Chapter 20

No, no, good Meäster Collins cried, Why you've a good wife at your zide; Zoo do believe the heart is true That gi'ed up all bezide vor you, An' still beheäve as you begun To seek the love that you've a-won When woonce in dewy June, In hours o' hope soft eyes did flash, Each bright below his sheädy lash, A-glisnèn to the moon.

Think how her girlhood met noo ceäre To peäle the bloom her feäce did weär, An' how her glossy temple prest Her pillow down, in still-feäced rest, While sheädes o' window bars did vall In moonlight on the gloomy wall, In cool-aïr'd nights o' June; The while her lids, wi' bendèn streäks O' lashes, met above her cheäks, A-bloomèn to the moon.

Think how she left her childhood's pleäce, An' only sister's long-known feäce, An' brother's jokes so much a-miss'd, An' mother's cheäk, the last a-kiss'd; An' how she lighted down avore Her new abode, a husband's door, Your weddèn night in June; Wi' heart that beät wi' hope an' fear, While on each eye-lash hung a tear, A-glisnèn to the moon.

Think how her father zot all dum', A-thinkèn on her, back at hwome, The while grey axan gather'd thick, On dyèn embers, on the brick; An' how her mother look'd abrode, Drough window, down the moon-bright road, Thik cloudless night o' June, Wi' tears upon her lashes big As raïn-drops on a slender twig, A-glisnèn to the moon.

Zoo don't zit thoughtless at your cup An' keep your wife a-wäitèn up, The while the clock's a-tickèn slow The chilly hours o' vrost an' snow, Until the zinkèn candle's light Is out avore her drowsy sight, A-dimm'd wi' grief too soon; A-leävèn there alwone to murn The feädèn cheäk that woonce did burn, A-bloomèn to the moon.

THE CHILD AN' THE MOWERS.

O, aye! they had woone child bezide, An' a finer your eyes never met, 'Twer a dear little fellow that died In the zummer that come wi' such het; By the mowers, too thoughtless in fun, He wer then a-zent off vrom our eyes, Vrom the light ov the dew-dryèn zun,-- Aye! vrom days under blue-hollow'd skies.

He went out to the mowers in meäd, When the zun wer a-rose to his height, An' the men wer a-swingèn the sneäd, Wi' their eärms in white sleeves, left an' right; An' out there, as they rested at noon, O! they drench'd en vrom eäle-horns too deep, Till his thoughts wer a-drown'd in a swoon; Aye! his life wer a-smother'd in sleep.

Then they laid en there-right on the ground, On a grass-heap, a-zweltrèn wi' het, Wi' his heäir all a-wetted around His young feäce, wi' the big drops o' zweat; In his little left palm he'd a-zet, Wi' his right hand, his vore-vinger's tip, As for zome'hat he woulden vorget,-- Aye! zome thought that he woulden let slip.

Then they took en in hwome to his bed, An' he rose vrom his pillow noo mwore, Vor the curls on his sleek little head To be blown by the wind out o' door. Vor he died while the häy russled grey On the staddle so leätely begun: Lik' the mown-grass a-dried by the day,-- Aye! the zwath-flow'r's a-killed by the zun.

THE LOVE CHILD.

Where the bridge out at Woodley did stride, Wi' his wide arches' cool sheäded bow, Up above the clear brook that did slide By the popples, befoam'd white as snow: As the gilcups did quiver among The white deäisies, a-spread in a sheet. There a quick-trippèn maïd come along,-- Aye, a girl wi' her light-steppèn veet.

An' she cried "I do praÿ, is the road Out to Lincham on here, by the meäd?" An' "oh! ees," I meäde answer, an' show'd Her the way it would turn an' would leäd: "Goo along by the beech in the nook, Where the childern do play in the cool, To the steppèn stwones over the brook,-- Aye, the grey blocks o' rock at the pool."

"Then you don't seem a-born an' a-bred," I spoke up, "at a place here about;" An' she answer'd wi' cheäks up so red As a pi'ny but leäte a-come out, "No, I liv'd wi' my uncle that died Back in Eäpril, an' now I'm a-come Here to Ham, to my mother, to bide,-- Aye, to her house to vind a new hwome."

I'm asheämed that I wanted to know Any mwore of her childhood or life, But then, why should so feäir a child grow Where noo father did bide wi' his wife; Then wi' blushes of zunrisèn morn, She replied "that it midden be known, "Oh! they zent me away to be born,--[C] Aye, they hid me when zome would be shown."

Oh! it meäde me a'most teary-ey'd, An' I vound I a'most could ha' groan'd-- What! so winnèn, an' still cast a-zide-- What! so lovely, an' not to be own'd; Oh! a God-gift a-treated wi' scorn, Oh! a child that a squier should own; An' to zend her away to be born!-- Aye, to hide her where others be shown!

[Footnote C: Words once spoken to the writer.]

HAWTHORN DOWN.

All up the down's cool brow I work'd in noontide's gleäre, On where the slow-wheel'd plow 'D a-wore the grass half bare. An' gil'cups quiver'd quick, As aïr did pass, An' deäisies huddled thick Among the grass.

The while my eärms did swing Wi' work I had on hand, The quick-wing'd lark did zing Above the green-tree'd land, An' bwoys below me chafed The dog vor fun, An' he, vor all they laef'd, Did meäke em run.

The south zide o' the hill, My own tun-smoke rose blue,-- In North Coomb, near the mill, My mother's wer in view-- Where woonce her vier vor all Ov us did burn, As I have childern small Round mine in turn.

An' zoo I still wull cheer Her life wi' my small store, As she do drop a tear Bezide her lwonesome door. The love that I do owe Her ruf, I'll paÿ, An' then zit down below My own wi' jaÿ.

OBEN VIELDS.

Well, you mid keep the town an' street, Wi' grassless stwones to beät your veet, An' zunless windows where your brows Be never cooled by swaÿèn boughs; An' let me end, as I begun, My days in oben aïr an' zun, Where zummer win's a-blowèn sweet, Wi' blooth o' trees as white's a sheet; Or swaÿèn boughs, a-bendèn low Wi' rip'nèn apples in a row, An' we a-risèn rathe do meet The bright'nèn dawn wi' dewy veet, An' leäve, at night, the vootless groves, To rest 'ithin our thatchen oves. An' here our childern still do bruise The deäisy buds wi' tiny shoes, As we did meet avore em, free Vrom ceäre, in play below the tree. An' there in me'th their lively eyes Do glissen to the zunny skies, As aïr do blow, wi' leäzy peäce To cool, in sheäde, their burnèn feäce. Where leaves o' spreadèn docks do hide The zawpit's timber-lwoaded zide, An' trees do lie, wi' scraggy limbs, Among the deäisy's crimson rims. An' they, so proud, wi' eärms a-spread To keep their balance good, do tread Wi' ceäreful steps o' tiny zoles The narrow zides o' trees an' poles. An' zoo I'll leäve vor your light veet The peävement o' the zunless street, While I do end, as I begun, My days in oben aïr an' zun.

WHAT JOHN WER A-TELLÈN HIS MIS'ESS OUT IN THE CORN GROUND.

Ah! mam! you woonce come here the while The zun, long years agoo, did shed His het upon the wheat in hile, Wi' yollow hau'm an' ears o' red, Wi' little shoes too thin vor walks Upon the scratchèn stubble-stalks; You hardly reach'd wi' glossy head, The vore wheel's top o' dousty red. How time's a-vled! How years do vlee!

An' there you went an' zot inzide A hile, in aïr a-streamèn cool, As if 'ithin a room, vull wide An' high, you zot to guide an' rule. You leäz'd about the stubbly land, An' soon vill'd up your small left hand Wi' ruddy ears your right hand vound, An' traïl'd the stalks along the ground. How time's a-gone! How years do goo!

Then in the waggon you did teäke A ride, an' as the wheels vell down Vrom ridge to vurrow, they did sheäke On your small head your poppy crown, An' now your little maïd, a dear, Your childhood's very daps, is here, Zoo let her staÿ, that her young feäce Mid put a former year in pleäce. How time do run! How years do roll!

SHEÄDES.

Come here an' zit a while below Theäse tower, grey and ivy-bound, In sheäde, the while the zun do glow So hot upon the flow'ry ground; An' winds in flight, Do briskly smite The blossoms bright, upon the gleäde, But never stir the sleepèn sheäde.

As when you stood upon the brink O' yonder brook, wi' back-zunn'd head, Your zunny-grounded sheäde did zink Upon the water's grav'lly bed, Where weäves could zweep Away, or keep, The gravel heap that they'd a-meäde, But never wash away the sheäde.

An' zoo, when you can woonce vulvil What's feäir, a-tried by heaven's light, Why never fear that evil will Can meäke a wrong o' your good right. The right wull stand, Vor all man's hand, Till streams on zand, an' wind in gleädes, Can zweep awaÿ the zuncast sheädes.

TIMES O' YEAR.

Here did swäy the eltrot flow'rs, When the hours o' night wer vew, An' the zun, wi' eärly beams Brighten'd streams, an' dried the dew, An' the goocoo there did greet Passers by wi' dousty veet.

There the milkmaïd hung her brow By the cow, a-sheenèn red; An' the dog, wi' upward looks, Watch'd the rooks above his head, An' the brook, vrom bow to bow, Here went swift, an' there wer slow.

Now the cwolder-blowèn blast, Here do cast vrom elems' heads Feäded leaves, a-whirlèn round, Down to ground, in yollow beds, Ruslèn under milkers' shoes, When the day do dry the dews.

Soon shall grass, a-vrosted bright, Glisten white instead o' green, An' the wind shall smite the cows, Where the boughs be now their screen. Things do change as years do vlee; What ha' years in store vor me?

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

RACKETÈN JOE.

_Racketèn Joe; his Sister; his Cousin Fanny; and the Dog._

RACKETÈN JOE.

Heigh! heigh! here. Who's about?

HIS SISTER.

Oh! lauk! Here's Joe, a rantèn lout,

A-meäkèn his wild randy-rout.

RACKETÈN JOE.

Heigh! Fanny! How d'ye do? (_slaps her._)

FANNY.

Oh! fie; why all the woo'se vor you A-slappèn o' me, black an' blue, My back!

HIS SISTER.

A whack! you loose-eärm'd chap, To gi'e your cousin sich a slap!

FANNY.

I'll pull the heäir o'n, I do vow;

HIS SISTER.

I'll pull the ears o'n. There.

THE DOG.

Wowh! wow!

FANNY.

A-comèn up the drong, How he did smack his leather thong, A-zingèn, as he thought, a zong;

HIS SISTER.

An' there the pigs did scote Azide, in fright, wi' squeakèn droat, Wi' geese a pitchèn up a note. Look there.

FANNY.

His chair!

HIS SISTER.

He thump'd en down, As if he'd het en into ground.

RACKETÈN JOE.

Heigh! heigh! Look here! the vier is out.

HIS SISTER.

How he do knock the tongs about!

FANNY.

Now theäre's his whip-nob, plum Upon the teäble vor a drum;

HIS SISTER.

An' there's a dent so big's your thumb.

RACKETÈN JOE.

My hat's awore so quaer.

HIS SISTER.

'Tis quaer enough, but not wi' wear; But dabs an' dashes he do bear.

RACKETÈN JOE.

The zow!

HIS SISTER.

What now?

RACKETÈN JOE.

She's in the plot. A-routèn up the flower knot. Ho! Towzer! Here, rout out the zow, Heigh! here, hie at her. Tiss!

THE DOG.

Wowh! wow!

HIS SISTER.

How he do rant and roar, An' stump an' stamp about the vloor, An' swing, an' slap, an' slam the door! He don't put down a thing, But he do dab, an' dash, an' ding It down, till all the house do ring.

RACKETÈN JOE.

She's out.

FANNY.

Noo doubt.

HIS SISTER.

Athirt the bank, Look! how the dog an' he do pank.

FANNY.

Staÿ out, an' heed her now an' then, To zee she don't come in ageän.

ZUMMER AN' WINTER.

When I led by zummer streams The pride o' Lea, as naïghbours thought her, While the zun, wi' evenèn beams, Did cast our sheädes athirt the water; Winds a-blowèn, Streams a-flowèn, Skies a-glowèn, Tokens ov my jaÿ zoo fleetèn, Heighten'd it, that happy meetèn.

Then, when maïd an' man took pleäces, Gaÿ in winter's Chris'mas dances, Showèn in their merry feäces Kindly smiles an' glisnèn glances; Stars a-winkèn, Day a-shrinkèn, Sheädes a-zinkèn, Brought anew the happy meetèn, That did meake the night too fleetèn.

TO ME.

At night, as drough the meäd I took my waÿ, In aïr a-sweeten'd by the new-meäde haÿ, A stream a-vallèn down a rock did sound, Though out o' zight wer foam an' stwone to me.

Behind the knap, above the gloomy copse, The wind did russle in the trees' high tops, Though evenèn darkness, an' the risèn hill, Kept all the quiv'rèn leaves unshown to me,

Within the copse, below the zunless sky, I heärd a nightèngeäle, a-warblèn high Her lwoansome zong, a-hidden vrom my zight, An' showèn nothèn but her mwoan to me.

An' by a house, where rwoses hung avore The thatch-brow'd window, an' the oben door, I heärd the merry words, an' hearty laugh O' zome feäir maid, as eet unknown to me.

High over head the white-rimm'd clouds went on, Wi' woone a-comèn up, vor woone a-gone; An' feäir they floated in their sky-back'd flight, But still they never meäde a sound to me.

An' there the miller, down the stream did float Wi' all his childern, in his white-saïl'd bwoat, Vur off, beyond the stragglèn cows in meäd, But zent noo vaïce, athirt the ground, to me.

An' then a buttervlee, in zultry light, A-wheelèn on about me, vier-bright, Did show the gaÿest colors to my eye, But still did bring noo vaïce around to me.

I met the merry laugher on the down, Bezide her mother, on the path to town, An' oh! her sheäpe wer comely to the zight, But wordless then wer she a-vound to me.

Zoo, sweet ov unzeen things mid be sound, An' feäir to zight mid soundless things be vound, But I've the laugh to hear, an' feäce to zee, Vor they be now my own, a-bound to me.

TWO AN' TWO.

The zun, O Jessie, while his feäce do rise In vi'ry skies, a-sheddèn out his light On yollow corn a-weävèn down below His yollow glow, is gaÿ avore the zight. By two an' two, How goodly things do goo, A-matchèn woone another to fulvill The goodness ov their Meäkèr's will.

How bright the spreadèn water in the lew Do catch the blue, a-sheenèn vrom the sky; How true the grass do teäke the dewy bead That it do need, while dousty roads be dry. By peäir an' peäir Each thing's a-meäde to sheäre The good another can bestow, In wisdom's work down here below.

The lowest lim's o' trees do seldom grow A-spread too low to gi'e the cows a sheäde; The aïr's to bear the bird, the bird's to rise; Vor light the eyes, vor eyes the light's a-meäde. 'Tis gi'e an' teäke, An' woone vor others' seäke; In peäirs a-workèn out their ends, Though men be foes that should be friends.

THE LEW O' THE RICK.

At eventide the wind wer loud By trees an' tuns above woone's head, An' all the sky wer woone dark cloud, Vor all it had noo raïn to shed; An' as the darkness gather'd thick, I zot me down below a rick, Where straws upon the win' did ride Wi' giddy flights, along my zide, Though unmolestèn me a-restèn, Where I laÿ 'ithin the lew.

My wife's bright vier indoors did cast Its fleäme upon the window peänes That screen'd her teäble, while the blast Vled on in music down the leänes; An' as I zot in vaïceless thought Ov other zummer-tides, that brought The sheenèn grass below the lark, Or left their ricks a-wearèn dark, My childern voun' me, an' come roun' me, Where I lay 'ithin the lew.

The rick that then did keep me lew Would be a-gone another Fall, An' I, in zome years, in a vew, Mid leäve the childern, big or small; But He that meäde the wind, an' meäde The lewth, an' zent wi' het the sheäde, Can keep my childern, all alwone O' under me, an' though vull grown Or little lispers, wi' their whispers, There a-lyèn in the lew.

THE WIND IN WOONE'S FEÄCE.

There lovely Jenny past, While the blast did blow On over Ashknowle Hill To the mill below; A-blinkèn quick, wi' lashes long, Above her cheäks o' red, Ageän the wind, a-beätèn strong, Upon her droopèn head.

Oh! let dry win' blow bleäk, On her cheäk so heäle, But let noo raïn-shot chill Meäke her ill an' peäle; Vor healthy is the breath the blast Upon the hill do yield, An' healthy is the light a cast Vrom lofty sky to vield.

An' mid noo sorrow-pang Ever hang a tear Upon the dark lash-heäir Ov my feäirest dear; An' mid noo unkind deed o' mine Spweil what my love mid gaïn, Nor meäke my merry Jenny pine At last wi' dim-ey'd païn.

TOKENS.

Green mwold on zummer bars do show That they've a-dripp'd in Winter wet; The hoof-worn ring o' groun' below The tree, do tell o' storms or het; The trees in rank along a ledge Do show where woonce did bloom a hedge; An' where the vurrow-marks do stripe The down, the wheat woonce rustled ripe. Each mark ov things a-gone vrom view-- To eyezight's woone, to soulzight two.

The grass ageän the mwoldrèn door 'S a tóken sad o' vo'k a-gone, An' where the house, bwoth wall an' vloor, 'S a-lost, the well mid linger on. What tokens, then, could Meäry gi'e Thät she'd a-liv'd, an' liv'd vor me, But things a-done vor thought an' view? Good things that nwone ageän can do, An' every work her love ha' wrought, To eyezight's woone, but two to thought.

TWEIL.

The rick ov our last zummer's haulèn Now vrom grey's a-feäded dark, An' off the barken raïl's a-vallèn, Day by day, the rottèn bark.-- But short's the time our works do stand, So feäir's we put em out ov hand, Vor time a-passèn, wet an' dry, Do spweïl em wi' his changèn sky, The while wi' strivèn hope, we men, Though a-ruèn time's undoèn, Still do tweil an' tweil ageän.

In wall-zide sheädes, by leafy bowers, Underneath the swayèn tree, O' leäte, as round the bloomèn flowers, Lowly humm'd the giddy bee, My childern's small left voot did smite Their tiny speäde, the while the right Did trample on a deäisy head, Bezïde the flower's dousty bed, An' though their work wer idle then, They a-smilèn, an' a-tweilèn, Still did work an' work ageän.

Now their little limbs be stronger, Deeper now their vaïce do sound; An' their little veet be longer, An' do tread on other ground; An' rust is on the little bleädes Ov all the broken-hafted speädes, An' flow'rs that wer my hope an' pride Ha' long agoo a-bloom'd an' died, But still as I did leäbor then Vor love ov all them childern small, Zoo now I'll tweil an' tweil ageän.

When the smokeless tun's a-growèn Cwold as dew below the stars, An' when the vier noo mwore's a-glowèn Red between the window bars, We then do lay our weary heads In peace upon their nightly beds, An' gi'e woone sock, wi' heavèn breast, An' then breathe soft the breath o' rest, Till day do call the sons o' men Vrom night-sleep's blackness, vull o' sprackness, Out abroad to tweil ageän.

Where the vaïce o' the winds is mildest, In the plaïn, their stroke is keen; Where their dreatnèn vaïce is wildest, In the grove, the grove's our screen. An' where the worold in their strife Do dreatèn mwost our tweilsome life, Why there Almighty ceäre mid cast A better screen ageän the blast. Zoo I woon't live in fear o' men, But, man-neglected, God-directed, Still wull tweil an' tweil ageän.

FANCY.

In stillness we ha' words to hear, An' sheäpes to zee in darkest night, An' tongues a-lost can haïl us near, An' souls a-gone can smile in zight; When Fancy now do wander back To years a-spent, an' bring to mind Zome happy tide a-left behind In' weästèn life's slow-beatèn track.

When feädèn leaves do drip wi' raïn, Our thoughts can ramble in the dry; When Winter win' do zweep the plaïn We still can have a zunny sky. Vor though our limbs be winter-wrung, We still can zee, wi' Fancy's eyes, The brightest looks ov e'th an' skies, That we did know when we wer young.

In païn our thoughts can pass to eäse, In work our souls can be at plaÿ, An' leäve behind the chilly leäse Vor warm-aïr'd meäds o' new mow'd haÿ. When we do vlee in Fancy's flight Vrom daily ills avore our feäce, An' linger in zome happy pleäce Ov mè'th an' smiles, an' warmth an' light.

THE BROKEN HEART.

News o' grief had overteäken Dark-ey'd Fanny, now vorseäken; There she zot, wi' breast a-heavèn, While vrom zide to zide, wi' grievèn, Vell her head, wi' tears a-creepèn Down her cheäks, in bitter weepèn. There wer still the ribbon-bow She tied avore her hour ov woe, An' there wer still the han's that tied it Hangèn white, Or wringèn tight, In ceäre that drown'd all ceäre bezide it.

When a man, wi' heartless slightèn, Mid become a maïden's blightèn, He mid ceärlessly vorseäke her, But must answer to her Meäker; He mid slight, wi' selfish blindness, All her deeds o' lovèn-kindness, God wull waïgh em wi' the slightèn That mid be her love's requitèn; He do look on each deceiver, He do know What weight o' woe Do breäk the heart ov ev'ry griever.

EVENÈN LIGHT.

The while I took my bit o' rest, Below my house's eastern sheäde, The things that stood in vield an' gleäde Wer bright in zunsheen vrom the west. There bright wer east-ward mound an' wall, An' bright wer trees, arisèn tall, An' bright did break 'ithin the brook, Down rocks, the watervall.

There deep 'ithin my pworches bow Did hang my heavy woaken door, An' in beyond en, on the vloor, The evenèn dusk did gather slow; But bright did gleäre the twinklèn spwokes O' runnèn carriage wheels, as vo'ks Out east did ride along the road, Bezide the low-bough'd woaks,

An' I'd a-lost the zun vrom view, Until ageän his feäce mid rise, A-sheenèn vrom the eastern skies To brighten up the rwose-borne dew; But still his lingrèn light did gi'e My heart a touchèn jaÿ, to zee His beams a-shed, wi' stratchèn sheäde, On east-ward wall an' tree.

When jaÿ, a-zent me vrom above, Vrom my sad heart is now agone, An' others be a-walkèn on, Amid the light ov Heavèn's love, Oh! then vor lovèn-kindness seäke, Mid I rejäice that zome do teäke My hopes a-gone, until ageän My happy dawn do breäk.

VIELDS BY WATERVALLS.

When our downcast looks be smileless, Under others' wrongs an' slightèns, When our daily deeds be guileless, An' do meet unkind requitèns, You can meäke us zome amends Vor wrongs o' foes, an' slights o' friends;-- O flow'ry-gleäded, timber-sheäded Vields by flowèn watervalls!

Here be softest aïrs a-blowèn Drough the boughs, wi' zingèn drushes, Up above the streams, a-flowèn Under willows, on by rushes. Here below the bright-zunn'd sky The dew-bespangled flow'rs do dry, In woody-zided, stream-divided Vields by flowèn watervalls.

Waters, wi' their giddy rollèns; Breezes wi' their plaÿsome wooèns; Here do heal, in soft consolèns, Hearts a-wrung wi' man's wrong doèns. Day do come to us as gaÿ As to a king ov widest swaÿ, In deäisy-whitèn'd, gil'cup-brightèn'd Vields by flowèn watervalls.

Zome feäir buds mid outlive blightèns, Zome sweet hopes mid outlive sorrow. After days of wrongs an' slightèns There mid break a happy morrow. We mid have noo e'thly love; But God's love-tokens vrom above Here mid meet us, here mid greet us, In the vields by watervalls.

THE WHEEL ROUTS.