' loppÈn Jim,

An' little Dick, an' Fan, an' I.

An' there the lwoaded tree bent low,

Behung wi' apples green an' red;

An' springÈn grass could hardly grow,

Drough windvalls down below his head.

An' when the maÏdens come in roun'

The heavy boughs to vill their laps,

We slily shook the apples down

Lik' haÏl, an' gi'ed their backs some raps.

Come, let's stroll down so vur's the poun',

Avore the sparklÈn zun is down:

The zummer's gone, an' days so feÄir

As theÄse be now a-gettÈn reÄre.

The night, wi' mwore than daylight's sheÄre

O' wat'ry sky, do wet wi' dew

The ee-grass up above woone's shoe,

An' meÄple leaves be yollow.

The last hot doust, above the road,

An' vu'st dead leaves ha' been a-blow'd

By plaÿsome win's where spring did spread

The blossoms that the zummer shed;

An' near blue sloos an' conkers red

The evenÈn zun, a zettÈn soon,

Do leÄve a-quiv'rÈn to the moon,

The meÄple leaves so yollow.

When leÄzers wi' their laps o' corn

Noo longer be a-stoopÈn,

An' in the stubble, all vorlorn,

Noo poppies be a-droopÈn;

When theÄse young harvest-moon do weÄne,

That now've his horns so thin, O,

We'll leÄve off walkÈn in the leÄne,

While night's a zettÈn in, O.

When zummer doust is all a-laid

Below our litty shoes, O;

When all the raÏn-chill'd flow'rs be dead,

That now do drink the dews, O;

When beauty's neck, that's now a-show'd,

'S a-muffled to the chin, O;

We'll leÄve off walkÈn in the road,

When night's a-zettÈn in, O.

But now, while barley by the road

Do hang upon the bough, O,

A-pull'd by branches off the lwoad

A-ridÈn hwome to mow, O;

While spiders roun' the flower-stalks

Ha' cobwebs yet to spin, O,

We'll cool ourzelves in out-door walks,

When night's a-zettÈn in, O.

The woaken tree, a-beÄt at night

By stormy winds wi' all their spite,

Mid toss his lim's, an' ply, an' mwoan,

Wi' unknown struggles all alwone;

An' when the day do show his head,

A-stripp'd by winds at last a-laid,

How vew mid think that didden zee,

How night-time had a-tried thik tree.

An' happy vo'k do seldom know

How hard our unknown storms do blow,

The while our heads do slowly bend

Below the trials God do zend,

Like shiv'rÈn bennets, beÄre to all

The drevÈn winds o' dark'nÈn fall.

An' zoo in tryÈn hardships we

Be lik' the weather beÄten tree.

But He will never meÄke our sheÄre

O' sorrow mwore than we can bear,

But meÄke us zee, if 'tis His will,

That He can bring us good vrom ill;

As after winter He do bring,

In His good time, the zunny spring,

An' leaves, an' young vo'k vull o' glee

A-dancÈn roun' the woaken tree.

An' zoo's the day wer warm an' bright,

An' nar a cloud wer up in zight,

We wheedled father vor the meÄre

An' cart, to goo to Shrodon feÄir.

An' Poll an' Nan run off up stairs,

To shift their things, as wild as heÄres;

An' pull'd out, each o'm vrom her box,

Their snow-white leÄce an' newest frocks,

An' put their bonnets on, a-lined

Wi' blue, an' sashes tied behind;

An' turn'd avore the glass their feÄce

An' back, to zee their things in pleÄce;

While Dick an' I did brush our hats

An' cwoats, an' cleÄn ourzelves lik' cats.

At woone or two o'clock, we vound

Ourzelves at Shrodon seÄfe an' sound,

A-struttÈn in among the rows

O' tilted stannÈns an' o' shows,

An' girt long booths wi' little bars

Chock-vull o' barrels, mugs, an' jars,

An' meat a-cookÈn out avore

The vier at the upper door;

We zaw the dancers in a show

Dance up an' down, an' to an' fro,

Upon a rwope, wi' chalky zoles,

So light as magpies up on poles;

An' tumblers, wi' their streaks an' spots,

That all but tied theirzelves in knots.

An' then a conjurer burn'd off

Poll's han'kerchief so black's a snoff,

An' het en, wi' a single blow,

Right back ageÄn so white as snow.

An' after that, he fried a fat

Girt ceÄke inzide o' my new hat;

An' yet, vor all he did en brown,

He didden even zweal the crown.

An' after that we met wi' zome

O' Mans'on vo'k, but jist a-come,

An' had a raffle vor a treat

All roun', o' gingerbread to eat;

An' Tom meÄde leÄst, wi' all his sheÄkes,

An' paÏd the money vor the ceÄkes,

But wer so lwoth to put it down

As if a penny wer a poun'.

Come, bring a log o' cleft wood, Jack,

An' fling en on ageÄn the back,

An' zee the outside door is vast,—

The win' do blow a cwoldish blast.

Come, so's! come, pull your chairs in roun'

Avore the vire; an' let's zit down,

An' keep up Martin's-tide, vor I

Shall keep it up till I do die.

Ah, sō's! 'tis now zome years agoo

You vu'st knew me, an' I knew you;

An' we've a-had zome bits o' fun,

By winter vire an' zummer zun.

Aye; we've a-prowl'd an' rigg'd about

Lik' cats, in harm's way mwore than out,

An' busy wi' the tricks we plaÿ'd

In fun, to outwit chap or maÏd.

An' out avore the bleÄzÈn he'th,

Our naÏsy tongues, in winter me'th,

'V a-shook the warmÈn-pan, a-hung

Bezide us, till his cover rung.

There, 'twer but tother day thik chap,

Our Robert, wer a child in lap;

An' Poll's two little lags hung down

Vrom thik wold chair a span vrom groun',

An' now the saucy wench do stride

About wi' steps o' dree veet wide.

How time do goo! A life do seem

As 'twer a year; 'tis lik' a dream!

Guy Faux's night, dost know, we chaps,

A-putten on our woldest traps,

Went up the highest o' the knaps,

An' meÄde up such a vier!

An' thou an' Tom wer all we miss'd,

Vor if a sarpent had a-hiss'd

Among the rest in thy sprack vist,

Our fun 'd a-been the higher.

We chaps at hwome, an' Will our cousin,

Took up a half a lwoad o' vuzzen;

An' burn'd a barrel wi' a dozen

O' faggots, till above en

The fleÄmes, arisÈn up so high

'S the tun, did snap, an' roar, an' ply,

Lik' vier in an' oven.

An' zome wi' hissÈn squibs did run,

To paÿ off zome what they'd a-done,

An' let em off so loud's a gun

AgeÄn their smokÈn polls;

An' zome did stir their nimble pags

Wi' crackers in between their lags,

While zome did burn their cwoats to rags,

Or wes'cots out in holes.

An' zome o'm's heads lost half their locks,

An' zome o'm got their white smock-frocks

Jist fit to vill the tinder-box,

Wi' half the backs o'm off;

An' Dick, that all o'm vell upon,

Vound woone flap ov his cwoat-taÏl gone,

An' tother jist a-hangÈn on,

A-zweal'd so black's a snoff.