Chapter 4

An' Poll too wer a-bid bewar O' what the letter _F_ stood vor; An' then, because she took, at _F_eäir, A bosom-pin o' Jimmy Heäre, Young _F_ranky beät en black an' blue. 'Tis _F_ vor _F_eäir; an' 'twer about A _F_earèn _F_rank an' Jimmy foüght, Zoo I do think she twold us true.

In short, she twold us all about What had a-vell, or would vall out; An' whether we should spend our lives As maïdens, or as wedded wives; But when we went to bundle on, The gipsies' dog were at the raïls A-lappèn milk vrom ouer païls,-- A pretty deäl o' Poll's wer gone.

JEANE'S WEDDEN DAY IN MORNEN.

At last Jeäne come down stairs, a-drest Wi' weddèn knots upon her breast, A-blushèn, while a tear did lie Upon her burnèn cheäk half dry; An' then her Robert, drawèn nigh Wi' tothers, took her han' wi' pride, To meäke her at the church his bride, Her weddèn day in mornèn.

Wi' litty voot an' beätèn heart She stepp'd up in the new light cart, An' took her bridemaïd up to ride Along wi' Robert at her zide: An' uncle's meäre look'd roun' wi' pride To zee that, if the cart wer vull, 'Twer Jenny that he had to pull, Her weddèn day in mornèn.

An' aunt an' uncle stood stock-still, An' watch'd em trottèn down the hill; An' when they turn'd off out o' groun' Down into leäne, two tears run down Aunt's feäce; an' uncle, turnèn roun', Sigh'd woonce, an' stump'd off wi' his stick, Because did touch en to the quick To peärt wi' Jeäne thik mornèn.

"Now Jeäne's agone," Tom mutter'd, "we Shall mwope lik' owls 'ithin a tree; Vor she did zet us all agog Vor fun, avore the burnèn log." An' as he zot an' talk'd, the dog Put up his nose athirt his thighs, But coulden meäke en turn his eyes, Jeäne's weddèn day in mornèn.

An' then the naïghbours round us, all By woones an' twos begun to call, To meet the young vo'k, when the meäre Mid bring em back a married peäir: An' all o'm zaid, to Robert's sheäre, There had a-vell the feärest feäce, An' kindest heart in all the pleäce, Jeäne's weddèn day in mornèn.

RIVERS DON'T GI'E OUT.

The brook I left below the rank Ov alders that do sheäde his bank, A-runnèn down to dreve the mill Below the knap, 's a runnèn still; The creepèn days an' weeks do vill Up years, an' meäke wold things o' new, An' vok' do come, an' live, an' goo, But rivers don't gi'e out, John.

The leaves that in the spring do shoot Zo green, in fall be under voot; Maÿ flow'rs do grow vor June to burn, An' milk-white blooth o' trees do kern, An' ripen on, an' vall in turn; The miller's moss-green wheel mid rot, An' he mid die an' be vorgot, But rivers don't gi'e out, John.

A vew short years do bring an' rear A maïd--as Jeäne wer--young an' feäir, An' vewer zummer-ribbons, tied In Zunday knots, do feäde bezide Her cheäk avore her bloom ha' died: Her youth won't staÿ,--her rwosy look 'S a feädèn flow'r, but time's a brook To run an' not gi'e out, John.

An' yet, while things do come an' goo, God's love is steadvast, John, an' true; If winter vrost do chill the ground, 'Tis but to bring the zummer round, All's well a-lost where He's a-vound, Vor if 'tis right, vor Christes seäke He'll gi'e us mwore than he do teäke,-- His goodness don't gi'e out, John.

MEAKEN UP A MIFF.

Vorgi'e me, Jenny, do! an' rise Thy hangèn head an' teary eyes, An' speak, vor I've a-took in lies, An' I've a-done thee wrong; But I wer twold,--an' thought 'twer true,-- That Sammy down at Coome an' you Wer at the feäir, a-walkèn drough The pleäce the whole day long.

An' tender thoughts did melt my heart, An' zwells o' viry pride did dart Lik' lightnèn drough my blood; a-peärt Ov your love I should scorn, An' zoo I vow'd, however sweet Your looks mid be when we did meet, I'd trample ye down under veet, Or let ye goo forlorn.

But still thy neäme would always be The sweetest, an' my eyes would zee Among all maïdens nwone lik' thee Vor ever any mwore; Zoo by the walks that we've a-took By flow'ry hedge an' zedgy brook, Dear Jenny, dry your eyes, an' look As you've a-look'd avore.

Look up, an' let the evenèn light But sparkle in thy eyes so bright, As they be open to the light O' zunzet in the west; An' let's stroll here vor half an hour, Where hangèn boughs do meäke a bow'r Above theäse bank, wi' eltrot flow'r An' robinhoods a-drest.

HAY-MEAKEN.

'Tis merry ov a zummer's day, Where vo'k be out a-meäkèn haÿ; Where men an' women, in a string, Do ted or turn the grass, an' zing, Wi' cheemèn vaïces, merry zongs, A-tossèn o' their sheenèn prongs Wi' eärms a-zwangèn left an' right, In colour'd gowns an' shirtsleeves white; Or, wider spread, a reäkèn round The rwosy hedges o' the ground, Where Sam do zee the speckled sneäke, An' try to kill en wi' his reäke; An' Poll do jump about an' squall, To zee the twistèn slooworm crawl.

'Tis merry where a gaÿ-tongued lot Ov haÿ-meäkers be all a-squot, On lightly-russlèn haÿ, a-spread Below an elem's lofty head, To rest their weary limbs an' munch Their bit o' dinner, or their nunch; Where teethy reäkes do lie all round By picks a-stuck up into ground. An' wi' their vittles in their laps, An' in their hornen cups their draps O' cider sweet, or frothy eäle, Their tongues do run wi' joke an' teäle.

An' when the zun, so low an' red, Do sheen above the leafy head O' zome broad tree, a-rizèn high Avore the vi'ry western sky, 'Tis merry where all han's do goo Athirt the groun', by two an' two, A-reäkèn, over humps an' hollors, The russlèn grass up into rollers. An' woone do row it into line, An' woone do clwose it up behine; An' after them the little bwoys Do stride an' fling their eärms all woys, Wi' busy picks, an' proud young looks A-meäkèn up their tiny pooks. An' zoo 'tis merry out among The vo'k in haÿ-vield all day long.

HAY-CARREN.

'Tis merry ov a zummer's day, When vo'k be out a-haulèn haÿ, Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground, Do meäke the staddle big an' round; An' grass do stand in pook, or lie In long-back'd weäles or parsels, dry. There I do vind it stir my heart To hear the frothèn hosses snort, A-haulèn on, wi' sleek heäir'd hides, The red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides. Aye; let me have woone cup o' drink, An' hear the linky harness clink, An' then my blood do run so warm, An' put sich strangth 'ithin my eärm, That I do long to toss a pick, A-pitchèn or a-meäkèn rick.

The bwoy is at the hosse's head, An' up upon the waggon bed The lwoaders, strong o' eärm do stan', At head, an' back at taïl, a man, Wi' skill to build the lwoad upright An' bind the vwolded corners tight; An' at each zide [=o]'m, sprack an' strong, A pitcher wi' his long-stem'd prong, Avore the best two women now A-call'd to reäky after plough.

When I do pitchy, 'tis my pride Vor Jenny Hine to reäke my zide, An' zee her fling her reäke, an' reach So vur, an' teäke in sich a streech; An' I don't shatter haÿ, an' meäke Mwore work than needs vor Jenny's reäke. I'd sooner zee the weäles' high rows Lik' hedges up above my nose, Than have light work myzelf, an' vind Poor Jeäne a-beät an' left behind; Vor she would sooner drop down dead. Than let the pitchers get a-head.

'Tis merry at the rick to zee How picks do wag, an' haÿ do vlee. While woone's unlwoadèn, woone do teäke The pitches in; an' zome do meäke The lofty rick upright an' roun', An' tread en hard, an' reäke en down, An' tip en, when the zun do zet, To shoot a sudden vall o' wet. An' zoo 'tis merry any day Where vo'k be out a-carrèn hay.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

THE BEST MAN IN THE VIELD.

_Sam and Bob._

SAM.

That's slowish work, Bob. What'st a-been about? Thy pookèn don't goo on not over sprack. Why I've a-pook'd my weäle, lo'k zee, clear out, An' here I be ageän a-turnèn back.

BOB.

I'll work wi' thee then, Sammy, any day, At any work dost like to teäke me at, Vor any money thou dost like to lay. Now, Mister Sammy, what dost think o' that? My weäle is nearly twice so big as thine, Or else, I warnt, I shouldden be behin'.

SAM.

Ah! hang thee, Bob! don't tell sich whoppèn lies. _My_ weäle's the biggest, if do come to size. 'Tis jist the seäme whatever bist about; Why, when dost goo a-teddèn grass, you sloth, Another hand's a-fwo'c'd to teäke thy zwath, An' ted a half way back to help thee out; An' then a-reäkèn rollers, bist so slack, Dost keep the very bwoys an' women back. An' if dost think that thou canst challenge I At any thing,--then, Bob, we'll teäke a pick a-piece, An' woonce theäse zummer, goo an' try To meäke a rick a-piece. A rick o' thine wull look a little funny, When thou'st a-done en, I'll bet any money.

BOB.

You noggerhead! last year thou meäd'st a rick, An' then we had to trig en wi' a stick. An' what did John that tipp'd en zay? Why zaid He stood a-top o'en all the while in dread, A-thinkèn that avore he should a-done en He'd tumble over slap wi' him upon en.

SAM.

You yoppèn dog! I warnt I meäde my rick So well's thou meäd'st thy lwoad o' haÿ last week. They hadden got a hundred yards to haul en, An' then they vound 'twer best to have en boun', Vor if they hadden, 'twould a-tumbl'd down; An' after that I zeed en all but vallèn, An' trigg'd en up wi' woone o'm's pitchèn pick, To zee if I could meäke en ride to rick; An' when they had the dumpy heap unboun', He vell to pieces flat upon the groun'.

BOB.

Do shut thy lyèn chops! What dosten mind Thy pitchèn to me out in Gully-plot, A-meäkèn o' me waït (wast zoo behind) A half an hour vor ev'ry pitch I got? An' how didst groun' thy pick? an' how didst quirk To get en up on end? Why hadst hard work To rise a pitch that wer about so big 'S a goodish crow's nest, or a wold man's wig! Why bist so weak, dost know, as any roller: Zome o' the women vo'k will beät thee hollor.

SAM.

You snub-nos'd flopperchops! I pitch'd so quick, That thou dost know thou hadst a hardish job To teäke in all the pitches off my pick; An' dissèn zee me groun' en, nother, Bob. An' thou bist stronger, thou dost think, than I? Girt bandy-lags! I jist should like to try. We'll goo, if thou dost like, an' jist zee which Can heave the mwost, or car the biggest nitch.

BOB.

There, Sam, do meäke me zick to hear thy braggèn! Why bissen strong enough to car a flagon.

SAM.

You grinnèn fool! why I'd zet thee a-blowèn, If thou wast wi' me vor a day a-mowèn. I'd wear my cwoat, an' thou midst pull thy rags off, An' then in half a zwath I'd mow thy lags off.

BOB.

Thee mow wi' me! Why coossen keep up wi' me: Why bissèn fit to goo a-vield to skimmy, Or mow down docks an' thistles! Why I'll bet A shillèn, Samel, that thou cassen whet.

SAM.

Now don't thee zay much mwore than what'st a-zaid, Or else I'll knock thee down, heels over head.

BOB.

Thou knock me down, indeed! Why cassen gi'e A blow half hard enough to kill a bee.

SAM.

Well, thou shalt veel upon thy chops and snout.

BOB.

Come on, then, Samel; jist let's have woone bout.

WHERE WE DID KEEP OUR FLAGON.

When we in mornèn had a-drow'd The grass or russlèn haÿ abrode, The lit'some maïdens an' the chaps, Wi' bits o' nunchèns in their laps, Did all zit down upon the knaps Up there, in under hedge, below The highest elem o' the row, Where we did keep our flagon.

There we could zee green vields at hand, Avore a hunderd on beyand, An' rows o' trees in hedges roun' Green meäds, an' zummerleäzes brown, An' thorns upon the zunny down, While aïer, vrom the rockèn zedge In brook, did come along the hedge, Where we did keep our flagon.

There laughèn chaps did try in plaÿ To bury maïdens up in haÿ, As gigglèn maïdens tried to roll The chaps down into zome deep hole, Or sting wi' nettles woone o'm's poll; While John did hele out each his drap O' eäle or cider, in his lap Where he did keep the flagon.

Woone day there spun a whirlwind by Where Jenny's clothes wer out to dry; An' off vled frocks, a'most a-catch'd By smock-frocks wi' their sleeves outstratch'd, An' caps a-frill'd an' eäperns patch'd; An' she a-steärèn in a fright, Wer glad enough to zee em light Where we did keep our flagon.

An' when white clover wer a-sprung Among the eegrass, green an' young, An' elder-flowers wer a-spread Among the rwosen white an' red, An' honeyzucks wi' hangèn head,-- O' Zunday evenèns we did zit To look all roun' the grounds a bit, Where we'd a-kept our flagon.

WEEK'S END IN ZUMMER, IN THE WOLD VO'K'S TIME.

His aunt an' uncle,--ah! the kind Wold souls be often in my mind: A better couple never stood In shoes, an' vew be voun' so good. _She_ cheer'd the work-vo'k in theïr tweils Wi' timely bits an' draps, an' smiles; An' _he_ païd all o'm at week's end, Their money down to goo an' spend.

In zummer, when week's end come roun' The haÿ-meäkers did come vrom groun', An' all zit down, wi' weary bwones, Within the yard a-peäved wi' stwones, Along avore the peäles, between The yard a-steän'd an' open green. There women zot wi' bare-neck'd chaps, An' maïdens wi' their sleeves an' flaps To screen vrom het their eärms an' polls. An' men wi' beards so black as coals: Girt stocky Jim, an' lanky John, An' poor wold Betty dead an' gone; An' cleän-grown Tom so spry an' strong, An' Liz the best to pitch a zong, That now ha' nearly half a score O' childern zwarmèn at her door; An' whindlen Ann, that cried wi' fear To hear the thunder when 'twer near,-- A zickly maïd, so peäle's the moon, That voun' her zun goo down at noon; An' blushèn Jeäne so shy an' meek, That seldom let us hear her speak, That wer a-coorted an' undone By Farmer Woodley's woldest son; An' after she'd a-been vorzook, Wer voun' a-drown'd in Longmeäd brook.

An' zoo, when _he_'d a-been all roun', An' païd em all their wages down, _She_ us'd to bring vor all, by teäle A cup o' cider or ov eäle, An' then a tutty meäde o' lots O' blossoms vrom her flower-nots, To wear in bands an' button-holes At church, an' in their evenèn strolls. The pea that rangled to the oves, An' columbines an' pinks an' cloves, Sweet rwosen vrom the prickly tree, An' jilliflow'rs, an' jessamy; An' short-liv'd pinies, that do shed Their leaves upon a eärly bed. She didden put in honeyzuck: She'd nwone, she zaïd, that she could pluck Avore wild honeyzucks, a-vound In ev'ry hedge ov ev'ry ground.

Zoo maïd an' woman, bwoy an' man, Went off, while zunzet aïr did fan Their merry zunburnt feäzen; zome Down leäne, an' zome drough parrocks hwome.

Ah! who can tell, that ha'nt a-vound, The sweets o' week's-end comèn round! When Zadurday do bring woone's mind Sweet thoughts o' Zunday clwose behind; The day that's all our own to spend Wi' God an' wi' an e'thly friend. The worold's girt vo'k, wi' the best O' worldly goods mid be a-blest; But Zunday is the poor man's peärt, To seäve his soul an' cheer his heart.

THE MEAD A-MOW'D.

When sheädes do vall into ev'ry hollow, An' reach vrom trees half athirt the groun'; An' banks an' walls be a-lookèn yollow, That be a-turn'd to the zun gwaïn down; Drough haÿ in cock, O, We all do vlock, O, Along our road vrom the meäd a-mow'd.

An' when the last swaÿèn lwoad's a-started Up hill so slow to the lofty rick, Then we so weary but merry-hearted, Do shoulder each [=o]'s a reäke an' pick, Wi' empty flagon, Behind the waggon, To teäke our road vrom the meäd a-mow'd.

When church is out, an' we all so slowly About the knap be a-spreadèn wide, How gaÿ the paths be where we do strolly Along the leäne an' the hedge's zide; But nwone's a voun', O, Up hill or down, O, So gaÿ's the road drough the meäd a-mow'd.

An' when the visher do come, a-drowèn His flutt'ren line over bleädy zedge, Drough groun's wi' red thissle-heads a-blowèn, An' watchèn o't by the water's edge; Then he do love, O, The best to rove, O, Along his road drough the meäd a-mow'd.

THE SKY A-CLEAREN.

The drevèn scud that overcast The zummer sky is all a-past, An' softer aïr, a-blowèn drough The quiv'rèn boughs, do sheäke the vew Last raïn drops off the leaves lik' dew; An' peäviers, now a-gettèn dry, Do steam below the zunny sky That's now so vast a-cleärèn.

The sheädes that wer a-lost below The stormy cloud, ageän do show Their mockèn sheäpes below the light; An' house-walls be a-lookèn white, An' vo'k do stir woonce mwore in zight, An' busy birds upon the wing Do whiver roun' the boughs an' zing, To zee the sky a-clearèn.

Below the hill's an ash; below The ash, white elder-flow'rs do blow: Below the elder is a bed O' robinhoods o' blushèn red; An' there, wi' nunches all a-spread, The haÿ-meäkers, wi' each a cup O' drink, do smile to zee hold up The raïn, an' sky a-cleärèn.

'Mid blushèn maïdens, wi' their zong, Still draw their white-stemm'd reäkes among The long-back'd weäles an' new-meäde pooks, By brown-stemm'd trees an' cloty brooks; But have noo call to spweil their looks By work, that God could never meäke Their weaker han's to underteäke, Though skies mid be a-cleärèn.

'Tis wrong vor women's han's to clips The zull an' reap-hook, speädes an' whips; An' men abroad, should leäve, by right, Woone faïthful heart at hwome to light Their bit o' vier up at night, An' hang upon the hedge to dry Their snow-white linen, when the sky In winter is a-cleärèn.

THE EVENÈN STAR O' ZUMMER.

When vu'st along theäse road vrom mill, I zeed ye hwome all up the hill, The poplar tree, so straïght an' tall, Did rustle by the watervall; An' in the leäze the cows wer all A-lyèn down to teäke their rest An' slowly zunk towárd the west The evenèn star o' zummer.

In parrock there the haÿ did lie In weäle below the elems, dry; An' up in hwome-groun' Jim, that know'd We all should come along thik road, D a-tied the grass in knots that drow'd Poor Poll, a-watchèn in the West Woone brighter star than all the rest,-- The evenèn star o' zummer.

The stars that still do zet an' rise, Did sheen in our forefather's eyes; They glitter'd to the vu'st men's zight, The last will have em in their night; But who can vind em half so bright As I thought thik peäle star above My smilèn Jeäne, my zweet vu'st love, The evenèn star o' zummer.

How sweet's the mornèn fresh an' new, Wi' sparklèn brooks an' glitt'rèn dew; How sweet's the noon wi' sheädes a-drow'd Upon the groun' but leätely mow'd, An' bloomèn flowers all abrode; But sweeter still, as I do clim', Theäse woody hill in evenèn dim 'S the evenèn star o' zummer.

THE CLOTE.

_(Water-lily.)_

O zummer clote! when the brook's a-glidèn So slow an' smooth down his zedgy bed, Upon thy broad leaves so seäfe a-ridèn The water's top wi' thy yollow head, By alder's heads, O, An' bulrush beds, O. Thou then dost float, goolden zummer clote!

The grey-bough'd withy's a-leänèn lowly Above the water thy leaves do hide; The bendèn bulrush, a-swaÿèn slowly, Do skirt in zummer thy river's zide; An' perch in shoals, O, Do vill the holes, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

Oh! when thy brook-drinkèn flow'r's a-blowèn, The burnèn zummer's a-zettèn in; The time o' greenness, the time o' mowèn, When in the haÿ-vield, wi' zunburnt skin, The vo'k do drink, O, Upon the brink, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

Wi' eärms a-spreadèn, an' cheäks a-blowèn, How proud wer I when I vu'st could zwim Athirt the pleäce where thou bist a-growèn, Wi' thy long more vrom the bottom dim; While cows, knee-high, O, In brook, wer nigh, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

Ov all the brooks drough the meäds a-windèn, Ov all the meäds by a river's brim, There's nwone so feäir o' my own heart's vindèn, As where the maïdens do zee thee swim, An' stan' to teäke, O, Wi' long-stemm'd reäke, O, Thy flow'r afloat, goolden zummer clote!

I GOT TWO VIELDS.

I got two vields, an' I don't ceäre What squire mid have a bigger sheäre. My little zummer-leäze do stratch All down the hangèn, to a patch O' meäd between a hedge an' rank Ov elems, an' a river bank. Where yollow clotes, in spreadèn beds O' floatèn leaves, do lift their heads By bendèn bulrushes an' zedge A-swaÿèn at the water's edge, Below the withy that do spread Athirt the brook his grey-leav'd head. An' eltrot flowers, milky white, Do catch the slantèn evenèn light; An' in the meäple boughs, along The hedge, do ring the blackbird's zong; Or in the day, a-vleèn drough The leafy trees, the whoa'se gookoo Do zing to mowers that do zet Their zives on end, an' stan' to whet. From my wold house among the trees A leäne do goo along the leäze O' yollow gravel, down between Two mossy banks vor ever green. An' trees, a-hangèn overhead, Do hide a trinklèn gully-bed, A-cover'd by a bridge vor hoss Or man a-voot to come across. Zoo wi' my hwomestead, I don't ceäre What squire mid have a bigger sheäre!

POLLY BE-EN UPZIDES WI' TOM.

Ah! yesterday, d'ye know, I voun' Tom Dumpy's cwoat an' smock-frock, down Below the pollard out in groun'; An' zoo I slyly stole An' took the smock-frock up, an' tack'd The sleeves an' collar up, an' pack'd Zome nice sharp stwones, all fresh a-crack'd 'Ithin each pocket-hole.

An' in the evenèn, when he shut Off work, an' come an' donn'd his cwoat, Their edges gi'ed en sich a cut, How we did stan' an' laugh! An' when the smock-frock I'd a-zow'd Kept back his head an' hands, he drow'd Hizzelf about, an' teäv'd, an' blow'd, Lik' any up-tied calf.

Then in a veag away he flung His frock, an' after me he sprung, An' mutter'd out sich dreats, an' wrung His vist up sich a size! But I, a-runnèn, turn'd an' drow'd Some doust, a-pick'd up vrom the road, Back at en wi' the wind, that blow'd It right into his eyes.

An' he did blink, an' vow he'd catch Me zomehow yet, an' be my match. But I wer nearly down to hatch Avore he got vur on; An' up in chammer, nearly dead Wi' runnèn, lik' a cat I vled, An' out o' window put my head To zee if he wer gone.

An' there he wer, a-prowlèn roun' Upon the green; an' I look'd down An' told en that I hoped he voun' He mussen think to peck Upon a body zoo, nor whip The meäre to drow me off, nor tip Me out o' cart ageän, nor slip Cut hoss-heäir down my neck.

BE'MI'STER.

Sweet Be'mi'ster, that bist a-bound By green an' woody hills all round, Wi' hedges, reachèn up between A thousan' vields o' zummer green, Where elems' lofty heads do drow Their sheädes vor haÿ-meakers below, An' wild hedge-flow'rs do charm the souls O' maïdens in their evenèn strolls.

When I o' Zunday nights wi' Jeäne Do saunter drough a vield or leäne, Where elder-blossoms be a-spread Above the eltrot's milk-white head, An' flow'rs o' blackberries do blow Upon the brembles, white as snow, To be outdone avore my zight By Jeän's gaÿ frock o' dazzlèn white;