 
'Tree of Knowledge' and 'Tree of Life'
LONDON:KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER & Co., LTD.1903
TO THE READER.Kind Reader, Two of the three Collections of these Dorset Poems have been, for some time, out of print, and the whole of the three sets are now brought out in one volume. I have little more to say for them, than that the writing of them as glimpses of life and landscape in Dorset, which often open to my memory and mindsight, has given me very much pleasure; and my happiness would be enhanced if I could believe that you would feel my sketches to be so truthful and pleasing as to give you even a small share of pleasure, such as that of the memories from which I have written them. This edition has a list of such Dorset words as are found in the Poems, with some hints on Dorset word shapes, and I hope that they will be found a fully good key to the meanings of the verse. Yours kindly, June 1879.
O Poll's the milk-maÏd o' the farm! An' Poll's so happy out in groun', Wi' her white paÏl below her eÄrm As if she wore a goolden crown. An' Poll don't zit up half the night, Nor lie vor half the day a-bed; An' zoo her eyes be sparklÈn bright, An' zoo her cheÄks be bloomÈn red. In zummer mornÈns, when the lark Do rouse the litty lad an' lass To work, then she's the vu'st to mark Her steps along the dewy grass. An' in the evenÈn, when the zun Do sheen ageÄn the western brows O' hills, where bubblÈn brooks do run, There she do zing bezide her cows. An' ev'ry cow of hers do stand, An' never overzet her paÏl; Nor try to kick her nimble hand, Nor switch her wi' her heavy taÏl. Noo leÄdy, wi' her muff an' vaÏl, Do walk wi' sich a steÄtely tread As she do, wi' her milkÈn paÏl A-balanc'd on her comely head. An' she, at mornÈn an' at night, Do skim the yollow cream, an' mwold An' wring her cheeses red an' white, An' zee the butter vetch'd an' roll'd. An' in the barken or the ground, The chaps do always do their best To milk the vu'st their own cows round, An' then help her to milk the rest. Zoo Poll's the milk-maÏd o' the farm! An' Poll's so happy out in groun', Wi' her white paÏl below her eÄrm, As if she wore a goolden crown. THE GIRT WOAK TREE THAT'S IN THE DELL.The girt woak tree that's in the dell! There's noo tree I do love so well; Vor times an' times when I wer young, I there've a-climb'd, an' there've a-zwung, An' pick'd the eÄcorns green, a-shed In wrestlÈn storms vrom his broad head. An' down below's the cloty brook Where I did vish with line an' hook, An' beÄt, in plaÿsome dips and zwims, The foamy stream, wi' white-skinn'd lim's. An' there my mother nimbly shot Her knittÈn-needles, as she zot At evenÈn down below the wide Woak's head, wi' father at her zide. An' I've a-plaÿed wi' many a bwoy, That's now a man an' gone awoy; Zoo I do like noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell. An' there, in leÄter years, I roved Wi' thik poor maÏd I fondly lov'd,— The maÏd too feÄir to die so soon,— When evenÈn twilight, or the moon, Cast light enough 'ithin the pleÄce To show the smiles upon her feÄce, Wi' eyes so clear's the glassy pool, An' lips an' cheÄks so soft as wool. There han' in han', wi' bosoms warm, Wi' love that burn'd but thought noo harm, Below the wide-bough'd tree we past The happy hours that went too vast; An' though she'll never be my wife, She's still my leÄden star o' life. She's gone: an' she've a-left to me Her mem'ry in the girt woak tree; Zoo I do love noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell An' oh! mid never ax nor hook Be brought to spweil his steÄtely look; Nor ever roun' his ribby zides Mid cattle rub ther heÄiry hides; Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep His lwonesome sheÄde vor harmless sheep; An' let en grow, an' let en spread, An' let en live when I be dead. But oh! if men should come an' vell The girt woak tree that's in the dell, An' build his planks 'ithin the zide O' zome girt ship to plough the tide, Then, life or death! I'd goo to sea, A saÏlÈn wi' the girt woak tree: An' I upon his planks would stand, An' die a-fightÈn vor the land,— The land so dear,—the land so free,— The land that bore the girt woak tree; Vor I do love noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell. VELLEN O' THE TREE.Aye, the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun' Wer a-stannÈn this mornÈn, an' now's a-cut down. Aye, the girt elem tree, so big roun' an' so high, Where the mowers did goo to their drink, an' did lie In the sheÄde ov his head, when the zun at his heighth Had a-drove em vrom mowÈn, wi' het an' wi' drÎth, Where the haÿ-meÄkers put all their picks an' their reÄkes, An' did squot down to snabble their cheese an' their ceÄkes, An' did vill vrom their flaggons their cups wi' their eÄle, An' did meÄke theirzelves merry wi' joke an' wi' teÄle. Ees, we took up a rwope an' we tied en all round At the top o'n, wi' woone end a-hangÈn to ground, An' we cut, near the ground, his girt stem a'most drough, An' we bent the wold head o'n wi' woone tug or two; An' he sway'd all his limbs, an' he nodded his head, Till he vell away down like a pillar o' lead: An' as we did run vrom en, there; clwose at our backs, Oh! his boughs come to groun' wi' sich whizzes an' cracks; An' his top wer so lofty that, now he is down, The stem o'n do reach a-most over the groun'. Zoo the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun' Wer a-stannÈn this mornÈn, an' now's a-cut down. BRINGEN WOONE GWAÏN* O' ZUNDAYS.Ah! John! how I do love to look At theÄse green hollor, an' the brook Among the withies that do hide The stream, a-growÈn at the zide; An' at the road athirt the wide An' shallow vword, where we young bwoys Did peÄrt, when we did goo half-woys, To bring ye gwaÏn o' Zundays. Vor after church, when we got hwome, In evenÈn you did always come To spend a happy hour or two Wi' us, or we did goo to you; An' never let the comers goo Back hwome alwone, but always took A stroll down wi' em to the brook To bring em gwaÏn o' Zundays. How we did scote all down the groun', A-pushÈn woone another down! Or challengÈn o' zides in jumps Down over bars, an' vuzz, an' humps; An' peÄrt at last wi' slaps an' thumps, An' run back up the hill to zee Who'd get hwome soonest, you or we. That brought ye gwaÏn o' Zundays. O' leÄter years, John, you've a-stood My friend, an' I've a-done you good; But tidden, John, vor all that you Be now, that I do like ye zoo, But what you wer vor years agoo: Zoo if you'd stir my heart-blood now. Tell how we used to play, an' how You brought us gwaÏn o' Zundays. * "To bring woone gwaÏn,"—to bring one going; to bring one on his way. EVENÈN TWILIGHT.Ah! they vew zummers brought us round The happiest days that we've a-vound, When in the orcha'd, that did stratch To westward out avore the patch Ov high-bough'd wood, an' shelve to catch The western zun-light, we did meet Wi' merry tongues an' skippÈn veet At evenÈn in the twilight. The evenÈn aÏr did fan, in turn, The cheÄks the midday zun did burn. An' zet the russlÈn leaves at plaÿ, An' meÄke the red-stemm'd brembles sway In bows below the snow-white maÿ; An' whirlÈn roun' the trees, did sheÄke JeÄne's raven curls about her neck, They evenÈns in the twilight. An' there the yollow light did rest Upon the bank towÁrd the west, An' twitt'rÈn birds did hop in drough The hedge, an' many a skippÈn shoe Did beÄt the flowers, wet wi' dew, As underneÄth the tree's wide limb Our merry sheÄpes did jumpy, dim, They evenÈns in the twilight. How sweet's the evenÈn dusk to rove Along wi' woone that we do love! When light enough is in the sky To sheÄde the smile an' light the eye 'Tis all but heaven to be by; An' bid, in whispers soft an' light 'S the ruslÈn ov a leaf, "Good night," At evenÈn in the twilight. An' happy be the young an' strong, That can but work the whole day long So merry as the birds in spring; An' have noo ho vor any thing Another day mid teÄke or bring; But meet, when all their work's a-done, In orcha'd vor their bit o' fun At evenÈn in the twilight. EVENÈN IN THE VILLAGE.Now the light o' the west is a-turn'd to gloom, An' the men be at hwome vrom ground; An' the bells be a-zendÈn all down the Coombe From tower, their mwoansome sound. An' the wind is still, An' the house-dogs do bark, An' the rooks be a-vled to the elems high an' dark, An' the water do roar at mill. An' the flickerÈn light drough the window-peÄne Vrom the candle's dull fleÄme do shoot, An' young Jemmy the smith is a-gone down leÄne, A-plaÿÈn his shrill-vaÏced flute. An' the miller's man Do zit down at his ease On the seat that is under the cluster o' trees. Wi' his pipe an' his cider can. MAY.Come out o' door, 'tis Spring! 'tis Maÿ The trees be green, the vields be gaÿ; The weather's warm, the winter blast, Wi' all his traÏn o' clouds, is past; The zun do rise while vo'k do sleep, To teÄke a higher daily zweep, Wi' cloudless feÄce a-flingÈn down His sparklÈn light upon the groun'. The air's a-streamÈn soft,—come drow The windor open; let it blow In drough the house, where vire, an' door A-shut, kept out the cwold avore. Come, let the vew dull embers die, An' come below the open sky; An' wear your best, vor fear the groun' In colours gaÿ mid sheÄme your gown: An' goo an' rig wi' me a mile Or two up over geÄte an' stile, Drough zunny parrocks that do leÄd, Wi' crooked hedges, to the meÄd, Where elems high, in steÄtely ranks, Do rise vrom yollow cowslip-banks, An' birds do twitter vrom the spraÿ O' bushes deck'd wi' snow-white maÿ; An' gil'cups, wi' the deÄisy bed, Be under ev'ry step you tread. We'll wind up roun' the hill, an' look All down the thickly-timber'd nook, Out where the squier's house do show His grey-wall'd peaks up drough the row O' sheÄdy elems, where the rook Do build her nest; an' where the brook Do creep along the meÄds, an' lie To catch the brightness o' the sky; An' cows, in water to theÏr knees, Do stan' a-whiskÈn off the vlees. Mother o' blossoms, and ov all That's feÄir a-yield vrom Spring till Fall, The gookoo over white-weÄv'd seas Do come to zing in thy green trees, An' buttervlees, in giddy flight, Do gleÄm the mwost by thy gaÿ light Oh! when, at last, my fleshly eyes Shall shut upon the vields an' skies, Mid zummer's zunny days be gone, An' winter's clouds be comÈn on: Nor mid I draw upon the e'th, O' thy sweet aÏr my leÄtest breath; Alassen I mid want to staÿ Behine' for thee, O flow'ry May! BOB THE FIDDLER.Oh! Bob the fiddler is the pride O' chaps an' maÏdens vur an' wide; They can't keep up a merry tide, But Bob is in the middle. If merry Bob do come avore ye, He'll zing a zong, or tell a story; But if you'd zee en in his glory, Jist let en have a fiddle. Aye, let en tuck a crowd below His chin, an' gi'e his vist a bow, He'll dreve his elbow to an' fro', An' plaÿ what you do please. At MaypolÈn, or feÄst, or feÄir, His eÄrm wull zet off twenty peÄir, An' meÄke em dance the groun' dirt-beÄre, An' hop about lik' vlees. Long life to Bob! the very soul O' me'th at merry feÄst an' pole; Vor when the crowd do leÄve his jowl, They'll all be in the dumps. Zoo at the dance another year, At Shillinston or Hazelbur', Mid Bob be there to meÄke em stir, In merry jigs, their stumps! HOPE IN SPRINGIn happy times a while agoo, My lively hope, that's now a-gone Did stir my heart the whole year drough, But mwost when green-bough'd spring come on; When I did rove, wi' litty veet, Drough deÄisy-beds so white's a sheet, But still avore I us'd to meet The blushÈn cheÄks that bloom'd vor me! An' afterward, in lightsome youth, When zummer wer a-comÈn on, An' all the trees wer white wi' blooth, An' dippÈn zwallows skimm'd the pon'; Sweet hope did vill my heart wi' jaÿ, An' tell me, though thik spring wer gaÿ, There still would come a brighter Maÿ, Wi' blushÈn cheÄks to bloom vor me! An' when, at last, the time come roun', An' brought a lofty zun to sheen Upon my smilÈn Fanny, down Drough nēsh young leaves o' yollow green; How charmÈn wer the het that glow'd, How charmÈn wer the sheÄde a-drow'd, How charmÈn wer the win' that blow'd Upon her cheÄks that bloom'd vor me! But hardly did they times begin, Avore I vound em short to staÿ: An' year by year do now come in, To peÄrt me wider vrom my jaÿ, Vor what's to meet, or what's to peÄrt, Wi' maÏdens kind, or maÏdens smart, When hope's noo longer in the heart, An' cheÄks noo mwore do bloom vor me! But there's a worold still to bless The good, where zickness never rose; An' there's a year that's winterless, Where glassy waters never vroze; An' there, if true but e'thly love Do seem noo sin to God above, 'S a smilÈn still my harmless dove, So feÄir as when she bloom'd vor me! THE WHITE ROAD UP ATHIRT THE HILL.When hot-beam'd zuns do strik right down, An' burn our zweaty feÄzen brown; An' zunny slopes, a-lyÈn nigh, Be back'd by hills so blue's the sky; Then, while the bells do sweetly cheem Upon the champÈn high-neck'd team, How lively, wi' a friend, do seem The white road up athirt the hill. The zwellÈn downs, wi' chalky tracks A-climmÈn up their zunny backs, Do hide green meÄds an' zedgy brooks. An' clumps o' trees wi' glossy rooks, An' hearty vo'k to laugh an' zing, An' parish-churches in a string, Wi' tow'rs o' merry bells to ring, An' white roads up athirt the hills. At feÄst, when uncle's vo'k do come To spend the day wi' us at hwome, An' we do lay upon the bwoard The very best we can avvword, The wolder woones do talk an' smoke, An' younger woones do plaÿ an' joke, An' in the evenÈn all our vo'k Do bring em gwaÏn athirt the hill. An' while the green do zwarm wi' wold An' young, so thick as sheep in vwold, The bellows in the blacksmith's shop, An' miller's moss-green wheel do stop, An' lwonesome in the wheelwright's shed 'S a-left the wheelless waggon-bed; While zwarms o' comÈn friends do tread The white road down athirt the hill. An' when the windÈn road so white, A-climmÈn up the hills in zight, Do leÄd to pleÄzen, east or west, The vu'st a-known, an' lov'd the best, How touchÈn in the zunsheen's glow, Or in the sheÄdes that clouds do drow Upon the zunburnt downs below, 'S the white road up athirt the hill. What peaceful hollows here the long White roads do windy round among! Wi' deÄiry cows in woody nooks, An' haymeÄkers among their pooks, An' housen that the trees do screen From zun an' zight by boughs o' green! Young blushÈn beauty's hwomes between The white roads up athirt the hills. THE WOODY HOLLOW.If mem'ry, when our hope's a-gone, Could bring us dreams to cheat us on, Ov happiness our hearts voun' true In years we come too quickly drough; What days should come to me, but you, That burn'd my youthvul cheÄks wi' zuns O' zummer, in my plaÿsome runs About the woody hollow. When evenÈn's risÈn moon did peep Down drough the hollow dark an' deep, Where gigglÈn sweethearts meÄde their vows In whispers under waggÈn boughs; When whisslÈn bwoys, an' rott'lÈn ploughs Wer still, an' mothers, wi' their thin Shrill vaÏces, call'd their daughters in, From walkÈn in the hollow; What souls should come avore my zight, But they that had your zummer light? The litsome younger woones that smil'd Wi' comely feÄzen now a-spweil'd; Or wolder vo'k, so wise an' mild, That I do miss when I do goo To zee the pleÄce, an' walk down drough The lwonesome woody hollow? When wrongs an' overbearÈn words Do prick my bleedÈn heart lik' swords, Then I do try, vor Christes seÄke, To think o' you, sweet days! an' meÄke My soul as 'twer when you did weÄke My childhood's eyes, an' when, if spite Or grief did come, did die at night In sleep 'ithin the hollow. JENNY'S RIBBONS.Jean ax'd what ribbon she should wear 'Ithin her bonnet to the feÄir? She had woone white, a-gi'ed her when She stood at MeÄry's chrissenÈn; She had woone brown, she had woone red, A keepseÄke vrom her brother dead, That she did like to wear, to goo To zee his greÄve below the yew. She had woone green among her stock, That I'd a-bought to match her frock; She had woone blue to match her eyes, The colour o' the zummer skies, An' thik, though I do like the rest, Is he that I do like the best, Because she had en in her heÄir When vu'st I walk'd wi' her at feÄir. The brown, I zaid, would do to deck Thy heÄir; the white would match thy neck; The red would meÄke thy red cheÄk wan A-thinkÈn o' the gi'er gone; The green would show thee to be true; But still I'd sooner zee the blue, Because 'twer he that deck'd thy heÄir When vu'st I walk'd wi' thee at feÄir. Zoo, when she had en on, I took Her han' 'ithin my elbow's crook, An' off we went athirt the weir An' up the meÄd toward the feÄir; The while her mother, at the geÄte, Call'd out an' bid her not staÿ leÄte, An' she, a-smilÈn wi' her bow O' blue, look'd roun' and nodded, No.
wavy rule
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