Chapter 23

The maïd that selfish craft led on To sin, an' left wi' hope a-blighted; Starvèn workmen, thin an' wan, Wi' hopeless leäbour ill requited; Souls a-wrong'd, an' call'd to vill Wi' dread, the men that us'd em ill. When might shall yield to right as pliant As a dwarf avore a giant.

When there, at last, the good shall glow In starbright bodies lik' their Seäviour, Vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show, The marks o' man's unkind beheäviour: Wi' speechless tongue, an' burnèn cheak, The strong shall bow avore the weäk, An' vind that helplessness, wi' right, Is strong beyond all e'thly might.

DANIEL DWITHEN, THE WISE CHAP.

Dan Dwithen wer the chap to show His naïghbours mwore than they did know, Vor he could zee, wi' half a thought, What zome could hardly be a-taught; An' he had never any doubt Whatever 'twer, but he did know't, An' had a-reach'd the bottom o't, Or soon could meäke it out.

Wi' narrow feäce, an' nose so thin That light a'most shone drough the skin, As he did talk, wi' his red peäir O' lips, an' his vull eyes did steäre, What nippy looks friend Daniel wore, An' how he smiled as he did bring Such reasons vor to clear a thing, As dather'd vo'k the mwore!

When woonce there come along the road At night, zome show-vo'k, wi' a lwoad Ov half the wild outlandïsh things That crawl'd, or went wi' veet, or wings; Their elephant, to stratch his knees, Walk'd up the road-zide turf, an' left His tracks a-zunk wi' all his heft As big's a vinny cheese.

An' zoo next mornèn zome vo'k vound The girt round tracks upon the ground, An' view'd em all wi' stedvast eyes, An' wi' their vingers spann'd their size, An' took their depth below the brink: An' whether they mid be the tracks O' things wi' witches on their backs, Or what, they coulden think.

At last friend Dan come up, an' brought His wit to help their dizzy thought, An' lookèn on an' off the ea'th, He cried, a-drawèn a vull breath, Why, I do know; what, can't ye zee 't? I'll bet a shillèn 'twer a deer Broke out o' park, an' sprung on here, Wi' quoits upon his veet.

TURNÈN THINGS OFF.

Upzides wi' Polly! no, he'd vind That Poll would soon leäve him behind. To turn things off! oh! she's too quick To be a-caught by ev'ry trick. Woone day our Jimmy stole down steäirs On merry Polly unaweäres, The while her nimble tongue did run A-tellèn, all alive wi' fun, To sister Anne, how Simon Heäre Did hanker after her at feäir. "He left," cried Polly, "cousin Jeäne, An' kept wi' us all down the leäne, An' which way ever we did leäd He vollow'd over hill an' meäd; An' wi' his head o' shaggy heäir, An' sleek brown cwoat that he do weäre, An' collar that did reach so high 'S his two red ears, or perty nigh, He swung his täil, wi' steps o' pride, Back right an' left, vrom zide to zide, A-walkèn on, wi' heavy strides A half behind, an' half upzides." "Who's that?" cried Jimmy, all agog; An' thought he had her now han'-pat, "That's Simon Heäre," but no, "Who's that?" Cried she at woonce, "Why Uncle's dog, Wi' what have you a-been misled I wonder. Tell me what I zaid." Woone evenèn as she zot bezide The wall the ranglèn vine do hide, A-prattlèn on, as she did zend Her needle, at her vinger's end. On drough the work she had in hand, Zome bran-new thing that she'd a-plann'd, Jim overheärd her talk ageän O' Robin Hine, ov Ivy Leäne, "Oh! no, what he!" she cried in scorn, "I wouldèn gie a penny vor'n; The best ov him's outzide in view; His cwoat is gaÿ enough, 'tis true, But then the wold vo'k didden bring En up to know a single thing, An' as vor zingèn,--what do seem His zingèn's nothèn but a scream." "So ho!" cried Jim, "Who's that, then, Meäry, That you be now a-talkèn o'?" He thought to catch her then, but, no, Cried Polly, "Oh! why Jeäne's caneäry, Wi' what have you a-been misled, I wonder. Tell me what I zaid."

THE GIANTS IN TREÄDES.

GRAMFER'S FEÄBLE.

(_How the steam engine come about._)

_Vier, Aïr, E'th, Water_, wer a-meäde Good workers, each o'm in his treäde, An' _Aïr_ an' _Water_, wer a-match Vor woone another in a mill; The giant _Water_ at a hatch, An' _Aïr_ on the windmill hill. Zoo then, when _Water_ had a-meäde Zome money, _Äir_ begrudg'd his treäde, An' come by, unaweäres woone night, An' vound en at his own mill-head, An' cast upon en, iron-tight, An icy cwoat so stiff as lead. An' there he wer so good as dead Vor grindèn any corn vor bread. Then _Water_ cried to _Vier_, "Alack! Look, here be I, so stiff's a log, Thik fellor _Aïr_ do keep me back Vrom grindèn. I can't wag a cog. If I, dear _Vier_, did ever souse Your nimble body on a house, When you wer on your merry pranks Wi' thatch or refters, beams or planks, Vorgi'e me, do, in pity's neäme, Vor 'twerden I that wer to bleäme, I never wagg'd, though I be'nt cringèn, Till men did dreve me wi' their engine. Do zet me free vrom theäse cwold jacket, Vor I myzelf shall never crack it." "Well come," cried _Vier_, "My vo'k ha' meäde An engine that 'ull work your treäde. If _E'th_ is only in the mood, While I do work, to gi'e me food, I'll help ye, an' I'll meäke your skill A match vor Mister _Aïr's_ wold mill." "What food," cried _E'th_, "'ull suit your bwoard?" "Oh! trust me, I ben't over nice," Cried _Vier_, "an' I can eat a slice Ov any thing you can avword." "I've lots," cried _E'th_, "ov coal an' wood." "Ah! that's the stuff," cried _Vier_, "that's good." Zoo _Vier_ at woonce to _Water_ cried, "Here, _Water_, here, you get inside O' theäse girt bwoiler. Then I'll show How I can help ye down below, An' when my work shall woonce begin You'll be a thousand times so strong, An' be a thousand times so long An' big as when you vu'st got in. An' I wull meäke, as sure as death, Thik fellor _Aïr_ to vind me breath, An' you shall grind, an' pull, an' dreve, An' zaw, an' drash, an' pump, an' heave, An' get vrom _Aïr_, in time, I'll lay A pound, the drevèn ships at sea." An' zoo 'tis good to zee that might Wull help a man a-wrong'd, to right.

THE LITTLE WOROLD.

My hwome wer on the timber'd ground O' Duncombe, wi' the hills a-bound: Where vew from other peärts did come, An' vew did travel vur from hwome, An' small the worold I did know; But then, what had it to bestow But Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir? 'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

In our deep hollow where the zun Did eärly leäve the smoky tun, An' all the meäds a-growèn dim, Below the hill wi' zunny rim; Oh! small the land the hills did bound, But there did walk upon the ground Young Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir: 'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

O' leäte upon the misty plaïn I staÿ'd vor shelter vrom the raïn, Where sharp-leav'd ashès' heads did twist In hufflèn wind, an' driftèn mist, An' small the worold I could zee; But then it had below the tree My Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir: 'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

An' I've a house wi' thatchen ridge, Below the elems by the bridge: Wi' small-peän'd windows, that do look Upon a knap, an' ramblèn brook; An' small's my house, my ruf is low, But then who mid it have to show But Fanny Deäne so good an' feäir? 'Tis fine enough if peace is there.

BAD NEWS.

I do mind when there broke bitter tidèns, Woone day, on their ears, An' their souls wer a-smote wi' a stroke As the lightnèn do vall on the woak, An' the things that wer bright all around em Seem'd dim drough their tears.

Then unheeded wer things in their vingers, Their grief wer their all. All unheeded wer zongs o' the birds, All unheeded the child's perty words, All unheeded the kitten a-rollèn The white-threaded ball.

Oh! vor their minds the daylight around em Had nothèn to show. Though it brighten'd their tears as they vell, An' did sheen on their lips that did tell, In their vaïces all thrillèn an' mwoansome, O' nothèn but woe.

But they vound that, by Heavenly mercy, The news werden true; An' they shook, wi' low laughter, as quick As a drum when his blows do vall thick, An' wer eärnest in words o' thanksgivèn, Vor mercies anew.

THE TURNSTILE.

Ah! sad wer we as we did peäce The wold church road, wi' downcast feäce, The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep Above our child a-left asleep, Wer now a-zingèn all alive Wi' tother bells to meäke the vive. But up at woone pleäce we come by, 'Twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry: On Steän-cliff road, 'ithin the drong, Up where, as vo'k do pass along, The turnèn stile, a-païnted white, Do sheen by day an' show by night. Vor always there, as we did goo To church, thik stile did let us drough, Wi' spreadèn eärms that wheel'd to guide Us each in turn to tother zide. An' vu'st ov all the traïn he took My wife, wi' winsome gaït an' look; An' then zent on my little maïd, A-skippèn onward, overjaÿ'd To reach ageän the pleäce o' pride, Her comely mother's left han' zide. An' then, a-wheelèn roun', he took On me, 'ithin his third white nook. An' in the fourth, a-sheäkèn wild, He zent us on our giddy child. But eesterday he guided slow My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe, An' then my little maïd in black, A-walkèn softly on her track; An' after he'd a-turn'd ageän, To let me goo along the leäne, He had noo little bwoy to vill His last white eärms, an' they stood still.

THE BETTER VOR ZEÈN O' YOU.

'Twer good what Meäster Collins spoke O' spite to two poor spitevul vo'k, When woone twold tother o' the two "I be never the better vor zeèn o' you." If soul to soul, as Christians should, Would always try to do zome good, "How vew," he cried, "would zee our feäce A-brighten'd up wi' smiles o' greäce, An' tell us, or could tell us true, I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."

A man mus' be in evil ceäse To live 'ithin a land o' greäce, Wi' nothèn that a soul can read O' goodness in his word or deed; To still a breast a-heav'd wi' sighs, Or dry the tears o' weepèn eyes; To staÿ a vist that spite ha' wrung, Or cool the het ov anger's tongue: Or bless, or help, or gi'e, or lend; Or to the friendless stand a friend, An' zoo that all could tell en true, "I be never the better vor zeèn o' you."

Oh! no, mid all o's try to spend Our passèn time to zome good end, An' zoo vrom day to day teäke heed, By mind, an' han', by word or deed; To lessen evil, and increase The growth o' righteousness an' peäce, A-speakèn words o' lovèn-kindness, Openèn the eyes o' blindness; Helpèn helpless striver's weakness, Cheerèn hopeless grievers' meekness, Meäkèn friends at every meetèn, Veel the happier vor their greetèn; Zoo that vew could tell us true, "I be never the better vor zeèn o' you." No, let us even try to win Zome little good vrom sons o' sin, An' let their evils warn us back Vrom teäkèn on their hopeless track, Where we mid zee so clear's the zun That harm a-done is harm a-won, An' we mid cry an' tell em true, "I be even the better vor zeèn o' you."

PITY.

Good Meäster Collins! aye, how mild he spoke Woone day o' Mercy to zome cruel vo'k. "No, no. Have Mercy on a helpless head, An' don't be cruel to a zoul," he zaid. "When Babylon's king woonce cast 'ithin The viery furnace, in his spite, The vetter'd souls whose only sin Wer praÿer to the God o' might, He vound a fourth, 'ithout a neäme, A-walkèn wi' em in the fleäme.

An' zoo, whenever we mid hurt, Vrom spite, or vrom disdaïn, A brother's soul, or meäke en smert Wi' keen an' needless païn, Another that we midden know Is always wi' en in his woe. Vor you do know our Lord ha' cried, "By faïth my bretheren do bide In me the livèn vine, As branches in a livèn tree; Whatever you've a-done to mine Is all a-done to me. Oh! when the new-born child, the e'th's new guest, Do lie an' heave his little breast, In pillow'd sleep, wi' sweetest breath O' sinless days drough rwosy lips a-drawn; Then, if a han' can smite en in his dawn O' life to darksome death, Oh! where can Pity ever vwold Her wings o' swiftness vrom their holy flight, To leäve a heart o' flesh an' blood so cwold At such a touchèn zight? An' zoo mid meek-soul'd Pity still Be zent to check our evil will, An' keep the helpless soul from woe, An' hold the hardened heart vrom sin. Vor they that can but mercy show Shall all their Father's mercy win."

JOHN BLOOM IN LON'ON.

(_All true._)

John Bloom he wer a jolly soul, A grinder o' the best o' meal, Bezide a river that did roll, Vrom week to week, to push his wheel. His flour wer all a-meäde o' wheat; An' fit for bread that vo'k mid eat; Vor he would starve avore he'd cheat. "'Tis pure," woone woman cried; "Aye, sure," woone mwore replied; "You'll vind it nice. Buy woonce, buy twice," Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

Athirt the chest he wer so wide As two or dree ov me or you. An' wider still vrom zide to zide, An' I do think still thicker drough. Vall down, he coulden, he did lie When he wer up on-zide so high As up on-end or perty nigh. "Meäke room," woone naïghbour cried; "'Tis Bloom," woone mwore replied; "Good morn t'ye all, bwoth girt an' small," Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

Noo stings o' conscience ever broke His rest, a-twitèn o'n wi' wrong, Zoo he did sleep till mornèn broke, An' birds did call en wi' their zong. But he did love a harmless joke, An' love his evenèn whiff o' smoke, A-zittèn in his cheäir o' woak. "Your cup," his daughter cried; "Vill'd up," his wife replied; "Aye, aye; a drap avore my nap," Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

When Lon'on vok did meäke a show O' their girt glassen house woone year, An' people went, bwoth high an' low, To zee the zight, vrom vur an' near, "O well," cried Bloom, "why I've a right So well's the rest to zee the zight; I'll goo, an' teäke the raïl outright." "Your feäre," the booker cried; "There, there," good Bloom replied; "Why this June het do meäke woone zweat," Cried worthy Bloom the miller,

Then up the guard did whissle sh'ill, An' then the engine pank'd a-blast, An' rottled on so loud's a mill, Avore the traïn, vrom slow to vast. An' oh! at last how they did spank By cuttèn deep, an' high-cast bank The while their iron ho'se did pank. "Do whizzy," woone o'm cried; "I'm dizzy," woone replied; "Aye, here's the road to hawl a lwoad," Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

In Lon'on John zent out to call A tidy trap, that he mid ride To zee the glassen house, an' all The lot o' things a-stow'd inside. "Here, Boots, come here," cried he, "I'll dab A sixpence in your han' to nab Down street a tidy little cab." "A feäre," the boots then cried; "I'm there," the man replied. "The glassen pleäce, your quickest peäce," Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

The steps went down wi' rottlèn slap, The zwingèn door went open wide: Wide? no; vor when the worthy chap Stepp'd up to teäke his pleäce inside, Breast-foremost, he wer twice too wide Vor thik there door. An' then he tried To edge in woone an' tother zide. "'Twont do," the drever cried; "Can't goo," good Bloom replied; "That you should bring theäse vooty thing!" Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

"Come," cried the drever. "Pay your feäre You'll teäke up all my time, good man." "Well," answer'd Bloom, "to meäke that square, You teäke up me, then, if you can." "I come at call," the man did nod. "What then?" cried Bloom, "I han't a-rod, An' can't in thik there hodmadod." "Girt lump," the drever cried; "Small stump," good Bloom replied; "A little mite, to meäke so light, O' jolly Bloom the miller."

"You'd best be off now perty quick," Cried Bloom. "an' vind a lighter lwoad, Or else I'll vetch my voot, an' kick The vooty thing athirt the road." "Who is the man?" they cried, "meäke room," "A halfstarv'd Do'set man," cried Bloom; "You be?" another cried; "Hee! Hee!" woone mwore replied. "Aye, shrunk so thin, to bwone an' skin," Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

A LOT O' MAÏDENS A-RUNNÈN THE VIELDS.[F]

"Come on. Be sprack, a-laggèn back." "Oh! be there any cows to hook?" "Lauk she's afraïd, a silly maïd," Cows? No, the cows be down by brook. "O here then, oh! here is a lot." "A lot o' what? what is it? what?" "Why blackberries, as thick As ever they can stick." "I've dewberries, oh! twice As good as they; so nice." "Look here. Theäse boughs be all but blue Wi' snags." "Oh! gi'e me down a vew." "Come here, oh! do but look." "What's that? what is it now?" "Why nuts a-slippèn shell." "Hee! hee! pull down the bough." "I wish I had a crook." "There zome o'm be a-vell." (_One sings_) "I wish I was on Bimport Hill I would zit down and cry my vill." "Hee! hee! there's Jenny zomewhere nigh, A-zingèn that she'd like to cry."

(_Jenny sings_) "I would zit down and cry my vill Until my tears would dreve a mill." "Oh! here's an ugly crawlèn thing, A sneäke." "A slooworm; he wont sting." "Hee! hee! how she did squal an' hop, A-spinnèn roun' so quick's a top." "Look here, oh! quick, be quick." "What is it? what then? where?" "A rabbit." "No, a heäre." "Ooh! ooh! the thorns do prick," "How he did scote along the ground As if he wer avore a hound." "Now mind the thistles." "Hee, hee, hee, Why they be knapweeds." "No." "They be." "I've zome'hat in my shoe." "Zit down, an' sheäke it out." "Oh! emmets, oh! ooh, ooh, A-crawlèn all about." "What bird is that, O harken, hush. How sweetly he do zing." "A nightingeäle." "La! no, a drush." "Oh! here's a funny thing." "Oh! how the bull do hook, An' bleäre, an' fling the dirt." "Oh! wont he come athirt?" "No, he's beyond the brook." "O lauk! a hornet rose Up clwose avore my nose." "Oh! what wer that so white Rush'd out o' thik tree's top?" "An owl." "How I did hop, How I do sheäke wi' fright." "A musheroom." "O lau! A twoadstool! Pwoison! Augh." "What's that, a mouse?" "O no, Teäke ceäre, why 'tis a shrow." "Be sure don't let en come An' run athirt your shoe He'll meäke your voot so numb That you wont veel a tooe."[G] "Oh! what wer that so loud A-rumblèn?" "Why a clap O' thunder. Here's a cloud O' raïn. I veel a drap." "A thunderstorm. Do raïn. Run hwome wi' might an' main." "Hee! hee! oh! there's a drop A-trïckled down my back. Hee! hee!" "My head's as wet's a mop." "Oh! thunder," "there's a crack. Oh! Oh!" "Oh! I've a-got the stitch, Oh!" "Oh! I've a-lost my shoe, Oh!" "There's Fanny into ditch, Oh!" "I'm wet all drough an' drough, Oh!"

[Footnote F: The idea, though but little of the substance, of this poem, will be found in a little Italian poem called _Caccia_, written by Franco Sacchetti.]

[Footnote G: The folklore is, that if a shrew-mouse run over a person's foot, it will lame him.]

* * * * *

A LIST OF SOME DORSET WORDS

WITH A FEW HINTS ON DORSET WORD-SHAPES.

THE MAIN SOUNDS.

1. _ee_ in beet. 2. _e_ in Dorset (a sound between 1 and 3.) 3. _a_ in mate. 4. _i_ in birth. 5. _a_ in father. 6. _aw_ in awe. 7. _o_ in dote. 8. _oo_ in rood.

In Dorset words which are forms of book-English ones, the Dorset words differ from the others mainly by Grimm's law, that "likes shift into likes," and I have given a few hints by which the putting of an English heading for the Dorset one will give the English word. If the reader is posed by _dreaten_, he may try for _dr_, _thr_, which will bring out _threaten_. See _Dr_ under _D_.

A.

_a_ in father, and _au_ in daughter are, in "Blackmore," often _a_ = 3. So king Alfred gives a legacy to his _yldsta dehter_--oldest daehter. _a_ is a fore-eking to participles of a fore time, as _a-vound_; also for the Anglo-Saxon _an_, _in_ or _on_, as _a-huntèn_ for _an huntunge_. _aï_, _aÿ_ (5, 1), Maïd, Maÿ. (_Note_--The numbers (as 5, 1) refer to the foregiven table.) _ag_, often for _eg_, as bag, agg, beg, egg.

_Anewst_, _Anighst_, very near, or nearly.

_A'r a_, ever a, as.

_A'r a dog_, ever a dog.

_Amper_, pus.

_A'r'n_, e'er a one.

_A-stooded_ (as a waggon), with wheels sunk fast into rotten ground.

_A-stogged_, _A-stocked_, with feet stuck fast in clay.

_A-strout_, stiff stretched.

_A-thirt_, athwart (_th_ soft).

_A-vore_, afore, before.

_Ax_, ask.

_Axan_, ashes (of fire).

_A-zew_, dry, milkless.

B.

_Backbran' (brand)_, _Backbron' (brond)_, A big brand or block of wood put on the back of the fire.

_Ballywrag_, scold.

_Bandy_, a long stick with a bent end to beat abroad cow-dung.

_Barken_, _Barton_, a stack-yard or cow yard.

_Bavèn_, a faggot of long brushwood.

_Beä'nhan'_ (1, 3, 5), bear in hand, uphold or maintain, as an opinion or otherwise.

_Beät_ (1, 4), _up_, to beat one's way up.

_Bennets_, flower-stalks of grass.

_Be'th_, birth.

_Bibber_, to shake with cold. [This is a Friesic and not an Anglo-Saxon form of the word, and Halbertsma, in his "Lexicon Frisicum," gives it, among others, as a token that Frisians came into Wessex with the Saxons. _See_ Eltrot.]

_Bissen_, thou bist not.

_Bittle_, a beetle.

_Blatch_, black stuff; smut.

_Blather_, a bladder.

_Bleäre_ (1, 3), to low as a cow.

_Blind-buck o' Davy_, blindman's buff.

_Bloodywarrior_, the ruddy Stock gilliflower.

_Blooèns_, blossoms.

_Blooth_, blossom in the main.

_Bluevinny_, blue mouldy.

_Brack_, a breach. "Neither brack nor crack in it."

_Bran'_, a brand.

_Brantèn_, brazen-faced.

_Bring-gwaïn_ (Bring-going), to bring one on his way.

_Brocks_, broken pieces (as of food).

_Bron'_, a brand.

_Bruckly_, _Bruckle_, brittle.

_Bundle_, to bound off; go away quickly.

_Bu'st_, burst.

C.

_Caddle_, a muddle; a puzzling plight amid untoward things, such that a man knows not what to do first.

_Car_, to carry.

_Cassen_, _casn_, canst not.

_Chanker_, a wide chink.

_Charlick_, _charlock_, field-mustard; _Sinapis arvensis_.

_Charm_, a noise as of many voices.

_Choor_, _a chare_, a (weekly) job as of house work.

_Chuck_, to throw underhanded to a point, or for a catch.

_Clack_, _Clacker_, a bird-clacker; a bird-boy's clacking tool, to fray away birds; also the tongue.

_Clavy_, _Clavy-bwoard_, the mantel-shelf.

_Clèden_, cleavers, goosegrass; _Galium aparine._

_Clips_, to clasp.

_Clitty_, clingy.

_Clocks_, ornaments on the ankles of stockings.

_Clom'_, clomb, climbed.

_Clote_, the yellow water-lily; _Nuphar lutea_.

_Clout_, a blow with the flat hand.

_Clum_, to handle clumsily.

_Cluster o' vive_ (cluster of five), the fist or hand with its five fingers; wording taken from a cluster of nuts.

_Cockle_, _Cuckle_, the bur of the burdock.

_Cockleshell_, snail shell.

_Colepexy_, to glean the few apples left on the tree after intaking.

_Coll_ (7), to embrace the neck.

_Conker_, the hip, or hep; the fruit of the briar.

_Cothe_, _coath_ (_th_ soft), a disease of sheep, the plaice or flook, a flat worm _Distoma nepaticum_ in the stomach.

_Cou'den_, could not.

_Coussen_, _Coossen_, _coosn_, couldest not.

_Craze_, to crack a little.

_Critch_, a big pitcher.

_Crock_, an iron cooking-pot.

_Croodle_, to crow softly.

_Croop_, _Croopy-down_, to bend down the body; to stoop very low.

_Crope_, crept.

_Crowshell_, shell of the fresh-water mussel, as taken out of the river for food by crows.