  THE TIMES.John an' Tom.JOHN.Well, Tom, how be'st? Zoo thou'st a-got thy neÄme Among the leaguers, then, as I've a heÄrd. TOM.Aye, John, I have, John; an' I ben't afeÄrd To own it. Why, who woulden do the seÄme? We shant goo on lik' this long, I can tell ye. Bread is so high an' wages be so low, That, after workÈn lik' a hoss, you know, A man can't eÄrn enough to vill his belly. JOHN.Ah! well! Now there, d'ye know, if I wer sure That theÄsem men would gi'e me work to do All drough the year, an' always pay me mwore Than I'm a-eÄrnÈn now, I'd jein em too. If I wer sure they'd bring down things so cheap, That what mid buy a pound o' mutton now Would buy the hinder quarters, or the sheep, Or what wull buy a pig would buy a cow: In short, if they could meÄke a shillÈn goo In market just so vur as two, Why then, d'ye know, I'd be their man; But, hang it! I don't think they can. TOM.Why ees they can, though you don't know't, An' theÄsem men can meÄke it clear. Why vu'st they'd zend up members ev'ry year To Parli'ment, an' ev'ry man would vote; Vor if a fellow midden be a squier, He mid be just so fit to vote, an' goo To meÄke the laws at Lon'on, too, As many that do hold their noses higher. Why shoulden fellows meÄke good laws an' speeches A-dressed in fusti'n cwoats an' cord'roy breeches? Or why should hooks an' shovels, zives an' axes, Keep any man vrom votÈn o' the taxes? An' when the poor've a-got a sheÄre In meÄkÈn laws, they'll teÄke good ceÄre To meÄke some good woones vor the poor. Do stan' by reason, John; because The men that be to meÄke the laws, Will meÄke em vor theirzelves, you mid be sure. JOHN.Ees, that they wull. The men that you mid trust To help you, Tom, would help their own zelves vu'st. TOM.Aye, aye. But we would have a better plan O' votÈn, than the woone we got. A man, As things be now, d'ye know, can't goo an' vote AgeÄn another man, but he must know't. We'll have a box an' balls, vor votÈn men To pop their hands 'ithin, d'ye know; an' then, If woone don't happen vor to lik' a man, He'll drop a little black ball vrom his han', An' zend en hwome ageÄn. He woon't be led To choose a man to teÄke away his bread. JOHN.But if a man you midden like to 'front, Should chance to call upon ye, Tom, zome day, An' ax ye vor your vote, what could ye zay? Why if you woulden answer, or should grunt Or bark, he'd know you'd meÄn "I won't." To promise woone a vote an' not to gi'e't, Is but to be a liar an' a cheat. An' then, bezides, when he did count the balls, An' vind white promises a-turn'd half black; Why then he'd think the voters all a pack O' rogues together,—ev'ry woone o'm false. An' if he had the power, very soon Perhaps he'd vall upon em, ev'ry woone. The times be pinchÈn me, so well as you, But I can't tell what ever they can do. TOM.Why meÄke the farmers gi'e their leÄbourÈn men Mwore wages,—half or twice so much ageÄn As what they got. JOHN.But, Thomas, you can't meÄke A man pay mwore away than he can teÄke. If you do meÄke en gi'e, to till a vield, So much ageÄn as what the groun' do yield, He'll shut out farmÈn—or he'll be a goose— An' goo an' put his money out to use. Wages be low because the hands be plenty; They mid be higher if the hands wer skenty. LeÄbour, the seÄme's the produce o' the yield, Do zell at market price—jist what 'till yield. Thou wouldsten gi'e a zixpence, I do guess, Vor zix fresh aggs, if zix did zell for less. If theÄsem vo'k could come an' meÄke mwore lands, If they could teÄke wold England in their hands An' stratch it out jist twice so big ageÄn, They'd be a-doÈn some'hat vor us then. TOM.But if they wer a-zent to Parli'ment To meÄke the laws, dost know, as I've a-zaid, They'd knock the corn-laws on the head; An' then the landlards must let down their rent, An' we should very soon have cheaper bread: Farmers would gi'e less money vor their lands. JOHN.Aye, zoo they mid, an' prices mid be low'r Vor what their land would yield; an' zoo their hands Would be jist where they wer avore. An' if theÄse men wer all to hold together, They coulden meÄke new laws to change the weather! They ben't so mighty as to think o' frightenÈn The vrost an' raÏn, the thunder an' the lightenÈn! An' as vor me, I don't know what to think O' them there fine, big-talkÈn, cunnÈn, Strange men, a-comÈn down vrom Lon'on. Why they don't stint theirzelves, but eat an' drink The best at public-house where they do staÿ; They don't work gratis, they do get their paÿ. They woulden pinch theirzelves to do us good, Nor gi'e their money vor to buy us food. D'ye think, if we should meet em in the street Zome day in Lon'on, they would stand a treat? TOM.They be a-paÏd, because they be a-zent By corn-law vo'k that be the poor man's friends, To tell us all how we mid gaÏn our ends, A-zendÈn peÄpers up to Parli'ment. JOHN.Ah! teÄke ceÄre how dost trust em. Dost thou know The funny feÄble o' the pig an' crow? Woone time a crow begun to strut an' hop About some groun' that men'd a-been a-drillÈn Wi' barley or some wheat, in hopes o' villÈn Wi' good fresh corn his empty crop. But lik' a thief, he didden like the paÏns O' workÈn hard to get en a vew graÏns; Zoo while the sleeky rogue wer there a-huntÈn, Wi' little luck, vor corns that mid be vound A-peckÈn vor, he heÄrd a pig a-gruntÈn Just tother zide o' hedge, in tother ground. "Ah!" thought the cunnÈn rogue, an' gi'ed a hop, "Ah! that's the way vor me to vill my crop; Aye, that's the plan, if nothÈn don't defeÄt it. If I can get thik pig to bring his snout In here a bit an' turn the barley out, Why, hang it! I shall only have to eat it." Wi' that he vled up straÏght upon a woak, An' bowÈn, lik' a man at hustÈns, spoke: "My friend," zaid he, "that's poorish livÈn vor ye In thik there leÄze. Why I be very zorry To zee how they hard-hearted vo'k do sarve ye. You can't live there. Why! do they meÄn to starve ye?" "Ees," zaid the pig, a-gruntÈn, "ees; What wi' the hosses an' the geese, There's only docks an' thissles here to chaw. Instead o' livÈn well on good warm straw, I got to grub out here, where I can't pick Enough to meÄke me half an ounce o' flick." "Well," zaid the crow, "d'ye know, if you'll stan' that, You mussen think, my friend, o' gettÈn fat. D'ye want some better keep? Vor if you do, Why, as a friend, I be a-come to tell ye, That if you'll come an' jus' get drough TheÄse gap up here, why you mid vill your belly. Why, they've a-been a-drillÈn corn, d'ye know, In theÄse here piece o' groun' below; An' if you'll just put in your snout, An' run en up along a drill, Why, hang it! you mid grub it out, An' eat, an' eat your vill. Their idden any fear that vo'k mid come, Vor all the men be jist a-gone in hwome." The pig, believÈn ev'ry single word That wer a-twold en by the cunnÈn bird Wer only vor his good, an' that 'twer true, Just gi'ed a grunt, an' bundled drough, An' het his nose, wi' all his might an' maÏn, Right up a drill, a-routÈn up the graÏn; An' as the cunnÈn crow did gi'e a caw A-praisÈn ō'n, oh! he did veel so proud! An' work'd, an' blow'd, an' toss'd, an' ploughed The while the cunnÈn crow did vill his maw. An' after workÈn till his bwones Did eÄche, he soon begun to veel That he should never get a meal, Unless he dined on dirt an' stwones. "Well," zaid the crow, "why don't ye eat?" "Eat what, I wonder!" zaid the heÄiry plougher. A-brislÈn up an' lookÈn rather zour; "I don't think dirt an' flints be any treat." "Well," zaid the crow, "why you be blind. What! don't ye zee how thick the corn do lie Among the dirt? An' don't ye zee how I Do pick up all that you do leÄve behind? I'm zorry that your bill should be so snubby." "No," zaid the pig, "methinks that I do zee My bill will do uncommon well vor thee, Vor thine wull peck, an' mine wull grubby." An' just wi' this a-zaid by mister Flick To mister Crow, wold John the farmer's man Come up, a-zwingÈn in his han' A good long knotty stick, An' laid it on, wi' all his might, The poor pig's vlitches, left an' right; While mister Crow, that talk'd so fine O' friendship, left the pig behine, An' vled away upon a distant tree, Vor pigs can only grub, but crows can vlee. TOM.Aye, thik there teÄle mid do vor childern's books: But you wull vind it hardish for ye To frighten me, John, wi' a storry O' silly pigs an' cunnÈn rooks. If we be grubbÈn pigs, why then, I s'pose, The farmers an' the girt woones be the crows. JOHN.'Tis very odd there idden any friend To poor-vo'k hereabout, but men mus' come To do us good away from tother end Ov England! Han't we any frien's near hwome? I mus' zay, Thomas, that 'tis rather odd That strangers should become so very civil,— That ouer vo'k be childern o' the Devil, An' other vo'k be all the vo'k o' God! If we've a-got a friend at all, Why who can tell—I'm sure thou cassen— But that the squier, or the pa'son, Mid be our friend, Tom, after all? The times be hard, 'tis true! an' they that got His blessÈns, shoulden let theirzelves vorget How 'tis where the vo'k do never zet A bit o' meat within their rusty pot. The man a-zittÈn in his easy chair To flesh, an' vowl, an' vish, should try to speÄre The poor theÄse times, a little vrom his store; An' if he don't, why sin is at his door. TOM.Ah! we won't look to that; we'll have our right,— If not by feÄir meÄns, then we wull by might. We'll meÄke times better vor us; we'll be free Ov other vo'k an' others' charity. JOHN.Ah! I do think you mid as well be quiet; You'll meÄke things wo'se, i'-ma'-be, by a riot. You'll get into a mess, Tom, I'm afeÄrd; You'll goo vor wool, an' then come hwome a-sheÄr'd.
POEMS OF RURAL LIFE."i2">Or would peÄrt wi' his zight an' be blind, Or would lose vo'k's good will, vor to have a bad neÄme, Or his peace, an' have trouble o' mind. But wi' ev'ry good thing that his meÄnness mid bring, He'd paÿ vor his money, An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet. He did whisper to me, "You do know that you stood By the Squier, wi' the vote that you had, You could ax en to help ye to zome'hat as good, Or to vind a good pleÄce vor your lad." "Aye, aye, but if I wer beholdÈn vor bread To another," I zaid, "I should bind All my body an' soul to the nod of his head, An' gi'e up all my freedom o' mind." An' then, if my paÏn wer a-zet wi' my gaÏn, I should paÿ vor my money, An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet. Then, if my bit o' brook that do wind so vur round, Wer but his, why, he'd straÏghten his bed, An' the wold stunpole woak that do stan' in my ground, Shoudden long sheÄde the grass wi' his head. But if I do vind jaÿ where the leaves be a-shook On the limbs, wi' their sheÄdes on the grass, Or below, in the bow o' the withy-bound nook, That the rock-washÈn water do pass, Then wi' they jaÿs a-vled an' zome goold in their stead, I should pay vor my money, An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet. No, be my lot good work, wi' the lungs well in plaÿ, An' good rest when the body do tire, Vor the mind a good conscience, wi' hope or wi' jaÿ, Vor the body, good lewth, an' good vire, There's noo good o' goold, but to buy what 'ull meÄke Vor our happiness here among men; An' who would gi'e happiness up vor the seÄke O' zome money to buy it ageÄn? Vor 'twould seem to the eyes ov a man that is wise, Lik' money vor money, Or zellÈn woone's honey to buy zome'hat sweet. DOBBIN DEAD.Thomas (1) an' John (2) a-ta'Èn o't.2. I do veel vor ye, Thomas, vor I be a-feÄr'd You've a-lost your wold meÄre then, by what I've a-heÄrd. 1. Ees, my meÄre is a-gone, an' the cart's in the shed Wi' his wheelbonds a-rustÈn, an' I'm out o' bread; Vor what be my han's vor to eÄrn me a croust, Wi' noo meÄre's vower legs vor to trample the doust. 2. Well, how did it happen? He vell vrom the brim Ov a cliff, as the teÄle is, an' broke ev'ry lim'. 1. Why, I gi'ed en his run, an' he shook his wold meÄne, An' he rambled a-veedÈn in Westergap LeÄne; An' there he must needs goo a-riggÈn, an' crope Vor a vew bleÄdes o' grass up the wo'st o' the slope; Though I should ha' thought his wold head would ha' know'd That vor stiff lags, lik' his, the best pleÄce wer the road. 2. An' you hadden a-kept en so short, he must clim', Lik' a gwoat, vor a bleÄde, at the risk ov a lim'. 1. Noo, but there, I'm a-twold, he did clim' an' did slide, An' did screÄpe, an' did slip, on the shelvÈn bank-zide, An' at langth lost his vootÈn, an' roll'd vrom the top, Down, thump, kick, an' higgledly, piggledly, flop. 2. Dear me, that is bad! I do veel vor your loss, Vor a vew years agoo, Thomas, I lost my ho'se. 1. How wer't? If I heÄrd it, I now ha' vorgot; Wer the poor thing bewitch'd or a-pweison'd, or what? 2. He wer out, an' a-meÄkÈn his way to the brink O' the stream at the end o' Church LeÄne, vor to drink; An' he met wi' zome yew-twigs the men had a-cast Vrom the yew-tree, in churchyard, the road that he past. He wer pweison'd. (1.) O dear, 'tis a hard loss to bear, Vor a tranter's whole bread is a-lost wi' his meÄre; But ov all churches' yew-trees, I never zet eyes On a tree that would come up to thik woone vor size. 2. Noo, 'tis long years agone, but do linger as clear In my mind though as if I'd a-heÄrd it to year. When King George wer in Do'set, an' show'd us his feÄce By our very own doors, at our very own pleÄce, That he look'd at thik yew-tree, an' nodded his head, An' he zaid,—an' I'll tell ye the words that he zaid:— "I'll be bound, if you'll sarch my dominions all drough. That you woon't vind the fellow to thik there wold yew." HAPPINESS.Ah! you do seem to think the ground, Where happiness is best a-vound, Is where the high-peÄl'd park do reach Wi' elem-rows, or clumps o' beech; Or where the coach do stand avore The twelve-tunn'd house's lofty door, Or men can ride behin' their hounds Vor miles athirt their own wide grounds, An' seldom wi' the lowly; Upon the green that we do tread, Below the welsh-nut's wide-limb'd head, Or grass where apple trees do spread? No, so's; no, no: not high nor low: 'Tis where the heart is holy. 'Tis true its veet mid tread the vloor, 'Ithin the marble-pillar'd door, Where day do cast, in high-ruf'd halls. His light drough lofty window'd walls; An' wax-white han's do never tire Wi' strokes ov heavy work vor hire, An' all that money can avword Do lwoad the zilver-brighten'd bwoard: Or mid be wi' the lowly, Where turf's a-smwolderÈn avore The back, to warm the stwonÈn vloor An' love's at hwome 'ithin the door? No, so's; no, no; not high nor low: 'Tis where the heart is holy. An' ceÄre can come 'ithin a ring O' sworded guards, to smite a king, Though he mid hold 'ithin his hands The zwarmÈn vo'k o' many lands; Or goo in drough the iron-geÄte Avore the house o' lofty steÄte; Or reach the miser that do smile A-buildÈn up his goolden pile; Or else mid smite the lowly, That have noo pow'r to loose or bind Another's body, or his mind, But only hands to help mankind. If there is rest 'ithin the breast, 'Tis where the heart is holy. GRUFFMOODY GRIM.Aye, a sad life his wife must ha' led, Vor so snappish he's leÄtely a-come, That there's nothÈn but anger or dread Where he is, abroad or at hwome; He do wreak all his spite on the bwones O' whatever do vlee, or do crawl; He do quarrel wi' stocks, an' wi' stwones, An' the raÏn, if do hold up or vall; There is nothÈn vrom mornÈn till night Do come right to Gruffmoody Grim. Woone night, in his anger, he zwore At the vier, that didden burn free: An' he het zome o't out on the vloor, Vor a vlanker it cast on his knee. Then he kicked it vor burnÈn the child, An' het it among the cat's heaÏrs; An' then beÄt the cat, a-run wild, Wi' a spark on her back up the steaÏrs: Vor even the vier an' fleÄme Be to bleÄme wi' Gruffmoody Grim. Then he snarl'd at the tea in his cup, Vor 'twer all a-got cwold in the pot, But 'twer woo'se when his wife vill'd it up Vrom the vier, vor 'twer then scaldÈn hot; Then he growl'd that the bread wer sich stuff As noo hammer in parish could crack, An' flung down the knife in a huff; Vor the edge o'n wer thicker'n the back. Vor beÄkers an' meÄkers o' tools Be all fools wi' Gruffmoody Grim. Oone day as he vish'd at the brook, He flung up, wi' a quick-handed knack, His long line, an' his high-vleÈn hook Wer a-hitch'd in zome briars at his back. Then he zwore at the brembles, an' prick'd His beÄre hand, as he pull'd the hook free; An' ageÄn, in a rage, as he kick'd At the briars, wer a-scratch'd on the knee. An' he wish'd ev'ry bremble an' briar Wer o' vier, did Gruffmoody Grim. Oh! he's welcome, vor me, to breed dread Wherever his sheÄde mid alight, An' to live wi' noo me'th round his head, An' noo feÄce wi' a smile in his zight; But let vo'k be all merry an' zing At the he'th where my own logs do burn, An' let anger's wild vist never swing In where I have a door on his durn; Vor I'll be a happier man, While I can, than Gruffmoody Grim. To zit down by the vier at night, Is my jaÿ—vor I woon't call it pride,— Wi' a brand on the bricks, all alight, An' a pile o' zome mwore at the zide. Then tell me o' zome'hat that's droll, An' I'll laugh till my two zides do eÄche Or o' naÏghbours in sorrow o' soul, An' I'll tweil all the night vor their seÄke; An' show that to teÄke things amiss Idden bliss, to Gruffmoody Grim. An' then let my child clim' my lag, An' I'll lift en, wi' love, to my chin; Or my maÏd come an' coax me to bag Vor a frock, an' a frock she shall win; Or, then if my wife do meÄke light O' whatever the bwoys mid ha' broke, It wull seem but so small in my zight, As a leaf a-het down vrom a woak An' not meÄke me ceÄper an' froth Vull o' wrath, lik' Gruffmoody Grim. THE TURN O' THE DAYS.O the wings o' the rook wer a-glitterÈn bright, As he wheel'd on above, in the zun's evenÈn light, An' noo snow wer a-left, but in patches o' white, On the hill at the turn o' the days. An' along on the slope wer the beÄre-timber'd copse, Wi' the dry wood a-sheÄkÈn, wi' red-twiggÈd tops. Vor the dry-flowÈn wind, had a-blow'd off the drops O' the raÏn, at the turn o' the days. There the stream did run on, in the sheÄde o' the hill, So smooth in his flowÈn, as if he stood still, An' bright wi' the skylight, did slide to the mill, By the meÄds, at the turn o' the days. An' up by the copse, down along the hill brow, Wer vurrows a-cut down, by men out at plough, So straÏght as the zunbeams, a-shot drough the bough O' the tree at the turn o' the days. Then the boomÈn wold clock in the tower did mark His vive hours, avore the cool evenÈn wer dark, An' ivy did glitter a-clung round the bark O' the tree, at the turn o' the days. An' womÈn a-fraÏd o' the road in the night, Wer a-heÄstenÈn on to reach hwome by the light, A-castÈn long sheÄdes on the road, a-dried white, Down the hill, at the turn o' the days. The father an' mother did walk out to view The moss-bedded snow-drop, a-sprung in the lew, An' hear if the birds wer a-zingÈn anew, In the boughs, at the turn o' the days. An' young vo'k a-laughÈn wi' smooth glossy feÄce, Did hie over vields, wi' a light-vooted peÄce, To friends where the tow'r did betoken a pleÄce Among trees, at the turn o' the days. THE SPARROW CLUB.Last night the merry farmers' sons, Vrom biggest down to leÄst, min, Gi'ed in the work of all their guns, An' had their sparrow feÄst, min. An' who vor woone good merry soul Should goo to sheÄre their me'th, min, But Gammon Gaÿ, a chap so droll, He'd meÄke ye laugh to death, min. Vor heads o' sparrows they've a-shot They'll have a prize in cwein, min, That is, if they can meÄke their scot, Or else they'll paÿ a fine, min. An' all the money they can teÄke 'S a-gather'd up there-right, min, An' spent in meat an' drink, to meÄke A supper vor the night, min. Zoo when they took away the cloth, In middle of their din, min, An' cups o' eÄle begun to froth, Below their merry chin, min. An' when the zong, by turn or chaÏce, Went roun' vrom tongue to tongue, min, Then Gammon pitch'd his merry vaÏce, An' here's the zong he zung, min. Zong. If you'll but let your clackers rest Vrom jabberÈn an' hootÈn, I'll teÄke my turn, an' do my best, To zing o' sparrow shootÈn. Since every woone mus' pitch his key, An' zing a zong, in coo'se, lads, Why sparrow heads shall be to-day The heads o' my discoo'se, lads. We'll zend abroad our viery haÏl Till ev'ry foe's a-vled, lads, An' though the rogues mid all turn taÏl, We'll quickly show their head, lads. In corn, or out on oben ground, In bush, or up in tree, lads, If we don't kill em, I'll be bound, We'll meÄke their veathers vlee, lads. Zoo let the belted spwortsmen brag When they've a-won a neÄme, so's, That they do vind, or they do bag, Zoo many head o' geÄme, so's; Vor when our cwein is woonce a-won, By heads o' sundry sizes, Why, who can slight what we've a-done? We've all a-won head prizes. Then teÄke a drap vor harmless fun, But not enough to quarrel; Though where a man do like the gun, He can't but need the barrel. O' goodly feÄre, avore we'll start, We'll zit an' teÄke our vill, min; Our supper-bill can be but short, 'Tis but a sparrow-bill, min. GAMMONY GAÿ.Oh! thik Gammony Gaÿ is so droll, That if he's at hwome by the he'th, Or wi' vo'k out o' door, he's the soul O' the meetÈn vor antics an' me'th; He do cast off the thoughts ov ill luck As the water's a-shot vrom a duck; He do zing where his naÏghbours would cry He do laugh where the rest o's would sigh: Noo other's so merry o' feÄce, In the pleÄce, as Gammony Gaÿ. An' o' workÈn days, Oh! he do wear Such a funny roun' hat,—you mid know't— Wi' a brim all a-strout roun' his heÄir, An' his glissenÈn eyes down below't; An' a cwoat wi' broad skirts that do vlee In the wind ov his walk, round his knee; An' a peÄir o' girt pockets lik' bags, That do swing an' do bob at his lags: While me'th do walk out drough the pleÄce, In the feÄce o' Gammony Gaÿ. An' if he do goo over groun' Wi' noo soul vor to greet wi' his words, The feÄce o'n do look up an' down, An' round en so quick as a bird's; An' if he do vall in wi' vo'k, Why, tidden vor want ov a joke, If he don't zend em on vrom the pleÄce Wi' a smile or a grin on their feÄce: An' the young wi' the wold have a-heÄrd A kind word vrom Gammony Gaÿ. An' when he do whissel or hum, 'Ithout thinkÈn o' what he's a-doÈn, He'll beÄt his own lags vor a drum, An' bob his gaÿ head to the tuÈn; An' then you mid zee, 'etween whiles, His feÄce all alive wi' his smiles, An' his gaÿ-breathÈn bozom do rise, An' his me'th do sheen out ov his eyes: An' at last to have praÏse or have bleÄme, Is the seÄme to Gammony Gaÿ. When he drove his wold cart out, an' broke The nut o' the wheel at a butt. There wer "woo'se things," he cried, wi' a joke. "To grieve at than crackÈn a nut." An' when he tipp'd over a lwoad Ov his reed-sheaves woone day on the rwoad, Then he spet in his han's, out o' sleeves, An' whissel'd, an' flung up his sheaves, As very vew others can wag, EÄrm or lag, but Gammony Gaÿ. He wer wi' us woone night when the band Wer a-come vor to gi'e us a hop, An' he pull'd Grammer out by the hand All down drough the dance vrom the top; An' Grammer did hobble an' squall, Wi' Gammon a-leÄdÈn the ball; While Gammon did sheÄke up his knee An' his voot, an' zing "Diddle-ee-dee!" An' we laugh'd ourzelves all out o' breath At the me'th o' Gammony Gaÿ. When our tun wer' o' vier he rod Out to help us, an' meÄde us sich fun, Vor he clomb up to dreve in a wad O' wet thorns, to the he'th, vrom the tun; An' there he did stamp wi' his voot, To push down the thorns an' the zoot, Till at last down the chimney's black wall Went the wad, an' poor Gammon an' all: An' seÄfe on the he'th, wi' a grin On his chin pitch'd Gammony Gaÿ. All the house-dogs do waggle their taÏls, If they do but catch zight ov his feÄce; An' the ho'ses do look over raÏls, An' do whicker to zee'n at the pleÄce; An' he'll always bestow a good word On a cat or a whisselÈn bird; An' even if culvers do coo, Or an owl is a-cryÈn "Hoo, hoo," Where he is, there's always a joke To be spoke, by Gammony Gaÿ. THE HEARE.(Dree o'm a-ta'kÈn o't.)(1) There be the greyhounds! lo'k! an' there's the heÄre! (2) What houn's, the squier's, Thomas? where, then, where? (1) Why, out in Ash Hill, near the barn, behind Thik tree. (3) The pollard? (1) Pollard! no, b'ye blind? (2) There, I do zee em over-right thik cow. (3) The red woone? (1) No, a mile beyand her now. (3) Oh! there's the heÄre, a-meÄkÈn for the drong. (2) My goodness! How the dogs do zweep along, A-pokÈn out their pweinted noses' tips. (3) He can't allow hizzelf much time vor slips! (1) They'll hab'en, after all, I'll bet a crown. (2) Done vor a crown. They woon't! He's gwÄin to groun'. (3) He is! (1) He idden! (3) Ah! 'tis well his tooes Ha' got noo corns, inside o' hobnaÏl shoes. (1) He's geÄme a runnÈn too. Why, he do mwore Than eÄrn his life. (3) His life wer his avore. (1) There, now the dogs wull turn en. (2) No! He's right. (1) He idden! (2) Ees he is! (3) He's out o' zight. (1) Aye, aye. His mettle wull be well a-tried AgwaÏn down Verny Hill, o' tother zide. They'll have en there. (3) O no! a vew good hops Wull teÄke en on to Knapton Lower Copse. (2) An' that's a meesh that he've a-took avore. (3) Ees, that's his hwome. (1) He'll never reach his door. (2) He wull. (1) He woon't. (3) Now, hark, d'ye heÄr em now? (2) O! here's a bwoy a-come athirt the brow O' Knapton Hill. We'll ax en. (1) Here, my bwoy! Can'st tell us where's the heÄre? (4) He's got awoy. (2) Ees, got awoy, in coo'se, I never zeed A heÄre a-scotÈn on wi' half his speed. (1) Why, there, the dogs be wold, an' half a-done. They can't catch anything wi' lags to run. (2) Vrom vu'st to last they had but little chance O' catchÈn o'n. (3) They had a perty dance. (1) No, catch en, no! I little thought they would; He know'd his road too well to Knapton Wood. (3) No! no! I wish the squier would let me feÄre On rabbits till his hounds do catch thik heÄre. NANNY GILL.Ah! they wer times, when Nanny Gill Went so'jerÈn ageÄnst her will, Back when the King come down to view His ho'se an' voot, in red an' blue, An' they did march in rows, An' wheel in lines an' bows, Below the King's own nose; An' guns did pwoint, an' swords did gleÄre, A-fightÈn foes that werden there. Poor Nanny Gill did goo to zell In town her glitt'rÈn macarel, A-pack'd wi' ceÄre, in even lots, A-ho'seback in a peÄir o' pots. An' zoo when she did ride Between her panniers wide, Red-cloked in all her pride, Why, who but she, an' who but broke The road avore her scarlet cloke! But Nanny's ho'se that she did ride, Woonce carr'd a sword ageÄn his zide, An' had, to prick en into rank, A so'jer's spurs ageÄn his flank; An' zoo, when he got zight O' swords a-gleamÈn bright, An' men agwaÏn to fight, He set his eyes athirt the ground, An' prick'd his ears to catch the sound. Then Nanny gi'ed his zide a kick, An' het en wi' her limber stick; But suddenly a horn did sound, An' zend the ho'semen on vull bound; An' her ho'se at the zight Went after em, vull flight, Wi' Nanny in a fright, A-pullÈn, wi' a scream an' grin, Her wold brown raÏns to hold en in. But no! he went away vull bound, As vast as he could tear the ground, An' took, in line, a so'jer's pleÄce, Vor Nanny's cloke an' frighten'd feÄce; While vo'k did laugh an' shout To zee her cloke stream out, As she did wheel about, A-cryÈn, "Oh! la! dear!" in fright, The while her ho'se did plaÿ sham fight. MOONLIGHT ON THE DOOR.A-swaÿÈn slow, the poplar's head, Above the slopÈn thatch did ply, The while the midnight moon did shed His light below the spangled sky. An' there the road did reach avore The hatch, all vootless down the hill; An' hands, a-tired by day, wer still, Wi' moonlight on the door. A-boomÈn deep, did slowly sound The bell, a-tellÈn middle night; The while the quiv'rÈn ivy, round The tree, did sheÄke in softest light. But vootless wer the stwone avore The house where I, the maÏdens guest, At evenÈn, woonce did zit at rest By moonlight on the door. Though till the dawn, where night's a-meÄde The day, the laughÈn crowds be gaÿ, Let evenÈn zink wi' quiet sheÄde, Where I do hold my little swaÿ. An' childern dear to my heart's core, A-sleep wi' little heavÈn breast, That pank'd by day in plaÿ, do rest Wi' moonlight on the door. But still 'tis good, woonce now an' then To rove where moonlight on the land Do show in vaÏn, vor heedless men, The road, the vield, the work in hand. When curtains be a-hung avore The glitt'rÈn windows, snowy white, An' vine-leaf sheÄdes do sheÄke in light O' moonlight on the door. MY LOVE'S GUARDIAN ANGEL.As in the cool-aÏr'd road I come by, —in the night, Under the moon-clim'd height o' the sky, —in the night, There by the lime's broad lim's as I staÿ'd, Dark in the moonlight, bough's sheÄdows plaÿ'd Up on the window-glass that did keep Lew vrom the wind, my true love asleep, —in the night. While in the grey-wall'd height o' the tow'r, —in the night, Sounded the midnight bell wi' the hour, —in the night, There lo! a bright-heÄir'd angel that shed Light vrom her white robe's zilvery thread, Put her vore-vinger up vor to meÄke Silence around lest sleepers mid weÄke, —in the night. "Oh! then," I whisper'd, do I behold —in the night. Linda, my true-love, here in the cwold, —in the night?" "No," she meÄde answer, "you do misteÄke: She is asleep, but I that do weÄke, Here be on watch, an' angel a-blest, Over her slumber while she do rest, —in the night." "Zee how the winds, while here by the bough, —in the night, They do pass on, don't smite on her brow, —in the night; Zee how the cloud-sheÄdes naÏseless do zweep Over the house-top where she's asleep. You, too, goo by, in times that be near, You too, as I, mid speak in her ear —in the night." LEEBURN MILL,Ov all the meÄds wi' shoals an' pools, Where streams did sheÄke the limber zedge, An' milkÈn vo'k did teÄke their stools, In evenÈn zun-light under hedge: Ov all the wears the brook did vill, Or all the hatches where a sheet O' foam did leÄp below woone's veet, The pleÄce vor me wer Leeburn Mill. An' while below the mossy wheel All day the foamÈn stream did roar, An' up in mill the floatÈn meal Did pitch upon the sheÄkÈn vloor. We then could vind but vew han's still, Or veet a-restÈn off the ground, An' seldom hear the merry sound O' geÄmes a-play'd at Leeburn Mill. But when they let the stream goo free, Bezide the drippÈn wheel at rest, An' leaves upon the poplar-tree Wer dark avore the glowÈn west; An' when the clock, a-ringÈn sh'ill, Did slowly beÄt zome evenÈn hour, Oh! then 'ithin the leafy bow'r Our tongues did run at Leeburn Mill. An' when November's win' did blow, Wi' hufflÈn storms along the plaÏn, An' blacken'd leaves did lie below The neÄked tree, a-zoak'd wi' raÏn, I werden at a loss to vill The darkest hour o' raÏny skies, If I did vind avore my eyes The feÄces down at Leeburn Mill. PRAISE O' DO'SET.We Do'set, though we mid be hwomely, Be'nt asheÄm'd to own our pleÄce; An' we've zome women not uncomely; Nor asheÄm'd to show their feÄce: We've a meÄd or two wo'th mowÈn, We've an ox or two we'th showÈn, In the village, At the tillage, Come along an' you shall vind That Do'set men don't sheÄme their kind. Friend an' wife, Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, Happy, happy, be their life! Vor Do'set dear, Then gi'e woone cheer; D'ye hear? woone cheer! If you in Do'set be a-roamÈn, An' ha' business at a farm, Then woont ye zee your eÄle a-foamÈn! Or your cider down to warm? Woont ye have brown bread a-put ye, An' some vinny cheese a-cut ye? Butter?—rolls o't! Cream?—why bowls o't! Woont ye have, in short, your vill, A-gi'ed wi' a right good will? Friend an' wife, Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers. Happy, happy, be their life! Vor Do'set dear, Then gi'e woone cheer; D'ye hear? woone cheer! An' woont ye have vor ev'ry shillÈn, ShillÈn's wo'th at any shop, Though Do'set chaps be up to zellÈn, An' can meÄke a tidy swop? Use em well, they'll use you better; In good turns they woont be debtor. An' so comely, An' so hwomely, Be the maÏdens, if your son Took woone o'm, then you'd cry "Well done!" Friend an' wife, Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, Happy, happy, be their life! Vor Do'set dear, Then gi'e woone cheer; D'ye hear? woone cheer! If you do zee our good men travel, Down a-voot, or on their meÄres, Along the windÈn leÄnes o' gravel, To the markets or the feÄirs,— Though their ho'ses cwoats be ragged, Though the men be muddy-laggÈd, Be they roughish, Be they gruffish, They be sound, an' they will stand By what is right wi' heart an' hand. Friend an' wife, Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, Happy, happy, be their life! Vor Do'set dear, Then gi'e woone cheer; D'ye hear? woone cheer!
POEMS OF RURAL LIFE.
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