  A GHOST.Jem an' Dick.JEM.This is a darkish evenÈn; b'ye a-feÄrd O' zights? TheÄse leÄne's a-haunted, I've a heÄrd. DICK.No, I be'nt much a-feÄr'd. If vo'k don't strive To over-reach me while they be alive, I don't much think the dead wull ha' the will To come back here to do me any ill. An' I've a-been about all night, d'ye know, Vrom candle-lightÈn till the cock did crow; But never met wi' nothÈn bad enough To be much wo'se than what I be myzuf; Though I, lik' others, have a-heÄrd vo'k zay The girt house is a-haunted, night an' day. JEM.Aye; I do mind woone winter 'twer a-zaid The farmer's vo'k could hardly sleep a-bed, They heÄrd at night such scuffÈns an' such jumpÈns, Such ugly naÏses an' such rottlÈn thumpÈns. DICK.Aye, I do mind I heÄrd his son, young Sammy, Tell how the chairs did dance an' doors did slammy; He stood to it—though zome vo'k woulden heed en— He didden only hear the ghost, but zeed en; An', hang me! if I han't a'most a-shook, To hear en tell what ugly sheÄpes it took. Did zometimes come vull six veet high, or higher, In white, he zaid, wi' eyes lik' coals o' vier; An' zometimes, wi' a feÄce so peÄle as milk, A smileless leÄdy, all a-deck'd in silk. His heÄir, he zaid, did use to stand upright, So stiff's a bunch o' rushes, wi' his fright. JEM.An' then you know that zome'hat is a-zeed Down there in leÄne, an' over in the meÄd, A-comÈn zometimes lik' a slinkÈn hound, Or rollÈn lik' a vleece along the ground. An' woonce, when gramfer wi' his wold grey meÄre Wer ridÈn down the leÄne vrom Shroton feÄir, It roll'd so big's a pack ov wool across The road just under en, an' leÄm'd his hoss. DICK.Aye; did ye ever hear—vo'k zaid 'twer true— O' what bevell Jack Hine zome years agoo? Woone vrosty night, d'ye know, at Chris'mas tide, Jack, an' another chap or two bezide, 'D a-been out, zomewhere up at tother end O' parish, to a naÏghbour's house to spend A merry hour, an' mid a-took a cup Or two o' eÄle a-keepÈn Chris'mas up; Zoo I do lot 'twer leÄte avore the peÄrty 'D a-burnt their bron out; I do lot, avore They thought o' turnÈn out o' door 'Twer mornÈn, vor their friendship then wer hearty. Well; clwose ageÄn the vootpath that do leÄd Vrom higher parish over withy-meÄd, There's still a hollow, you do know: they tried there, In former times, to meÄke a cattle-pit, But gie'd it up, because they coulden get The water any time to bide there. Zoo when the merry fellows got Just overright theÄse lwonesome spot, Jack zeed a girt big house-dog wi' a collar, A-stannÈn down in thik there hollor. Lo'k there, he zaÏd, there's zome girt dog a-prowlÈn: I'll just goo down an' gi'e'n a goodish lick Or two wi' theÄse here groun'-ash stick, An' zend the shaggy rascal hwome a-howlÈn. Zoo there he run, an' gi'ed en a good whack Wi' his girt ashen stick a-thirt his back; An', all at woonce, his stick split right all down In vower pieces; an' the pieces vled Out ov his hand all up above his head, An' pitch'd in vower corners o' the groun'. An' then he velt his han' get all so num', He coulden veel a vinger or a thum'; An' after that his eÄrm begun to zwell, An' in the night a-bed he vound The skin o't peelÈn off all round. 'Twer near a month avore he got it well.
JEM.That wer vor hettÈn ō'n. He should a let en Alwone d'ye zee: 'twer wicked vor to het en. SUNDRY PIECES.rule A ZONG.O Jenny, don't sobby! vor I shall be true; Noo might under heaven shall peÄrt me vrom you. My heart will be cwold, Jenny, when I do slight The zwell o' thy bosom, thy eyes' sparklÈn light. My kinsvo'k would faÏn zee me teÄke vor my meÄte A maÏd that ha' wealth, but a maÏd I should heÄte; But I'd sooner leÄbour wi' thee vor my bride, Than live lik' a squier wi' any bezide. Vor all busy kinsvo'k, my love will be still A-zet upon thee lik' the vir in the hill; An' though they mid worry, an' dreaten, an' mock, My head's in the storm, but my root's in the rock. Zoo, Jenny, don't sobby! vor I shall be true; Noo might under heaven shall peÄrt me vrom you. My heart will be cwold, Jenny, when I do slight The zwell o' thy bosom, thy eyes' sparklÈn light. THE MAID VOR MY BRIDE.Ah! don't tell o' maÏdens! the woone vor my bride Is little lik' too many maÏdens bezide,— Not brantÈn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind. She's straÏght an' she's slender, but not over tall, Wi' lim's that be lightsome, but not over small; The goodness o' heaven do breathe in her feÄce, An' a queen, to be steÄtely, must walk wi' her peÄce. Her frocks be a-meÄde all becomÈn an' plaÏn, An' cleÄn as a blossom undimm'd by a staÏn; Her bonnet ha' got but two ribbons, a-tied Up under her chin, or let down at the zide. When she do speak to woone, she don't steÄre an' grin; There's sense in her looks, vrom her eyes to her chin, An' her words be so kind, an' her speech is so meek, As her eyes do look down a-beginnÈn to speak. Her skin is so white as a lily, an' each Ov her cheÄks is so downy an' red as a peach; She's pretty a-zittÈn; but oh! how my love Do watch her to madness when woonce she do move. An' when she do walk hwome vrom church drough the groun', Wi' woone eÄrm in mine, an' wi' woone a-hung down, I do think, an' do veel mwore o' sheÄme than o' pride, That do meÄke me look ugly to walk by her zide. Zoo don't talk o' maÏden's! the woone vor my bride Is but little lik' too many maÏdens bezide,— Not brantÈn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind To think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind. THE HWOMESTEAD.If I had all the land my zight Can overlook vrom Chalwell hill, Vrom Sherborn left to Blanvord right, Why I could be but happy still. An' I be happy wi' my spot O' freehold ground an' mossy cot, An' shoulden get a better lot If I had all my will. My orcha'd's wide, my trees be young; An' they do bear such heavy crops, Their boughs, lik' onion-rwopes a-hung, Be all a-trigg'd to year, wi' props. I got some geÄrden groun' to dig, A parrock, an' a cow an' pig; I got zome cider vor to swig, An' eÄle o' malt an' hops. I'm landlord o' my little farm, I'm king 'ithin my little pleÄce; I don't break laws, an' don't do harm, An' bent a-feÄr'd o' noo man's feÄce. When I'm a-cover'd wi' my thatch, Noo man do deÄre to lift my latch; Where honest han's do shut the hatch, There fear do leÄve the pleÄce. My lofty elem trees do screen My brown-ruf'd house, an' here below, My geese do strut athirt the green, An' hiss an' flap their wings o' snow; As I do walk along a rank Ov apple trees, or by a bank, Or zit upon a bar or plank, To see how things do grow. THE FARMER'S WOLDEST DĀ'TER.No, no! I ben't a-runnÈn down The pretty maÏden's o' the town, Nor wishÈn o'm noo harm; But she that I would marry vu'st, To sheÄre my good luck or my crust, 'S a-bred up at a farm. In town, a maÏd do zee mwore life, An' I don't under-reÄte her; But ten to woone the sprackest wife 'S a farmer's woldest dā'ter. Vor she do veed, wi' tender ceÄre, The little woones, an' peÄrt their heÄir, An' keep em neat an' pirty; An' keep the saucy little chaps O' bwoys in trim wi' dreats an' slaps, When they be wild an' dirty. Zoo if you'd have a bus'lÈn wife, An' childern well look'd after, The maÏd to help ye all drough life 'S a farmer's woldest dā'ter. An' she can iorn up an' vwold A book o' clothes wÏ' young or wold, An' zalt an' roll the butter; An' meÄke brown bread, an' elder wine, An' zalt down meat in pans o' brine, An' do what you can put her. Zoo if you've wherewi', an' would vind A wife wo'th lookÈn ā'ter, Goo an' get a farmer in the mind To gi'e ye his woldest dā'ter. Her heart's so innocent an' kind, She idden thoughtless, but do mind Her mother an' her duty; An' livÈn blushes, that do spread Upon her healthy feÄce o' red, Do heighten all her beauty; So quick's a bird, so neat's a cat, So cheerful in her neÄtur, The best o' maÏdens to come at 'S a farmer's woldest dā'ter. UNCLE OUT O' DEBT AN' OUT O' DANGER.Ees; uncle had thik small hwomestead, The leÄzes an' the bits o' mead, Besides the orcha'd in his prime, An' copse-wood vor the winter time. His wold black meÄre, that draw'd his cart, An' he, wer seldom long apeÄrt; Vor he work'd hard an' paÏd his woy, An' zung so litsom as a bwoy, As he toss'd an' work'd, An' blow'd an' quirk'd, "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feÄce a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peÄir Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meÄre. His meÄre's long vlexy vetlocks grow'd Down roun' her hoofs so black an' brode; Her head hung low, her taÏl reach'd down A-bobbÈn nearly to the groun'. The cwoat that uncle mwostly wore Wer long behind an' straÏght avore, An' in his shoes he had girt buckles, An' breeches button'd round his huckles; An' he zung wi' pride, By's wold meÄre's zide, "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feÄce a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peÄir Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." An' he would work,—an' lwoad, an' shoot, An' spur his heaps o' dung or zoot; Or car out haÿ, to sar his vew Milch cows in corners dry an' lew; Or dreve a zyve, or work a pick, To pitch or meÄke his little rick; Or thatch en up wi' straw or zedge, Or stop a shard, or gap, in hedge; An' he work'd an' flung His eÄrms, an' zung "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feÄce a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peÄir Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." An' when his meÄre an' he'd a-done Their work, an' tired ev'ry bwone, He zot avore the vire, to spend His evenÈn wi' his wife or friend; An' wi' his lags out-stratch'd vor rest, An' woone hand in his wes'coat breast, While burnÈn sticks did hiss an' crack, An' fleÄmes did bleÄzy up the back, There he zung so proud In a bakky cloud, "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feÄce a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peÄir Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." From market how he used to ride, Wi' pot's a-bumpÈn by his zide Wi' things a-bought—but not vor trust, Vor what he had he paÏd vor vu'st; An' when he trotted up the yard, The calves did bleÄry to be sar'd, An' pigs did scoat all drough the muck, An' geese did hiss, an' hens did cluck; An' he zung aloud, So pleased an' proud, "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feÄce a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peÄir Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." When he wer joggÈn hwome woone night Vrom market, after candle-light, (He mid a-took a drop o' beer, Or midden, vor he had noo fear,) Zome ugly, long-lagg'd, herrÈn ribs, Jump'd out an' ax'd en vor his dibs; But he soon gi'ed en such a mawlÈn, That there he left en down a-sprawlÈn, While he jogg'd along Wi' his own wold zong, "I'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, An' I can feÄce a friend or stranger; I've a vist vor friends, an' I'll vind a peÄir Vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." THE CHURCH AN' HAPPY ZUNDAY.Ah! ev'ry day mid bring a while O' eÄse vrom all woone's ceÄre an' tweil, The welcome evenÈn, when 'tis sweet Vor tired friends wi' weary veet, But litsome hearts o' love, to meet; An' yet while weekly times do roll, The best vor body an' vor soul 'S the church an' happy Zunday. Vor then our loosen'd souls do rise Wi' holy thoughts beyond the skies, As we do think o' Him that shed His blood vor us, an' still do spread His love upon the live an' dead; An' how He gi'ed a time an' pleÄce To gather us, an' gi'e us greÄce,— The church an' happy Zunday. There, under leÄnen mossy stwones, Do lie, vorgot, our fathers' bwones, That trod this groun' vor years agoo, When things that now be wold wer new; An' comely maÏdens, mild an' true, That meÄde their sweet-hearts happy brides, An' come to kneel down at their zides At church o' happy Zundays. 'Tis good to zee woone's naÏghbours come Out drough the churchyard, vlockÈn hwome, As woone do nod, an' woone do smile, An' woone do toss another's chile; An' zome be sheÄken han's, the while Poll's uncle, chuckÈn her below Her chin, do tell her she do grow, At church o' happy Zundays. Zoo while our blood do run in vaÏns O' livÈn souls in theÄsum plaÏns, Mid happy housen smoky round The church an' holy bit o' ground; An' while their weddÈn bells do sound, Oh! mid em have the meÄns o' greÄce, The holy day an' holy pleÄce, The church an' happy Zunday. THE WOLD WAGGON.The girt wold waggon uncle had, When I wer up a hardish lad, Did stand, a-screen'd vrom het an' wet, In zummer at the barken geÄte, Below the elems' spreÄdÈn boughs, A-rubb'd by all the pigs an' cows. An' I've a-clom his head an' zides, A-riggÈn up or jumpÈn down A-plaÿÈn, or in happy rides Along the leÄne or drough the groun', An' many souls be in their greÄves, That rod' together on his reÄves; An' he, an' all the hosses too, 'V a-ben a-done vor years agoo. Upon his head an' taÏl wer pinks, A-paÏnted all in tangled links; His two long zides wer blue,—his bed Bent slightly upward at the head; His reÄves rose upward in a bow Above the slow hind-wheels below. Vour hosses wer a-kept to pull The girt wold waggon when 'twer vull; The black meÄre Smiler, strong enough To pull a house down by herzuf, So big, as took my widest strides To straddle halfway down her zides; An' champÈn Vi'let, sprack an' light, That foam'd an' pull'd wi' all her might: An' Whitevoot, leÄzy in the treÄce, Wi' cunnÈn looks an' show-white feÄce; Bezides a baÿ woone, short-taÏl Jack, That wer a treÄce-hoss or a hack. How many lwoads o' vuzz, to scald The milk, thik waggon have a-haul'd! An' wood vrom copse, an' poles vor raÏls. An' bayÈns wi' their bushy taÏls; An' loose-ear'd barley, hangÈn down Outzide the wheels a'mÓst to groun', An' lwoads o' haÿ so sweet an' dry, A-builded straÏght, an' long, an' high; An' haÿ-meÄkers, a-zittÈn roun' The reÄves, a-ridÈn hwome vrom groun', When Jim gi'ed Jenny's lips a-smack, An' jealous Dicky whipp'd his back, An' maÏdens scream'd to veel the thumps A-gi'ed by trenches an' by humps. But he, an' all his hosses too, 'V a-ben a-done vor years agoo. THE DRÈVEN O' THE COMMON.*In the common by our hwome There wer freely-open room, Vor our litty veet to roam By the vuzzen out in bloom. That wi' prickles kept our lags Vrom the skylark's nest ov aggs; While the peewit wheel'd around Wi' his cry up over head, Or he sped, though a-limpÈn, o'er the ground. There we heÄrd the whickr'Èn meÄre Wi' her vaÏce a-quiv'rÈn high; Where the cow did loudly bleÄre By the donkey's vallÈn cry. While a-stoopÈn man did zwing His bright hook at vuzz or ling Free o' fear, wi' wellglov'd hands, O' the prickly vuzz he vell'd, Then sweet-smell'd as it died in faggot bands. When the haÿward drove the stock In a herd to zome oone pleÄce, Thither vo'k begun to vlock, Each to own his beÄstes feÄce. While the geese, bezide the stream, Zent vrom gapÈn bills a scream, An' the cattle then avound, Without right o' greÄzen there, Went to bleÄre braÿ or whicker in the pound. *The Driving of the Common was by the Hayward who, whenever he thought fit, would drive all the cattle into a corner and impound all heads belonging to owners without a right of commonage for them, so that they had to ransom them by a fine. THE COMMON A-TOOK IN.Oh! no, Poll, no! Since they've a-took The common in, our lew wold nook Don't seem a-bit as used to look When we had runnÈn room; Girt banks do shut up ev'ry drong, An' stratch wi' thorny backs along Where we did use to run among The vuzzen an' the broom. Ees; while the ragged colts did crop The nibbled grass, I used to hop The emmet-buts, vrom top to top, So proud o' my spry jumps: Wi' thee behind or at my zide, A-skippÈn on so light an' wide 'S thy little frock would let thee stride, Among the vuzzy humps. Ah while the lark up over head Did twitter, I did search the red Thick bunch o' broom, or yollow bed O' vuzzen vor a nest; An' thou di'st hunt about, to meet Wi' strawberries so red an' sweet, Or clogs or shoes off hosses veet, Or wild thyme vor thy breast; Or when the cows did run about A-stung, in zummer, by the stout, Or when they plaÿ'd, or when they foÜght, Di'st stand a-lookÈn on: An' where white geese, wi' long red bills, Did veed among the emmet-hills, There we did goo to vind their quills Alongzide o' the pon'. What fun there wer among us, when The haÿward come, wi' all his men, To drÈve the common, an' to pen Strange cattle in the pound; The cows did bleÄre, the men did shout An' toss their eÄrms an' sticks about, An' vo'ks, to own their stock, come out Vrom all the housen round. A WOLD FRIEND.Oh! when the friends we us'd to know, 'V a-been a-lost vor years; an' when Zome happy day do come, to show Their feÄzen to our eyes ageÄn, Do meÄke us look behind, John, Do bring wold times to mind, John, Do meÄke hearts veel, if they be steel, All warm, an' soft, an' kind, John. When we do lose, still gaÿ an' young, A vaÏce that us'd to call woone's neÄme, An' after years ageÄn his tongue Do sound upon our ears the seÄme, Do kindle love anew, John, Do wet woone's eyes wi' dew, John, As we do sheÄke, vor friendship's seÄke, His vist an' vind en true, John. What tender thoughts do touch woone's soul, When we do zee a meÄd or hill Where we did work, or plaÿ, or stroll, An' talk wi' vaÏces that be still; 'Tis touchÈn vor to treÄce, John, Wold times drough ev'ry pleÄce, John; But that can't touch woone's heart so much, As zome wold long-lost feÄce, John. THE RWOSE THAT DECK'D HER BREAST.Poor Jenny wer her Robert's bride Two happy years, an' then he died; An' zoo the wold vo'k meÄde her come, VorseÄken, to her maÏden hwome. But Jenny's merry tongue wer dum'; An' round her comely neck she wore A murnÈn kerchif, where avore The rwose did deck her breast. She walk'd alwone, wi' eye-balls wet, To zee the flow'rs that she'd a-zet; The lilies, white's her maÏden frocks, The spike, to put 'ithin her box, Wi' columbines an' hollyhocks; The jilliflow'r an' noddÈn pink, An' rwose that touch'd her soul to think Ov woone that deck'd her breast. Vor at her weddÈn, just avore Her maÏden hand had yet a-wore A wife's goold ring, wi' hangÈn head She walk'd along thik flower-bed, Where stocks did grow, a-staÏned wi' red, An' meÄrygoolds did skirt the walk, An' gather'd vrom the rwose's stalk A bud to deck her breast. An' then her cheÄk, wi' youthvul blood Wer bloomÈn as the rwoses bud; But now, as she wi' grief do pine, 'Tis peÄle's the milk-white jessamine. But Robert have a-left behine A little beÄby wi' his feÄce, To smile, an' nessle in the pleÄce Where the rwose did deck her breast. NANNY'S COW.Ov all the cows, among the rest Wer woone that Nanny lik'd the best; An' after milkÈn us'd to stan' A-veedÈn o' her, vrom her han', Wi' grass or haÿ; an' she know'd Ann, An' in the evenÈn she did come The vu'st, a-beÄtÈn Üp roun' hwome Vor Ann to come an' milk her. Her back wer hollor as a bow, Her lags wer short, her body low; Her head wer small, her horns turn'd in Avore Her feÄce so sharp's a pin: Her eyes wer vull, her ears wer thin, An' she wer red vrom head to taÏl, An' didden start nor kick the paÏl, When Nanny zot to milk her. But losses zoon begun to vall On Nanny's fÀther, that wi' all His tweil he voun', wi' breakÈn heart, That he mus' leÄve his ground, an' peÄrt Wi' all his beÄst an' hoss an' cart; An', what did touch en mwost, to zell The red cow Nanny lik'd so well, An' lik'd vor her to milk her. Zalt tears did run vrom Nanny's eyes, To hear her restless father's sighs. But as vor me, she mid be sure I wont vorzeÄke her now she's poor, Vor I do love her mwore an' mwore; An' if I can but get a cow An' parrock, I'll vulvil my vow, An' she shall come an' milk her. THE SHEP'ERD BWOY.When the warm zummer breeze do blow over the hill, An' the vlock's a-spread over the ground; When the vaÏce o' the busy wold sheep dog is still, An' the sheep-bells do tinkle all round; Where noo tree vor a sheÄde but the thorn is a-vound, There, a zingÈn a zong, Or a-whislÈn among The sheep, the young shep'erd do bide all day long. When the storm do come up wi' a thundery cloud That do shut out the zunlight, an' high Over head the wild thunder do rumble so loud, An' the lightnÈn do flash vrom the sky, Where noo shelter's a-vound but his hut, that is nigh, There out ov all harm, In the dry an' the warm, The poor little shep'erd do smile at the storm. When the cwold winter win' do blow over the hill, An' the hore-vrost do whiten the grass, An' the breath o' the no'th is so cwold, as to chill The warm blood ov woone's heart as do pass; When the ice o' the pond is so slipp'ry as glass, There, a-zingÈn a zong, Or a-whislÈn among The sheep, the poor shep'erd do bide all day long. When the shearÈn's a-come, an' the shearers do pull In the sheep, hangÈn back a-gwaÏn in, Wi' their roun' zides a-heavÈn in under their wool, To come out all a-clipp'd to the skin; When the feÄstÈn, an' zingÈn, an fun do begin, Vor to help em, an' sheÄre All their me'th an' good feÄre, The poor little shep'erd is sure to be there. HOPE A-LEFT BEHIND.Don't try to win a maÏden's heart, To leÄve her in her love,—'tis wrong: 'Tis bitter to her soul to peÄrt Wi' woone that is her sweetheart long. A maÏd's vu'st love is always strong; An' if do faÏl, she'll linger on, Wi' all her best o' pleasure gone, An' hope a-left behind her. Thy poor lost Jenny wer a-grow'd So kind an' thoughtvul vor her years, When she did meet wi' vo'k a-know'd The best, her love did speak in tears. She walk'd wi' thee, an' had noo fears O' thy unkindness, till she zeed Herzelf a-cast off lik' a weed, An' hope a-left behind her. Thy slight turn'd peÄle her cherry lip; Her sorrow, not a-zeed by eyes, Wer lik' the mildew, that do nip A bud by darksome midnight skies. The day mid come, the zun mid rise, But there's noo hope o' day nor zun; The storm ha' blow'd, the harm's a-done, An' hope's a-left behind her. The time will come when thou wouldst gi'e The worold vor to have her smile, Or meet her by the parrock tree, Or catch her jumpÈn off the stile; Thy life's avore thee vor a while, But thou wilt turn thy mind in time, An' zee the deÈd as 'tis,—a crime, An' hope a-left behind thee. never win a maÏden's heart, But her's that is to be thy bride, An' plaÿ drough life a manly peÄrt, An' if she's true when time ha' tried Her mind, then teÄke her by thy zide. True love will meÄke thy hardships light, True love will meÄke the worold bright, When hope's a-left behind thee. A GOOD FATHER.No; mind thy father. When his tongue Is keen, he's still thy friend, John, Vor wolder vo'k should warn the young How wickedness will end, John; An' he do know a wicked youth Would be thy manhood's beÄne, An' zoo would bring thee back ageÄn 'Ithin the ways o' truth. An' mind en still when in the end His leÄbour's all a-done, John, An' let en vind a steadvast friend In thee his thoughtvul son, John; Vor he did win what thou didst lack Avore couldst work or stand, An' zoo, when time do num' his hand, Then pay his leÄbour back. An' when his bwones be in the dust, Then honour still his neÄme, John; An' as his godly soul wer just, Let thine be voun' the seÄme, John. Be true, as he wer true, to men, An' love the laws o' God; Still tread the road that he've a-trod, An' live wi' him ageÄn. THE BEAM IN GRENLEY CHURCH.In church at Grenley woone mid zee A beam vrom wall to wall; a tree That's longer than the church is wide, An' zoo woone end o'n's drough outside,— Not cut off short, but bound all round Wi' lead, to keep en seÄfe an' sound. Back when the builders vu'st begun The church,—as still the teÄle do run,— A man work'd wi' em; no man knew Who 'twer, nor whither he did goo. He wer as harmless as a chile, An' work'd 'ithout a frown or smile, Till any woaths or strife did rise To overcast his sparklÈn eyes: An' then he'd call their minds vrom strife, To think upon another life. He wer so strong, that all alwone He lifted beams an' blocks o' stwone, That others, with the girtest paÏns, Could hardly wag wi' bars an' chaÏns; An' yet he never used to staÿ O' Zaturdays, to teÄke his paÿ. Woone day the men wer out o' heart, To have a beam a-cut too short; An' in the evenÈn, when they shut Off work, they left en where 'twer put; An' while dumb night went softly by TowÁrds the vi'ry western sky, A-lullÈn birds, an' shuttÈn up The deÄisy an' the butter cup, They went to lay their heavy heads An' weary bwones upon their beds. An' when the dewy mornÈn broke, An' show'd the worold, fresh awoke, Their godly work ageÄn, they vound The beam they left upon the ground A-put in pleÄce, where still do bide, An' long enough to reach outzide. But he unknown to tother men Wer never there at work ageÄn: Zoo whether he mid be a man Or angel, wi' a helpÈn han', Or whether all o't wer a dream, They didden deÄre to cut the beam. THE VAÏCES THAT BE GONE.When evenÈn sheÄdes o' trees do hide A body by the hedge's zide, An' twitt'rÈn birds, wi' plaÿsome flight, Do vlee to roost at comÈn night, Then I do saunter out o' zight In orcha'd, where the pleÄce woonce rung Wi' laughs a-laugh'd an' zongs a-zung By vaÏces that be gone. There's still the tree that bore our swing, An' others where the birds did zing; But long-leav'd docks do overgrow The groun' we trampled heÄre below, Wi' merry skippÈns to an' fro Bezide the banks, where Jim did zit A-plaÿÈn o' the clarinit To vaÏces that be gone. How mother, when we us'd to stun Her head wi' all our naÏsy fun, Did wish us all a-gone vrom hwome: An' now that zome be dead, an' zome A-gone, an' all the pleÄce is dum', How she do wish, wi' useless tears, To have ageÄn about her ears The vaÏces that be gone. Vor all the maÏdens an' the bwoys But I, be marri'd off all woys, Or dead an' gone; but I do bide At hwome, alwone, at mother's zide, An' often, at the evenÈn-tide, I still do saunter out, wi' tears, Down drough the orcha'd, where my ears Do miss the vaÏces gone. POLL.When out below the trees, that drow'd Their scraggy lim's athirt the road, While evenÈn zuns, a'mÓst a-zet, Gi'ed goolden light, but little het, The merry chaps an' maÏdens met, An' look'd to zomebody to neÄme Their bit o' fun, a dance or geÄme, 'Twer Poll they cluster'd round. An' after they'd a-had enough O' snappÈn tongs, or blind-man's buff, O' winter nights, an' went an' stood Avore the vire o' bleÄzen wood, Though there wer maÏdens kind an' good, Though there wer maÏdens feÄir an' tall, 'Twer Poll that wer the queen o'm all, An' Poll they cluster'd round. An' when the childern used to catch A glimpse o' Poll avore the hatch, The little things did run to meet Their friend wi' skippÈn tott'rÈn veet An' thought noo other kiss so sweet As hers; an' nwone could vind em out Such geÄmes to meÄke em jump an' shout, As Poll they cluster'd round. An' now, since she've a-left em, all The pleÄce do miss her, girt an' small. In vaÏn vor them the zun do sheen Upon the lwonesome rwoad an' green; Their zwing do hang vorgot between The leÄnen trees, vor they've a-lost best o' maÏdens, to their cost, The maÏd they cluster'd round. LOOKS A-KNOW'D AVORE.While zome, a-gwaÏn from pleÄce to pleÄce, Do daily meet wi' zome new feÄce, When my day's work is at an end, Let me zit down at hwome, an' spend A happy hour wi' zome wold friend, An' by my own vire-zide rejaÏce In zome wold naÏghbour's welcome vaÏce, An' looks I know'd avore, John. Why is it, friends that we've a-met By zuns that now ha' long a-zet, Or winter vires that bleÄzed for wold An' young vo'k, now vor ever cwold, Be met wi' jaÿ that can't be twold? Why, 'tis because they friends have all Our youthvul spring ha' left our fall,— The looks we know'd avore, John. 'Tis lively at a feÄir, among The chattÈn, laughÈn, shiften drong, When wold an' young, an' high an' low, Do streamy round, an' to an' fro; But what new feÄce that we don't know, Can ever meÄke woone's warm heart dance Among ten thousan', lik' a glance O' looks we know'd avore, John. How of'en have the wind a-shook The leaves off into yonder brook, Since vu'st we two, in youthvul strolls, Did ramble roun' them bubblÈn shoals! An' oh! that zome o' them young souls, That we, in jaÿ, did plaÿ wi' then Could come back now, an' bring ageÄn The looks we know'd avore, John. So soon's the barley's dead an' down, The clover-leaf do rise vrom groun', An' wolder feÄzen do but goo To be a-vollow'd still by new; But souls that be a-tried an' true Shall meet ageÄn beyond the skies, An' bring to woone another's eyes The looks they know'd avore, John. THE MUSIC O' THE DEAD.When music, in a heart that's true, Do kindle up wold loves anew, An' dim wet eyes, in feÄirest lights, Do zee but inward fancy's zights; When creepÈn years, wi' with'rÈn blights, 'V a-took off them that wer so dear, How touchÈn 'tis if we do hear The tuÈns o' the dead, John. When I, a-stannÈn in the lew O' trees a storm's a-beÄtÈn drough, Do zee the slantÈn mist a-drove By spitevul winds along the grove, An' hear their hollow sounds above My shelter'd head, do seem, as I Do think o' zunny days gone by. Lik' music vor the dead, John. Last night, as I wer gwaÏn along The brook, I heÄrd the milk-maÏd's zong A-ringÈn out so clear an' shrill Along the meÄds an' roun' the hill. I catch'd the tuÈn, an' stood still To hear 't; 'twer woone that JeÄne did zing A-vield a-milkÈn in the spring,— Sweet music o' the dead, John. Don't tell o' zongs that be a-zung By young chaps now, wi' sheÄmeless tongue: Zing me wold ditties, that would start The maÏden's tears, or stir my heart To teÄke in life a manly peÄrt,— The wold vo'k's zongs that twold a teÄle, An' vollow'd round their mugs o' eÄle, The music o' the dead, John. THE PLEÄCE A TEÄLE'S A-TWOLD O'.Why tidden vields an' runnÈn brooks, Nor trees in Spring or fall; An' tidden woody slopes an' nooks, Do touch us mwost ov all; An' tidden ivy that do cling By housen big an' wold, O, But this is, after all, the thing,— The pleÄce a teÄle's a-twold o'. At Burn, where mother's young friends know'd The vu'st her maÏden neÄme, The zunny knaps, the narrow road An' green, be still the seÄme; The squier's house, an' ev'ry ground That now his son ha' zwold, O, An' ev'ry wood he hunted round 'S a pleÄce a teÄle's a-twold o'. The maÏd a-lov'd to our heart's core, The dearest of our kin, Do meÄke us like the very door Where they went out an' in. 'Tis zome'hat touchÈn that bevel Poor flesh an' blood o' wold, O, Do meÄke us like to zee so well The pleÄce a teÄle's a-twold o'. When blushÈn Jenny vu'st did come To zee our Poll o' nights, An' had to goo back leÄtish hwome, Where vo'k did zee the zights, A-chattÈn loud below the sky So dark, an' winds so cwold, O, How proud wer I to zee her by The pleÄce the teÄle's a-twold o'. Zoo whether 'tis the humpy ground That wer a battle viel', Or mossy house, all ivy-bound, An' vallÈn down piece-meal; Or if 'tis but a scraggy tree, Where beauty smil'd o' wold, O, How dearly I do like to zee The pleÄce a teÄle's a-twold o'. AUNT'S TANTRUMS.Why ees, aunt Anne's a little staÏd, But kind an' merry, poor wold maÏd! If we don't cut her heart wi' slights, She'll zit an' put our things to rights, Upon a hard day's work, o' nights; But zet her up, she's jis' lik' vier, An' woe betide the woone that's nigh 'er. When she is in her tantrums. She'll toss her head, a-steppÈn out Such strides, an' fling the paÏls about; An' slam the doors as she do goo, An' kick the cat out wi' her shoe, Enough to het her off in two. The bwoys do bundle out o' house, A-lassen they should get a towse, When aunt is in her tantrums. She whurr'd, woone day, the wooden bowl In such a veag at my poor poll; It brush'd the heÄir above my crown, An' whizz'd on down upon the groun', An' knock'd the bantam cock right down, But up he sprung, a-teÄkÈn flight Wi' tothers, cluckÈn in a fright, Vrom aunt in such a tantrum! But Dick stole in, an' reach'd en down The biggest blather to be voun', An' crope an' put en out o' zight Avore the vire, an' plimm'd en tight An crack'd en wi' the slice thereright She scream'd, an' bundled out o' house, An' got so quiet as a mouse,— It frighten'd off her tantrum. THE STWONÈN PWORCH.A new house! Ees, indeed! a small StraÏght, upstart thing, that, after all, Do teÄke in only half the groun' The wold woone did avore 'twer down; Wi' little windows straÏght an' flat, Not big enough to zun a-cat, An' dealÈn door a-meÄde so thin, A puff o' wind would blow en in, Where woone do vind a thing to knock So small's the hammer ov a clock, That wull but meÄke a little click About so loud's a clock do tick! Gi'e me the wold house, wi' the wide An' lofty-lo'ted rooms inside; An' wi' the stwonÈn pworch avore The naÏl-bestudded woaken door, That had a knocker very little Less to handle than a bittle, That het a blow that vled so loud Drough house as thunder drough a cloud. An' meÄde the dog behind the door Growl out so deep's a bull do roar. In all the house, o' young an' wold, There werden woone but could a-twold When he'd noo wish to seek abrode Mwore jaÿ than thik wold pworch bestow'd! For there, when yollow evenÈn shed His light ageÄn the elem's head, An' gnots did whiver in the zun, An' uncle's work wer all a-done, His whiffs o' meltÈn smoke did roll Above his bendÈn pipe's white bowl, While he did chat, or, zittÈn dumb, Injaÿ his thoughts as they did come. An' Jimmy, wi' his crowd below His chin, did dreve his nimble bow In tuÈns vor to meÄke us spring A-reelÈn, or in zongs to zing, An' there, between the dark an' light, Zot Poll by Willy's zide at night A-whisp'rÈn, while her eyes did zwim In jaÿ avore the twilight dim; An' when (to know if she wer near) Aunt call'd, did cry, "Ees, mother; here." No, no; I woulden gi'e thee thanks Vor fine white walls an' vloors o' planks, Nor doors a-pÄinted up so fine. If I'd a wold grey house o' mine, Gi'e me vor all it should be small, A stwonÈn pworch instead ō't all. FARMER'S SONS.Ov all the chaps a-burnt so brown By zunny hills an' hollors, Ov all the whindlÈn chaps in town Wi' backs so weak as rollers, There's narn that's half so light o' heart, (I'll bet, if thou't zay "done," min,) An' narn that's half so strong an' smart, 'S a merry farmer's son, min. He'll fling a stwone so true's a shot, He'll jump so light's a cat; He'll heave a waÏght up that would squot A weakly fellow flat. He wont gi'e up when things don't faÿ, But turn em into fun, min; An' what's hard work to zome, is plaÿ Avore a farmer's son, min. His bwony eÄrm an' knuckly vist ('Tis best to meÄke a friend o't) Would het a fellow, that's a-miss'd, Half backward wi' the wind o't. Wi' such a chap at hand, a maÏd Would never goo a nun, min; She'd have noo call to be afraÏd Bezide a farmer's son, min. He'll turn a vurrow, drough his langth, So straÏght as eyes can look, Or pitch all day, wi' half his strangth, At ev'ry pitch a pook; An' then goo vower mile, or vive, To vind his friends in fun, min, Vor maÏden's be but dead alive 'Ithout a farmer's son, min. Zoo jaÿ be in his heart so light, An' manly feÄce so brown; An' health goo wi' en hwome at night, Vrom meÄd, or wood, or down. O' rich an' poor, o' high an' low, When all's a-said an' done, min, The smartest chap that I do know, 'S a workÈn farmer's son, min. JEÄNE.We now mid hope vor better cheer, My smilÈn wife o' twice vive year. Let others frown, if thou bist near Wi' hope upon thy brow, JeÄne; Vor I vu'st lov'd thee when thy light Young sheÄpe vu'st grew to woman's height; I loved thee near, an' out o' zight, An' I do love thee now, JeÄne. An' we've a-trod the sheenÈn bleÄde Ov eegrass in the zummer sheÄde, An' when the leÄves begun to feÄde Wi' zummer in the weÄne, JeÄne; An' we've a-wander'd drough the groun' O' swayÈn wheat a-turnÈn brown, An' we've a-stroll'd together roun' The brook an' drough the leÄne, Jeane. An' nwone but I can ever tell Ov all thy tears that have a-vell When trials meÄde thy bosom zwell, An' nwone but thou o' mine, JeÄne; An' now my heart, that heav'd wi' pride Back then to have thee at my zide, Do love thee mwore as years do slide, An' leÄve them times behine, JeÄne. THE DREE WOAKS.By the brow o' thik hangÈn I spent all my youth, In the house that did peep out between The dree woaks, that in winter avworded their lewth, An' in zummer their sheÄde to the green; An' there, as in zummer we play'd at our geÄmes, We ēach own'd a tree, Vor we wer but dree, An' zoo the dree woaks wer a-call'd by our neÄmes. An' two did grow scraggy out over the road, An' they wer call'd Jimmy's an' mine; An' tother wer JeÄnnet's, much kindlier grow'd, Wi' a knotless an' white ribbÈd rine. An' there, o' fine nights avore gwÄin in to rest, We did dance, vull o' life, To the sound o' the fife, Or plaÿ at some geÄme that poor JeÄnnet lik'd best. Zoo happy wer we by the woaks o' the green, Till we lost sister JeÄnnet, our pride; Vor when she wer come to her last blushÈn teen, She suddenly zicken'd an' died. An' avore the green leaves in the fall wer gone by, The lightnÈn struck dead Her woaken tree's head, An' left en a-stripp'd to the wintery sky. But woone ov his eÄcorns, a-zet in the Fall, Come up the Spring after, below The trees at her head-stwone 'ithin the church-wall, An' mother, to see how did grow, Shed a tear; an' when father an' she wer bwoth dead, There they wer laid deep, Wi' their JeÄnnet, to sleep, Wi' her at his zide, an' her tree at her head. An' vo'k do still call the wold house the dree woaks, Vor thik is a-reckon'd that's down, As mother, a-neÄmÈn her childern to vo'ks, MeÄde dree when but two wer a-voun'; An' zaid that hereafter she knew she should zee Why God, that's above, Vound fit in his love To strike wi' his han' the poor maÏd an' her tree. THE HWOMESTEAD A-VELL INTO HAND.The house where I wer born an' bred, Did own his woaken door, John, When vu'st he shelter'd father's head, An' gramfer's long avore, John. An' many a ramblÈn happy chile, An' chap so strong an' bwold, An' bloomÈn maÏd wi' plaÿsome smile, Did call their hwome o' wold Thik ruf so warm, A kept vrom harm By elem trees that broke the storm. An' in the orcha'd out behind, The apple-trees in row, John, Did swaÿ wi' moss about their rind Their heads a-noddÈn low, John. An' there, bezide zome groun' vor corn, Two strips did skirt the road; In woone the cow did toss her horn, While tother wer a-mow'd, In June, below The lofty row Ov trees that in the hedge did grow. A-workÈn in our little patch O' parrock, rathe or leÄte, John, We little ho'd how vur mid stratch The squier's wide esteÄte, John. Our hearts, so honest an' so true, Had little vor to fear; Vor we could pay up all their due An' gi'e a friend good cheer At hwome, below The lofty row O' trees a-swaÿÈn to an' fro. An' there in het, an' there in wet, We tweil'd wi' busy hands, John; Vor ev'ry stroke o' work we het, Did better our own lands, John. But after me, ov all my kin, Not woone can hold em on; Vor we can't get a life put in Vor mine, when I'm a-gone Vrom thik wold brown Thatch ruf, a-boun' By elem trees a-growÈn roun'. Ov eight good hwomes, where, I can mind Vo'k liv'd upon their land, John, But dree be now a-left behind; The rest ha' vell in hand, John, An' all the happy souls they ved Be scatter'd vur an' wide. An' zome o'm be a-wantÈn bread, Zome, better off, ha' died, Noo mwore to ho, Vor homes below The trees a-swaÿen to an' fro. An' I could leÄd ye now all round The parish, if I would, John, An' show ye still the very ground Where vive good housen stood, John In broken orcha'ds near the spot, A vew wold trees do stand; But dew do vall where vo'k woonce zot About the burnÈn brand In housen warm, A-kept vrom harm By elems that did break the storm. THE GUIDE POST.Why thik wold post so long kept out, Upon the knap, his eÄrms astrout, A-zendÈn on the weary veet By where the dree cross roads do meet; An' I've a-come so much thik woy, Wi' happy heart, a man or bwoy, That I'd a-meÄde, at last, a'mÓst A friend o' thik wold guidÈn post. An' there, wi' woone white eÄrm he show'd, Down over bridge, the Leyton road; Wi' woone, the leÄne a-leÄdÈn roun' By Bradlinch Hill, an' on to town; An' wi' the last, the way to turn Drough common down to Rushiburn,— The road I lik'd to goo the mwost Ov all upon the guidÈn post. The Leyton road ha' lofty ranks Ov elem trees upon his banks; The woone athirt the hill do show Us miles o' hedgy meÄds below; An' he to Rushiburn is wide Wi' strips o' green along his zide, An' ouer brown-ruf'd house a-mÓst In zight o' thik wold guidÈn post. An' when the haÿ-meÄkers did zwarm O' zummer evenÈns out vrom farm. The merry maÏdens an' the chaps, A-peÄrtÈn there wi' jokes an' slaps, Did goo, zome woone way off, an' zome Another, all a-zingÈn hwome; Vor vew o'm had to goo, at mwost, A mile beyond the guidÈn post. Poor Nanny Brown, woone darkish night, When he'd a-been a-paÏnted white, Wer frighten'd, near the gravel pits, So dead's a hammer into fits, A-thinkÈn 'twer the ghost she know'd Did come an' haunt the Leyton road; Though, after all, poor Nanny's ghost Turn'd out to be the guidÈn post. GWAIN TO FEÄIR.To morrow stir so brisk's you can, An' get your work up under han'; Vor I an' Jim, an' Poll's young man, Shall goo to feÄir; an' zoo, If you wull let us gi'e ye a eÄrm Along the road, or in the zwarm O' vo'k, we'll keep ye out o' harm, An' gi'e ye a feÄirÈn too. We won't stay leÄte there, I'll be boun'; We'll bring our sheÄdes off out o' town A mile, avore the zun is down, If he's a sheenÈn clear. Zoo when your work is all a-done, Your mother can't but let ye run An' zee a little o' the fun, There's nothÈn there to fear. JEÄNE O' GRENLEY MILL.When in happy times we met, Then by look an' deed I show'd, How my love wer all a-zet In the smiles that she bestow'd. She mid have, o' left an' right, MaÏdens feÄirest to the zight; I'd a-chose among em still, Pretty JeÄne o' Grenley Mill. She wer feÄirer, by her cows In her work-day frock a-drest, Than the rest wi' scornvul brows All a-flantÈn in their best. Gaÿ did seem, at feÄst or feÄir, Zights that I had her to sheÄre; Gaÿ would be my own heart still, But vor JeÄne o' Grenley Mill. JeÄne—a-checkÈn ov her love— LeÄn'd to woone that, as she guess'd, Stood in worldly wealth above Me she know'd she lik'd the best. He wer wild, an' soon run drough All that he'd a-come into, Heartlessly a-treatÈn ill Pretty JeÄne o' Grenley Mill. Oh! poor Jenny! thou'st a tore HopÈn love vrom my poor heart, LosÈn vrom thy own small store, All the better, sweeter peÄrt. Hearts a-slighted must vorseÄke Slighters, though a-doom'd to break; I must scorn, but love thee still, Pretty JeÄne o' Grenley Mill. Oh! if ever thy soft eyes Could ha' turn'd vrom outward show, To a lover born to rise When a higher woone wer low; If thy love, when zoo a-tried, Could ha' stood ageÄn thy pride, How should I ha' lov'd thee still, Pretty JeÄne o' Grenley Mill. THE BELLS OV ALDERBURNHAM.While now upon the win' do zwell The church-bells' evenÈn peal, O, Along the bottom, who can tell How touch'd my heart do veel, O. To hear ageÄn, as woonce they rung In holidays when I wer young, Wi' merry sound A-ringÈn round, The bells ov Alderburnham. Vor when they rung their gaÿest peals O' zome sweet day o' rest, O, We all did ramble drough the viels, A-dress'd in all our best, O; An' at the bridge or roarÈn weir, Or in the wood, or in the gleÄre Ov open ground, Did hear ring round The bells ov Alderburnham. They bells, that now do ring above The young brides at church-door, O, Woonce rung to bless their mother's love, When they were brides avore, O. An' sons in tow'r do still ring on The merry peals o' fathers gone, Noo mwore to sound, Or hear ring round, The bells ov Alderburnham. Ov happy peÄirs, how soon be zome A-wedded an' a-peÄrted! Vor woone ov jaÿ, what peals mid come To zome o's broken-hearted! The stronger mid the sooner die, The gaÿer mid the sooner sigh; An' who do know What grief's below The bells ov Alderburnham! But still 'tis happiness to know That there's a God above us; An' he, by day an' night, do ho Vor all ov us, an' love us, An' call us to His house, to heal Our hearts, by his own Zunday peal Ov bells a-rung Vor wold an' young, The bells ov Alderburnham. THE GIRT WOLD HOUSE O' MOSSY STWONE.The girt wold house o' mossy stwone, Up there upon the knap alwone, Had woonce a bleÄzÈn kitchÈn-vier, That cook'd vor poor-vo'k an' a squier. The very last ov all the reÄce That liv'd the squier o' the pleÄce, Died off when father wer a-born, An' now his kin be all vorlorn Vor ever,—vor he left noo son To teÄke the house o' mossy stwone. An' zoo he vell to other hands, An' gramfer took en wi' the lands: An' there when he, poor man, wer dead, My father shelter'd my young head. An' if I wer a squier, I Should like to spend my life, an' die In thik wold house o' mossy stwone, Up there upon the knap alwone. Don't talk ov housen all o' brick, Wi' rockÈn walls nine inches thick, A-trigg'd together zide by zide In streets, wi' fronts a straddle wide, Wi' yards a-sprinkled wi' a mop, Too little vor a vrog to hop; But let me live an' die where I Can zee the ground, an' trees, an' sky. The girt wold house o' mossy stwone Had wings vor either sheÄde or zun: Woone where the zun did glitter drough, When vu'st he struck the mornÈn dew; Woone feÄced the evenÈn sky, an' woone Push'd out a pworch to zweaty noon: Zoo woone stood out to break the storm, An' meÄde another lew an' warm. An' there the timber'd copse rose high, Where birds did build an' heÄres did lie, An' beds o' grÆgles in the lew, Did deck in Maÿ the ground wi' blue. An' there wer hills an' slopÈn grounds, That they did ride about wi' hounds; An' drough the meÄd did creep the brook Wi' bushy bank an' rushy nook, Where perch did lie in sheÄdy holes Below the alder trees, an' shoals O' gudgeon darted by, to hide Theirzelves in hollows by the zide. An' there by leÄnes a-windÈn deep, Wer mossy banks a-risÈn steep; An' stwonÈn steps, so smooth an' wide, To stiles an' vootpaths at the zide. An' there, so big's a little ground, The geÄrden wer a-wall'd all round: An' up upon the wall wer bars A-sheÄped all out in wheels an' stars, Vor vo'k to walk, an' look out drough Vrom trees o' green to hills o' blue. An' there wer walks o' peÄvement, broad Enough to meÄke a carriage-road, Where steÄtely leÄdies woonce did use To walk wi' hoops an' high-heel shoes, When yonder hollow woak wer sound, Avore the walls wer ivy-bound, Avore the elems met above The road between em, where they drove Their coach all up or down the road A-comÈn hwome or gwaÏn abroad. The zummer aÏr o' theÄse green hill 'V a-heav'd in bosoms now all still, An' all their hopes an' all their tears Be unknown things ov other years. But if, in heaven, souls be free To come back here; or there can be An e'thly pleÄce to meÄke em come To zee it vrom a better hwome,— Then what's a-twold us mid be right, That still, at dead o' tongueless night, Their gauzy sheÄpes do come an' glide By vootways o' their youthvul pride. An' while the trees do stan' that grow'd Vor them, or walls or steps they know'd Do bide in pleÄce, they'll always come To look upon their e'thly hwome. Zoo I would always let alwone The girt wold house o' mossy stwone: I woulden pull a wing o'n down, To meÄke ther speechless sheÄdes to frown; Vor when our souls, mid woonce become Lik' their's, all bodiless an' dumb, How good to think that we mid vind Zome thought vrom them we left behind, An' that zome love mid still unite The hearts o' blood wi' souls o' light. Zoo, if 'twer mine, I'd let alwone The girt wold house o' mossy stwone. A WITCH.There's thik wold hag, Moll Brown, look zee, jus' past! I wish the ugly sly wold witch Would tumble over into ditch; I woulden pull her out not very vast. No, no. I don't think she's a bit belied, No, she's a witch, aye, Molly's evil-eyed. Vor I do know o' many a-withrÈn blight A-cast on vo'k by Molly's mutter'd spite; She did, woone time, a dreadvul deÄl o' harm To Farmer Gruff's vo'k, down at Lower Farm. Vor there, woone day, they happened to offend her, An' not a little to their sorrow, Because they woulden gi'e or lend her Zome'hat she come to bag or borrow; An' zoo, they soon began to vind That she'd agone an' left behind Her evil wish that had such pow'r, That she did meÄke their milk an' eÄle turn zour, An' addle all the aggs their vowls did lay; They coulden vetch the butter in the churn, An' all the cheese begun to turn All back ageÄn to curds an' whey; The little pigs, a-runnÈn wi' the zow, Did zicken, zomehow, noobody know'd how, An' vall, an' turn their snouts towÁrd the sky. An' only gi'e woone little grunt, and die; An' all the little ducks an' chickÈn Wer death-struck out in yard a-pickÈn Their bits o' food, an' vell upon their head, An' flapp'd their little wings an' drapp'd down dead. They coulden fat the calves, they woulden thrive; They coulden seÄve their lambs alive; Their sheep wer all a-coath'd, or gi'ed noo wool; The hosses vell away to skin an' bwones, An' got so weak they coulden pull A half a peck o' stwones: The dog got dead-alive an' drowsy, The cat vell zick an' woulden mousy; An' every time the vo'k went up to bed, They wer a-hag-rod till they wer half dead. They us'd to keep her out o' house, 'tis true, A-naÏlÈn up at door a hosses shoe; An' I've a-heÄrd the farmer's wife did try To dawk a needle or a pin In drough her wold hard wither'd skin, An' draw her blood, a-comÈn by: But she could never vetch a drap, For pins would ply an' needless snap AgeÄn her skin; an' that, in coo'se, Did meÄke the hag bewitch em woo'se. |
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