Chapter 17

An' there do zing the swingèn lark So gaÿ's above the finest park, An' day do sheäde my trees as true As any steätely avenue; An' show'ry clouds o' Spring do pass To shed their raïn on my young grass, An' aïr do blow the whole day long, To bring me breath, an' teäke my zong, An' I do miss noo needvul boon A-gi'ed to other meäds in June.

An' when the bloomèn rwose do ride Upon the boughy hedge's zide, We haymeäkers, in snow-white sleeves, Do work in sheädes o' quiv'rèn leaves, In afternoon, a-liftèn high Our reäkes avore the viery sky, A-reäken up the hay a-dried By day, in lwongsome weäles, to bide In chilly dew below the moon, O' shorten'd nights in zultry June.

An' there the brook do softly flow Along, a-bendèn in a bow, An' vish, wi' zides o' zilver-white, Do flash vrom shoals a dazzlèn light; An' alders by the water's edge, Do sheäde the ribbon-bleäded zedge, An' where, below the withy's head, The zwimmèn clote-leaves be a-spread, The angler is a-zot at noon Upon the flow'ry bank in June.

Vor all the aiër that do bring My little meäd the breath o' Spring, By day an' night's a-flowèn wide Above all other vields bezide; Vor all the zun above my ground 'S a-zent vor all the naïghbours round, An' raïn do vall, an' streams do flow, Vor lands above, an' lands below, My bit o' meäd is God's own boon, To me alwone, vrom June to June.

EARLY RISÈN.

The aïr to gi'e your cheäks a hue O' rwosy red, so feaïr to view, Is what do sheäke the grass-bleädes gray At breäk o' day, in mornèn dew; Vor vo'k that will be rathe abrode, Will meet wi' health upon their road.

But bidèn up till dead o' night, When han's o' clocks do stan' upright, By candle-light, do soon consume The feäce's bloom, an' turn it white. An' light a-cast vrom midnight skies Do blunt the sparklèn ov the eyes.

Vor health do weäke vrom nightly dreams Below the mornèn's eärly beams, An' leäve the dead-aïr'd houses' eaves, Vor quiv'rèn leaves, an' bubblèn streams, A-glitt'rèn brightly to the view, Below a sky o' cloudless blue.

ZELLEN WOONE'S HONEY TO BUY ZOME'HAT SWEET.

Why, his heart's lik' a popple, so hard as a stwone, Vor 'tis money, an' money's his ho, An' to handle an' reckon it up vor his own, Is the best o' the jaÿs he do know. Why, vor money he'd gi'e up his lags an' be leäme, 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 GA[:Y].

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."