Chapter 3

When evenèn's risèn moon did peep Down drough the hollow dark an' deep, Where gigglèn sweethearts meäde their vows In whispers under waggèn boughs; When whisslèn bwoys, an' rott'lèn ploughs Wer still, an' mothers, wi' their thin Shrill vaïces, call'd their daughters in, From walkèn in the hollow;

What souls should come avore my zight, But they that had your zummer light? The litsome younger woones that smil'd Wi' comely feäzen now a-spweil'd; Or wolder vo'k, so wise an' mild, That I do miss when I do goo To zee the pleäce, an' walk down drough The lwonesome woody hollow?

When wrongs an' overbearèn words Do prick my bleedèn heart lik' swords, Then I do try, vor Christes seäke, To think o' you, sweet days! an' meäke My soul as 'twer when you did weäke My childhood's eyes, an' when, if spite Or grief did come, did die at night In sleep 'ithin the hollow.

JENNY'S RIBBONS.

Jean ax'd what ribbon she should wear 'Ithin her bonnet to the feäir? She had woone white, a-gi'ed her when She stood at Meäry's chrissenèn; She had woone brown, she had woone red, A keepseäke vrom her brother dead, That she did like to wear, to goo To zee his greäve below the yew.

She had woone green among her stock, That I'd a-bought to match her frock; She had woone blue to match her eyes, The colour o' the zummer skies, An' thik, though I do like the rest, Is he that I do like the best, Because she had en in her heäir When vu'st I walk'd wi' her at feäir.

The brown, I zaid, would do to deck Thy heäir; the white would match thy neck; The red would meäke thy red cheäk wan A-thinkèn o' the gi'er gone; The green would show thee to be true; But still I'd sooner zee the blue, Because 'twer he that deck'd thy heäir When vu'st I walk'd wi' thee at feäir.

Zoo, when she had en on, I took Her han' 'ithin my elbow's crook, An' off we went athirt the weir An' up the meäd toward the feäir; The while her mother, at the geäte, Call'd out an' bid her not staÿ leäte, An' she, a-smilèn wi' her bow O' blue, look'd roun' and nodded, _No_.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

THE 'LOTMENTS.

_John and Richard._

JOHN.

Zoo you be in your groun' then, I do zee, A-workèn and a-zingèn lik' a bee. How do it answer? what d'ye think about it? D'ye think 'tis better wi' it than without it? A-recknèn rent, an' time, an' zeed to stock it, D'ye think that you be any thing in pocket?

RICHARD.

O', 'tis a goodish help to woone, I'm sure o't. If I had not a-got it, my poor bwones Would now ha' eäch'd a-crackèn stwones Upon the road; I wish I had zome mwore o't.

JOHN.

I wish the girt woones had a-got the greäce To let out land lik' this in ouer pleäce; But I do fear there'll never be nwone vor us, An' I can't tell whatever we shall do: We be a-most starvèn, an' we'd goo To 'merica, if we'd enough to car us.

RICHARD.

Why 'twer the squire, good now! a worthy man, That vu'st brought into ouer pleäce the plan, He zaid he'd let a vew odd eäcres O' land to us poor leäb'rèn men; An', faïth, he had enough o' teäkers Vor that, an' twice so much ageän. Zoo I took zome here, near my hovel, To exercise my speäde an' shovel; An' what wi' dungèn, diggèn up, an' zeedèn, A-thinnèn, cleänèn, howèn up an' weedèn, I, an' the biggest o' the childern too, Do always vind some useful jobs to do.

JOHN.

Aye, wi' a bit o' ground, if woone got any, Woone's bwoys can soon get out an' eärn a penny; An' then, by workèn, they do learn the vaster The way to do things when they have a meäster; Vor woone must know a deäl about the land Bevore woone's fit to lend a useful hand, In geärden or a-vield upon a farm.

RICHARD.

An' then the work do keep em out o' harm; Vor vo'ks that don't do nothèn wull be vound Soon doèn woorse than nothèn, I'll be bound. But as vor me, d'ye zee, with theäse here bit O' land, why I have ev'ry thing a'mwost: Vor I can fatten vowels for the spit, Or zell a good fat goose or two to rwoast; An' have my beäns or cabbage, greens or grass, Or bit o' wheat, or, sich my happy feäte is, That I can keep a little cow, or ass, An' a vew pigs to eat the little teäties.

JOHN.

An' when your pig's a-fatted pretty well Wi' teäties, or wi' barley an' some bran, Why you've a-got zome vlitches vor to zell, Or hang in chimney-corner, if you can.

RICHARD.

Aye, that's the thing; an' when the pig do die, We got a lot ov offal for to fry, An' netlèns for to bwoil; or put the blood in, An' meäke a meal or two o' good black-pudden.

JOHN.

I'd keep myzelf from parish, I'd be bound, If I could get a little patch o' ground.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

A BIT O' SLY COORTEN.

_John and Fanny._

JOHN.

Now, Fanny, 'tis too bad, you teazèn maïd! How leäte you be a' come! Where have ye staÿ'd? How long you have a-meäde me waït about! I thought you werden gwaïn to come ageän: I had a mind to goo back hwome ageän. This idden when you promis'd to come out.

FANNY.

Now 'tidden any good to meäke a row, Upon my word, I cooden come till now. Vor I've a-been kept in all day by mother, At work about woone little job an' t'other. If you do want to goo, though, don't ye staÿ Vor me a minute longer, I do praÿ.

JOHN.

I thought you mid be out wi' Jemmy Bleäke,

FANNY.

An' why be out wi' him, vor goodness' seäke?

JOHN.

You walk'd o' Zunday evenèn wi'n, d'ye know, You went vrom church a-hitch'd up in his eärm.

FANNY.

Well, if I did, that werden any harm. Lauk! that _is_ zome'at to teäke notice o'_.

JOHN.

He took ye roun' the middle at the stile, An' kiss'd ye twice 'ithin the ha'f a mile.

FANNY.

Ees, at the stile, because I shoulden vall, He took me hold to help me down, that's all; An' I can't zee what very mighty harm He could ha' done a-lendèn me his eärm. An' as vor kissèn o' me, if he did, I didden ax en to, nor zay he mid: An' if he kiss'd me dree times, or a dozen, What harm wer it? Why idden he my cousin? An' I can't zee, then, what there is amiss In cousin Jem's jist gi'èn me a kiss.

JOHN.

Well, he shan't kiss ye, then; you shan't be kiss'd By his girt ugly chops, a lanky houn'! If I do zee'n, I'll jist wring up my vist An' knock en down. I'll squot his girt pug-nose, if I don't miss en; I'll warn I'll spweil his pretty lips vor kissèn!

FANNY.

Well, John, I'm sure I little thought to vind That you had ever sich a jealous mind. What then! I s'pose that I must be a dummy, An' mussen goo about nor wag my tongue To any soul, if he's a man, an' young; Or else you'll work yourzelf up mad wi' passion, An' talk away o' gi'èn vo'k a drashèn, An' breakèn bwones, an' beäten heads to pummy! If you've a-got sich jealous ways about ye, I'm sure I should be better off 'ithout ye.

JOHN.

Well, if girt Jemmy have a-won your heart, We'd better break the coortship off, an' peärt.

FANNY.

He won my heart! There, John, don't talk sich stuff; Don't talk noo mwore, vor you've a-zaid enough. If I'd a-lik'd another mwore than you, I'm sure I shoulden come to meet ye zoo; Vor I've a-twold to father many a storry, An' took o' mother many a scwoldèn vor ye. [_weeping._] But 'twull be over now, vor you shan't zee me Out wi' ye noo mwore, to pick a quarrel wi' me.

JOHN.

Well, Fanny, I woon't zay noo mwore, my dear. Let's meäke it up. Come, wipe off thik there tear. Let's goo an' zit o' top o' theäse here stile, An' rest, an' look about a little while.

FANNY.

Now goo away, you crabbed jealous chap! You shan't kiss me,--you shan't! I'll gi' ye a slap.

JOHN.

Then you look smilèn; don't you pout an' toss Your head so much, an' look so very cross.

FANNY.

Now, John! don't squeeze me roun' the middle zoo. I woon't stop here noo longer, if you do. Why, John! be quiet, wull ye? Fie upon it! Now zee how you've a-wrumpl'd up my bonnet! Mother'ill zee it after I'm at hwome, An' gi'e a guess directly how it come.

JOHN.

Then don't you zay that I be jealous, Fanny.

FANNY.

I wull: vor you _be_ jealous, Mister Jahnny. There's zomebody a-comèn down the groun' Towards the stile. Who is it? Come, get down I must run hwome, upon my word then, now; If I do staÿ, they'll kick up sich a row. Good night. I can't staÿ now.

JOHN.

Then good night, Fanny! Come out a-bit to-morrow evenèn, can ye?

SUMMER.

EVENÈN, AN' MAIDENS OUT AT DOOR.

Now the sheädes o' the elems do stratch mwore an' mwore, Vrom the low-zinkèn zun in the west o' the sky; An' the maïdens do stand out in clusters avore The doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

An' their cwombs be a-zet in their bunches o' heäir, An' their currels do hang roun' their necks lily-white, An' their cheäks they be rwosy, their shoulders be beäre, Their looks they be merry, their limbs they be light.

An' the times have a-been--but they cant be noo mwore-- When I had my jaÿ under evenèn's dim sky, When my Fanny did stan' out wi' others avore Her door, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

An' up there, in the green, is her own honey-zuck, That her brother traïn'd up roun' her window; an' there Is the rwose an' the jessamy, where she did pluck A flow'r vor her bosom or bud vor her heäir.

An' zoo smile, happy maïdens! vor every feäce, As the zummers do come, an' the years do roll by, Will soon sadden, or goo vur away vrom the pleäce, Or else, lik' my Fanny, will wither an' die.

But when you be a-lost vrom the parish, zome mwore Will come on in your pleäzen to bloom an' to die; An' the zummer will always have maïdens avore Their doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

Vor daughters ha' mornèn when mothers ha' night, An' there's beauty alive when the feäirest is dead; As when woone sparklèn weäve do zink down vrom the light, Another do come up an' catch it instead.

Zoo smile on, happy maïdens! but I shall noo mwore Zee the maïd I do miss under evenèn's dim sky; An' my heart is a-touch'd to zee you out avore The doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.

THE SHEPHERD O' THE FARM.

Oh! I be shepherd o' the farm, Wi' tinklèn bells an' sheep-dog's bark, An' wi' my crook a-thirt my eärm, Here I do rove below the lark.

An' I do bide all day among The bleäten sheep, an' pitch their vwold; An' when the evenèn sheädes be long, Do zee em all a-penn'd an' twold.

An' I do zee the friskèn lam's, Wi' swingèn taïls an' woolly lags, A-playèn roun' their veedèn dams An' pullèn o' their milky bags.

An' I bezide a hawthorn tree, Do' zit upon the zunny down, While sheädes o' zummer clouds do vlee Wi' silent flight along the groun'.

An' there, among the many cries O' sheep an' lambs, my dog do pass A zultry hour, wi' blinkèn eyes, An' nose a-stratch'd upon the grass;

But, in a twinklèn, at my word, He's all awake, an' up, an' gone Out roun' the sheep lik' any bird, To do what he's a-zent upon.

An' I do goo to washèn pool, A-sousèn over head an' ears, The shaggy sheep, to cleän their wool An' meäke em ready vor the sheärs.

An' when the shearèn time do come, Then we do work vrom dawn till dark; Where zome do shear the sheep, and zome Do mark their zides wi' meästers mark.

An' when the shearèn's all a-done, Then we do eat, an' drink, an' zing, In meäster's kitchen till the tun Wi' merry sounds do sheäke an' ring.

Oh! I be shepherd o' the farm, Wi' tinklèn bells an' sheep dog's bark, An' wi' my crook a-thirt my eärm, Here I do rove below the lark.

VIELDS IN THE LIGHT.

Woone's heart mid leäp wi' thoughts o' jaÿ In comèn manhood light an' gaÿ When we do teäke the worold on Vrom our vore-elders dead an' gone; But days so feäir in hope's bright eyes Do often come wi' zunless skies: Woone's fancy can but be out-done, Where trees do swaÿ an' brooks do run, By risèn moon or zettèn zun.

Vor when at evenèn I do look All down theäse hangèn on the brook, Wi' weäves a-leäpèn clear an' bright, Where boughs do swaÿ in yollow light; Noo hills nor hollows, woods nor streams, A-voun' by daÿ or zeed in dreams, Can ever seem so fit to be Good angel's hwomes, though they do gi'e But païn an' tweil to such as we.

An' when by moonlight darksome sheädes Do lie in grass wi' dewy bleädes, An' worold-hushèn night do keep The proud an' angry vast asleep, When I can think, as I do rove, Ov only souls that I do love; Then who can dream a dream to show, Or who can think o' moons to drow, A sweeter light to rove below?

WHITSUNTIDE AN' CLUB WALKEN.

Ees, last Whit-Monday, I an' Meäry Got up betimes to mind the deäiry; An' gi'ed the milkèn païls a scrub, An' dress'd, an' went to zee the club. Vor up at public-house, by ten O'clock the pleäce wer vull o' men, A-dress'd to goo to church, an' dine, An' walk about the pleäce in line. Zoo off they started, two an' two, Wi' païnted poles an' knots o' blue, An' girt silk flags,--I wish my box 'D a-got em all in ceäpes an' frocks,-- A-weävèn wide an' flappèn loud In plaÿsome winds above the crowd; While fifes did squeak an' drums did rumble, An' deep beäzzoons did grunt an' grumble, An' all the vo'k in gath'rèn crowds Kick'd up the doust in smeechy clouds, That slowly rose an' spread abrode In streamèn aïr above the road. An' then at church there wer sich lots O' hats a-hangèn up wi' knots, An' poles a-stood so thick as iver, The rushes stood beside a river. An' Mr Goodman gi'ed em warnèn To spend their evenèn lik' their mornèn; An' not to praÿ wi' mornèn tongues, An' then to zwear wi' evenèn lungs: Nor vu'st sheäke hands, to let the wrist Lift up at last a bruisèn vist: Vor clubs were all a-meän'd vor friends, He twold em, an' vor better ends Than twitèn vo'k an' pickèn quarrels, An' tipplèn cups an' emptèn barrels,-- Vor meäkèn woone man do another In need the kindness ov a brother.

An' after church they went to dine 'Ithin the long-wall'd room behine The public-house, where you remember, We had our dance back last December. An' there they meäde sich stunnèn clatters Wi' knives an' forks, an' pleätes an' platters; An' waïters ran, an' beer did pass Vrom tap to jug, vrom jug to glass: An' when they took away the dishes, They drink'd good healths, an' wish'd good wishes, To all the girt vo'k o' the land, An' all good things vo'k took in hand; An' woone cried _hip, hip, hip!_ an' hollow'd, An' tothers all struck in, an' vollow'd; An' grabb'd their drink wi' eager clutches, An' swigg'd it wi' sich hearty glutches, As vo'k, stark mad wi' pweison stuff, That thought theirzelves not mad enough.

An' after that they went all out In rank ageän, an' walk'd about, An' gi'ed zome parish vo'k a call; An', then went down to Narley Hall An' had zome beer, an' danc'd between The elem trees upon the green. An' down along the road they done All sorts o' mad-cap things vor fun; An' danc'd, a-pokèn out their poles, An' pushèn bwoys down into holes: An' Sammy Stubbs come out o' rank, An' kiss'd me up ageän the bank, A saucy chap; I ha'nt vor'gied en Not yet,--in short, I han't a-zeed en. Zoo in the dusk ov evenèn, zome Went back to drink, an' zome went hwome.

WOODLEY.

Sweet Woodley! oh! how fresh an' gaÿ Thy leänes an' vields be now in Maÿ, The while the broad-leav'd clotes do zwim In brooks wi' gil'cups at the brim; An' yollow cowslip-beds do grow By thorns in blooth so white as snow; An' win' do come vrom copse wi' smells O' grægles wi' their hangèn bells!

Though time do dreve me on, my mind Do turn in love to thee behind, The seäme's a bulrush that's a-shook By wind a-blowèn up the brook: The curlèn stream would dreve en down, But plaÿsome aïr do turn en roun', An' meäke en seem to bend wi' love To zunny hollows up above.

Thy tower still do overlook The woody knaps an' windèn brook, An' leäne's wi' here an' there a hatch, An' house wi' elem-sheäded thatch, An' vields where chaps do vur outdo The Zunday sky, wi' cwoats o' blue; An' maïdens' frocks do vur surpass The whitest deäsies in the grass.

What peals to-day from thy wold tow'r Do strike upon the zummer flow'r, As all the club, wi' dousty lags, Do walk wi' poles an' flappèn flags, An' wind, to music, roun' between A zwarm o' vo'k upon the green! Though time do dreve me on, my mind Do turn wi' love to thee behind.

THE BROOK THAT RAN BY GRAMFER'S.

When snow-white clouds wer thin an' vew Avore the zummer sky o' blue, An' I'd noo ho but how to vind Zome plaÿ to entertaïn my mind; Along the water, as did wind Wi' zedgy shoal an' hollow crook, How I did ramble by the brook That ran all down vrom gramfer's.

A-holdèn out my line beyond The clote-leaves, wi' my withy wand, How I did watch, wi' eager look, My zwimmèn cork, a-zunk or shook By minnows nibblèn at my hook, A-thinkèn I should catch a breäce O' perch, or at the leäst some deäce, A-zwimmèn down vrom gramfer's.

Then ten good deäries wer a-ved Along that water's windèn bed, An' in the lewth o' hills an' wood A half a score farm-housen stood: But now,--count all o'm how you would, So many less do hold the land,-- You'd vind but vive that still do stand, A-comèn down vrom gramfer's.

There, in the midst ov all his land, The squier's ten-tunn'd house did stand, Where he did meäke the water clim' A bank, an' sparkle under dim Bridge arches, villèn to the brim His pon', an' leäpèn, white as snow, Vrom rocks a-glitt'rèn in a bow, An' runnèn down to gramfer's.

An' now woone wing is all you'd vind O' thik girt house a-left behind; An' only woone wold stwonen tun 'S a-stannèn to the raïn an' zun,-- An' all's undone that he'd a-done; The brook ha' now noo call to staÿ To vill his pon' or clim' his baÿ, A-runnèn down to gramfer's.

When woonce, in heavy raïn, the road At Grenley bridge wer overflow'd, Poor Sophy White, the pleäces pride, A-gwaïn vrom market, went to ride Her pony droo to tother zide; But vound the strëam so deep an' strong, That took her off the road along The hollow down to gramfer's.

'Twer dark, an' she went on too vast To catch hold any thing she pass'd; Noo bough hung over to her hand, An' she could reach noo stwone nor land, Where woonce her little voot could stand; Noo ears wer out to hear her cries, Nor wer she woonce a-zeen by eyes, Till took up dead at gramfer's.

SLEEP DID COME WI' THE DEW.

O when our zun's a-zinkèn low, How soft's the light his feäce do drow Upon the backward road our mind Do turn an' zee a-left behind; When we, in childhood's days did vind Our jaÿ among the gil'cup flow'rs, All drough the zummer's zunny hours; An' sleep did come wi' the dew.

An' afterwards, when we did zweat A tweilèn in the zummer het, An' when our daily work wer done Did meet to have our evenèn fun: Till up above the zettèn zun The sky wer blushèn in the west, An' we laid down in peace to rest, An' sleep did come wi' the dew.

Ah! zome do turn--but tidden right-- The night to day, an' day to night; But we do zee the vu'st red streak O' mornèn, when the day do break; Zoo we don't grow up peäle an' weak, But we do work wi' health an' strength, Vrom mornèn drough the whole day's length, An' sleep do come wi' the dew.

An' when, at last, our e'thly light Is jist a-drawèn in to night, We mid be sure that God above, If we be true when he do prove Our stedvast faïth an' thankvul love, Wull do vor us what mid be best, An' teäke us into endless rest, As sleep do come wi' the dew.

SWEET MUSIC IN THE WIND.

When evenèn is a-drawèn in, I'll steal vrom others' naïsy din; An' where the whirlèn brook do roll Below the walnut-tree, I'll stroll An' think o' thee wi' all my soul, Dear Jenny; while the sound o' bells Do vlee along wi' mwoansome zwells, Sweet music in the wind!

I'll think how in the rushy leäze O' zunny evenèns jis' lik' theäse, In happy times I us'd to zee Thy comely sheäpe about the tree, Wi' païl a-held avore thy knee; An' lissen'd to thy merry zong That at a distance come along, Sweet music in the wind!

An' when wi' me you walk'd about O' Zundays, after church wer out. Wi' hangèn eärm an' modest look; Or zittèn in some woody nook We lissen'd to the leaves that shook Upon the poplars straïght an' tall, Or rottle o' the watervall, Sweet music in the wind!

An' when the plaÿvul aïr do vlee, O' moonlight nights, vrom tree to tree, Or whirl upon the sheäkèn grass, Or rottle at my window glass: Do seem,--as I do hear it pass,-- As if thy vaïce did come to tell Me where thy happy soul do dwell, Sweet music in the wind!

UNCLE AN' AUNT.

How happy uncle us'd to be O' zummer time, when aunt an' he O' Zunday evenèns, eärm in eärm, Did walk about their tiny farm, While birds did zing an' gnats did zwarm, Drough grass a'most above their knees, An' roun' by hedges an' by trees Wi' leafy boughs a-swaÿèn.

His hat wer broad, his cwoat wer brown, Wi' two long flaps a-hangèn down; An' vrom his knee went down a blue Knit stockèn to his buckled shoe; An' aunt did pull her gown-taïl drough Her pocket-hole, to keep en neat, As she mid walk, or teäke a seat By leafy boughs a-zwaÿèn.

An' vu'st they'd goo to zee their lots O' pot-eärbs in the geärden plots; An' he, i'-may-be, by the hatch, Would zee aunt's vowls upon a patch O' zeeds, an' vow if he could catch Em wi' his gun, they shoudden vlee Noo mwore into their roostèn tree, Wi' leafy boughs a-swaÿèn.

An' then vrom geärden they did pass Drough orcha'd out to zee the grass, An' if the apple-blooth, so white, Mid be at all a-touch'd wi' blight; An' uncle, happy at the zight, Did guess what cider there mid be In all the orcha'd, tree wi' tree, Wi' tutties all a-swaÿèn.

An' then they stump'd along vrom there A-vield, to zee the cows an' meäre; An' she, when uncle come in zight, Look'd up, an' prick'd her ears upright, An' whicker'd out wi' all her might; An' he, a-chucklèn, went to zee The cows below the sheädy tree, Wi' leafy boughs a-swaÿen.

An' last ov all, they went to know How vast the grass in meäd did grow An' then aunt zaid 'twer time to goo In hwome,--a-holdèn up her shoe, To show how wet he wer wi' dew. An' zoo they toddled hwome to rest, Lik' doves a-vleèn to their nest In leafy boughs a-swaÿen.

HAVEN WOONES FORTUNE A-TWOLD.

In leäne the gipsies, as we went A-milkèn, had a-pitch'd their tent, Between the gravel-pit an' clump O' trees, upon the little hump: An' while upon the grassy groun' Their smokèn vire did crack an' bleäze, Their shaggy-cwoated hoss did greäze Among the bushes vurder down.

An' zoo, when we brought back our païls, The woman met us at the raïls, An' zaid she'd tell us, if we'd show Our han's, what we should like to know. Zoo Poll zaid she'd a mind to try Her skill a bit, if I would vu'st; Though, to be sure, she didden trust To gipsies any mwore than I.

Well; I agreed, an' off all dree O's went behind an elem tree, An' after she'd a-zeed 'ithin My han' the wrinkles o' the skin, She twold me--an' she must a-know'd That Dicky met me in the leäne,-- That I'd a-walk'd, an' should ageän, Wi' zomebody along thik road.

An' then she twold me to bewar O' what the letter _M_ stood vor. An' as I walk'd, o' _M_onday night, Drough _M_eäd wi' Dicky overright The _M_ill, the _M_iller, at the stile, Did stan' an' watch us teäke our stroll, An' then, a blabbèn dousty-poll! Twold _M_other o't. Well wo'th his while!