Chapter 12

She bore a basket that did ride So light, she didden leän azide; Her feäce wer oval, an' she smil'd So sweet's a child, but walk'd wi' pride. I spoke to her, but what I zaid I didden know; wi' thoughts a-vled, I spoke by heart, an' not by head, Avore the maïd o' Newton.

I call'd her, oh! I don't know who, 'Twer by a neäme she never knew; An' to the heel she stood upon, She then brought on her hinder shoe, An' stopp'd avore me, where we met, An' wi' a smile woone can't vorget, She zaid, wi' eyes a-zwimmèn wet, "No, I be woone o' Newton."

Then on I rambled to the west, Below the zunny hangèn's breast, Where, down athirt the little stream, The brudge's beam did lie at rest: But all the birds, wi' lively glee, Did chirp an' hop vrom tree to tree, As if it wer vrom pride, to zee Goo by the maïd o' Newton.

By fancy led, at evenèn's glow, I woonce did goo, a-rovèn slow, Down where the elèms, stem by stem, Do stan' to hem the grove below; But after that, my veet vorzook The grove, to seek the little brook At Coomb, where I mid zometimes look, To meet the maïd o' Newton.

CHILDHOOD.

Aye, at that time our days wer but vew, An' our lim's wer but small, an' a-growèn; An' then the feäir worold wer new, An' life wer all hopevul an' gaÿ; An' the times o' the sproutèn o' leaves, An' the cheäk-burnèn seasons o' mowèn, An' bindèn o' red-headed sheaves, Wer all welcome seasons o' jaÿ.

Then the housen seem'd high, that be low, An' the brook did seem wide that is narrow, An' time, that do vlee, did goo slow, An' veelèns now feeble wer strong, An' our worold did end wi' the neämes Ov the Sha'sbury Hill or Bulbarrow; An' life did seem only the geämes That we plaÿ'd as the days rolled along.

Then the rivers, an' high-timber'd lands, An' the zilvery hills, 'ithout buyèn, Did seem to come into our hands Vrom others that own'd em avore; An' all zickness, an' sorrow, an' need, Seem'd to die wi' the wold vo'k a-dyèn, An' leäve us vor ever a-freed Vrom evils our vorefathers bore.

But happy be childern the while They have elders a-livèn to love em, An' teäke all the wearisome tweil That zome hands or others mus' do; Like the low-headed shrubs that be warm, In the lewth o' the trees up above em, A-screen'd vrom the cwold blowèn storm That the timber avore em must rue.

MEÄRY'S SMILE.

When mornèn winds, a-blowèn high, Do zweep the clouds vrom all the sky, An' laurel-leaves do glitter bright, The while the newly broken light Do brighten up, avore our view, The vields wi' green, an' hills wi' blue; What then can highten to my eyes The cheerful feäce ov e'th an' skies, But Meäry's smile, o' Morey's Mill, My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

An' when, at last, the evenèn dews Do now begin to wet our shoes; An' night's a-ridèn to the west, To stop our work, an' gi'e us rest, Oh! let the candle's ruddy gleäre But brighten up her sheenèn heäir; Or else, as she do walk abroad, Let moonlight show, upon the road, My Meäry's smile, o' Morey's Mill, My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

An' O! mid never tears come on, To wash her feäce's blushes wan, Nor kill her smiles that now do plaÿ Like sparklèn weäves in zunny Maÿ; But mid she still, vor all she's gone Vrom souls she now do smile upon, Show others they can vind woone jaÿ To turn the hardest work to plaÿ. My Meäry's smile, o' Morey's Mill, My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

MEÄRY WEDDED.

The zun can zink, the stars mid rise, An' woods be green to sheenèn skies; The cock mid crow to mornèn light, An' workvo'k zing to vallèn night; The birds mid whissle on the spraÿ, An' childern leäp in merry plaÿ, But our's is now a lifeless pleäce, Vor we've a-lost a smilèn feäce-- Young Meäry Meäd o' merry mood, Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded.

The dog that woonce wer glad to bear Her fondlèn vingers down his heäir, Do leän his head ageän the vloor, To watch, wi' heavy eyes, the door; An' men she zent so happy hwome O' Zadurdays, do seem to come To door, wi' downcast hearts, to miss Wi' smiles below the clematis, Young Meäry Meäd o' merry mood, Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded.

When they do draw the evenèn blind, An' when the evenèn light's a-tin'd, The cheerless vier do drow a gleäre O' light ageän her empty chair; An' wordless gaps do now meäke thin Their talk where woonce her vaïce come in. Zoo lwonesome is her empty pleäce, An' blest the house that ha' the feäce O' Meäry Meäd, o' merry mood, Now she's a-woo'd and wedded.

The day she left her father's he'th, Though sad, wer kept a day o' me'th, An' dry-wheel'd waggons' empty beds Wer left 'ithin the tree-screen'd sheds; An' all the hosses, at their eäse, Went snortèn up the flow'ry leäse, But woone, the smartest for the roäd, That pull'd away the dearest lwoad-- Young Meäry Meäd o' merry mood, That wer a-woo'd an' wedded.

THE STWONEN BWOY UPON THE PILLAR.

Wi' smokeless tuns an' empty halls, An' moss a-clingèn to the walls, In ev'ry wind the lofty tow'rs Do teäke the zun, an' bear the show'rs; An' there, 'ithin a geät a-hung, But vasten'd up, an' never swung, Upon the pillar, all alwone, Do stan' the little bwoy o' stwone; 'S a poppy bud mid linger on, Vorseäken, when the wheat's a-gone. An' there, then, wi' his bow let slack, An' little quiver at his back, Drough het an' wet, the little chile Vrom day to day do stan' an' smile. When vu'st the light, a-risèn weak, At break o' day, do smite his cheäk, Or while, at noon, the leafy bough Do cast a sheäde a-thirt his brow, Or when at night the warm-breath'd cows Do sleep by moon-belighted boughs; An' there the while the rooks do bring Their scroff to build their nest in Spring, Or zwallows in the zummer day Do cling their little huts o' clay, 'Ithin the raïnless sheädes, below The steadvast arches' mossy bow. Or when, in Fall, the woak do shed The leaves, a-wither'd, vrom his head, An' western win's, a-blowèn cool, Do dreve em out athirt the pool, Or Winter's clouds do gather dark An' wet, wi' raïn, the elem's bark, You'll zee his pretty smile betwixt His little sheäde-mark'd lips a-fix'd; As there his little sheäpe do bide Drough day an' night, an' time an' tide, An' never change his size or dress, Nor overgrow his prettiness. But, oh! thik child, that we do vind In childhood still, do call to mind A little bwoy a-call'd by death, Long years agoo, vrom our sad he'th; An' I, in thought, can zee en dim The seäme in feäce, the seäme in lim', My heäir mid whiten as the snow, My limbs grow weak, my step wear slow, My droopèn head mid slowly vall Above the han'-staff's glossy ball, An' yeet, vor all a wid'nèn span Ov years, mid change a livèn man, My little child do still appear To me wi' all his childhood's gear, 'Ithout a beard upon his chin, 'Ithout a wrinkle in his skin, A-livèn on, a child the seäme In look, an' sheäpe, an' size, an' neäme.

THE YOUNG THAT DIED IN BEAUTY.

If souls should only sheen so bright In heaven as in e'thly light, An' nothèn better wer the ceäse, How comely still, in sheäpe an' feäce, Would many reach thik happy pleäce,-- The hopeful souls that in their prime Ha' seem'd a-took avore their time-- The young that died in beauty.

But when woone's lim's ha' lost their strangth A-tweilèn drough a lifetime's langth, An' over cheäks a-growèn wold The slowly-weästen years ha' rolled, The deep'nèn wrinkle's hollow vwold; When life is ripe, then death do call Vor less ov thought, than when do vall On young vo'ks in their beauty.

But pinèn souls, wi' heads a-hung In heavy sorrow vor the young, The sister ov the brother dead, The father wi' a child a-vled, The husband when his bride ha' laid Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn, Have all a-vound the time to murn Vor youth that died in beauty.

An' yeet the church, where praÿer do rise Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi' downcast eyes. An' village greens, a-beät half beäre By dancers that do meet, an' weär Such merry looks at feäst an' feäir, Do gather under leàtest skies, Their bloomèn cheäks an' sparklèn eyes, Though young ha' died in beauty.

But still the dead shall mwore than keep The beauty ov their eärly sleep; Where comely looks shall never weär Uncomely, under tweil an' ceäre. The feäir at death be always feäir, Still feäir to livers' thought an' love, An' feäirer still to God above, Than when they died in beauty.

FAIR EMILY OV YARROW MILL.

Dear Yarrowham, 'twer many miles Vrom thy green meäds that, in my walk, I met a maïd wi' winnèn smiles, That talk'd as vo'k at hwome do talk; An' who at last should she be vound, Ov all the souls the sky do bound, But woone that trod at vu'st thy groun' Fair Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

But thy wold house an' elmy nook, An' wall-screen'd geärden's mossy zides, Thy grassy meäds an' zedgy brook, An' high-bank'd leänes, wi' sheädy rides, Wer all a-known to me by light Ov eärly days, a-quench'd by night, Avore they met the younger zight Ov Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

An' now my heart do leäp to think O' times that I've a-spent in plaÿ, Bezide thy river's rushy brink, Upon a deäizybed o' Maÿ; I lov'd the friends thy land ha' bore, An' I do love the paths they wore, An' I do love thee all the mwore, Vor Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

When bright above the e'th below The moon do spread abroad his light, An' aïr o' zummer nights do blow Athirt the vields in plaÿsome flight, 'Tis then delightsome under all The sheädes o' boughs by path or wall, But mwostly thine when they do vall On Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

THE SCUD.

Aye, aye, the leäne wi' flow'ry zides A-kept so lew, by hazzle-wrides, Wi' beds o' graegles out in bloom, Below the timber's windless gloon An' geäte that I've a-swung, An' rod as he's a-hung, When I wer young, in Woakley Coomb.

'Twer there at feäst we all did pass The evenèn on the leänezide grass, Out where the geäte do let us drough, Below the woak-trees in the lew, In merry geämes an' fun That meäde us skip an' run, Wi' burnèn zun, an' sky o' blue.

But still there come a scud that drove The titt'rèn maïdens vrom the grove; An' there a-left wer flow'ry mound, 'Ithout a vaïce, 'ithout a sound, Unless the aïr did blow, Drough ruslèn leaves, an' drow, The raïn drops low, upon the ground.

I linger'd there an' miss'd the naïse; I linger'd there an' miss'd our jaÿs; I miss'd woone soul beyond the rest; The maïd that I do like the best. Vor where her vaïce is gaÿ An' where her smiles do plaÿ, There's always jaÿ vor ev'ry breast.

Vor zome vo'k out abroad ha' me'th, But nwone at hwome bezide the he'th; An' zome ha' smiles vor strangers' view; An' frowns vor kith an' kin to rue; But her sweet vaïce do vall, Wi' kindly words to all, Both big an' small, the whole day drough.

An' when the evenèn sky wer peäle, We heärd the warblèn nightèngeäle, A-drawèn out his lwonesome zong, In windèn music down the drong; An' Jenny vrom her he'th, Come out, though not in me'th, But held her breath, to hear his zong.

Then, while the bird wi' oben bill Did warble on, her vaïce wer still; An' as she stood avore me, bound In stillness to the flow'ry mound, "The bird's a jaÿ to zome," I thought, "but when he's dum, Her vaïce will come, wi' sweeter sound."

MINDEN HOUSE.

'Twer when the vo'k wer out to hawl A vield o' haÿ a day in June, An' when the zun begun to vall Toward the west in afternoon, Woone only wer a-left behind To bide indoors, at hwome, an' mind The house, an' answer vo'k avore The geäte or door,--young Fanny Deäne.

The aïr 'ithin the geärden wall Wer deadly still, unless the bee Did hummy by, or in the hall The clock did ring a-hettèn dree, An' there, wi' busy hands, inside The iron ceäsement, oben'd wide, Did zit an' pull wi' nimble twitch Her tiny stitch, young Fanny Deäne.

As there she zot she heärd two blows A-knock'd upon the rumblèn door, An' laid azide her work, an' rose, An' walk'd out feäir, athirt the vloor; An' there, a-holdèn in his hand His bridled meäre, a youth did stand, An' mildly twold his neäme and pleäce Avore the feäce o' Fanny Deäne.

He twold her that he had on hand Zome business on his father's zide, But what she didden understand; An' zoo she ax'd en if he'd ride Out where her father mid be vound, Bezide the plow, in Cowslip Ground; An' there he went, but left his mind Back there behind, wi' Fanny Deäne.

An' oh! his hwomeward road wer gaÿ In aïr a-blowèn, whiff by whiff, While sheenèn water-weäves did plaÿ An' boughs did swaÿ above the cliff; Vor Time had now a-show'd en dim The jaÿ it had in store vor him; An' when he went thik road ageän His errand then wer Fanny Deäne.

How strangely things be brought about By Providence, noo tongue can tell, She minded house, when vo'k wer out, An' zoo mus' bid the house farewell; The bees mid hum, the clock mid call The lwonesome hours 'ithin the hall, But in behind the woaken door, There's now noo mwore a Fanny Deäne.

THE LOVELY MAÏD OV ELWELL MEÄD.

A maïd wi' many gifts o' greäce, A maïd wi' ever-smilèn feäce, A child o' yours my chilhood's pleäce, O leänèn lawns ov Allen; 'S a-walkèn where your stream do flow, A-blushèn where your flowers do blow, A-smilèn where your zun do glow, O leänèn lawns ov Allen. An' good, however good's a-waïgh'd, 'S the lovely maïd ov Elwell Meäd.

An' oh! if I could teäme an' guide The winds above the e'th, an' ride As light as shootèn stars do glide, O leänèn lawns ov Allen, To you I'd teäke my daily flight, Drough dark'nèn aïr in evenèn's light, An' bid her every night "Good night," O leänèn lawns ov Allen. Vor good, however good's a-waïgh'd, 'S the lovely maïd ov Elwell Meäd.

An' when your hedges' slooes be blue, By blackberries o' dark'nèn hue, An' spiders' webs behung wi' dew, O leänèn lawns ov Allen Avore the winter aïr's a-chill'd, Avore your winter brook's a-vill'd Avore your zummer flow'rs be kill'd, O leänèn lawns ov Allen; I there would meet, in white arraÿ'd, The lovely maïd ov Elwell Meäd.

For when the zun, as birds do rise, Do cast their sheädes vrom autum' skies, A-sparklèn in her dewy eyes, O leänèn lawns ov Allen Then all your mossy paths below The trees, wi' leaves a-vallèn slow, Like zinkèn fleäkes o' yollow snow, O leänèn lawns ov Allen. Would be mwore teäkèn where they straÿ'd The lovely maïd ov Elwell Meäd.

OUR FATHERS' WORKS.

Ah! I do think, as I do tread Theäse path, wi' elems overhead, A-climèn slowly up vrom Bridge, By easy steps, to Broadwoak Ridge, That all theäse roads that we do bruise Wi' hosses' shoes, or heavy lwoads; An' hedges' bands, where trees in row Do rise an' grow aroun' the lands, Be works that we've a-vound a-wrought By our vorefathers' ceäre an' thought.

They clear'd the groun' vor grass to teäke The pleäce that bore the bremble breäke, An' draïn'd the fen, where water spread, A-lyèn dead, a beäne to men; An' built the mill, where still the wheel Do grind our meal, below the hill; An' turn'd the bridge, wi' arch a-spread, Below a road, vor us to tread.

They vound a pleäce, where we mid seek The gifts o' greäce vrom week to week; An' built wi' stwone, upon the hill, A tow'r we still do call our own; With bells to use, an' meäke rejaïce, Wi' giant vaïce, at our good news: An' lifted stwones an' beams to keep The raïn an' cwold vrom us asleep.

Zoo now mid nwone ov us vorget The pattern our vorefathers zet; But each be fäin to underteäke Some work to meäke vor others' gaïn, That we mid leäve mwore good to sheäre, Less ills to bear, less souls to grieve, An' when our hands do vall to rest, It mid be vrom a work a-blest.

THE WOLD VO'K DEAD.

My days, wi' wold vo'k all but gone, An' childern now a-comèn on, Do bring me still my mother's smiles In light that now do show my chile's; An' I've a-sheär'd the wold vo'ks' me'th, Avore the burnèn Chris'mas he'th, At friendly bwoards, where feäce by feäce, Did, year by year, gi'e up its pleäce, An' leäve me here, behind, to tread The ground a-trod by wold vo'k dead.

But wold things be a-lost vor new, An' zome do come, while zome do goo: As wither'd beech-tree leaves do cling Among the nesh young buds o' Spring; An' frettèn worms ha' slowly wound, Droo beams the wold vo'k lifted sound, An' trees they planted little slips Ha' stems that noo two eärms can clips; An' grey an' yollow moss do spread On buildèns new to wold vo'k dead.

The backs of all our zilv'ry hills, The brook that still do dreve our mills, The roads a-climèn up the brows O' knaps, a-screen'd by meäple boughs, Wer all a-mark'd in sheäde an' light Avore our wolder fathers' zight, In zunny days, a-gied their hands For happy work, a-tillèn lands, That now do yield their childern bread Till they do rest wi' wold vo'k dead.

But livèn vo'k, a-grievèn on, Wi' lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone, Do zee their goodness, but do vind All else a-stealèn out o' mind; As air do meäke the vurthest land Look feäirer than the vield at hand, An' zoo, as time do slowly pass, So still's a sheäde upon the grass, Its wid'nèn speäce do slowly shed A glory roun' the wold vo'k dead.

An' what if good vo'ks' life o' breath Is zoo a-hallow'd after death, That they mid only know above, Their times o' faïth, an' jaÿ, an' love, While all the evil time ha' brought 'S a-lost vor ever out o' thought; As all the moon that idden bright, 'S a-lost in darkness out o' zight; And all the godly life they led Is glory to the wold vo'k dead.

If things be zoo, an' souls above Can only mind our e'thly love, Why then they'll veel our kindness drown The thoughts ov all that meäde em frown. An' jaÿ o' jaÿs will dry the tear O' sadness that do trickle here, An' nothèn mwore o' life than love, An' peace, will then be know'd above. Do good, vor that, when life's a-vled, Is still a pleasure to the dead.

CULVER DELL AND THE SQUIRE.

There's noo pleäce I do like so well, As Elem Knap in Culver Dell, Where timber trees, wi' lofty shouds, Did rise avore the western clouds; An' stan' ageän, wi' veathery tops, A-swayèn up in North-Hill Copse. An' on the east the mornèn broke Above a dewy grove o' woak: An' noontide shed its burnèn light On ashes on the southern height; An' I could vind zome teäles to tell, O' former days in Culver Dell.

An' all the vo'k did love so well The good wold squire o' Culver Dell, That used to ramble drough the sheädes O' timber, or the burnèn gleädes, An' come at evenèn up the leäze Wi' red-eär'd dogs bezide his knees. An' hold his gun, a-hangèn drough His eärmpit, out above his tooe. Wi' kindly words upon his tongue, Vor vo'k that met en, wold an' young, Vor he did know the poor so well 'S the richest vo'k in Culver Dell.

An' while the woäk, wi' spreadèn head, Did sheäde the foxes' verny bed; An' runnèn heäres, in zunny gleädes, Did beät the grasses' quiv'rèn' bleädes; An' speckled pa'tridges took flight In stubble vields a-feädèn white; Or he could zee the pheasant strut In sheädy woods, wi' païnted cwoat; Or long-tongued dogs did love to run Among the leaves, bezide his gun; We didden want vor call to dwell At hwome in peace in Culver Dell.

But now I hope his kindly feäce Is gone to vind a better pleäce; But still, wi' vo'k a-left behind He'll always be a-kept in mind, Vor all his springy-vooted hounds Ha' done o' trottèn round his grounds, An' we have all a-left the spot, To teäke, a-scatter'd, each his lot; An' even Father, lik' the rest, Ha' left our long vorseäken nest; An' we should vind it sad to dwell, Ageän at hwome in Culver Dell.

The aïry mornèns still mid smite Our windows wi' their rwosy light, An' high-zunn'd noons mid dry the dew On growèn groun' below our shoe; The blushèn evenèn still mid dye, Wi' viry red, the western sky; The zunny spring-time's quicknèn power Mid come to oben leaf an' flower; An' days an' tides mid bring us on Woone pleasure when another's gone. But we must bid a long farewell To days an' tides in Culver Dell.

OUR BE'THPLACE.

How dear's the door a latch do shut, An' geärden that a hatch do shut, Where vu'st our bloomèn cheäks ha' prest The pillor ov our childhood's rest; Or where, wi' little tooes, we wore The paths our fathers trod avore; Or clim'd the timber's bark aloft, Below the zingèn lark aloft, The while we heärd the echo sound Drough all the ringèn valley round.

A lwonesome grove o' woak did rise, To screen our house, where smoke did rise, A-twistèn blue, while yeet the zun Did langthen on our childhood's fun; An' there, wi' all the sheäpes an' sounds O' life, among the timber'd grounds, The birds upon their boughs did zing, An' milkmaïds by their cows did zing, Wi' merry sounds, that softly died, A-ringèn down the valley zide.

By river banks, wi' reeds a-bound, An' sheenèn pools, wi' weeds a-bound, The long-neck'd gander's ruddy bill To snow-white geese did cackle sh'ill; An' stridèn peewits heästen'd by, O' tiptooe wi' their screamèn cry; An' stalkèn cows a-lowèn loud, An' struttèn cocks a-crowèn loud, Did rouse the echoes up to mock Their mingled sounds by hill an' rock.

The stars that clim'd our skies all dark, Above our sleepèn eyes all dark, An' zuns a-rollèn round to bring The seasons on, vrom Spring to Spring, Ha' vled, wi' never-restèn flight, Drough green-bough'd day, an' dark-tree'd night; Till now our childhood's pleäces there, Be gaÿ wi' other feäces there, An' we ourselves do vollow on Our own vorelivers dead an' gone.

THE WINDOW FREÄM'D WI' STWONE.

When Pentridge House wer still the nest O' souls that now ha' better rest, Avore the viër burnt to ground His beams an' walls, that then wer sound, 'Ithin a naïl-bestudded door, An' passage wi' a stwonèn vloor, There spread the hall, where zun-light shone In drough a window freäm'd wi' stwone.

A clavy-beam o' sheenèn woak Did span the he'th wi' twistèn smoke, Where fleämes did shoot in yollow streaks, Above the brands, their flashèn peaks; An' aunt did pull, as she did stand O'-tip-tooe, wi' her lifted hand, A curtain feäded wi' the zun, Avore the window freäm'd wi' stwone.

When Hwome-ground grass, below the moon, Wer damp wi' evenèn dew in June, An' aunt did call the maïdens in Vrom walkèn, wi' their shoes too thin, They zot to rest their litty veet Upon the window's woaken seat, An' chatted there, in light that shone In drough the window freäm'd wi' stwone.

An' as the seasons, in a ring, Roll'd slowly roun' vrom Spring to Spring, An' brought em on zome holy-tide, When they did cast their tools azide; How glad it meäde em all to spy In Stwonylands their friends draw nigh, As they did know em all by neäme Out drough the window's stwonèn freäme.

O evenèn zun, a-ridèn drough The sky, vrom Sh'oton Hill o' blue, To leäve the night a-broodèn dark At Stalbridge, wi' its grey-wall'd park; Small jaÿ to me the vields do bring, Vor all their zummer birds do zing, Since now thy beams noo mwore do fleäme In drough the window's stwonèn freäme.

THE WATER-SPRING IN THE LEANE.