Chapter 9

An' mind en still when in the end His leäbour's all a-done, John, An' let en vind a steadvast friend In thee his thoughtvul son, John; Vor he did win what thou didst lack Avore couldst work or stand, An' zoo, when time do num' his hand, Then pay his leäbour back.

An' when his bwones be in the dust, Then honour still his neäme, John; An' as his godly soul wer just, Let thine be voun' the seäme, John. Be true, as he wer true, to men, An' love the laws o' God; Still tread the road that he've a-trod, An' live wi' him ageän.

THE BEAM IN GRENLEY CHURCH.

In church at Grenley woone mid zee A beam vrom wall to wall; a tree That's longer than the church is wide, An' zoo woone end o'n's drough outside,-- Not cut off short, but bound all round Wi' lead, to keep en seäfe an' sound.

Back when the builders vu'st begun The church,--as still the teäle do run,-- A man work'd wi' em; no man knew Who 'twer, nor whither he did goo. He wer as harmless as a chile, An' work'd 'ithout a frown or smile, Till any woaths or strife did rise To overcast his sparklèn eyes:

An' then he'd call their minds vrom strife, To think upon another life. He wer so strong, that all alwone He lifted beams an' blocks o' stwone, That others, with the girtest païns, Could hardly wag wi' bars an' chaïns; An' yet he never used to staÿ O' Zaturdays, to teäke his paÿ.

Woone day the men wer out o' heart, To have a beam a-cut too short; An' in the evenèn, when they shut Off work, they left en where 'twer put; An' while dumb night went softly by Towárds the vi'ry western sky, A-lullèn birds, an' shuttèn up The deäisy an' the butter cup, They went to lay their heavy heads An' weary bwones upon their beds.

An' when the dewy mornèn broke, An' show'd the worold, fresh awoke, Their godly work ageän, they vound The beam they left upon the ground A-put in pleäce, where still do bide, An' long enough to reach outzide. But he unknown to tother men Wer never there at work ageän: Zoo whether he mid be a man Or angel, wi' a helpèn han', Or whether all o't wer a dream, They didden deäre to cut the beam.

THE VAÏCES THAT BE GONE.

When evenèn sheädes o' trees do hide A body by the hedge's zide, An' twitt'rèn birds, wi' plaÿsome flight, Do vlee to roost at comèn night, Then I do saunter out o' zight In orcha'd, where the pleäce woonce rung Wi' laughs a-laugh'd an' zongs a-zung By vaïces that be gone.

There's still the tree that bore our swing, An' others where the birds did zing; But long-leav'd docks do overgrow The groun' we trampled heäre below, Wi' merry skippèns to an' fro Bezide the banks, where Jim did zit A-plaÿèn o' the clarinit To vaïces that be gone.

How mother, when we us'd to stun Her head wi' all our naïsy fun, Did wish us all a-gone vrom hwome: An' now that zome be dead, an' zome A-gone, an' all the pleäce is dum', How she do wish, wi' useless tears, To have ageän about her ears The vaïces that be gone.

Vor all the maïdens an' the bwoys But I, be marri'd off all woys, Or dead an' gone; but I do bide At hwome, alwone, at mother's zide, An' often, at the evenèn-tide, I still do saunter out, wi' tears, Down drough the orcha'd, where my ears Do miss the vaïces gone.

POLL.

When out below the trees, that drow'd Their scraggy lim's athirt the road, While evenèn zuns, a'móst a-zet, Gi'ed goolden light, but little het, The merry chaps an' maïdens met, An' look'd to zomebody to neäme Their bit o' fun, a dance or geäme, 'Twer Poll they cluster'd round.

An' after they'd a-had enough O' snappèn tongs, or blind-man's buff, O' winter nights, an' went an' stood Avore the vire o' bleäzen wood, Though there wer maïdens kind an' good, Though there wer maïdens feäir an' tall, 'Twer Poll that wer the queen o'm all, An' Poll they cluster'd round.

An' when the childern used to catch A glimpse o' Poll avore the hatch, The little things did run to meet Their friend wi' skippèn tott'rèn veet An' thought noo other kiss so sweet As hers; an' nwone could vind em out Such geämes to meäke em jump an' shout, As Poll they cluster'd round.

An' now, since she've a-left em, all The pleäce do miss her, girt an' small. In vaïn vor them the zun do sheen Upon the lwonesome rwoad an' green; Their zwing do hang vorgot between The leänen trees, vor they've a-lost The best o' maïdens, to their cost, The maïd they cluster'd round.

LOOKS A-KNOW'D AVORE.

While zome, a-gwaïn from pleäce to pleäce, Do daily meet wi' zome new feäce, When my day's work is at an end, Let me zit down at hwome, an' spend A happy hour wi' zome wold friend, An' by my own vire-zide rejaïce In zome wold naïghbour's welcome vaïce, An' looks I know'd avore, John.

Why is it, friends that we've a-met By zuns that now ha' long a-zet, Or winter vires that bleäzed for wold An' young vo'k, now vor ever cwold, Be met wi' jaÿ that can't be twold? Why, 'tis because they friends have all Our youthvul spring ha' left our fall,-- The looks we know'd avore, John.

'Tis lively at a feäir, among The chattèn, laughèn, shiften drong, When wold an' young, an' high an' low, Do streamy round, an' to an' fro; But what new feäce that we don't know, Can ever meäke woone's warm heart dance Among ten thousan', lik' a glance O' looks we know'd avore, John.

How of'en have the wind a-shook The leaves off into yonder brook, Since vu'st we two, in youthvul strolls, Did ramble roun' them bubblèn shoals! An' oh! that zome o' them young souls, That we, in jaÿ, did plaÿ wi' then Could come back now, an' bring ageän The looks we know'd avore, John.

So soon's the barley's dead an' down, The clover-leaf do rise vrom groun', An' wolder feäzen do but goo To be a-vollow'd still by new; But souls that be a-tried an' true Shall meet ageän beyond the skies, An' bring to woone another's eyes The looks they know'd avore, John.

THE MUSIC O' THE DEAD.

When music, in a heart that's true, Do kindle up wold loves anew, An' dim wet eyes, in feäirest lights, Do zee but inward fancy's zights; When creepèn years, wi' with'rèn blights, 'V a-took off them that wer so dear, How touchèn 'tis if we do hear The tuèns o' the dead, John.

When I, a-stannèn in the lew O' trees a storm's a-beätèn drough, Do zee the slantèn mist a-drove By spitevul winds along the grove, An' hear their hollow sounds above My shelter'd head, do seem, as I Do think o' zunny days gone by. Lik' music vor the dead, John.

Last night, as I wer gwaïn along The brook, I heärd the milk-maïd's zong A-ringèn out so clear an' shrill Along the meäds an' roun' the hill. I catch'd the tuèn, an' stood still To hear 't; 'twer woone that Jeäne did zing A-vield a-milkèn in the spring,-- Sweet music o' the dead, John.

Don't tell o' zongs that be a-zung By young chaps now, wi' sheämeless tongue: Zing me wold ditties, that would start The maïden's tears, or stir my heart To teäke in life a manly peärt,-- The wold vo'k's zongs that twold a teäle, An' vollow'd round their mugs o' eäle, The music o' the dead, John.

THE PLEÄCE A TEÄLE'S A-TWOLD O'.

Why tidden vields an' runnèn brooks, Nor trees in Spring or fall; An' tidden woody slopes an' nooks, Do touch us mwost ov all; An' tidden ivy that do cling By housen big an' wold, O, But this is, after all, the thing,-- The pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'.

At Burn, where mother's young friends know'd The vu'st her maïden neäme, The zunny knaps, the narrow road An' green, be still the seäme; The squier's house, an' ev'ry ground That now his son ha' zwold, O, An' ev'ry wood he hunted round 'S a pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'.

The maïd a-lov'd to our heart's core, The dearest of our kin, Do meäke us like the very door Where they went out an' in. 'Tis zome'hat touchèn that bevel Poor flesh an' blood o' wold, O, Do meäke us like to zee so well The pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'.

When blushèn Jenny vu'st did come To zee our Poll o' nights, An' had to goo back leätish hwome, Where vo'k did zee the zights, A-chattèn loud below the sky So dark, an' winds so cwold, O, How proud wer I to zee her by The pleäce the teäle's a-twold o'.

Zoo whether 'tis the humpy ground That wer a battle viel', Or mossy house, all ivy-bound, An' vallèn down piece-meal; Or if 'tis but a scraggy tree, Where beauty smil'd o' wold, O, How dearly I do like to zee The pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'.

AUNT'S TANTRUMS.

Why ees, aunt Anne's a little staïd, But kind an' merry, poor wold maïd! If we don't cut her heart wi' slights, She'll zit an' put our things to rights, Upon a hard day's work, o' nights; But zet her up, she's jis' lik' vier, An' woe betide the woone that's nigh 'er. When she is in her tantrums.

She'll toss her head, a-steppèn out Such strides, an' fling the païls about; An' slam the doors as she do goo, An' kick the cat out wi' her shoe, Enough to het her off in two. The bwoys do bundle out o' house, A-lassen they should get a towse, When aunt is in her tantrums.

She whurr'd, woone day, the wooden bowl In such a veag at my poor poll; It brush'd the heäir above my crown, An' whizz'd on down upon the groun', An' knock'd the bantam cock right down, But up he sprung, a-teäkèn flight Wi' tothers, cluckèn in a fright, Vrom aunt in such a tantrum!

But Dick stole in, an' reach'd en down The biggest blather to be voun', An' crope an' put en out o' zight Avore the vire, an' plimm'd en tight An crack'd en wi' the slice thereright She scream'd, an' bundled out o' house, An' got so quiet as a mouse,-- It frighten'd off her tantrum.

THE STWONÈN PWORCH.

A new house! Ees, indeed! a small Straïght, upstart thing, that, after all, Do teäke in only half the groun' The wold woone did avore 'twer down; Wi' little windows straïght an' flat, Not big enough to zun a-cat, An' dealèn door a-meäde so thin, A puff o' wind would blow en in, Where woone do vind a thing to knock So small's the hammer ov a clock, That wull but meäke a little click About so loud's a clock do tick! Gi'e me the wold house, wi' the wide An' lofty-lo'ted rooms inside; An' wi' the stwonèn pworch avore The naïl-bestudded woaken door, That had a knocker very little Less to handle than a bittle, That het a blow that vled so loud Drough house as thunder drough a cloud. An' meäde the dog behind the door Growl out so deep's a bull do roar.

In all the house, o' young an' wold, There werden woone but could a-twold When he'd noo wish to seek abrode Mwore jaÿ than thik wold pworch bestow'd! For there, when yollow evenèn shed His light ageän the elem's head, An' gnots did whiver in the zun, An' uncle's work wer all a-done, His whiffs o' meltèn smoke did roll Above his bendèn pipe's white bowl, While he did chat, or, zittèn dumb, Injaÿ his thoughts as they did come.

An' Jimmy, wi' his crowd below His chin, did dreve his nimble bow In tuèns vor to meäke us spring A-reelèn, or in zongs to zing, An' there, between the dark an' light, Zot Poll by Willy's zide at night A-whisp'rèn, while her eyes did zwim In jaÿ avore the twilight dim; An' when (to know if she wer near) Aunt call'd, did cry, "Ees, mother; here."

No, no; I woulden gi'e thee thanks Vor fine white walls an' vloors o' planks, Nor doors a-päinted up so fine. If I'd a wold grey house o' mine, Gi'e me vor all it should be small, A stwonèn pworch instead [=o]'t all.

FARMER'S SONS.

Ov all the chaps a-burnt so brown By zunny hills an' hollors, Ov all the whindlèn chaps in town Wi' backs so weak as rollers, There's narn that's half so light o' heart, (I'll bet, if thou't zay "done," min,) An' narn that's half so strong an' smart, 'S a merry farmer's son, min.

He'll fling a stwone so true's a shot, He'll jump so light's a cat; He'll heave a waïght up that would squot A weakly fellow flat. He wont gi'e up when things don't faÿ, But turn em into fun, min; An' what's hard work to zome, is plaÿ Avore a farmer's son, min.

His bwony eärm an' knuckly vist ('Tis best to meäke a friend o't) Would het a fellow, that's a-miss'd, Half backward wi' the wind o't. Wi' such a chap at hand, a maïd Would never goo a nun, min; She'd have noo call to be afraïd Bezide a farmer's son, min.

He'll turn a vurrow, drough his langth, So straïght as eyes can look, Or pitch all day, wi' half his strangth, At ev'ry pitch a pook; An' then goo vower mile, or vive, To vind his friends in fun, min, Vor maïden's be but dead alive 'Ithout a farmer's son, min.

Zoo jaÿ be in his heart so light, An' manly feäce so brown; An' health goo wi' en hwome at night, Vrom meäd, or wood, or down. O' rich an' poor, o' high an' low, When all's a-said an' done, min, The smartest chap that I do know, 'S a workèn farmer's son, min.

JEÄNE.

We now mid hope vor better cheer, My smilèn wife o' twice vive year. Let others frown, if thou bist near Wi' hope upon thy brow, Jeäne; Vor I vu'st lov'd thee when thy light Young sheäpe vu'st grew to woman's height; I loved thee near, an' out o' zight, An' I do love thee now, Jeäne.

An' we've a-trod the sheenèn bleäde Ov eegrass in the zummer sheäde, An' when the leäves begun to feäde Wi' zummer in the weäne, Jeäne; An' we've a-wander'd drough the groun' O' swayèn wheat a-turnèn brown, An' we've a-stroll'd together roun' The brook an' drough the leäne, Jeane.

An' nwone but I can ever tell Ov all thy tears that have a-vell When trials meäde thy bosom zwell, An' nwone but thou o' mine, Jeäne; An' now my heart, that heav'd wi' pride Back then to have thee at my zide, Do love thee mwore as years do slide, An' leäve them times behine, Jeäne.

THE DREE WOAKS.

By the brow o' thik hangèn I spent all my youth, In the house that did peep out between The dree woaks, that in winter avworded their lewth, An' in zummer their sheäde to the green; An' there, as in zummer we play'd at our geämes, We [=e]ach own'd a tree, Vor we wer but dree, An' zoo the dree woaks wer a-call'd by our neämes.

An' two did grow scraggy out over the road, An' they wer call'd Jimmy's an' mine; An' tother wer Jeännet's, much kindlier grow'd, Wi' a knotless an' white ribbèd rine. An' there, o' fine nights avore gwäin in to rest, We did dance, vull o' life, To the sound o' the fife, Or plaÿ at some geäme that poor Jeännet lik'd best.

Zoo happy wer we by the woaks o' the green, Till we lost sister Jeännet, our pride; Vor when she wer come to her last blushèn _teen_, She suddenly zicken'd an' died. An' avore the green leaves in the fall wer gone by, The lightnèn struck dead Her woaken tree's head, An' left en a-stripp'd to the wintery sky.

But woone ov his eäcorns, a-zet in the Fall, Come up the Spring after, below The trees at her head-stwone 'ithin the church-wall, An' mother, to see how did grow, Shed a tear; an' when father an' she wer bwoth dead, There they wer laid deep, Wi' their Jeännet, to sleep, Wi' her at his zide, an' her tree at her head.

An' vo'k do still call the wold house the dree woaks, Vor thik is a-reckon'd that's down, As mother, a-neämèn her childern to vo'ks, Meäde dree when but two wer a-voun'; An' zaid that hereafter she knew she should zee Why God, that's above, Vound fit in his love To strike wi' his han' the poor maïd an' her tree.

THE HWOMESTEAD A-VELL INTO HAND.

The house where I wer born an' bred, Did own his woaken door, John, When vu'st he shelter'd father's head, An' gramfer's long avore, John. An' many a ramblèn happy chile, An' chap so strong an' bwold, An' bloomèn maïd wi' plaÿsome smile, Did call their hwome o' wold Thik ruf so warm, A kept vrom harm By elem trees that broke the storm.

An' in the orcha'd out behind, The apple-trees in row, John, Did swaÿ wi' moss about their rind Their heads a-noddèn low, John. An' there, bezide zome groun' vor corn, Two strips did skirt the road; In woone the cow did toss her horn, While tother wer a-mow'd, In June, below The lofty row Ov trees that in the hedge did grow.

A-workèn in our little patch O' parrock, rathe or leäte, John, We little ho'd how vur mid stratch The squier's wide esteäte, John. Our hearts, so honest an' so true, Had little vor to fear; Vor we could pay up all their due An' gi'e a friend good cheer At hwome, below The lofty row O' trees a-swaÿèn to an' fro.

An' there in het, an' there in wet, We tweil'd wi' busy hands, John; Vor ev'ry stroke o' work we het, Did better our own lands, John. But after me, ov all my kin, Not woone can hold em on; Vor we can't get a life put in Vor mine, when I'm a-gone Vrom thik wold brown Thatch ruf, a-boun' By elem trees a-growèn roun'.

Ov eight good hwomes, where, I can mind Vo'k liv'd upon their land, John, But dree be now a-left behind; The rest ha' vell in hand, John, An' all the happy souls they ved Be scatter'd vur an' wide. An' zome o'm be a-wantèn bread, Zome, better off, ha' died, Noo mwore to ho, Vor homes below The trees a-swaÿen to an' fro.

An' I could leäd ye now all round The parish, if I would, John, An' show ye still the very ground Where vive good housen stood, John In broken orcha'ds near the spot, A vew wold trees do stand; But dew do vall where vo'k woonce zot About the burnèn brand In housen warm, A-kept vrom harm By elems that did break the storm.

THE GUIDE POST.

Why thik wold post so long kept out, Upon the knap, his eärms astrout, A-zendèn on the weary veet By where the dree cross roads do meet; An' I've a-come so much thik woy, Wi' happy heart, a man or bwoy, That I'd a-meäde, at last, a'móst A friend o' thik wold guidèn post.

An' there, wi' woone white eärm he show'd, Down over bridge, the Leyton road; Wi' woone, the leäne a-leädèn roun' By Bradlinch Hill, an' on to town; An' wi' the last, the way to turn Drough common down to Rushiburn,-- The road I lik'd to goo the mwost Ov all upon the guidèn post.

The Leyton road ha' lofty ranks Ov elem trees upon his banks; The woone athirt the hill do show Us miles o' hedgy meäds below; An' he to Rushiburn is wide Wi' strips o' green along his zide, An' ouer brown-ruf'd house a-móst In zight o' thik wold guidèn post.

An' when the haÿ-meäkers did zwarm O' zummer evenèns out vrom farm. The merry maïdens an' the chaps, A-peärtèn there wi' jokes an' slaps, Did goo, zome woone way off, an' zome Another, all a-zingèn hwome; Vor vew o'm had to goo, at mwost, A mile beyond the guidèn post.

Poor Nanny Brown, woone darkish night, When he'd a-been a-païnted white, Wer frighten'd, near the gravel pits, So dead's a hammer into fits, A-thinkèn 'twer the ghost she know'd Did come an' haunt the Leyton road; Though, after all, poor Nanny's ghost Turn'd out to be the guidèn post.

GWAIN TO FEÄIR.

To morrow stir so brisk's you can, An' get your work up under han'; Vor I an' Jim, an' Poll's young man, Shall goo to feäir; an' zoo, If you wull let us gi'e ye a eärm Along the road, or in the zwarm O' vo'k, we'll keep ye out o' harm, An' gi'e ye a feäirèn too.

We won't stay leäte there, I'll be boun'; We'll bring our sheädes off out o' town A mile, avore the zun is down, If he's a sheenèn clear. Zoo when your work is all a-done, Your mother can't but let ye run An' zee a little o' the fun, There's nothèn there to fear.

JEÄNE O' GRENLEY MILL.

When in happy times we met, Then by look an' deed I show'd, How my love wer all a-zet In the smiles that she bestow'd. She mid have, o' left an' right, Maïdens feäirest to the zight; I'd a-chose among em still, Pretty Jeäne o' Grenley Mill.

She wer feäirer, by her cows In her work-day frock a-drest, Than the rest wi' scornvul brows All a-flantèn in their best. Gaÿ did seem, at feäst or feäir, Zights that I had her to sheäre; Gaÿ would be my own heart still, But vor Jeäne o' Grenley Mill.

Jeäne--a-checkèn ov her love-- Leän'd to woone that, as she guess'd, Stood in worldly wealth above Me she know'd she lik'd the best. He wer wild, an' soon run drough All that he'd a-come into, Heartlessly a-treatèn ill Pretty Jeäne o' Grenley Mill.

Oh! poor Jenny! thou'st a tore Hopèn love vrom my poor heart, Losèn vrom thy own small store, All the better, sweeter peärt. Hearts a-slighted must vorseäke Slighters, though a-doom'd to break; I must scorn, but love thee still, Pretty Jeäne o' Grenley Mill.

Oh! if ever thy soft eyes Could ha' turn'd vrom outward show, To a lover born to rise When a higher woone wer low; If thy love, when zoo a-tried, Could ha' stood ageän thy pride, How should I ha' lov'd thee still, Pretty Jeäne o' Grenley Mill.

THE BELLS OV ALDERBURNHAM.

While now upon the win' do zwell The church-bells' evenèn peal, O, Along the bottom, who can tell How touch'd my heart do veel, O. To hear ageän, as woonce they rung In holidays when I wer young, Wi' merry sound A-ringèn round, The bells ov Alderburnham.

Vor when they rung their gaÿest peals O' zome sweet day o' rest, O, We all did ramble drough the viels, A-dress'd in all our best, O; An' at the bridge or roarèn weir, Or in the wood, or in the gleäre Ov open ground, Did hear ring round The bells ov Alderburnham.

They bells, that now do ring above The young brides at church-door, O, Woonce rung to bless their mother's love, When they were brides avore, O. An' sons in tow'r do still ring on The merry peals o' fathers gone, Noo mwore to sound, Or hear ring round, The bells ov Alderburnham.

Ov happy peäirs, how soon be zome A-wedded an' a-peärted! Vor woone ov jaÿ, what peals mid come To zome o's broken-hearted! The stronger mid the sooner die, The gaÿer mid the sooner sigh; An' who do know What grief's below The bells ov Alderburnham!

But still 'tis happiness to know That there's a God above us; An' he, by day an' night, do ho Vor all ov us, an' love us, An' call us to His house, to heal Our hearts, by his own Zunday peal Ov bells a-rung Vor wold an' young, The bells ov Alderburnham.

THE GIRT WOLD HOUSE O' MOSSY STWONE.

The girt wold house o' mossy stwone, Up there upon the knap alwone, Had woonce a bleäzèn kitchèn-vier, That cook'd vor poor-vo'k an' a squier. The very last ov all the reäce That liv'd the squier o' the pleäce, Died off when father wer a-born, An' now his kin be all vorlorn Vor ever,--vor he left noo son To teäke the house o' mossy stwone. An' zoo he vell to other hands, An' gramfer took en wi' the lands: An' there when he, poor man, wer dead, My father shelter'd my young head. An' if I wer a squier, I Should like to spend my life, an' die In thik wold house o' mossy stwone, Up there upon the knap alwone.