Chapter 11

An' there, a-vell'd 'ithin the copse, Below the timber's new-leav'd tops, Wer ashèn poles, a-castèn straïght, On primrwose beds, their langthy waïght; Below the yollow light, a-shed Drough boughs upon the vi'let's head, By climèn ivy, that did reach, A sheenèn roun' the dead-leav'd beech. An' there her father zot, an' meäde His hwomely meal bezide a gleäde; While she, a-croopèn down to ground, Did pull the flowers, where she vound The droopèn vi'let out in blooth, Or yollow primrwose in the lewth, That she mid car em proudly back, An' zet em on her mother's tack; Vor she wer bless'd wi' mwore than zwome-- A father out, an' mother hwome. A father out, an' mother hwome, Be blessèns soon a-lost by zome; A-lost by me, an' zoo I pray'd They mid be speär'd the little maïd.

RIDDLES.

_Anne an' Joey a-ta'ken._

A. A plague! theäse cow wont stand a bit, Noo sooner do she zee me zit Ageän her, than she's in a trot, A-runnèn to zome other spot.

J. Why 'tis the dog do sceäre the cow, He worried her a-vield benow.

A. Goo in, Ah! _Liplap_, where's your taïl!

J. He's off, then up athirt the raïl. Your cow there, Anne's a-come to hand A goodish milcher. A. If she'd stand, But then she'll steäre an' start wi' fright To zee a dumbledore in flight. Last week she het the païl a flought, An' flung my meal o' milk half out.

J. Ha! Ha! But Anny, here, what lout Broke half your small païl's bottom out?

A. What lout indeed! What, do ye own The neäme? What dropp'd en on a stwone?

J. Hee! Hee! Well now he's out o' trim Wi' only half a bottom to en; Could you still vill en' to the brim An' yit not let the milk run drough en?

A. Aye, as for nonsense, Joe, your head Do hold it all so tight's a blather, But if 'tis any good, do shed It all so leäky as a lather. Could you vill païls 'ithout a bottom, Yourself that be so deeply skill'd?

J. Well, ees, I could, if I'd a-got em Inside o' bigger woones a-vill'd.

A. La! that _is_ zome'hat vor to hatch! Here answer me theäse little catch. Down under water an' o' top o't I went, an' didden touch a drop o't,

J. Not when at mowèn time I took An' pull'd ye out o' Longmeäd brook, Where you'd a-slidder'd down the edge An' zunk knee-deep bezide the zedge, A-tryèn to reäke out a clote.

A. Aye I do hear your chucklèn droat When I athirt the brudge did bring Zome water on my head vrom spring. Then under water an' o' top o't, Wer I an' didden touch a drop o't.

J. O Lauk! What thik wold riddle still, Why that's as wold as Duncliffe Hill; "A two-lagg'd thing do run avore An' run behind a man, An' never run upon his lags Though on his lags do stan'." What's that? I don't think you do know. There idden sich a thing to show. Not know? Why yonder by the stall 'S a wheel-barrow bezide the wall, Don't he stand on his lags so trim, An' run on nothèn but his wheels wold rim.

A. There's _horn_ vor Goodman's eye-zight seäke; There's _horn_ vor Goodman's mouth to teäke; There's _horn_ vor Goodman's ears, as well As _horn_ vor Goodman's nose to smell-- What _horns_ be they, then? Do your hat Hold wit enough to tell us that?

J. Oh! _horns_! but no, I'll tell ye what, My cow is hornless, an' she's _knot_.

A. _Horn_ vor the _mouth's_ a hornèn cup.

J. An' eäle's good stuff to vill en up.

A. An' _horn_ vor _eyes_ is horn vor light, Vrom Goodman's lantern after night; _Horn_ vor the _ears_ is woone to sound Vor hunters out wi' ho'se an' hound; But _horn_ that vo'k do buy to smell o' Is _hart's-horn_. J. Is it? What d'ye tell o' How proud we be, vor ben't we smart? Aye, _horn_ is _horn_, an' hart is hart. Well here then, Anne, while we be at it, 'S a ball vor you if you can bat it. On dree-lags, two-lags, by the zide O' vower-lags, woonce did zit wi' pride, When vower-lags, that velt a prick, Vrom zix-lags, het two lags a kick. An' two an' dree-lags vell, all vive, Slap down, zome dead an' zome alive.

A. Teeh! heeh! what have ye now then, Joe, At last, to meäke a riddle o'?

J. Your dree-lagg'd stool woone night did bear Up you a milkèn wi' a peäir; An' there a zix-lagg'd stout did prick Your vow'r-lagg'd cow, an meäke her kick, A-hettèn, wi' a pretty pat, Your stool an' you so flat's a mat. You scrambled up a little dirty, But I do hope it didden hurt ye.

A. You hope, indeed! a likely ceäse, Wi' thik broad grin athirt your feäce You saucy good-vor-nothèn chap, I'll gi'e your grinnèn feäce a slap, Your drawlèn tongue can only run To turn a body into fun.

J. Oh! I woont do 't ageän. Oh dear! Till next time, Anny. Oh my ear! Oh! Anne, why you've a-het my hat 'Ithin the milk, now look at that.

A. Do sar ye right, then, I don't ceäre. I'll thump your noddle,--there--there--there.

DAY'S WORK A-DONE.

And oh! the jaÿ our rest did yield, At evenèn by the mossy wall, When we'd a-work'd all day a-vield, While zummer zuns did rise an' vall; As there a-lettèn Goo all frettèn, An' vorgettèn all our tweils, We zot among our childern's smiles.

An' under skies that glitter'd white, The while our smoke, arisèn blue, Did melt in aiër, out o' zight, Above the trees that kept us lew; Wer birds a-zingèn, Tongues a-ringèn, Childern springèn, vull o' jaÿ, A-finishèn the day in plaÿ.

An' back behind, a-stannèn tall, The cliff did sheen to western light; An' while avore the water-vall, A-rottlèn loud, an' foamèn white. The leaves did quiver, Gnots did whiver, By the river, where the pool, In evenèn aïr did glissen cool.

An' childern there, a-runnèn wide, Did plaÿ their geämes along the grove, Vor though to us 'twer jaÿ to bide At rest, to them 'twer jaÿ to move. The while my smilèn Jeäne, beguilèn, All my tweilèn, wi' her ceäre, Did call me to my evenèn feäre.

LIGHT OR SHEÄDE.

A Maÿtide's evenèn wer a-dyèn, Under moonsheen, into night, Wi' a streamèn wind a-sighèn By the thorns a-bloomèn white. Where in sheäde, a-zinkèn deeply, Wer a nook, all dark but lew, By a bank, arisèn steeply, Not to let the win' come drough.

Should my love goo out, a-showèn All her smiles, in open light; Or, in lewth, wi' wind a-blowèn, Staÿ in darkness, dim to zight? Staÿ in sheäde o' bank or wallèn, In the warmth, if not in light; Words alwone vrom her a-vallèn, Would be jaÿ vor all the night.

THE WAGGON A-STOODED.

_Dree o'm a-ta'kèn o't._

(1) Well, here we be, then, wi' the vu'st poor lwoad O' vuzz we brought, a-stoodèd in the road.

(2) The road, George, no. There's na'r a road. That's wrong. If we'd a road, we mid ha' got along.

(1) Noo road! Ees 'tis, the road that we do goo.

(2) Do goo, George, no. The pleäce we can't get drough.

(1) Well, there, the vu'st lwoad we've a-haul'd to day Is here a-stoodèd in theäse bed o' clay. Here's rotten groun'! an' how the wheels do cut! The little woone's a-zunk up to the nut.

(3) An' yeet this rotten groun' don't reach a lug.

(1) Well, come, then, gi'e the plow another tug.

(2) They meäres wull never pull the waggon out, A-lwoaded, an' a-stoodèd in thik rout.

(3) We'll try. Come, _Smiler_, come! C'up, _Whitevoot_, gee!

(2) White-voot wi' lags all over mud! Hee! Hee!

(3) 'Twoon't wag. We shall but snap our gear, An' overstraïn the meäres. 'Twoon't wag, 'tis clear.

(1) That's your work, William. No, in coo'se, 'twoon't wag. Why did ye dr[=e]ve en into theäse here quag? The vore-wheels be a-zunk above the nuts.

(3) What then? I coulden leäve the beäten track, To turn the waggon over on the back Ov woone o' theäsem wheel-high emmet-butts. If you be sich a dr[=e]ver, an' do know't, You dr[=e]ve the plow, then; but you'll overdrow 't.

(1) I dr[=e]ve the plow, indeed! Oh! ees, what, now The wheels woont wag, then, _I_ mid dr[=e]ve the plow! We'd better dig away the groun' below The wheels. (2) There's na'r a speäde to dig wi'.

(1) An' teäke an' cut a lock o' frith, an' drow Upon the clay. (2) Nor hook to cut a twig wi'.

(1) Oh! here's a bwoy a-comèn. Here, my lad, Dost know vor a'r a speäde, that can be had?

(B) At father's. (1) Well, where's that? (Bwoy) At Sam'el Riddick's.

(1) Well run, an' ax vor woone. Fling up your heels, An' mind: a speäde to dig out theäsem wheels, An' hook to cut a little lock o' widdicks.

(3) Why, we shall want zix ho'ses, or a dozen, To pull the waggon out, wi' all theäse vuzzen.

(1) Well, we mus' lighten en; come, Jeämes, then, hop Upon the lwoad, an' jus' fling off the top.

(2) If I can clim' en; but 'tis my consaït, That I shall overzet en wi' my waïght.

(1) You overzet en! No, Jeämes, he won't vall, The lwoad's a-built so firm as any wall.

(2) Here! lend a hand or shoulder vor my knee Or voot. I'll scramble to the top an' zee What I can do. Well, here I be, among The fakkets, vor a bit, but not vor long. Heigh, George! Ha! ha! Why this wull never stand. Your firm 's a wall, is all so loose as zand; 'Tis all a-come to pieces. Oh! Teäke ceäre! Ho! I'm a-vallèn, vuzz an' all! Haë! There!

(1) Lo'k there, thik fellor is a-vell lik' lead, An' half the fuzzen wi 'n, heels over head! There's all the vuzz a-lyèn lik' a staddle, An' he a-deäb'd wi' mud. Oh! Here's a caddle!

(3) An' zoo you soon got down zome vuzzen, Jimmy.

(2) Ees, I do know 'tis down. I brought it wi' me.

(3) Your lwoad, George, wer a rather slick-built thing, But there, 'twer prickly vor the hands! Did sting?

(1) Oh! ees, d'ye teäke me vor a nincompoop, No, no. The lwoad wer up so firm's a rock, But two o' theäsem emmet-butts would knock The tightest barrel nearly out o' hoop.

(3) Oh! now then, here 's the bwoy a-bringèn back The speäde. Well done, my man. That idder slack.

(2) Well done, my lad, sha't have a ho'se to ride When thou'st a meäre. (Bwoy) Next never's-tide.

(3) Now let's dig out a spit or two O' clay, a-vore the little wheels; Oh! so's, I can't pull up my heels, I be a-stogg'd up over shoe.

(1) Come, William, dig away! Why you do spuddle A'most so weak's a child. How you do muddle! Gi'e me the speäde a-bit. A pig would rout It out a'most so nimbly wi' his snout.

(3) Oh! so's, d'ye hear it, then. How we can thunder! How big we be, then George! what next I wonder?

(1) Now, William, gi'e the waggon woone mwore twitch, The wheels be free, an' 'tis a lighter nitch.

(3) Come, _Smiler_, gee! C'up, _White-voot_. (1) That wull do.

(2) Do wag. (1) Do goo at last. (3) Well done. 'Tis drough.

(1) Now, William, till you have mwore ho'ses' lags, Don't dr[=e]ve the waggon into theäsem quags.

(3) You build your lwoads up tight enough to ride.

(1) I can't do less, d'ye know, wi' you vor guide.

GWAÏN DOWN THE STEPS VOR WATER.

While zuns do roll vrom east to west To bring us work, or leäve us rest, There down below the steep hill-zide, Drough time an' tide, the spring do flow; An' mothers there, vor years a-gone, Lik' daughters now a-comèn on, To bloom when they be weak an' wan, Went down the steps vor water.

An' what do yonder ringers tell A-ringèn changes, bell by bell; Or what's a-show'd by yonder zight O' vo'k in white, upon the road, But that by John o' Woodleys zide, There's now a-blushèn vor his bride, A pretty maïd that vu'st he spied, Gwaïn down the steps vor water.

Though she, 'tis true, is feäir an' kind, There still be mwore a-left behind; So cleän 's the light the zun do gi'e, So sprack 's a bee when zummer's bright; An' if I've luck, I woont be slow To teäke off woone that I do know, A-trippèn gaïly to an' fro, Upon the steps vor water.

Her father idden poor--but vew In parish be so well to do; Vor his own cows do swing their taïls Behind his païls, below his boughs: An' then ageän to win my love, Why, she's as hwomely as a dove, An' don't hold up herzelf above Gwaïn down the steps vor water.

Gwaïn down the steps vor water! No! How handsome it do meäke her grow. If she'd be straïght, or walk abrode, To tread her road wi' comely gaït, She coulden do a better thing To zet herzelf upright, than bring Her pitcher on her head, vrom spring Upon the steps, wi' water.

No! don't ye neäme in woone seäme breath Wi' bachelors, the husband's he'th; The happy pleäce, where vingers thin Do pull woone's chin, or pat woone's feäce. But still the bleäme is their's, to slight Their happiness, wi' such a zight O' maïdens, mornèn, noon, an' night, A-gwaïn down steps vor water.

ELLEN BRINE OV ALLENBURN.

Noo soul did hear her lips complaïn, An' she's a-gone vrom all her païn, An' others' loss to her is gaïn For she do live in heaven's love; Vull many a longsome day an' week She bore her aïlèn, still, an' meek; A-workèn while her strangth held on, An' guidèn housework, when 'twer gone. Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn, Oh! there be souls to murn.

The last time I'd a-cast my zight Upon her feäce, a-feäded white, Wer in a zummer's mornèn light In hall avore the smwold'rèn vier, The while the childern beät the vloor, In plaÿ, wi' tiny shoes they wore, An' call'd their mother's eyes to view The feät's their little limbs could do. Oh! Ellen Brine ov Allenburn, They childern now mus' murn.

Then woone, a-stoppèn vrom his reäce, Went up, an' on her knee did pleäce His hand, a-lookèn in her feäce, An' wi' a smilèn mouth so small, He zaid, "You promised us to goo To Shroton feäir, an' teäke us two!" She heärd it wi' her two white ears, An' in her eyes there sprung two tears, Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn Did veel that they mus' murn.

September come, wi' Shroton feäir, But Ellen Brine wer never there! A heavy heart wer on the meäre Their father rod his hwomeward road. 'Tis true he brought zome feärèns back, Vor them two childern all in black; But they had now, wi' plaÿthings new, Noo mother vor to shew em to, Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn Would never mwore return.

THE MOTHERLESS CHILD.

The zun'd a-zet back tother night, But in the zettèn pleäce The clouds, a-redden'd by his light, Still glow'd avore my feäce. An' I've a-lost my Meäry's smile, I thought; but still I have her chile, Zoo like her, that my eyes can treäce The mother's in her daughter's feäce. O little feäce so near to me, An' like thy mother's gone; why need I zay Sweet night cloud, wi' the glow o' my lost day, Thy looks be always dear to me. The zun'd a-zet another night; But, by the moon on high, He still did zend us back his light Below a cwolder sky. My Meäry's in a better land I thought, but still her chile's at hand, An' in her chile she'll zend me on Her love, though she herzelf's a-gone. O little chile so near to me, An' like thy mother gone; why need I zay, Sweet moon, the messenger vrom my lost day, Thy looks be always dear to me.

THE LEÄDY'S TOWER.

An' then we went along the gleädes O' zunny turf, in quiv'rèn sheädes, A-windèn off, vrom hand to hand, Along a path o' yollow zand, An' clomb a stickle slope, an' vound An open patch o' lofty ground, Up where a steätely tow'r did spring, So high as highest larks do zing.

"Oh! Meäster Collins," then I zaid, A-lookèn up wi' back-flung head; Vor who but he, so mild o' feäce, Should teäke me there to zee the pleäce. "What is it then theäse tower do meän, A-built so feäir, an' kept so cleän?" "Ah! me," he zaid, wi' thoughtvul feäce, "'Twer grief that zet theäse tower in pleäce. The squier's e'thly life's a-blest Wi' gifts that mwost do teäke vor best; The lofty-pinion'd rufs do rise To screen his head vrom stormy skies; His land's a-spreadèn roun' his hall, An' hands do leäbor at his call; The while the ho'se do fling, wi' pride, His lofty head where he do guide; But still his e'thly jaÿ's a-vled, His woone true friend, his wife, is dead. Zoo now her happy soul's a-gone, An' he in grief's a-ling'rèn on, Do do his heart zome good to show His love to flesh an' blood below. An' zoo he rear'd, wi' smitten soul, Theäse Leädy's Tower upon the knowl. An' there you'll zee the tow'r do spring Twice ten veet up, as roun's a ring, Wi' pillars under mwolded eäves, Above their heads a-carv'd wi' leaves; An' have to peäce, a-walkèn round His voot, a hunderd veet o' ground. An' there, above his upper wall, A roundèd tow'r do spring so tall 'S a springèn arrow shot upright, A hunderd giddy veet in height. An' if you'd like to straïn your knees A-climèn up above the trees, To zee, wi' slowly wheelèn feäce, The vur-sky'd land about the pleäce, You'll have a flight o' steps to wear Vor forty veet, up steäir by steäir, That roun' the risèn tow'r do wind, Like withwind roun' the saplèn's rind, An' reach a landèn, wi' a seat, To rest at last your weary veet, 'Ithin a breast be-screenèn wall, To keep ye vrom a longsome vall. An' roun' the windèn steäirs do spring Aïght stwonèn pillars in a ring, A-reachèn up their heavy strangth Drough forty veet o' slender langth, To end wi' carvèd heads below The broad-vloor'd landèn's aïry bow. Aïght zides, as you do zee, do bound The lower buildèn on the ground, An' there in woone, a two-leav'd door Do zwing above the marble vloor: An' aÿe, as luck do zoo betide Our comèn, wi' can goo inside. The door is oben now. An' zoo The keeper kindly let us drough. There as we softly trod the vloor O' marble stwone, 'ithin the door, The echoes ov our vootsteps vled Out roun' the wall, and over head; An' there a-païnted, zide by zide, In memory o' the squier's bride, In zeven païntèns, true to life, Wer zeven zights o' wedded life."

Then Meäster Collins twold me all The teäles a-païntèd roun' the wall; An' vu'st the bride did stan' to plight Her weddèn vow, below the light A-shootèn down, so bright's a fleäme, In drough a churches window freäme. An' near the bride, on either hand, You'd zee her comely bridemaïds stand, Wi' eyelashes a-bent in streäks O' brown above their bloomèn cheäks: An' sheenèn feäir, in mellow light, Wi' flowèn heäir, an' frocks o' white.

"An' here," good Meäster Collins cried, "You'll zee a creädle at her zide, An' there's her child, a-lyèn deep 'Ithin it, an' a-gone to sleep, Wi' little eyelashes a-met In fellow streäks, as black as jet; The while her needle, over head, Do nimbly leäd the snow-white thread, To zew a robe her love do meäke Wi' happy leäbor vor his seäke.

"An' here a-geän's another pleäce, Where she do zit wi' smilèn feäce, An' while her bwoy do leän, wi' pride, Ageän her lap, below her zide, Her vinger tip do leäd his look To zome good words o' God's own book.

"An' next you'll zee her in her pleäce, Avore her happy husband's feäce, As he do zit, at evenèn-tide, A-restèn by the vier-zide. An' there the childern's heads do rise Wi' laughèn lips, an' beamèn eyes, Above the bwoard, where she do lay Her sheenèn tacklèn, wi' the tea.

"An' here another zide do show Her vinger in her scizzars' bow Avore two daughters, that do stand, Wi' leärnsome minds, to watch her hand A-sheäpèn out, wi' skill an' ceäre, A frock vor them to zew an' wear.

"Then next you'll zee her bend her head Above her aïlèn husband's bed, A-fannèn, wi' an inward praÿ'r, His burnèn brow wi' beäten aïr; The while the clock, by candle light, Do show that 'tis the dead o' night.

"An' here ageän upon the wall, Where we do zee her last ov all, Her husband's head's a-hangèn low, 'Ithin his hands in deepest woe. An' she, an angel ov his God, Do cheer his soul below the rod, A-liftèn up her han' to call His eyes to writèn on the wall, As white as is her spotless robe, 'Hast thou rememberèd my servant Job?'

"An' zoo the squier, in grief o' soul, Built up the Tower upon the knowl."

FATHERHOOD.

Let en zit, wi' his dog an' his cat, Wi' their noses a-turn'd to the vier, An' have all that a man should desire; But there idden much reädship in that. Whether vo'k mid have childern or no, Wou'dden meäke mighty odds in the maïn; They do bring us mwore jaÿ wi' mwore ho, An' wi' nwone we've less jaÿ wi' less païn We be all lik' a zull's idle sheäre out, An' shall rust out, unless we do wear out, Lik' do-nothèn, rue-nothèn, Dead alive dumps.

As vor me, why my life idden bound To my own heart alwone, among men; I do live in myzelf, an' ageän In the lives o' my childern all round: I do live wi' my bwoy in his plaÿ, An' ageän wi' my maïd in her zongs; An' my heart is a-stirr'd wi' their jaÿ, An' would burn at the zight o' their wrongs. I ha' nine lives, an' zoo if a half O'm do cry, why the rest o'm mid laugh All so plaÿvully, jaÿvully, Happy wi' hope.

Tother night I come hwome a long road, When the weather did sting an' did vreeze; An' the snow--vor the day had a-snow'd-- Wer avroze on the boughs o' the trees; An' my tooes an' my vingers wer num', An' my veet wer so lumpy as logs, An' my ears wer so red's a cock's cwom'; An' my nose wer so cwold as a dog's; But so soon's I got hwome I vorgot Where my limbs wer a-cwold or wer hot, When wi' loud cries an' proud cries They coll'd me so cwold.

Vor the vu'st that I happen'd to meet Come to pull my girtcwoat vrom my eärm, An' another did rub my feäce warm, An' another hot-slipper'd my veet; While their mother did cast on a stick, Vor to keep the red vier alive; An' they all come so busy an' thick As the bees vlee-èn into their hive, An' they meäde me so happy an' proud, That my heart could ha' crow'd out a-loud; They did tweil zoo, an' smile zoo, An' coll me so cwold.

As I zot wi' my teacup, at rest, There I pull'd out the taÿs I did bring; Men a-kickèn, a-wagg'd wi' a string, An' goggle-ey'd dolls to be drest; An' oh! vrom the childern there sprung Such a charm when they handled their taÿs, That vor pleasure the bigger woones wrung Their two hands at the zight o' their jaÿs; As the bwoys' bigger vaïces vell in Wi' the maïdens a-titterèn thin, An' their dancèn an' prancèn, An' little mouth's laughs.

Though 'tis hard stripes to breed em all up, If I'm only a-blest vrom above, They'll meäke me amends wi' their love, Vor their pillow, their pleäte, an' their cup; Though I shall be never a-spweil'd Wi' the sarvice that money can buy; Still the hands ov a wife an' a child Be the blessèns ov low or ov high; An' if there be mouths to be ved, He that zent em can zend me their bread, An' will smile on the chile That's a-new on the knee.

THE MAID O' NEWTON.

In zummer, when the knaps wer bright In cool-aïr'd evenèn's western light, An' haÿ that had a-dried all day, Did now lie grey, to dewy night; I went, by happy chance, or doom, Vrom Broadwoak Hill, athirt to Coomb, An' met a maïd in all her bloom: The feaïrest maïd o' Newton.