Chapter 21

'Tis true I brought noo fortune hwome Wi' Jenny, vor her honey-moon, But still a goodish hansel come Behind her perty soon, Vor stick, an' dish, an' spoon, all vell To Jeäne, vrom Aunt o' Camwy dell.

Zoo all the lot o' stuff a-tied Upon the plow, a tidy tod, On gravel-crunchèn wheels did ride, Wi' ho'ses, iron-shod, That, as their heads did nod, my whip Did guide along wi' lightsome flip.

An' there it rod 'ithin the rwope, Astraïn'd athirt, an' straïn'd along, Down Thornhay's evenèn-lighted slope An' up the beech-tree drong; Where wheels a-bound so strong, cut out On either zide a deep-zunk rout.

An' when at Fall the trees wer brown, Above the bennet-bearèn land, When beech-leaves slowly whiver'd down. By evenèn winds a-fann'd; The routs wer each a band o' red, A-vill'd by drifted beech-leaves dead.

An' when, in Winter's leafless light, The keener eastern wind did blow. An' scatter down, avore my zight, A chilly cwoat o' snow; The routs ageän did show vull bright, In two long streaks o' glitt'rèn white.

But when, upon our weddèn night, The cart's light wheels, a-rollèn round, Brought Jenny hwome, they run too light To mark the yieldèn ground; Or welcome would be vound a peäir O' green-vill'd routs a-runnèn there.

Zoo let me never bring 'ithin My dwellèn what's a-won by wrong, An' can't come in 'ithout a sin; Vor only zee how long The waggon marks in drong, did show Wï' leaves, wi' grass, wi' groun' wi' snow.

NANNY'S NEW ABODE.

Now day by day, at lofty height, O zummer noons, the burnèn zun 'Ve a-show'd avore our eastward zight, The sky-blue zide ov Hameldon, An' shone ageän, on new-mow'd ground, Wi' haÿ a-piled up grey in pook, An' down on leäzes, bennet-brown'd, An' wheat a-vell avore the hook; Till, under elems tall, The leaves do lie on leänèn lands, In leäter light o' Fall.

An' last year, we did zee the red O' dawn vrom Ash-knap's thatchen oves, An' walk on crumpled leaves a-laid In grassy rook-trees' timber'd groves, Now, here, the cooler days do shrink To vewer hours o' zunny sky, While zedge, a-weävèn by the brink O' shallow brooks, do slowly die. An' on the timber tall, The boughs, half beäre, do bend above The bulgèn banks in Fall.

There, we'd a spring o' water near, Here, water's deep in wink-draïn'd wells, The church 'tis true, is nigh out here, Too nigh wi' vive loud-boomèn bells. There, naïghbours wer vull wide a-spread, But vo'k be here too clwose a-stow'd. Vor childern now do stun woone's head, Wi' naïsy plaÿ bezide the road, Where big so well as small, The little lad, an' lump'rèn lout, Do leäp an' laugh theäse Fall.

LEAVES A-VALLÈN.

There the ash-tree leaves do vall In the wind a-blowèn cwolder, An' my childern, tall or small, Since last Fall be woone year wolder. Woone year wolder, woone year dearer, Till when they do leave my he'th, I shall be noo mwore a hearer O' their vaïces or their me'th.

There dead ash leaves be a-toss'd In the wind, a-blowèn stronger, An' our life-time, since we lost Souls we lov'd, is woone year longer. Woone year longer, woone year wider, Vrom the friends that death ha' took, As the hours do teäke the rider Vrom the hand that last he shook.

No. If he do ride at night Vrom the zide the zun went under, Woone hour vrom his western light Needen meäke woone hour asunder; Woone hour onward, woone hour nigher To the hopeful eastern skies, Where his mornèn rim o' vier Soon ageän shall meet his eyes.

Leaves be now a-scatter'd round In the wind, a-blowèn bleaker, An' if we do walk the ground Wi' our life-strangth woone year weaker. Woone year weaker, woone year nigher To the pleäce where we shall vind Woone that's deathless vor the dier, Voremost they that dropp'd behind.

LIZZIE.

O Lizzie is so mild o' mind, Vor ever kind, an' ever true; A-smilèn, while her lids do rise To show her eyes as bright as dew. An' comely do she look at night, A-dancèn in her skirt o' white, An' blushèn wi' a rwose o' red Bezide her glossy head.

Feäir is the rwose o' blushèn hue, Behung wi' dew, in mornèn's hour, Feäir is the rwose, so sweet below The noontide glow, bezide the bow'r. Vull feäir, an' eet I'd rather zee The rwose a-gather'd off the tree, An' bloomèn still with blossom red, By Lizzie's glossy head.

Mid peace droughout her e'thly day, Betide her way, to happy rest, An' mid she, all her weanèn life, Or maïd or wife, be loved and blest. Though I mid never zing anew To neäme the maïd so feäir an' true, A-blushèn, wi' a rwose o' red, Bezide her glossy head.

BLESSENS A-LEFT.

Lik' souls a-toss'd at sea I bore Sad strokes o' trial, shock by shock, An' now, lik' souls a-cast ashore To rest upon the beäten rock, I still do seem to hear the sound O' weäves that drove me vrom my track, An' zee my strugglèn hopes a-drown'd, An' all my jaÿs a-floated back. By storms a-toss'd, I'll gi'e God praïse, Wi' much a-lost I still ha' jaÿs. My peace is rest, my faïth is hope, An' freedom's my unbounded scope.

Vor faïth mid blunt the sting o' fear, An' peace the pangs ov ills a-vound, An' freedom vlee vrom evils near, Wi' wings to vwold on other ground, Wi' much a-lost, my loss is small, Vor though ov e'thly goods bereft, A thousand times well worth em all Be they good blessèns now a-left. What e'th do own, to e'th mid vall, But what's my own my own I'll call, My faïth, an' peäce, the gifts o' greäce, An' freedom still to shift my pleäce.

When I've a-had a tree to screen My meal-rest vrom the high zunn'd-sky, Or ivy-holdèn wall between My head an' win's a-rustlèn by, I had noo call vor han's to bring Their seäv'ry daïnties at my nod, But stoop'd a-drinkèn vrom the spring, An' took my meal, wi' thanks to God, Wi' faïth to keep me free o' dread, An' peäce to sleep wi' steadvast head, An' freedom's hands, an' veet unbound To woone man's work, or woone seäme ground.

FALL TIME.

The gather'd clouds, a-hangèn low, Do meäke the woody ridge look dim; An' raïn-vill'd streams do brisker flow, Arisèn higher to their brim. In the tree, vrom lim' to lim', Leaves do drop Vrom the top, all slowly down, Yollow, to the gloomy groun'.

The rick's a-tipp'd an' weather-brown'd, An' thatch'd wi' zedge a-dried an' dead; An' orcha'd apples, red half round, Have all a-happer'd down, a-shed Underneath the trees' wide head. Ladders long, Rong by rong, to clim' the tall Trees, be hung upon the wall.

The crumpled leaves be now a-shed In mornèn winds a-blowèn keen; When they wer green the moss wer dead, Now they be dead the moss is green. Low the evenèn zun do sheen By the boughs, Where the cows do swing their taïls Over the merry milkers' païls.

FALL.

Now the yollow zun, a-runnèn Daily round a smaller bow, Still wi' cloudless sky's a-zunnèn All the sheenèn land below. Vewer blossoms now do blow, But the fruit's a-showèn Reds an' blues, an' purple hues, By the leaves a-glowèn.

Now the childern be a-pryèn Roun' the berried bremble-bow, Zome a-laughèn, woone a-cryèn Vor the slent her frock do show. Bwoys be out a-pullèn low Slooe-boughs, or a-runnèn Where, on zides of hazzle-wrides, Nuts do hang a-zunnèn.

Where do reach roun' wheat-ricks yollow Oves o' thatch, in long-drawn ring, There, by stubbly hump an' hollow, Russet-dappled dogs do spring. Soon my apple-trees wull fling Bloomèn balls below em, That shall hide, on ev'ry zide Ground where we do drow em.

THE ZILVER-WEED.

The zilver-weed upon the green, Out where my sons an' daughters play'd, Had never time to bloom between The litty steps o' bwoy an' maïd. But rwose-trees down along the wall, That then wer all the maïden's ceäre, An' all a-trimm'd an' traïn'd, did bear Their bloomèn buds vrom Spring to Fall.

But now the zilver leaves do show To zummer day their goolden crown, Wi' noo swift shoe-zoles' litty blow, In merry plaÿ to beät em down. An' where vor years zome busy hand Did traïn the rwoses wide an' high; Now woone by woone the trees do die, An' vew of all the row do stand.

THE WIDOW'S HOUSE.

I went hwome in the dead o' the night, When the vields wer all empty o' vo'k, An' the tuns at their cool-winded height Wer all dark, an' all cwold 'ithout smoke; An' the heads o' the trees that I pass'd Wer a-swayèn wi' low-ruslèn sound, An' the doust wer a-whirl'd wi' the blast, Aye, a smeech wi' the wind on the ground.

Then I come by the young widow's hatch, Down below the wold elem's tall head, But noo vinger did lift up the latch, Vor the vo'k wer so still as the dead; But inside, to a tree a-meäde vast, Wer the childern's light swing, a-hung low, An' a-rock'd by the brisk-blowèn blast, Aye, a-swung by the win' to an' fro.

Vor the childern, wi' pillow-borne head, Had vorgotten their swing on the lawn, An' their father, asleep wi' the dead, Had vorgotten his work at the dawn; An' their mother, a vew stilly hours, Had vorgotten where he sleept so sound, Where the wind wer a-sheäkèn the flow'rs, Aye, the blast the feäir buds on the ground.

Oh! the moon, wi' his peäle lighted skies, Have his sorrowless sleepers below. But by day to the zun they must rise To their true lives o' tweil an' ov ho. Then the childern wull rise to their fun, An' their mother mwore sorrow to veel, While the aïr is a-warm'd by the zun, Aye, the win' by the day's vi'ry wheel.

THE CHILD'S GREÄVE.

Avore the time when zuns went down On zummer's green a-turn'd to brown, When sheädes o' swaÿèn wheat-eärs vell Upon the scarlet pimpernel; The while you still mid goo, an' vind 'Ithin the geärden's mossy wall, Sweet blossoms, low or risèn tall, To meäke a tutty to your mind, In churchyard heav'd, wi' grassy breast, The greäve-mound ov a beäby's rest.

An' when a high day broke, to call A throng 'ithin the churchyard wall, The mother brought, wi' thoughtvul mind, The feäirest buds her eyes could vind, To trim the little greäve, an' show To other souls her love an' loss, An' meäde a Seävior's little cross O' brightest flow'rs that then did blow, A-droppèn tears a-sheenèn bright, Among the dew, in mornèn light

An' woone sweet bud her han' did pleäce Up where did droop the Seävior's feäce; An' two she zet a-bloomèn bright, Where reach'd His hands o' left an' right; Two mwore feäir blossoms, crimson dyed, Did mark the pleäces ov his veet, An' woone did lie, a-smellèn sweet, Up where the spear did wound the zide Ov Him that is the life ov all Greäve sleepers, whether big or small.

The mother that in faïth could zee The Seävior on the high cross tree Mid be a-vound a-grievèn sore, But not to grieve vor evermwore, Vor He shall show her faïthvul mind, His chaïce is all that she should choose, An' love that here do grieve to lose, Shall be, above, a jaÿ to vind, Wi' Him that evermwore shall keep The souls that He do lay asleep.

WENT VROM HWOME.

The stream-be-wander'd dell did spread Vrom height to woody height, An' meäds did lie, a grassy bed, Vor elem-sheädèn light. The milkmaïd by her white-horn'd cow, Wi' païl so white as snow, Did zing below the elem bough A-swaÿèn to an' fro.

An' there the evenèn's low-shot light Did smite the high tree-tops, An' rabbits vrom the grass, in fright, Did leäp 'ithin the copse. An' there the shepherd wi' his crook. An' dog bezide his knee, Went whisslèn by, in aïr that shook The ivy on the tree.

An' on the hill, ahead, wer bars A-showèn dark on high, Avore, as eet, the evenèn stars Did twinkle in the sky, An' then the last sweet evenèn-tide That my long sheäde vell there, I went down Brindon's thymy zide, To my last sleep at Ware.

THE FANCY FEÄIR AT MAÏDEN NEWTON.

The Frome, wi' ever-water'd brink, Do run where shelvèn hills do zink Wi' housen all a-cluster'd roun' The parish tow'rs below the down. An' now, vor woonce, at leäst, ov all The pleäcen where the stream do vall, There's woone that zome to-day mid vind, Wi' things a-suited to their mind. An' that's out where the Fancy Feäir Is on at Maïden Newton.

An' vo'k, a-smarten'd up, wull hop Out here, as ev'ry traïn do stop, Vrom up the line, a longish ride, An' down along the river-zide. An' zome do beät, wi' heels an' tooes, The leänes an' paths, in nimble shoes, An' bring, bezides, a biggish knot, Ov all their childern that can trot, A-vlockèn where the Fancy Feäir Is here at Maïden Newton.

If you should goo, to-day, avore A _Chilfrome_ house or _Downfrome_ door, Or _Frampton's_ park-zide row, or look Drough quiet _Wraxall's_ slopy nook, Or elbow-streeted _Catt'stock_, down By _Castlehill's_ cwold-winded crown, An' zee if vo'k be all at hwome, You'd vind em out--they be a-come Out hither, where the Fancy Feäir Is on at Maïden Newton.

Come, young men, come, an' here you'll vind A gift to please a maïden's mind; Come, husbands, here be gifts to please Your wives, an' meäke em smile vor days; Come, so's, an' buy at Fancy Feäir A keepseäke vor your friends elsewhere; You can't but stop an' spend a cwein Wi' leädies that ha' goods so fine; An' all to meake, vor childern's seäke, The School at Maïden Newton.

THINGS DO COME ROUND.

Above the leafless hazzle-wride The wind-drove raïn did quickly vall, An' on the meäple's ribby zide Did hang the raïn-drops quiv'rèn ball; Out where the brook o' foamy yollow Roll'd along the meäd's deep hollow, An' noo birds wer out to beät, Wi' flappèn wings, the vleèn wet O' zunless clouds on flow'rless ground. How time do bring the seasons round!

The moss, a-beät vrom trees, did lie Upon the ground in ashen droves, An' western wind did huffle high, Above the sheds' quick-drippèn oves. An' where the ruslèn straw did sound So dry, a-shelter'd in the lew, I staïed alwone, an' weather-bound, An' thought on times, long years agoo, Wi' water-floods on flow'rless ground. How time do bring the seasons round!

We then, in childhood plaÿ, did seem In work o' men to teäke a peärt, A-drevèn on our wild bwoy team, Or lwoadèn o' the tiny cart. Or, on our little refters, spread The zedgen ruf above our head, But coulden tell, as now we can, Where each would goo to tweil a man. O jaÿs a-lost, an' jaÿs a-vound, How Providence do bring things round!

Where woonce along the sky o' blue The zun went roun' his longsome bow, An' brighten'd, to my soul, the view About our little farm below. There I did plaÿ the merry geäme, Wi' childern ev'ry holitide, But coulden tell the vaïce or neäme That time would vind to be my bride. O hwome a-left, O wife a-vound, How Providence do bring things round!

An' when I took my manhood's pleäce, A husband to a wife's true vow, I never thought by neäme or feäce O' childern that be round me now. An' now they all do grow vrom small, Drough life's feäir sheäpes to big an' tall, I still be blind to God's good plan, To pleäce em out as wife, or man. O thread o' love by God unwound, How He in time do bring things round;

ZUMMER THOUGHTS IN WINTER TIME.

Well, aye, last evenèn, as I shook My locks ov haÿ by Leecombe brook. The yollow zun did weakly glance Upon the winter meäd askance, A-castèn out my narrow sheäde Athirt the brook, an' on the meäd. The while ageän my lwonesome ears Did russle weatherbeäten spears, Below the withy's leafless head That overhung the river's bed; I there did think o' days that dried The new-mow'd grass o' zummer-tide, When white-sleev'd mowers' whetted bleädes Rung sh'ill along the green-bough'd gleädes, An' maïdens gaÿ, wi' plaÿsome chaps, A-zot wi' dinners in their laps, Did talk wi' merry words that rung Around the ring, vrom tongue to tongue; An' welcome, when the leaves ha' died, Be zummer thoughts in winter-tide.

I'M OUT O' DOOR.

I'm out, when, in the Winter's blast, The zun, a-runnèn lowly round, Do mark the sheädes the hedge do cast At noon, in hoarvrost, on the ground, I'm out when snow's a-lyèn white In keen-aïr'd vields that I do pass, An' moonbeams, vrom above, do smite On ice an' sleeper's window-glass. I'm out o' door, When win' do zweep, By hangèn steep, Or hollow deep, At Lindenore.

O welcome is the lewth a-vound By rustlèn copse, or ivied bank, Or by the haÿ-rick, weather-brown'd By barken-grass, a-springèn rank; Or where the waggon, vrom the team A-freed, is well a-housed vrom wet, An' on the dousty cart-house beam Do hang the cobweb's white-lin'd net. While storms do roar, An' win' do zweep, By hangèn steep, Or hollow deep, At Lindenore.

An' when a good day's work's a-done An' I do rest, the while a squall Do rumble in the hollow tun, An' ivy-stems do whip the wall. Then in the house do sound about My ears, dear vaïces vull or thin, A praÿèn vor the souls vur out At sea, an' cry wi' bibb'rèn chin-- Oh! shut the door. What soul can sleep, Upon the deep, When storms do zweep At Lindenore.

GRIEF AN' GLADNESS.

"Can all be still, when win's do blow? Look down the grove an' zee The boughs a-swingèn on the tree, An' beäten weäves below. Zee how the tweilèn vo'k do bend Upon their windward track, Wi' ev'ry string, an' garment's end, A-flutt'rèn at their back." I cried, wi' sorrow sore a-tried, An' hung, wi' Jenny at my zide, My head upon my breast. Wi' strokes o' grief so hard to bear, 'Tis hard vor souls to rest.

Can all be dull, when zuns do glow? Oh! no; look down the grove, Where zides o' trees be bright above; An' weäves do sheen below; An' neäked stems o' wood in hedge Do gleäm in streäks o' light, An' rocks do gleäre upon the ledge O' yonder zunny height, "No, Jeäne, wi' trials now withdrawn, Lik' darkness at a happy dawn." I cried, "Noo mwore despair; Wi' our lost peace ageän a-vound, 'Tis wrong to harbour ceäre."

SLIDÈN.

When wind wer keen, Where ivy-green Did clwosely wind Roun' woak-tree rind, An' ice shone bright, An' meäds wer white, wi' thin-spread snow Then on the pond, a-spreadèn wide, We bwoys did zweep along the slide, A-strikèn on in merry row.

There ruddÿ-feäced, In busy heäste, We all did wag A spankèn lag, To win good speed, When we, straïght-knee'd, wi' foreright tooes, Should shoot along the slipp'ry track, Wi' grindèn sound, a-gettèn slack, The slower went our clumpèn shoes.

Vor zome slow chap, Did teäke mishap, As he did veel His hinder heel A-het a thump, Wi' zome big lump, o' voot an' shoe. Down vell the voremost wi' a squall, An' down the next went wi' a sprawl, An' down went all the laughèn crew.

As to an' fro, In merry row, We all went round On ice, on ground The maïdens nigh A-stannèn shy, did zee us slide, An' in their eäprons small, did vwold Their little hands, a-got red-cwold, Or slide on ice o' two veet wide.

By leafless copse, An' beäre tree-tops, An' zun's low beams, An' ice-boun' streams, An' vrost-boun' mill, A-stannèn still. Come wind, blow on, An' gi'e the bwoys, this Chris'mas tide, The glitt'rèn ice to meäke a slide, As we had our slide, years agone.

LWONESOMENESS.

As I do zew, wi' nimble hand, In here avore the window's light, How still do all the housegear stand Around my lwonesome zight. How still do all the housegear stand Since Willie now 've a-left the land.

The rwose-tree's window-sheädèn bow Do hang in leaf, an' win'-blow'd flow'rs, Avore my lwonesome eyes do show Theäse bright November hours. Avore my lwonesome eyes do show Wi' nwone but I to zee em blow.

The sheädes o' leafy buds, avore The peänes, do sheäke upon the glass, An' stir in light upon the vloor, Where now vew veet do pass, An' stir in light upon the vloor, Where there's a-stirrèn nothèn mwore.

This win' mid dreve upon the maïn, My brother's ship, a-plowèn foam, But not bring mother, cwold, nor raïn, At her now happy hwome. But not bring mother, cwold, nor raïn, Where she is out o' pain.

Zoo now that I'm a-mwopèn dumb, A-keepèn father's house, do you Come of'en wi' your work vrom hwome, Vor company. Now do. Come of'en wi' your work vrom hwome, Up here a-while. Do come.

A SNOWY NIGHT.

'Twer at night, an' a keen win' did blow Vrom the east under peäle-twinklèn stars, All a-zweepèn along the white snow; On the groun', on the trees, on the bars, Vrom the hedge where the win' russled drough, There a light-russlèn snow-doust did vall; An' noo pleäce wer a-vound that wer lew, But the shed, or the ivy-hung wall.

Then I knock'd at the wold passage door Wi' the win'-driven snow on my locks; Till, a-comèn along the cwold vloor, There my Jenny soon answer'd my knocks. Then the wind, by the door a-swung wide, Flung some snow in her clear-bloomèn feäce, An' she blink'd wi' her head all a-zide, An' a-chucklèn, went back to her pleäce.

An' in there, as we zot roun' the brands, Though the talkers wer maïnly the men, Bloomèn Jeäne, wi' her work in her hands, Did put in a good word now an' then. An' when I took my leave, though so bleäk Wer the weather, she went to the door, Wi' a smile, an' a blush on the cheäk That the snow had a-smitten avore.

THE YEAR-CLOCK.