Chapter 10

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.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

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 [=o]'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.

SECOND COLLECTION.

BLACKMWORE MAIDENS.

The primrwose in the sheäde do blow, The cowslip in the zun, The thyme upon the down do grow, The clote where streams do run; An' where do pretty maïdens grow An' blow, but where the tow'r Do rise among the bricken tuns, In Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you could zee their comely gaït, An' prettÿ feäces' smiles, A-trippèn on so light o' waïght, An' steppèn off the stiles; A-gwaïn to church, as bells do swing An' ring 'ithin the tow'r, You'd own the pretty maïdens' pleäce Is Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you vrom Wimborne took your road, To Stower or Paladore, An' all the farmers' housen show'd Their daughters at the door; You'd cry to bachelors at hwome-- "Here, come: 'ithin an hour You'll vind ten maïdens to your mind, In Blackmwore by the Stour."

An' if you look'd 'ithin their door, To zee em in their pleäce, A-doèn housework up avore Their smilèn mother's feäce; You'd cry--"Why, if a man would wive An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r, Then let en look en out a wife In Blackmwore by the Stour."

As I upon my road did pass A school-house back in Maÿ, There out upon the beäten grass Wer maïdens at their plaÿ; An' as the pretty souls did tweil An' smile, I cried, "The flow'r O' beauty, then, is still in bud In Blackmwore by the Stour."

MY ORCHA'D IN LINDEN LEA.

'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleäded, By the woak tree's mossy moot, The sheenèn grass-bleädes, timber-sheäded, Now do quiver under voot; An' birds do whissle over head, An' water's bubblèn in its bed, An' there vor me the apple tree Do leän down low in Linden Lea.

When leaves that leätely wer a-springèn Now do feäde 'ithin the copse, An' païnted birds do hush their zingèn Up upon the timber's tops; An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnèn red, In cloudless zunsheen, over head, Wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree Do leän down low in Linden Lea.

Let other vo'k meäke money vaster In the aïr o' dark-room'd towns, I don't dread a peevish meäster; Though noo man do heed my frowns, I be free to goo abrode, Or teäke ageän my hwomeward road To where, vor me, the apple tree Do leän down low in Linden Lea.

BISHOP'S CAUNDLE.

At peace day, who but we should goo To Caundle vor an' hour or two: As gaÿ a day as ever broke Above the heads o' Caundle vo'k, Vor peace, a-come vor all, did come To them wi' two new friends at hwome. Zoo while we kept, wi' nimble peäce, The wold dun tow'r avore our feäce, The aïr, at last, begun to come Wi' drubbèns ov a beäten drum; An' then we heärd the horns' loud droats Plaÿ off a tuen's upper notes; An' then ageän a-risèn cheärm Vrom tongues o' people in a zwarm: An' zoo, at last, we stood among The merry feäces o' the drong. An' there, wi' garlands all a-tied In wreaths an' bows on every zide, An' color'd flags, a fluttrèn high An' bright avore the sheenèn sky, The very guide-post wer a-drest Wi' posies on his eärms an' breast. At last, the vo'k zwarm'd in by scores An' hundreds droo the high barn-doors, To dine on English feäre, in ranks, A-zot on chairs, or stools, or planks, By bwoards a-reachèn, row an' row, Wi' cloths so white as driven snow. An' while they took, wi' merry cheer, Their pleäces at the meat an' beer, The band did blow an' beät aloud Their merry tuèns to the crowd; An' slowly-zwingèn flags did spread Their hangèn colors over head. An' then the vo'k, wi' jaÿ an' pride, Stood up in stillness, zide by zide, Wi' downcast heads, the while their friend Rose up avore the teäble's end, An' zaid a timely greäce, an' blest The welcome meat to every guest. An' then arose a mingled naïse O' knives an' pleätes, an' cups an' traÿs, An' tongues wi' merry tongues a-drown'd Below a deaf'nèn storm o' sound. An' zoo, at last, their worthy host Stood up to gi'e em all a twoast, That they did drink, wi' shouts o' glee, An' whirlèn eärms to dree times dree. An' when the bwoards at last wer beäre Ov all the cloths an' goodly feäre, An' froth noo longer rose to zwim Within the beer-mugs sheenèn rim, The vo'k, a-streamèn drough the door, Went out to geämes they had in store An' on the blue-reäv'd waggon's bed, Above his vower wheels o' red, Musicians zot in rows, an' plaÿ'd Their tuèns up to chap an' maïd, That beät, wi' plaÿsome tooes an' heels, The level ground in nimble reels. An' zome ageän, a-zet in line, An' startèn at a given sign, Wi' outreach'd breast, a-breathèn quick Droo op'nèn lips, did nearly kick Their polls, a-runnèn sich a peäce, Wi' streamèn heäir, to win the reäce. An' in the house, an' on the green, An' in the shrubb'ry's leafy screen, On ev'ry zide we met sich lots O' smilèn friends in happy knots, That I do think, that drough the feäst In Caundle, vor a day at leäst, You woudden vind a scowlèn feäce Or dumpy heart in all the pleäce.

HAY MEAKEN--NUNCHEN TIME.

_Anne an' John a-ta'kèn o't._

A. Back here, but now, the jobber John Come by, an' cried, "Well done, zing on, I thought as I come down the hill, An' heärd your zongs a-ringèn sh'ill, Who woudden like to come, an' fling A peäir o' prongs where you did zing?"

J. Aye, aye, he woudden vind it plaÿ, To work all day a-meäkèn haÿ, Or pitchèn o't, to eärms a-spread By lwoaders, yards above his head, 'T'ud meäke en wipe his drippèn brow.

A. Or else a-reäken after plow.

J. Or workèn, wi' his nimble pick, A-stiffled wi' the haÿ, at rick.

A. Our Company would suit en best, When we do teäke our bit o' rest, At nunch, a-gather'd here below The sheäde theäse wide-bough'd woak do drow, Where hissèn froth mid rise, an' float In horns o' eäle, to wet his droat.

J. Aye, if his zwellèn han' could drag A meat-slice vrom his dinner bag. 'T'ud meäke the busy little chap Look rather glum, to zee his lap Wi' all his meal ov woone dry croust, An' vinny cheese so dry as doust.

A. Well, I don't grumble at my food, 'Tis wholesome, John, an' zoo 'tis good.

J. Whose reäke is that a-lyèn there? Do look a bit the woo'se vor wear.

A. Oh! I mus' get the man to meäke A tooth or two vor thik wold reäke, 'Tis leäbour lost to strik a stroke Wi' him, wi' half his teeth a-broke.

J. I should ha' thought your han' too fine To break your reäke, if I broke mine.

A. The ramsclaws thin'd his wooden gum O' two teeth here, an' here were zome That broke when I did reäke a patch O' groun' wi' Jimmy, vor a match: An' here's a gap ov woone or two A-broke by Simon's clumsy shoe, An' when I gi'ed his poll a poke, Vor better luck, another broke. In what a veag have you a-swung Your pick, though, John? His stem's a-sprung.

J. When I an' Simon had a het O' pookèn, yonder, vor a bet, The prongs o'n gi'ed a tump a poke, An' then I vound the stem a-broke, Bût they do meäke the stems o' picks O' stuff so brittle as a kicks.

A. There's poor wold Jeäne, wi' wrinkled skin, A-tellèn, wi' her peakèd chin, Zome teäle ov her young days, poor soul. Do meäke the young-woones smile. 'Tis droll. What is it? Stop, an' let's goo near. I do like theäse wold teäles. Let's hear.

A FATHER OUT, AN' MOTHER HWOME.

The snow-white clouds did float on high In shoals avore the sheenèn sky, An' runnèn weäves in pon' did cheäse Each other on the water's feäce, As hufflèn win' did blow between The new-leav'd boughs o' sheenèn green. An' there, the while I walked along The path, drough leäze, above the drong, A little maïd, wi' bloomèn feäce, Went on up hill wi' nimble peäce, A-leänèn to the right-han' zide, To car a basket that did ride, A-hangèn down, wi' all his heft, Upon her elbow at her left. An' yet she hardly seem'd to bruise The grass-bleädes wi' her tiny shoes, That pass'd each other, left an' right. In steps a'most too quick vor zight. But she'd a-left her mother's door A-bearèn vrom her little store Her father's welcome bit o' food, Where he wer out at work in wood; An' she wer bless'd wi' mwore than zwome-- A father out, an' mother hwome.