Chapter 6

Mr. Guy, a man o' veelin For a ooman in distress, Than took er up behind en: A cood'n do na less.

A corr'd er trunk avaur en, An by hiz belt o' leather A bid er hawld vast; on thâ rawd, Athout much tâk, together.

Not vur thâ went avaur she gid A whissle loud an long; Which Mr. Guy, thawt very strange; Er voice too zim'd za strong!

She'd lost er dog, she zed; an than Another whissle blaw'd, That stortled Mr. Guy;--a stapt Hiz hoss upon tha rawd.

Goo on, zed she; bit Mr. Guy Zum rig beginn'd ta fear: Vor voices rawze upon tha wine, An zim'd a comin near.

Again thâ rawd along; again She whissled. Mr. Guy Whipt out hiz knife an cut tha belt, Then push'd er off!--Vor why?

Tha ooman he took up behine, Begummers, war a _man!_ Tha rubbers zaw ad lâd ther plots Our grazier to trepan.

I shall not stap ta tell what zed Tha man in ooman's clawze; Bit he, and all o'm jist behine, War what you mid suppawze.

Thâ cust, thâ swaur, thâ dreaten'd too, An ater Mr. Guy Thâ gallop'd all; 'twar niver-tha-near: Hiz hoss along did vly.

Auver downs, droo dales, awâ a went, 'Twar dâ-light now amawst, Till at an inn a stapt, at last, Ta thenk what he'd a lost.

A lost?--why, nothin--but hiz belt!-- A zummet moor ad gain'd: Thic little trunk a corr'd awâ-- It gawld g'lore contain'd!

Nif Mr. Guy war hirch avaur, A now war hircher still: Tha plunder o' tha highwâmen Hiz coffers went ta vill.

In sâfety Mr. Guy rawd whim; A ôten tawld tha storry. Ta meet wi' jitch a rig myzel I shood'n, soce, be zorry.

THE ROOKERY.

The rook, _corvus frugilegus_, is a bird of considerable intelligence, and is, besides, extremely useful in destroying large quantities of worms and larvæ of destructive insects. It will, it is true, if not watched, pick out, after they are dibbled, both pease and beans from the holes with a precision truly astonishing: a very moderate degree of care is, however, sufficient to prevent this evil, which is greatly overbalanced by the positive good which it effects in the destruction of insects. It is a remarkable fact, and not, perhaps, generally known, that this bird rarely roosts at the rookery, except for a few months during the period of incubation, and rearing its young. In the winter season it more commonly takes flights of no ordinary length, to roost on the trees of some remote and sequestered wood. The _Elm_ is its favorite, on which it usually builds; but such is its attachment to locality that since the incident alluded to in the following Poem took place the Rooks have, many of them, built in _fir_ trees at a little distance from their former habitation. The habits of the Rook are well worthy the attention of all who delight in the study of Natural History.

My zong is o' tha ROOKERY, Not jitch as I a zeed On stunted trees wi' leaves a veo, A very veo indeed,

In thic girt place thâ _Lunnun_ câll;-- Tha Tower an tha Pork Hâ booäth a got a Rookery, Althaw thâ han't a Lork.

I zeng not o' jitch Rookeries, Jitch plazen, pump or banners; Bit town-berd Rooks, vor âll that, hâ, I warnt ye, curious _manners_.

My zong is o' a Rookery My Father's cot bezide, Avaur, years âter, I war born 'Twar long tha porish pride.

Tha elms look'd up like giants tâll Ther branchy yarms aspread; An green plumes wavin wi' tha wine, Made gâ each lofty head.

Ta drâ tha pectur out--ther war At distance, zid between Tha trees, a thatch'd Form-house, an geese A cacklin on tha green.

A river, too, clooäse by tha trees, Its stickle coose on slid, Whaur yells an trout an wither fish Mid ôtentimes be zid.

Tha rooks voun this a pleasant place-- A whim ther young ta rear; An I a ôten pleas'd a bin Ta wâtch 'em droo tha year.

'Tis on tha dâ o' Valentine Or there or thereabout, Tha rooks da vast begin ta build, An cawin, make a rout.

Bit aw! when May's a come, ta zee Ther young tha gunner's shut Vor SPOORT, an bin, as zum da zâ, (Naw readship in't I put)

_That nif thâ did'n shut tha, rooks Thâ'd zoon desert tha trees!_ Wise vawk! Thic reason vor ther SPOORT Gee thâ mid nif thâ please!

Still zeng I o' tha Rookery, Vor years it war tha pride Of all thâ place, bit 'twor ta I A zumthin moor bezide.

A hired tha Rooks avaur I upp'd; I hired 'em droo tha dâ; I hired ther young while gittin flush An ginnin jist ta câ.

I hired 'em when my mother gid Er lessins kind ta I, In jitch a wâ when I war young, That I war fit ta cry.

I hired 'em at tha cottage door, When mornin, in tha spreng, Wâk'd vooäth in youth an beauty too, An birds beginn'd ta zeng.

I hired 'em in tha winter-time When, roustin vur awâ, Thâ visited tha Rookery A whiverin by dâ.

My childhood, youth, and manood too, My Father's cot recâll Thic Rookery. Bit I mist now Tell what it did bevâll.

'Twar Mâ-time--heavy vi' tha nests War laden âll tha trees; An to an fraw, wi' creekin loud, Thâ sway'd ta iv'ry breeze.

One night tha wine--a thundrin wine, Jitch as war hired o' nivor, Blaw'd two o' thic girt giant trees Flat down into tha river.

Nests, aggs, an young uns, âll awâ War zweept into tha wâter An zaw war spwiled tha Rookery Vor iver and iver âter.

I visited my Father's cot: Tha Rooks war âll a gwon; Whaur stood tha trees in lofty pride I zid there norra one.

My Father's cot war desolate; An âll look'd wild, vorlorn; Tha Ash war stunted that war zet Tha dâ that I war born.

My Father, Mother, Rooks, âll gwon! My Charlotte an my Lizzy!-- Tha gorden wi' tha tutties too!-- Jitch thawts why be za bizzy!--

Behawld tha wâ o' human thengs! Rooks, lofty trees, an Friends-- A kill'd, taur up, like leaves drap off!-- Zaw feaver'd bein ends.

TOM GOOL, AND LUCK IN THA BAG.

"Luck, Luck in tha Bag! Good Luck! Put in an try yer fortin; Come, try yer luck in tha Lucky Bag! You'll git a prize vor sartin."

Mooäst plazen hâ their customs Ther manners an ther men; We too a got our customs, Our manners and our men.

He who a bin ta Huntspill Fâyer Or Highbridge--Pawlet Revel-- Or Burtle Sassions, whaur thâ plâ Zumtimes tha very devil,

Mist mine once a man well That war a câll'd TOM GOOL; Zum thawt en mazed, while withers thawt En moor a knave than fool.

At all tha fâyers an revels too TOM GOOL war shower ta be, A tâkin vlother vast awâ,-- A hoopin who bit he.

Vor' âll that a had a zoort o' wit That zet tha vawk a laughin; An mooäst o' that, when ho tha yal Ad at tha fâyer bin quaffin.

A corr'd a kit o' pedlar's waur, Like awld _Joannah Martin_; [Footnote: This Lady, who was for many years known in Somersetshire as an itinerant dealer in earthenware, rags, &c., and occasionally a _fortune-teller_, died a few years since at Huntspill, where she had resided for the greater part of a century. She was extremely illiterate, so much so, as not to be able to write, and, I think, could scarcely read. She lived for some years in a house belonging to my father, and while a boy, I was very often her gratuitous amanuensis, in writing letters for her to her children. She possessed, however, considerable shrewdness, energy, and perseverance, and amassed property to the amount of several hundred pounds. She had three husbands; the name of the first was, I believe, _Gool_ or _Gould_, a relation of _Thomas Gool_, the subject of the above Poem; the name of the second was _Martin_, of the third _Pain_; but as the last lived a short time only after having married her, she always continued to be called Joannah Martin.

_Joannah_ was first brought into public notice by the Rev. Mr. WARNER, in his _Walks through the Western Counties_, published in 1800, in which work will be found a lively and interesting description of her; but she often said that she should wish me to write her life, as I was, of course, more intimately acquainted with it than any casual inquirer could possibly be. An additional notice of Joannah was inserted by me in the _Monthly Magazine_, for Nov. 1816, page 310. I had among my papers, the _original song composed_ by her, which I copied from her dictation many years ago,--the only, copy in existence; I regret that I cannot lay my hand upon it; as it contains much of the Somersetshire idiom. I have more than once heard her sing this song, which was satirical, and related to the conduct of a female, one of her neighbours, who had become a thief.

Such was JOANNAH MARTIN, a woman whose name (had she moved in a sphere where her original talents could have been improved by education,) might have been added to the list of distinguished female worthies of our country.

[The MS. song was never, that I am aware of, discovered after my relative's death.--Editor, J. K. J.]] An nif yon hân't a hired o' her, You zumtime sholl vor sartin.

"Luck, Luck in tha Bag!" TOM, cried "Put in and try yer fortin; Come try yer luck in tha lucky bag; You'll git a prize vor sartin.

All prizes, norra blank, Norra blank, âll prizes! A waiter--knife--or scissis sheer-- A splat o' pins--put in my dear!-- Whitechapel nills âll sizes.

Luck, Luck in tha Bag!--only a penny vor a venter--you mid get, a- ma-be, a girt prize--a _Rawman waiter!_--I can avoord it as cheep as thic that stawl it--I a bote it ta trust, an niver intend to pâ vor't. Luck, Luck in tha bag! âll prizes; norra blank!

Luck, Luck in tha Bag! Good Luck! Put in an try yer fortin; Come, try yer luck in tha lucky bag! You'll git a prize vor sartin.

Come, niver mine tha single-sticks, Tha whoppin or tha stickler, You dwon't want now a brawken head, "Nor jitchy zoort o' tickler!

Now Lady! yer prize is--'A SNUFF-BOX,' A treble-japann'd Pontypool! You'll shower come again ta my luck in tha bag, Or niver trust me--TOMMY GOOL.

Luck, Luck in tha bag! Good Luck! Put in an try yer fortin; Come, try yer luck in tha lucky bag! You'll git a prize for sartin!

TEDDY BAND.

"The short and simple annals of the poor." GRAY.

_Miss Hanson to Miss Mortimer. Ashcot, July_ 21st.

My Dear Jane.

Will you do me the favour to amuse yourself and your friends with the enclosed epistle? it is certainly an original--written in the dialect of the County. You will easily understand it, and, I do not doubt, the "moril" too.

Edward Band, or as he is more commonly called here, Teddy Band, is a poor, but honest and industrious cottager, but I am, nevertheless, disposed to think that "if ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."

My dear Jane, affectionately yours,

MARIA HANSON.

_Teddy Band to Miss Hanson._

Mâm,

I da thenk you'll smile at theeäzam here veo lains that I write ta you, bin I be naw scholard; vor vather coud'n avoord ta put I ta school. Bit nif you'll vorgee me vor my bauldniss, a-mâ-be, I mid not be afeard ta zâ zummet ta you that you, mâm yourzell mid like ta hire. Bit how be I ta knaw that? I knaw that you be a goodhorted Lady, an da like ta zee poor vawk well-at-eased an happy. You axt I tother dâ ta zing a zong: now I dwont much like zum o' thâ zongs that I hired thic night at squire Reevs's when we made an end o' Hâ-corrin: vor, zim ta I, there war naw moril to 'em. I like zongs wi' a moril to 'em. Tha nawtes, ta be shower, war zât anow, bit, vor âll that, I war looking vor tha moril, mâm. Zo, when I cum'd whim, I tawld our Pall, that you axt I ta zing: an I war zorry âterward that I did'n, bin you be âlways zo desperd good ta poor vowk. Bit I thawt, a-mâ-be, you mid be angry wi' my country lidden. Why Teddy, zed Pall, dwontye zend Miss Hanson thic zong which ye made yerzel; I thenk ther is a moril in thic. An zo, mâm, nif you please, I a zent tha zong. I haup you'll vorgee me.

Mâm, your humble sarvant,

TEDDY BAND.

ZONG.

I have a cot o' Cob-wâll Roun which tha ivy clims; My Pally at tha night-vâll Er crappin viër trims.

A comin vrom tha plow-veel I zee tha blankers rise, Wi' blue smauk cloudy curlin, An whivering up tha skies.

When tha winter wines be crousty, An snaws dreav vast along, I hurry whim--tha door tine, An cheer er wi' a zong.

When spreng, adresst in tutties, Câlls âll tha birds abroad; An wrans an robin-riddicks, Tell âll the cares o' God,

I zit bezides my cot-door After my work is done, While Pally, bizzy knittin, Looks at tha zottin zun.

When zummertime is passin, An narras dâs be vine, I drenk tha sporklin cider, An wish naw wither wine.

How zweet tha smill o' clawver, How zweet tha smill o' hâ; How zweet is haulsom labour, ^ Bit zweeter Pall than thâ.

An who d'ye thenk I envy?-- Tha nawbles o' tha land? Thâ can't be moor than happy, An that is Teddy Band.

Mister Ginnins;

I a red thic ballet o' yourn called Fanny Fear, an, zim ta I, there's naw moril to it. Nif zaw be you da thenk zo well o't, I'll gee one.

I dwont want to frunt any ov the gennelmen o' tha country, bit I âlways a thawt it desperd odd, that dogs should be keept in a kannel, and keept a hungered too, zaw that thâ mid be moor eager to hunt thic poor little theng câlled a hare. I dwon' naw, bit I da thenk, nif I war a gennelman, that I'd vine better spoort than huntin; bezides, zim ta I 'tis desperd wicked to hunt animals vor one's spoort. Now, jitch a horrid blanscue as what happened at Shapick, niver could a bin but vor tha hungry houns. I haup that gennelmen ool thenk o't oten; an when thâ da hire tha yell o' tha houns thâ'll not vorgit Fanny Fear; a-mâ-be thâ mid be zummet tha wiser an better vor't; I'm shower jitch a storry desarves ta be remimbered. This is the moril.

I am, sur, your sarvant,

TEDDY BAND.

THE CHURCHWARDEN.

Upon a time, naw matter whaur, Jitch plazen there be many a scaur In Zummerzet's girt gorden; (Ive hir'd 'twar handy ta tha zea, Not vur vrom whaur tha zantots be) There liv'd a young churchwarden.

A zim'd delighted when put in. An zaw a thawt a ood begin Ta do hiz office duly: Bit zum o'm, girt vawk in ther wâ-- Tha _Porish_ o'ten câlled,--a girt bell sheep Or two that lead the rest an quiet keep-- Put vooäth ther hons iz coose to stâ, Which made en quite unruly.

A went, of coose, ta Visitâtion Ta be sworn in;--an than 'twar nâtion Hord that a man his power should doubt,-- An moor--ta try ta turn en out! "Naw, Naw!" exclaim'd our young churchwarden, I dwon't care vor ye âll a copper varden!"

Tha church war durty.--Wevets here Hang'd danglin vrom tha ruf; an there Tha plaisterin shaw'd a crazy wâll;

Tha âltar-piece war dim and dowsty too, That Peter's maricle thâ scase cood view. Tha Ten Commandments nawbody cood rade; [Footnote: Read] Tha Lord's Prayer ad nuthin in't bit "Brade;" [Footnote: Bread] Nor had tha Creed A lain or letter parfit, grate or smâll. 'Twar time vor zum one ta renew 'em âll.

I've tawld o' wevets--zum o'm odd enow; Thâ look'd tha colour of a dork dun cow, An like a skin war stratched across tha corners; Tha knitters o' tha porish tâk'd o knittin Stocking wi' 'em!--Bit aw, how unbevittin All tâk like this!--aw fie, tha wicked scorners!

Ta work went tha Churchwarden; wevets tummel'd Down by tha bushel, an tha pride o' dowst war hummel'd. Tha wâlls once moor look'd bright. Tha Painter, fags, a war a Plummer An Glazier too, Put vooäth his powers, (His workin made naw little scummer!) In zentences, in flourishes, and flowers. Tha chancel, church and âll look'd new, An war well suited to avoord delight.

Tha Ten Commandments glitter'd wi' tha vornish; Compleat now, tha Lord's Prayer, what cood tornish.

As vor tha Creed 'twar made bran new Vrom top ta bottom; I tell ye true! Tha âltar piece wi' Peter war now naw libel Upon tha church, Which booäth athin an, tower an all, athout Look'd like a well-dressed maid in pride about; Tha walls rejâic'd wi' texts took vrom tha Bible. Bit vor all that, thâ left en in tha lurch; I bag your pardon. I mean, of âll tha expense thâ ood'n pâ a varden.

Jitch zweepin, birshin, paintin, scrubbin; Tha tuts ad niver jitch a drubbin; Jitch white-washin and jitch brought gwâin A power of money--Tha Painter's bill Made of itzel a pirty pill, Ta zwell which âll o'm tried in vain! Ther stomicks turn'd, ther drawts were norry; [Footnote: Narrow] Jitch gillded pills thâ cood'n corry. An when our young churchwarden ax'd em why, Thâ laugh'd at en, an zed, ther drawts war dry.

Tha keeper o' tha church war wrong; (Churchwarden still the burden o' my zong) A should at vust A câll'd a Vestry: vor 'tis hord ta trust To Porish generasity; an zaw A voun it: I dwon' knaw

Whaur or who war his advisers; Zum zed a Lâyer gid en bad advice; A-mâ-be saw; jitch vawk ben't always nice. Lâyers o' advice be seltimes misers Nif there's wherewi' ta pâ; Or, witherwise, good bwye ta Lâyers an tha Lâ.

A Vestry than at last war cried-- A Vestry's power let noäne deride-- When tha church war auver tha clork bal'd out, _Aw eese! aw eese! aw eese!_ All wonder'd what cood be about, An stratch'd ther necks like a vlock o' geese; Why--_ta make a Rate Vor tha church's late Repairâtion_. A grate norâtion, A nâtion naise tha nawtice made, About tha cost ta be defray'd Vor tha church's _repairâtion_.

Tha Vestry met, âll naise an bother; One ood'n wait ta hire tha tuther. When thâ war tir'd o' jitch a gabble, Ta bâl na moor not one war yable, A man, a little zâtenfare, Got up hiz verdi ta delcare. Now Soce, zed he, why we be gwâin Ta meet in Vestry here in vâin.

Let's come to some determination, An not tâk âll in jitch a fashion. Let's zee tha 'counts. A snatch'd tha book Vrom tha Churchwarden in't ta look. _Tha, book war chain'd clooäse to his wrist;_ A gid en slily jitch a twist! That the young Churchwarden loud raur'd out, "You'll break my yarm!--what be about?"

Tha man a little zâtenfare, An âll tha Vestry wide did stare! Bit Soce, zed he again, I niver zeed Money brought gwâin zaw bad. What need War ther tha âltar-piece ta titch? What good war paintin, vornishin, an jitch? What good war't vor'n ta mend Tha Ten Commandments?--Why did he Mell o' tha Lord's Prayer? Lockyzee! Ther war naw need To mell or make wi' thic awld Creed. I'm zorry vor'n; eesse zorry as a friend; Bit can't conzent our wherewi' zaw ta spend,

Thâ âll, wi one accord, At tha little zâtenfare's word, Agreed, that, not one varden, By Rate, Should be collected vor tha late Repairâtion Of tha church by tha young Churchwarden.

THE FISHERMAN AND THE PLAYERS.

Now who is ther that han't a hir'd O' one young TOM CAME? A Fisherman of Huntspill, An a well-knawn name.

A knaw'd much moor o' fishin Than many vawk bezides; An a knaw'd much moor than mooäst about Tha zea an âll tha tides.

A knaw'd well how ta make buts, An hullies too an jitch, An up an down tha river whaur Tha best place vor ta pitch.

A knaw'd âll about tha stake-hangs Tha zâlmon vor ta catch;-- Tha pitchin an tha dippin net,-- Tha Slime an tha Mud-Batch. [Footnote: Two islands well known in the River Parret, near its mouth. Several words will be found in this Poem which I have not placed in the _Glossary_, because they seem too local and technical to deserve a place there: they shall be here explained,

_To Pitch, v.n._ To fish with a boat and a pitchin-net in a proper position across the current so that the fish may be caught.

_Pitchin-net. s._ A large triangular net attached to two poles, and used with a boat for the purpose, chiefly, of catching salmon.--The fishing boats in the Parret, are _flat- bottomed_, in length about seventeen feet, about four feet and a half wide, and pointed at both ends: they are easily managed by _one_ person, and rarely, if ever, known to overturn.

_Dippen-net. s._ A small net somewhat semicircular, and attached to two round sticks for sides, and a long pole for a handle. It is used for the purpose of _dipping salmon_ and some other fish, as the _shad_, out of water.

_Gad. s._ A long pole, having an iron point to it, so that it may be easily thrust into the ground. Two gads are used for each boats. Their uses are to keep the boat steady across the current in order that the net may be in a proper position.]

A handled too iz gads well His paddle and iz oor; [Footnote: Oar.] A war âlways bawld an fearless-- A, when upon tha Goor. [Footnote: The Gore. Dangerous sands so called, at the mouth of the River Parret, in the Bristol Channel.]

O' heerins, sprats, an porpuses-- O' âll fish a cood tell; Who bit he amangst tha Fishermen-- A âlways bear'd tha bell.

Tommy Came ad hired o' Plâyers, Bit niver zeed 'em plâ; Thâ war actin at Bejwâter; There a went wi' Sally Dâ.

When tha curtain first drâw'd up, than Sapriz'd war Tommy Came; A'd hâf a mine ta him awâ, Bit stapp'd vor very shame.

Tha vust act bein auver Tha zecond jist begun, Tommy Came still wonder'd grately, Ta him it war naw fun.

Zaw âter lookin on zumtime, Ta understand did strive; _There now_, zed he, _I'll gee my woth_ [Footnote: Oath.] _That thâ be all alive!_

MARY RAMSEY'S CRUTCH.

I zeng o' _Mary Ramsey's Crutch!_ "Thic little theng!"--Why 'tis'n much It's true, but still I like ta touch Tha cap o' _Mary Ramsey's Crutch!_ She zed, wheniver she shood die, Er little crutch she'd gee ta I. Did Mary love me? eese a b'leeve. She died--a veo vor her did grieve,-- An _but_ a veo--vor Mary awld, Outliv'd er friends, or voun 'em cawld. Thic crutch I had--I ha it still, An port wi't wont--nor niver will. O' her I lorn'd tha cris-cross-lâin; I haup that't word'n quite in vâin! 'Twar her who teach'd me vust ta read Jitch little words as _beef_ an _bread_; An I da thenk 'twar her that, âter, Lorn'd I ta read tha single zâter. Poor Mary ôten used ta tell O' das a past that pleas'd er well; An mangst tha rest war zum o' jay When I look'd up a little bway. She zed I war a good one too, An lorn'd my book athout tha _rue_. [Footnote: This Lady, when her scholars neglected their duty, or behaved ill, rubbed their fingers with the leaves of _rue!_] Poor Mary's gwon!--a longful time Zunz now!--er little scholard's prime A-mâ-be's past.--It must be zaw;-- There's nothin stable here belaw! O' Mary--âll left is--er _crutch!_ An thaw a gift, an 'tword'n much 'Tis true, still I da like ta touch Tha cap o' _Mary Ramsey's Crutch!_ That I lov'd Mary, this ool tell. I'll zâ na moor--zaw, fore well! [Footnote: Fare ye well.]

HANNAH VERRIOR.

Tha zâ I'm maz'd,--my Husband's dead, My chile, (hush! hush! Lord love er face!) Tha pit-hawl had at Milemas, when Thâ put me in theäze pooät-hawl place.

Thâ zâ I'm maz'd.--I veel--I thenk--- I tâk--I ate, an oten drenk.-- Tha _thenk_, a-mâ-be, zumtimes, _peel_-- An gee me stra vor bed an peel!

Thâ zâ I'm maz'd.--Hush! Babby, dear! Thâ shan't come to er!--niver fear! Thâ zâ thy Father's dead!--Naw, naw! A'll niver die while I'm belaw.

Thâ zâ I'm maz'd.--Why dwont you speak? Fie James!--or else my hort ool break!-- James _is_ not dead! nor Babby!--naw! Thâ'll niver die while I'm belaw!

REMEMBRANCE.