ZUMMER THOUGHTS IN WINTER TIME.
Well, aye, last evenen, as I shook My locks ov hay by Leecombe brook. The yollow zun did weakly glance Upon the winter meaed askance, A-casten out my narrow sheaede Athirt the brook, an' on the meaed. The while ageaen my lwonesome ears Did russle weatherbeaeten spears, Below the withy's leafless head That overhung the river's bed; I there did think o' days that dried The new-mow'd grass o' zummer-tide, When white-sleev'd mowers' whetted bleaedes Rung sh'ill along the green-bough'd gleaedes, An' maidens gay, wi' playsome chaps, A-zot wi' dinners in their laps, Did talk wi' merry words that rung Around the ring, vrom tongue to tongue; An' welcome, when the leaves ha' died, Be zummer thoughts in winter-tide.
I'M OUT O' DOOR.
I'm out, when, in the Winter's blast, The zun, a-runnen lowly round, Do mark the sheaedes the hedge do cast At noon, in hoarvrost, on the ground, I'm out when snow's a-lyen white In keen-air'd vields that I do pass, An' moonbeams, vrom above, do smite On ice an' sleeper's window-glass. I'm out o' door, When win' do zweep, By hangen steep, Or hollow deep, At Lindenore.
O welcome is the lewth a-vound By rustlen copse, or ivied bank, Or by the hay-rick, weather-brown'd By barken-grass, a-springen rank; Or where the waggon, vrom the team A-freed, is well a-housed vrom wet, An' on the dousty cart-house beam Do hang the cobweb's white-lin'd net. While storms do roar, An' win' do zweep, By hangen steep, Or hollow deep, At Lindenore.
An' when a good day's work's a-done An' I do rest, the while a squall Do rumble in the hollow tun, An' ivy-stems do whip the wall. Then in the house do sound about My ears, dear vaices vull or thin, A prayen vor the souls vur out At sea, an' cry wi' bibb'ren chin— Oh! shut the door. What soul can sleep, Upon the deep, When storms do zweep At Lindenore.
GRIEF AN' GLADNESS.
"Can all be still, when win's do blow? Look down the grove an' zee The boughs a-swingen on the tree, An' beaeten weaeves below. Zee how the tweilen vo'k do bend Upon their windward track, Wi' ev'ry string, an' garment's end, A-flutt'ren at their back." I cried, wi' sorrow sore a-tried, An' hung, wi' Jenny at my zide, My head upon my breast. Wi' strokes o' grief so hard to bear, 'Tis hard vor souls to rest.
Can all be dull, when zuns do glow? Oh! no; look down the grove, Where zides o' trees be bright above; An' weaeves do sheen below; An' neaeked stems o' wood in hedge Do gleaem in streaeks o' light, An' rocks do gleaere upon the ledge O' yonder zunny height, "No, Jeaene, wi' trials now withdrawn, Lik' darkness at a happy dawn." I cried, "Noo mwore despair; Wi' our lost peace ageaen a-vound, 'Tis wrong to harbour ceaere."
When wind wer keen, Where ivy-green Did clwosely wind Roun' woak-tree rind, An' ice shone bright, An' meaeds wer white, wi' thin-spread snow Then on the pond, a-spreaden wide, We bwoys did zweep along the slide, A-striken on in merry row.
There ruddy-feaeced, In busy heaeste, We all did wag A spanken lag, To win good speed, When we, straight-knee'd, wi' foreright tooes, Should shoot along the slipp'ry track, Wi' grinden sound, a-getten slack, The slower went our clumpen shoes.
Vor zome slow chap, Did teaeke mishap, As he did veel His hinder heel A-het a thump, Wi' zome big lump, o' voot an' shoe. Down vell the voremost wi' a squall, An' down the next went wi' a sprawl, An' down went all the laughen crew.
As to an' fro, In merry row, We all went round On ice, on ground The maidens nigh A-stannen shy, did zee us slide, An' in their eaeprons small, did vwold Their little hands, a-got red-cwold, Or slide on ice o' two veet wide.
By leafless copse, An' beaere tree-tops, An' zun's low beams, An' ice-boun' streams, An' vrost-boun' mill, A-stannen still. Come wind, blow on, An' gi'e the bwoys, this Chris'mas tide, The glitt'ren ice to meaeke a slide, As we had our slide, years agone.
As I do zew, wi' nimble hand, In here avore the window's light, How still do all the housegear stand Around my lwonesome zight. How still do all the housegear stand Since Willie now 've a-left the land.
The rwose-tree's window-sheaeden bow Do hang in leaf, an' win'-blow'd flow'rs, Avore my lwonesome eyes do show Theaese bright November hours. Avore my lwonesome eyes do show Wi' nwone but I to zee em blow.
The sheaedes o' leafy buds, avore The peaenes, do sheaeke upon the glass, An' stir in light upon the vloor, Where now vew veet do pass, An' stir in light upon the vloor, Where there's a-stirren nothen mwore.
This win' mid dreve upon the main, My brother's ship, a-plowen foam, But not bring mother, cwold, nor rain, At her now happy hwome. But not bring mother, cwold, nor rain, Where she is out o' pain.
Zoo now that I'm a-mwopen dumb, A-keepen father's house, do you Come of'en wi' your work vrom hwome, Vor company. Now do. Come of'en wi' your work vrom hwome, Up here a-while. Do come.
A SNOWY NIGHT.
'Twer at night, an' a keen win' did blow Vrom the east under peaele-twinklen stars, All a-zweepen along the white snow; On the groun', on the trees, on the bars, Vrom the hedge where the win' russled drough, There a light-russlen snow-doust did vall; An' noo pleaece wer a-vound that wer lew, But the shed, or the ivy-hung wall.
Then I knock'd at the wold passage door Wi' the win'-driven snow on my locks; Till, a-comen along the cwold vloor, There my Jenny soon answer'd my knocks. Then the wind, by the door a-swung wide, Flung some snow in her clear-bloomen feaece, An' she blink'd wi' her head all a-zide, An' a-chucklen, went back to her pleaece.
An' in there, as we zot roun' the brands, Though the talkers wer mainly the men, Bloomen Jeaene, wi' her work in her hands, Did put in a good word now an' then. An' when I took my leave, though so bleaek Wer the weather, she went to the door, Wi' a smile, an' a blush on the cheaek That the snow had a-smitten avore.
We zot bezide the leaefy wall, Upon the bench at evenfall, While aunt led off our minds vrom ceaere Wi' veaeiry teaeles, I can't tell where: An' vound us woone among her stock O' feaebles, o' the girt Year-clock. His feaece wer blue's the zummer skies, An' wide's the zight o' looken eyes, For hands, a zun wi' glowen feaece, An' peaeler moon wi' swifter peaece, Did wheel by stars o' twinklen light, By bright-wall'd day, an' dark-treed night; An' down upon the high-sky'd land, A-reachen wide, on either hand, Wer hill an' dell wi' win'-sway'd trees, An' lights a-zweepen over seas, An' gleamen cliffs, an' bright-wall'd tow'rs, Wi' sheaedes a-marken on the hours; An' as the feaece, a-rollen round, Brought comely sheaepes along the ground. The Spring did come in winsome steaete Below a glowen rainbow geaete; An' fan wi' air a-blowen weak, Her glossy heaeir, an' rwosy cheaek, As she did shed vrom oben hand, The leaepen zeed on vurrow'd land; The while the rook, wi' heaesty flight, A-floaten in the glowen light, Did bear avore her glossy breast A stick to build her lofty nest, An' strong-limb'd Tweil, wi' steady hands, Did guide along the vallow lands The heavy zull, wi' bright-sheaer'd beam, Avore the weaery oxen team, Wi' Spring a-gone there come behind Sweet Zummer, jay ov ev'ry mind, Wi' feaece a-beamen to beguile Our weaery souls ov ev'ry tweil. While birds did warble in the dell In softest air o' sweetest smell; An' she, so winsome-feaeir did vwold Her comely limbs in green an' goold, An' wear a rwosy wreath, wi' studs O' berries green, an' new-born buds, A-fring'd in colours vier-bright, Wi' sheaepes o' buttervlees in flight. When Zummer went, the next ov all Did come the sheaepe o' brown-feaec'd Fall, A-smilen in a comely gown O' green, a-shot wi' yellow-brown, A-border'd wi' a goolden stripe O' fringe, a-meaede o' corn-ears ripe, An' up ageaen her comely zide, Upon her rounded eaerm, did ride A perty basket, all a-twin'd O' slender stems wi' leaves an' rind, A-vill'd wi' fruit the trees did shed, All ripe, in purple, goold, an' red; An' busy Leaebor there did come A-zingen zongs ov harvest hwome, An' red-ear'd dogs did briskly run Roun' cheervul Leisure wi' his gun, Or stan' an' mark, wi' stedvast zight, The speckled pa'tridge rise in flight. An' next ageaen to mild-feaec'd Fall Did come peaele Winter, last ov all, A-benden down, in thoughtvul mood, Her head 'ithin a snow-white hood A-deck'd wi' icy-jewels, bright An' cwold as twinklen stars o' night; An' there wer weary Leaebor, slack O' veet to keep her vrozen track, A-looken off, wi' wistful eyes, To reefs o' smoke, that there did rise A-melten to the peaele-feaec'd zun, Above the houses' lofty tun. An' there the girt Year-clock did goo By day an' night, vor ever true, Wi' mighty wheels a-rollen round 'Ithout a beaet, 'ithout a sound.
NOT GOO HWOME TO-NIGHT.
No, no, why you've noo wife at hwome Abiden up till you do come, Zoo leaeve your hat upon the pin, Vor I'm your waiter. Here's your inn, Wi' chair to rest, an' bed to roost; You have but little work to do This vrosty time at hwome in mill, Your vrozen wheel's a-stannen still, The sleepen ice woont grind vor you. No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill.
As I come by, to-day, where stood Wi' neaeked trees, the purple wood, The scarlet hunter's ho'ses veet Tore up the sheaeken ground, wind-fleet, Wi' reachen heads, an' panken hides; The while the flat-wing'd rooks in vlock. Did zwim a-sheenen at their height; But your good river, since last night, Wer all a-vroze so still's a rock. No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill.
Zee how the hufflen win' do blow, A-whirlen down the giddy snow: Zee how the sky's a-weaeren dim, Behind the elem's neaeked lim'. That there do leaen above the leaene: Zoo teaeke your pleaece bezide the dogs, An' sip a drop o' hwome-brew'd eaele, An' zing your zong or tell your teaele, While I do bait the vier wi' logs. No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill.
Your meaere's in steaeble wi' her hocks In straw above her vetterlocks, A-reachen up her meaeney neck, An' pullen down good hay vrom reck, A-meaeken slight o' snow an' sleet; She don't want you upon her back, To vall upon the slippery stwones On Hollyhuel, an' break your bwones, Or miss, in snow, her hidden track. No, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, Good Robin White, o' Craglin mill.
Here, Jenny, come pull out your key An' hansel, wi' zome tidy tea, The zilver pot that we do owe To your prize butter at the show, An' put zome bread upon the bwoard. Ah! he do smile; now that 'ull do, He'll stay. Here, Polly, bring a light, We'll have a happy hour to-night, I'm thankvul we be in the lew. No, no, he woont goo hwome to-night, Not Robin White, o' Craglin mill.
Why woonce, at Chris'mas-tide, avore The wold year wer a-reckon'd out, The humstrums here did come about, A-sounden up at ev'ry door. But now a bow do never screaepe A humstrum, any where all round, An' zome can't tell a humstrum's sheaepe, An' never heaerd his jinglen sound. As ing-an-ing did ring the string, As ang-an-ang the wires did clang.
The strings a-tighten'd lik' to crack Athirt the canister's tin zide, Did reach, a glitt'ren, zide by zide, Above the humstrum's hollow back. An' there the bwoy, wi' bended stick, A-strung wi' heaeir, to meaeke a bow, Did dreve his elbow, light'nen quick, Athirt the strings from high to low. As ing-an-ing did ring the string, As ang-an-ang the wires did clang.
The mother there did stan' an' hush Her child, to hear the jinglen sound, The merry maid, a-scrubben round Her white-steaev'd pail, did stop her brush. The mis'ess there, vor wold time's seaeke, Had gifts to gi'e, and smiles to show, An' meaester, too, did stan' an' sheaeke His two broad zides, a-chucklen low, While ing-an-ing did ring the string, While ang-an-ang the wires did clang.
The players' pockets wer a-strout, Wi' wold brown pence, a-rottlen in, Their zwangen bags did soon begin, Wi' brocks an' scraps, to plim well out. The childern all did run an' poke Their heads vrom hatch or door, an' shout A-runnen back to wolder vo'k. Why, here! the humstrums be about! As ing-an-ing did ring the string, As ang-an-ang the wires did clang.
When hillborne Paladore did show So bright to me down miles below. As woonce the zun, a-rollen west, Did brighten up his hill's high breast. Wi' walls a-looken dazzlen white, Or yollow, on the grey-topp'd height Of Paladore, as peaele day wore Away so feaeir. Oh! how I wish'd that I wer there.
The pleaece wer too vur off to spy The liven vo'k a-passen by; The vo'k too vur vor air to bring The words that they did speak or zing. All dum' to me wer each abode, An' empty wer the down-hill road Vrom Paladore, as peaele day wore Away so feaeir; But how I wish'd that I wer there.
But when I clomb the lofty ground Where liven veet an' tongues did sound, At feaeir, bezide your bloomen feaece, The pertiest in all the pleaece, As you did look, wi' eyes as blue As yonder southern hills in view, Vrom Paladore—O Polly dear, Wi' you up there, How merry then wer I at feaeir.
Since vu'st I trod thik steep hill-zide My grieven soul 'v a-been a-tried Wi' pain, an' loss o' worldly geaer, An' souls a-gone I wanted near; But you be here to goo up still, An' look to Blackmwore vrom the hill O' Paladore. Zoo, Polly dear, We'll goo up there, An' spend an hour or two at feaeir.
The wold brown meaere's a-brought vrom grass, An' rubb'd an' cwomb'd so bright as glass; An' now we'll hitch her in, an' start To feaeir upon the new green cart, An' teaeke our little Poll between Our zides, as proud's a little queen, To Paladore. Aye, Poll a dear, Vor now 'tis feaeir, An' she's a longen to goo there.
While Paladore, on watch, do strain Her eyes to Blackmwore's blue-hill'd plaein, While Duncliffe is the traveller's mark, Or cloty Stour's a-rollen dark; Or while our bells do call, vor greaece, The vo'k avore their Seaevior's feaece, Mid Paladore, an' Poll a dear, Vor ever know O' peaece an' plenty down below.
THE BEAeTEN PATH.
The beaeten path where vo'k do meet A-comen on vrom vur an' near; How many errands had the veet That wore en out along so clear! Where eegrass bleaedes be green in meaed, Where bennets up the leaeze be brown, An' where the timber bridge do leaed Athirt the cloty brook to town, Along the path by mile an' mile, Athirt the yield, an' brook, an' stile,
There runnen childern's hearty laugh Do come an' vlee along—win' swift: The wold man's glossy-knobbed staff Do help his veet so hard to lift; The maid do bear her basket by, A-hangen at her breaethen zide; An' ceaereless young men, straight an' spry, Do whissle hwome at eventide, Along the path, a-reachen by Below tall trees an' oben sky.
There woone do goo to jay a-head; Another's jay's behind his back. There woone his vu'st long mile do tread, An' woone the last ov all his track. An' woone mid end a hopevul road, Wi' hopeless grief a-teaeken on, As he that leaetely vrom abroad Come hwome to seek his love a-gone, Noo mwore to tread, wi' comely eaese, The beaeten path athirt the leaeze.
In tweilsome hardships, year by year, He drough the worold wander'd wide, Still bent, in mind, both vur an' near To come an' meaeke his love his bride. An' passen here drough evenen dew He heaesten'd, happy, to her door, But vound the wold vo'k only two, Wi' noo mwore vootsteps on the vloor, To walk ageaen below the skies, Where beaeten paths do vall an' rise;
Vor she wer gone vrom e'thly eyes To be a-kept in darksome sleep, Until the good ageaen do rise A-jay to souls they left to weep. The rwose wer doust that bound her brow; The moth did eat her Zunday ceaepe; Her frock wer out o' fashion now; Her shoes wer dried up out o' sheaepe— The shoes that woonce did glitter black Along the leaezes beaeten track.
Ov all the roads that ever bridge Did bear athirt a river's feaece, Or ho'ses up an' down the ridge Did wear to doust at ev'ry peaece, I'll teaeke the Stalton leaene to tread, By banks wi' primrwose-beds bespread, An' steaetely elems over head, Where Ruth do come a-riden.
An' I would rise when vields be grey Wi' mornen dew, avore 'tis dry, An' beaet the doust droughout the day To bluest hills ov all the sky; If there, avore the dusk o' night, The evenen zun, a-sheenen bright, Would pay my leaebors wi' the zight O' Ruth—o' Ruth a-riden.
Her healthy feaece is rwosy feaeir, She's comely in her gait an' lim', An' sweet's the smile her feaece do wear, Below her cap's well-rounded brim; An' while her skirt's a-spreaeden wide, In vwolds upon the ho'se's zide, He'll toss his head, an' snort wi' pride, To trot wi' Ruth a-riden.
An' as her ho'se's rottlen peaece Do slacken till his veet do beaet A slower trot, an' till her feaece Do bloom avore the tollman's geaete; Oh! he'd be glad to oben wide His high-back'd geaete, an' stand azide, A-given up his toll wi' pride, Vor zight o' Ruth a-riden.
An' oh! that Ruth could be my bride, An' I had ho'ses at my will, That I mid teaeke her by my zide, A-riden over dell an' hill; I'd zet wi' pride her litty tooe 'Ithin a stirrup, sheenen new, An' leaeve all other jays to goo Along wi' Ruth a-riden.
If maidens that be weaek an' peaele A-mwopen in the house's sheaede, Would wish to be so blithe and heaele As you did zee young Ruth a-meaede; Then, though the zummer zun mid glow, Or though the Winter win' mid blow, They'd leaep upon the saddle's bow, An' goo, lik' Ruth, a-riden.
While evenen light do sof'ly gild The moss upon the elem's bark, Avore the zingen bird's a-still'd, Or woods be dim, or day is dark, Wi' quiv'ren grass avore his breast, In cowslip beds, do lie at rest, The ho'se that now do goo the best Wi' rwosy Ruth a-riden.
The grass mid sheen when wat'ry beaeds O' dew do glitter on the meaeds, An' thorns be bright when quiv'ren studs O' rain do hang upon their buds— As jewels be a-meaede by art To zet the plainest vo'k off smart.
But sheaeken ivy on its tree, An' low-bough'd laurel at our knee, Be bright all day, without the gleaere, O' drops that duller leaeves mid weaer— As Jeaene is feaeir to look upon In plainest gear that she can don.
MY LOVE IS GOOD.
My love is good, my love is feaeir, She's comely to behold, O, In ev'rything that she do wear, Altho' 'tis new or wold, O. My heart do leaep to see her walk, So straight do step her veet, O, My tongue is dum' to hear her talk, Her vaice do sound so sweet, O. The flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green Do bear but vew, so good an' true.
When she do zit, then she do seem The feaeirest to my zight, O, Till she do stan' an' I do deem, She's feaeirest at her height, O. An' she do seem 'ithin a room The feaeirest on a floor, O, Till I ageaen do zee her bloom Still feaeirer out o' door, O. Where flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green Do bear but vew, so good an' true.
An' when the deaeisies be a-press'd Below her vootsteps waight, O, Do seem as if she look'd the best Ov all in walken gait, O. Till I do zee her zit upright Behind the ho'ses neck, O, A-holden wi' the rain so tight His tossen head in check, O, Where flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green Do bear but vew, so good an' true.
I wish I had my own free land To keep a ho'se to ride, O, I wish I had a ho'se in hand To ride en at her zide, O. Vor if I wer as high in rank As any duke or lord, O, Or had the goold the richest bank Can shovel from his horde, O, I'd love her still, if even then She wer a leaeser in a glen.
HEEDLESS O' MY LOVE.
Oh! I vu'st know'd o' my true love, As the bright moon up above, Though her brightness wer my pleasure, She wer heedless o' my love. Tho' 'twer all gay to my eyes, Where her feaeir feaece did arise, She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts, Than the high moon in the skies.
Oh! I vu'st heaerd her a-zingen, As a sweet bird on a tree, Though her zingen wer my pleasure, 'Twer noo zong she zung to me. Though her sweet vaice that wer nigh, Meaede my wild heart to beat high, She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts, Than the birds would passers by.
Oh! I vu'st know'd her a-weepen, As a rain-dimm'd mornen sky, Though her teaer-draps dimm'd her blushes, They wer noo draps I could dry. Ev'ry bright tear that did roll, Wer a keen pain to my soul, But noo heaert's pang she did then veel, Wer vor my words to console.
But the wold times be a-vanish'd, An' my true love is my bride. An' her kind heart have a-meaede her. As an angel at my zide; I've her best smiles that mid play, I've her me'th when she is gay, When her tear-draps be a-rollen, I can now wipe em away.
THE DO'SET MILITIA.
Hurrah! my lads, vor Do'set men! A-muster'd here in red ageaen; All welcome to your ranks, a-spread Up zide to zide, to stand, or wheel, An' welcome to your files, to head The steady march wi' tooe to heel; Welcome to marches slow or quick! Welcome to gath'rens thin or thick; God speed the Colonel on the hill,[D] An' Mrs Bingham,[E] off o' drill.
When you've a-handled well your lock, An' flung about your rifle stock Vrom han' to shoulder, up an' down; When you've a-lwoaded an' a-vired, Till you do come back into town, Wi' all your loppen limbs a-tired, An you be dry an' burnen hot, Why here's your tea an' coffee pot At Mister Greenen's penny till, Wi' Mrs Bingham off o' drill.
Last year John Hinley's mother cried, "Why my bwoy John is quite my pride! Vor he've a-been so good to-year, An' han't a-mell'd wi' any squabbles, An' han't a-drown'd his wits in beer, An' han't a-been in any hobbles. I never thought he'd turn out bad, He always wer so good a lad; But now I'm sure he's better still, Drough Mrs Bingham, off o' drill."
Jeaene Hart, that's Joey Duntley's chaice, Do praise en up wi' her sweet vaice, Vor he's so strait's a hollyhock (Vew hollyhocks be up so tall), An' he do come so true's the clock To Mrs Bingham's coffee-stall; An' Jeaene do write, an' brag o' Joe To teaeke the young recruits in tow, An' try, vor all their good, to bring em, A-come from drill, to Mrs Bingham.
God speed the Colonel, toppen high, An' officers wi' sworded thigh, An' all the sargeants that do bawl All day enough to split their droats, An' all the corporals, and all The band a-playen up their notes, An' all the men vrom vur an' near We'll gi'e em all a hearty cheer. An' then another cheeren still Vor Mrs Bingham, off o' drill.
[Footnote D: Poundbury, Dorchester, the drill ground.]
[Footnote E: The colonel's wife, who opened a room with a coffee-stall, and entertainments for the men off drill.]
A DO'SET SALE.
WITH A MISTAKE.
(Thomas and Mr Auctioneer.)
T. Well here, then, Mister auctioneer, Be theaese the virs, I bought, out here?
A. The firs, the fir-poles, you bought? Who? 'Twas furze, not firs, I sold to you.
T. I bid vor virs, and not vor vuzzen, Vor vir-poles, as I thought, two dozen.
A. Two dozen faggots, and I took Your bidding for them. Here's the book.
T. I wont have what I didden buy. I don't want vuzzen, now. Not I. Why firs an' furze do sound the seaeme. Why don't ye gi'e a thing his neaeme? Aye, firs and furze! Why, who can tell Which 'tis that you do meaen to zell? No, no, be kind enough to call Em virs, and vuzzen, then, that's all.
At the feaest, I do mind very well, all the vo'ks Wer a-took in a happeren storm, But we chaps took the maidens, an' kept em wi' clokes Under shelter, all dry an' all warm; An' to my lot vell Jeaene, that's my bride, That did titter, a-hung at my zide; Zaid her aunt, "Why the vo'k 'ull talk finely o' you," An', cried she, "I don't ceaere if they do." When the time o' the feaest wer ageaen a-come round, An' the vo'k wer a-gather'd woonce mwore, Why she guess'd if she went there, she'd soon be a-vound An' a-took seaefely hwome to her door. Zaid her mother, "'Tis sure to be wet." Zaid her cousin, "'T'ull rain by zunzet." Zaid her aunt, "Why the clouds there do look black an' blue," An' zaid she, "I don't ceaere if they do."
An' at last, when she own'd I mid meaeke her my bride, Vor to help me, an' sheaere all my lot, An' wi' faithvulness keep all her life at my zide, Though my way mid be happy or not. Zaid her naighbours, "Why wedlock's a clog, An' a wife's a-tied up lik' a dog." Zaid her aunt, "You'll vind trials enough vor to rue," An', zaid she, "I don't ceaere if I do."
* * * * *
Now she's married, an' still in the midst ov her tweils She's as happy's the daylight is long, She do goo out abroad wi' her feaece vull o' smiles, An' do work in the house wi' a zong. An', zays woone, "She don't grieve, you can tell." Zays another, "Why, don't she look well!" Zays her aunt, "Why the young vo'k do envy you two," An', zays she, "I don't ceaere if they do."
Now vor me I can zing in my business abrode, Though the storm do beaet down on my poll, There's a wife-brighten'd vier at the end o' my road, An' her love vor the jay o' my soul. Out o' door I wi' rogues mid be tried: Out o' door be brow-beaeten wi' pride; Men mid scowl out o' door, if my wife is but true— Let em scowl, "I don't ceaere if they do."
By time's a-brought the mornen light, By time the light do weaene; By time's a-brought the young man's might, By time his might do weaene; The Winter snow do whiten grass, The zummer flow'rs do brighten grass, Vor zome things we do lose wi' pain, We've mwore that mid be jay to gain, An' my dear life do seem the seaeme While at my zide There still do bide Your welcome feaece an' hwomely neaeme.
Wi' ev'ry day that woonce come on I had to choose a jay, Wi' many that be since a-gone I had to lose a jay. Drough longsome years a-wanderen, Drough lwonesome rest a-ponderen, Woone peaceful daytime wer a-bro't To heal the heart another smote; But my dear life do seem the seaeme While I can hear, A-sounden near, Your answ'ren vaice an' long-call'd neaeme.
An' oh! that hope, when life do dawn, Should rise to light our way, An' then, wi' weaenen het withdrawn, Should soon benight our way. Whatever mid beval me still, Wherever chance mid call me still, Though leaete my evenen tweil mid cease, An' though my night mid lose its peace, My life will seem to me the seaeme While you do sheaere My daily ceaere, An' answer to your long-call'd neaeme.
Good Meaester Collins heaerd woone day A man a-talken, that did zay It woulden answer to be kind, He thought, to vo'k o' grov'len mind, Vor they would only teaeke it wrong, That you be weak an' they be strong. "No," cried the goodman, "never mind, Let vo'k be thankless,—you be kind; Don't do your good for e'thly ends At man's own call vor man's amends. Though souls befriended should remain As thankless as the sea vor rain, On them the good's a-lost 'tis true, But never can be lost to you. Look on the cool-feaeced moon at night Wi' light-vull ring, at utmost height, A-casten down, in gleamen strokes, His beams upon the dim-bough'd woaks, To show the cliff a-risen steep, To show the stream a-vallen deep, To show where winden roads do leaed, An' prickly thorns do ward the meaed. While sheaedes o' boughs do flutter dark Upon the woak-trees' moon-bright bark. There in the lewth, below the hill, The nightengeaele, wi' ringen bill, Do zing among the soft-air'd groves, While up below the house's oves The maid, a-looken vrom her room Drough window, in her youthvul bloom, Do listen, wi' white ears among Her glossy heaeirlocks, to the zong. If, then, the while the moon do light The lwonesome zinger o' the night, His cwold-beam'd light do seem to show The prowlen owls the mouse below. What then? Because an evil will, Ov his sweet good, mid meaeke zome ill, Shall all his feaece be kept behind The dark-brow'd hills to leaeve us blind?"
When weakness now do strive wi' might In struggles ov an e'thly trial, Might mid overcome the right, An' truth be turn'd by might's denial; Withstanders we ha' mwost to feaer, If selfishness do wring us here, Be souls a-holden in their hand, The might an' riches o' the land.
But when the wicked, now so strong, Shall stan' vor judgment, peaele as ashes, By the souls that rued their wrong, Wi' tears a-hangen on their lashes— Then withstanders they shall deaere The leaest ov all to meet wi' there, Mid be the helpless souls that now Below their wrongvul might mid bow.
Sweet childern o' the dead, bereft Ov all their goods by guile an' forgen; Souls o' driven sleaeves that left Their weaery limbs a-mark'd by scourgen; They that God ha' call'd to die Vor truth ageaen the worold's lie, An' they that groan'd an' cried in vain, A-bound by foes' unrighteous chain.
The maid that selfish craft led on To sin, an' left wi' hope a-blighted; Starven workmen, thin an' wan, Wi' hopeless leaebour 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 Seaeviour, Vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show, The marks o' man's unkind beheaeviour: Wi' speechless tongue, an' burnen cheak, The strong shall bow avore the weaek, 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 naighbours 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 meaeke it out.
Wi' narrow feaece, an' nose so thin That light a'most shone drough the skin, As he did talk, wi' his red peaeir O' lips, an' his vull eyes did steaere, 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 outlandish 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 mornen 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' looken on an' off the ea'th, He cried, a-drawen a vull breath, Why, I do know; what, can't ye zee 't? I'll bet a shillen 'twer a deer Broke out o' park, an' sprung on here, Wi' quoits upon his veet.
TURNEN THINGS OFF.
Upzides wi' Polly! no, he'd vind That Poll would soon leaeve 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 steaeirs On merry Polly unaweaeres, The while her nimble tongue did run A-tellen, all alive wi' fun, To sister Anne, how Simon Heaere Did hanker after her at feaeir. "He left," cried Polly, "cousin Jeaene, An' kept wi' us all down the leaene, An' which way ever we did leaed He vollow'd over hill an' meaed; An' wi' his head o' shaggy heaeir, An' sleek brown cwoat that he do weaere, An' collar that did reach so high 'S his two red ears, or perty nigh, He swung his taeil, wi' steps o' pride, Back right an' left, vrom zide to zide, A-walken 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 Heaere," 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 evenen as she zot bezide The wall the ranglen vine do hide, A-prattlen 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 overheaerd her talk ageaen O' Robin Hine, ov Ivy Leaene, "Oh! no, what he!" she cried in scorn, "I woulden gie a penny vor'n; The best ov him's outzide in view; His cwoat is gay enough, 'tis true, But then the wold vo'k didden bring En up to know a single thing, An' as vor zingen,—what do seem His zingen's nothen but a scream." "So ho!" cried Jim, "Who's that, then, Meaery, That you be now a-talken o'?" He thought to catch her then, but, no, Cried Polly, "Oh! why Jeaene's caneaery, Wi' what have you a-been misled, I wonder. Tell me what I zaid."
THE GIANTS IN TREAeDES.
(How the steam engine come about.)
Vier, Air, E'th, Water, wer a-meaede Good workers, each o'm in his treaede, An' Air an' Water, wer a-match Vor woone another in a mill; The giant Water at a hatch, An' Air on the windmill hill. Zoo then, when Water had a-meaede Zome money, Aeir begrudg'd his treaede, An' come by, unaweaeres 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 grinden any corn vor bread. Then Water cried to Vier, "Alack! Look, here be I, so stiff's a log, Thik fellor Air do keep me back Vrom grinden. 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 neaeme, Vor 'twerden I that wer to bleaeme, I never wagg'd, though I be'nt cringen, Till men did dreve me wi' their engine. Do zet me free vrom theaese cwold jacket, Vor I myzelf shall never crack it." "Well come," cried Vier, "My vo'k ha' meaede An engine that 'ull work your treaede. If E'th is only in the mood, While I do work, to gi'e me food, I'll help ye, an' I'll meaeke your skill A match vor Mister Air'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' theaese 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 meaeke, as sure as death, Thik fellor Air to vind me breath, An' you shall grind, an' pull, an' dreve, An' zaw, an' drash, an' pump, an' heave, An' get vrom Air, in time, I'll lay A pound, the dreven 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 peaerts 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 Deaene so good an' feaeir? 'Twer wide enough if she wer there.
In our deep hollow where the zun Did eaerly leaeve the smoky tun, An' all the meaeds a-growen dim, Below the hill wi' zunny rim; Oh! small the land the hills did bound, But there did walk upon the ground Young Fanny Deaene so good an' feaeir: 'Twer wide enough if she wer there.
O' leaete upon the misty plain I stay'd vor shelter vrom the rain, Where sharp-leav'd ashes' heads did twist In hufflen wind, an' driften mist, An' small the worold I could zee; But then it had below the tree My Fanny Deaene so good an' feaeir: 'Twer wide enough if she wer there.
An' I've a house wi' thatchen ridge, Below the elems by the bridge: Wi' small-peaen'd windows, that do look Upon a knap, an' ramblen brook; An' small's my house, my ruf is low, But then who mid it have to show But Fanny Deaene so good an' feaeir? 'Tis fine enough if peace is there.
I do mind when there broke bitter tidens, Woone day, on their ears, An' their souls wer a-smote wi' a stroke As the lightnen 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-rollen The white-threaded ball.
Oh! vor their minds the daylight around em Had nothen to show. Though it brighten'd their tears as they vell, An' did sheen on their lips that did tell, In their vaices all thrillen an' mwoansome, O' nothen 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 eaernest in words o' thanksgiven, Vor mercies anew.
Ah! sad wer we as we did peaece The wold church road, wi' downcast feaece, The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep Above our child a-left asleep, Wer now a-zingen all alive Wi' tother bells to meaeke the vive. But up at woone pleaece we come by, 'Twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry: On Steaen-cliff road, 'ithin the drong, Up where, as vo'k do pass along, The turnen stile, a-painted 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' spreaden eaerms that wheel'd to guide Us each in turn to tother zide. An' vu'st ov all the train he took My wife, wi' winsome gait an' look; An' then zent on my little maid, A-skippen onward, overjay'd To reach ageaen the pleaece o' pride, Her comely mother's left han' zide. An' then, a-wheelen roun', he took On me, 'ithin his third white nook. An' in the fourth, a-sheaeken wild, He zent us on our giddy child. But eesterday he guided slow My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe, An' then my little maid in black, A-walken softly on her track; An' after he'd a-turn'd ageaen, To let me goo along the leaene, He had noo little bwoy to vill His last white eaerms, an' they stood still.
THE BETTER VOR ZEEN O' YOU.
'Twer good what Meaester Collins spoke O' spite to two poor spitevul vo'k, When woone twold tother o' the two "I be never the better vor zeen o' you." If soul to soul, as Christians should, Would always try to do zome good, "How vew," he cried, "would zee our feaece A-brighten'd up wi' smiles o' greaece, An' tell us, or could tell us true, I be never the better vor zeen o' you."
A man mus' be in evil ceaese To live 'ithin a land o' greaece, Wi' nothen 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' weepen eyes; To stay 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 zeen o' you."
Oh! no, mid all o's try to spend Our passen time to zome good end, An' zoo vrom day to day teaeke heed, By mind, an' han', by word or deed; To lessen evil, and increase The growth o' righteousness an' peaece, A-speaken words o' loven-kindness, Openen the eyes o' blindness; Helpen helpless striver's weakness, Cheeren hopeless grievers' meekness, Meaeken friends at every meeten, Veel the happier vor their greeten; Zoo that vew could tell us true, "I be never the better vor zeen o' you." No, let us even try to win Zome little good vrom sons o' sin, An' let their evils warn us back Vrom teaeken 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 zeen o' you."
Good Meaester 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 prayer to the God o' might, He vound a fourth, 'ithout a neaeme, A-walken wi' em in the fleaeme.
An' zoo, whenever we mid hurt, Vrom spite, or vrom disdain, A brother's soul, or meaeke en smert Wi' keen an' needless pain, Another that we midden know Is always wi' en in his woe. Vor you do know our Lord ha' cried, "By faith my bretheren do bide In me the liven vine, As branches in a liven 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 leaeve a heart o' flesh an' blood so cwold At such a touchen 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.
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-meaede 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. "Meaeke room," woone naighbour 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-twiten o'n wi' wrong, Zoo he did sleep till mornen broke, An' birds did call en wi' their zong. But he did love a harmless joke, An' love his evenen whiff o' smoke, A-zitten in his cheaeir 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 meaeke 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' teaeke the rail outright." "Your feaere," the booker cried; "There, there," good Bloom replied; "Why this June het do meaeke 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 train, vrom slow to vast. An' oh! at last how they did spank By cutten 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 feaere," the boots then cried; "I'm there," the man replied. "The glassen pleaece, your quickest peaece," Cried worthy Bloom the miller.
The steps went down wi' rottlen slap, The zwingen door went open wide: Wide? no; vor when the worthy chap Stepp'd up to teaeke his pleaece 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 theaese vooty thing!" Cried worthy Bloom the miller.
"Come," cried the drever. "Pay your feaere You'll teaeke up all my time, good man." "Well," answer'd Bloom, "to meaeke that square, You teaeke 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 meaeke 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, "meaeke 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' MAIDENS A-RUNNEN THE VIELDS.[F]
"Come on. Be sprack, a-laggen back." "Oh! be there any cows to hook?" "Lauk she's afraid, a silly maid," 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. Theaese 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-slippen 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-zingen 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 crawlen thing, A sneaeke." "A slooworm; he wont sting." "Hee! hee! how she did squal an' hop, A-spinnen roun' so quick's a top." "Look here, oh! quick, be quick." "What is it? what then? where?" "A rabbit." "No, a heaere." "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' sheaeke it out." "Oh! emmets, oh! ooh, ooh, A-crawlen all about." "What bird is that, O harken, hush. How sweetly he do zing." "A nightingeaele." "La! no, a drush." "Oh! here's a funny thing." "Oh! how the bull do hook, An' bleaere, 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 sheaeke wi' fright." "A musheroom." "O lau! A twoadstool! Pwoison! Augh." "What's that, a mouse?" "O no, Teaeke ceaere, why 'tis a shrow." "Be sure don't let en come An' run athirt your shoe He'll meaeke your voot so numb That you wont veel a tooe."[G] "Oh! what wer that so loud A-rumblen?" "Why a clap O' thunder. Here's a cloud O' rain. I veel a drap." "A thunderstorm. Do rain. Run hwome wi' might an' main." "Hee! hee! oh! there's a drop A-trickled 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 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-hunten for an huntunge. ai, ay (5, 1), Maid, May. (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.
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.
Axan, ashes (of fire).
A-zew, dry, milkless.
Backbran' (brand), Backbron' (brond), A big brand or block of wood put on the back of the fire.
Bandy, a long stick with a bent end to beat abroad cow-dung.
Barken, Barton, a stack-yard or cow yard.
Baven, a faggot of long brushwood.
Beae'nhan' (1, 3, 5), bear in hand, uphold or maintain, as an opinion or otherwise.
Beaet (1, 4), up, to beat one's way up.
Bennets, flower-stalks of grass.
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.
Bleaere (1, 3), to low as a cow.
Blind-buck o' Davy, blindman's buff.
Bloodywarrior, the ruddy Stock gilliflower.
Blooth, blossom in the main.
Bluevinny, blue mouldy.
Brack, a breach. "Neither brack nor crack in it."
Bran', a brand.
Bring-gwain (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.
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.
Cleden, cleavers, goosegrass; Galium aparine.
Clips, to clasp.
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.
Crowshell, shell of the fresh-water mussel, as taken out of the river for food by crows.
Cubby-hole, Cubby-house, between the father's knees.
Culver, the wood pigeon.
Cutty, Cut, the kittywren.
Cwein, Cwoin, (4, 1) coin.
Cwoffer (8, 4, 4), a coffer.
Dadder, dather, dudder, to maze or bewilder.
Dag, childag, a chilblain.
Dake, to ding or push forth.
Daps, the very likeness, as that of a cast from the same mould.
Dather, see Dadder.
Dent, a dint.
Dewberry, a big kind of blackberry.
Dibs, coins; but truly, the small knee bones of a sheep used in the game of Dibs.
Didden (didn), did not.
Do, the o, when not under a strain of voice, is (4) as e in 'the man' or as e in the French le.
Dod, a dump.
Don, to put on.
dr for thr in some words, as Drash, thresh.
Dringe, Drunge, to throng; push as in a throng.
Drong, throng; also a narrow way.
Drean, Drene (2), to drawl.
Dreve (2), drive.
Duck, a darkening, dusk.
Dumbledore, the humble bee.
Dunch, dull of hearing, or mind.
Dunch-nettle, the dead nettle, Lamium.
Dunch-pudden, pudding of bare dough.
Dungpot, a dungcart.
Dunt, to blunten as an edge or pain.
Durns, the side posts of a door.
long itself alone has mostly the Dorset sound (2.)
eae (1, 4) for ea, with the a unsounded as lead, mead, leaed, meaed.
eae (1, 3) for the long a, 3, as in lade, made, leaede, meaede.
ea of one sound (2) as meat.
e is put in before s after st, as nestes, nests, vistes, fists.
The two sundry soundings of ea 2 and 3 do not go by our spelling ea for both, but have come from earlier forms of the words.
After a roof letter it may stay as it is, a roof letter, as madden, madd'n; rotten, rott'n. So with en for him, tell en, tell'n.
The en sometimes at the end of words means not, as bisse'n, bist not; coust'en, cous'n, could'st not; I didd'n, I did not; diss'n, didst not; hadd'n, had not; muss'n, must not; midd'n, mid not; should'n, should not; 'tis'n, 'tis not; would'n, would not.
en—not en—in Dorset, as well as in book English, as an ending of some kinds of words often, in running talk, loses the e, and in some cases shifts into a sound of the kind of the one close before it. After a lip-letter it becomes a lip-letter m, as Rub en, Rub-him; rub'n, rub'm; oven, ov'm; open, op'n op'm, in Dorset mostly oben, ob'n, ob'm. So after f', deafen, deaf'n, deaf m, heaven, heav'n, heav'm, in Dorset sometimes heab'm. zeven, zeb'n, zeb'm. After a throat-letter it becomes a throat one, ng, as token, tok'n, tok'ng.
Eltrot, Eltroot, cowparsley (Myrrhis). [Elt is Freisic, robustus, vegetus, as cowparsley is among other kinds.] See Bibber.
Emmet, an ant.
Emmetbut, an anthill.
En, him; A.-Saxon, hine.
En, for ing, zingen, singing.
Eve, to become wet as a cold stone floor from thickened steam in some weather.
Evet, eft, newt.
Exe, an axle.
Fakket, a faggot.
Fall, autumn; to fall down is vall.
Fay (5, 1) to speed, succeed.
Feaest (1, 4), a village wake or festival; festa.
Flag, a water plant.
Flinders, flying pieces of a body smashed; "Hit it all to flinders."
Flounce, a flying fall as into water.
Flout, a flinging, or blow of one.
Footy, unhandily little.
Gally, to frighten, fray.
Gee, jee, to go, fit, speed.
Giddygander, the meadow orchis.
Gil'cup, gilt cup, the buttercup.
Glēne (2), to smile sneeringly.
Glutch, to swallow.
Gnang, to mock one with jaw waggings, and noisy sounds.
Gnot, a gnat.
Goocoo flower, Cardamine pratensis.
Goodnow, goodn'er, good neighbour; my good friend; "No, no; not I, goodnow;" "No, no; not I, my good friend."
Goolden chain, the laburnum.
Gout, an underground gutter.
Graegle, Greygle, the wild hyacinth, Hyacinthus nonscriptus.
Ground-ash, an ash stick that springs from the ground, and so is tough; "Ground the pick," to put the stem of it on the ground, to raise a pitch of hay.
Gwoad (8, 4), a goad.
Hacker, a hoe.
Hagrod, hagridden in sleep, if not under the nightmare.
Hain (5, 1), to fence in ground or shut up a field for mowing.
Ha'me, see Hau'm.
Hangen, sloping ground.
Hansel, Handsel, a hand gift.
Hansel, Handsel, to use a new thing for the first time.
Happer, to hop up as hailstones or rain-drops from ground or pavement in a hard storm, or as down-shaken apples; to fall so hard as to hop up at falling.
Haps, a hasp.
Ha'skim, halfskim cheese of milk skimmed only once.
Hassen, hast not.
Haum, Haulm, Hulm, the hollow stalks of plants. Teaetie haum potatoe stalks.
Hatch, a low wicket or half door.
The steps of haymaking by hand, in the rich meadow lands of Blackmore, ere machines were brought into the field, were these:—The grass being mown, and laying in swath it was (1) tedded, spread evenly over the ground; (2) it was turned to dry the under side; (3) it was in the evening raked up into rollers, each roller of the grass of the stretch of one rake, and the rollers were sometimes put up into hay cocks; (4) in the morning the rollers were cast abroad into pa'sels (parcels) or broad lists, with clear ground between each two; (5) the parcels were turned, and when dry they were pushed up into weaeles (weales) or long ridges, and, with a fear of rain, the weaeles were put up into pooks, or big peaked heaps; the waggon (often called the plow) came along between two weaeles or rows of pooks, with two loaders, and a pitcher on each side pitched up to them the hay of his side, while two women raked after plow, or raked up the leavings of the pitchers, who stepped back from time to time to take it from them.
Hazen, to forebode.
Heal (2), hide, to cover.
Heal pease, to hoe up the earth on them.
Heaen (1, 4), a haft, handle.
Here right, here on the spot, etc.
Het, heat, also a heat in running.
Het, to hit.
Heth, a hearth, a heath.
Hick, to hop on one leg.
Hidelock, Hidlock, a hiding place. "He is in hidelock." He is absconded.
Hidybuck, hide-and-seek, the game.
Hile of Sheaves, ten, 4 against 4 in a ridge, and 1 at each end.
Ho, to feel misgiving care.
Hodmadod, a little dod or dump; in some parts of England a snail.
Holm, ho'me, holly.
Hook, to gore as a cow.
Ho'se-tinger, the dragon-fly, Libellula. Horse does not mean a horse, but is an adjective meaning coarse or big of its kind, as in horse-radish, or horse-chesnut; most likely the old form of the word gave name to the horse as the big beast where there was not an elephant or other greater one. The dragon-fly is, in some parts called the "tanging ether" or tanging adder, from tang, a long thin body, and a sting. Very few Dorset folk believe that the dragon-fly stings horses any more than that the horse eats horse-brambles or horse-mushrooms.
Hud, a pod, a hood-like thing.
Ho'se, hoss, a board on which a ditcher may stand in a wet ditch.
Huddick (hoodock), a fingerstall.
Hull, a pod, a hollow thing.
Humbuz, a notched strip of lath, swung round on a string, and humming or buzzing.
Humstrum, a rude, home made musical instrument, now given up.
Jack-o'-lent, a man-like scarecrow. The true Jack-o'-lent was, as we learn from Taylor, the water poet, a ragged, lean-like figure which went as a token of Lent, in olden times, in Lent processions.
Jut, to nudge or jog quickly.
Kag, a keg.
Kapple cow, a cow with a white muzzle.
Kern, to grow into fruit.
Ketch, Katch, to thicken or harden from thinness, as melted fat.
Kecks, Kex, a stem of the hemlock or cowparsley.
Keys, (2), the seed vessels of the sycamore.
Kid, a pod, as of the pea.
Kittyboots, low uplaced boots, a little more than ancle high.
Knap, a hillock, a head, or knob, (2.) a knob-like bud, as of the potatoe. "The teaeties be out in knap."
Laeiter (5, 1), one run of laying of a hen.
Leaen (1, 4), to lean.
Leaene (1, 3), a lane.
Leaese (1, 4), to glean.
Leaese (1, 4), Leaeze, an unmown field, stocked through the Spring and Summer.
Leer, Leery, empty.
Lence, a loan, a lending.
Levers, Livers, the corn flag.
Lew, sheltered from cold wind.
Libbets, loose-hanging rags.
Linch, Linchet, a ledge on a hill-side.
Litsome, lightsome, gay.
Litty, light and brisk of body.
Lo't (7), loft, an upper floor.
Lowl, to loll loosely.
Lumper, a loose step.
Maesh (2), Mesh, (Blackmore) moss, also a hole or run of a hare, fox, or other wild animal.
Mammet, an image, scarecrow.
Marrels, Merrels, The game of nine men's morris.
Mawn, mān, (5) a kind of basket.
Meaeden (1, 4), stinking chamomile.
Ment (2), to imitate, be like.
Mēsh, (2) moss.
Miff, a slight feud, a tiff.
Min (2), observe. You must know.
Mither ho, come hither. A call to a horse on the road.
Moot, the bottom and roots of a felled tree.
More, a root, taproot.
Muggy, misty, damp (weather).
Na'r a, never a (man).
Nar'n, never a one.
N'eet, not yet.
Nēsh (2), soft.
Nesthooden, a hooding over a bird's nest, as a wren's.
Netlens, a food of a pig's inwards tied in knots.
Never'stide, never at all.
Nicky, a very small fagot of sticks.
Nippy, hungry, catchy.
Nitch, a big fagot of wood; a load; a fagot of wood which custom allows a hedger to carry home at night.
Not (hnot or knot), hornless.
Nother, neither (adverb).
Nunch, a nog or knob of food.
Nut (of a wheel), the stock or nave.
O'm (2), of em, them.
O'n (2), of him.
O's (2), of us.
Orts, leavings of hay put out in little heaps in the fields for the cows.
Paladore, a traditional name of Shaftesbury, the British Caer Paladr, said by British history to have been founded by Rhun Paladr-bras, 'Rhun of the stout spear.'
Par, to shut up close; confine.
Parrick, a small enclosed field; a paddock—but paddock was an old word for a toad or frog.
Pa'sels, parcels. See Haymeaeken.
Peaert (1, 4), pert; lively.
Peaze, Peeze (2), to ooze.
Peewit, the lapwing.
Pitch. See Haymeaeken.
Plesh, (2) Plush (a hedge), to lay it. To cut the stems half off and peg them down on the bank where they sprout upward. To plush, shear, and trim a hedge are sundry handlings of it.
Plim, to swell up.
Plock, a hard block of wood.
Plow, a waggon, often so called. The plough or plow for ploughing is the Zull.
Plounce, a strong plunge.
Pont, to hit a fish or fruit, so as to bring on a rotting.
Pooks. See Haymeaeken.
Popple, a pebble.
Praise (5, 1), prize, to put forth or tell to others a pain or ailing. "I had a risen on my eaerm, but I didden praise it," say anything about it.
ps for sp in clasp, claps; hasp, haps; wasp, waps.
Quag, a quaking bog.
Quar, a quarry.
Quarrel, a square window pane.
Quid, a cud.
Quirk, to grunt with the breath without the voice.
R, at the head of a word, is strongly breathed, as Hr in Anglo-Saxon, as Hhrong, the rong of a ladder.
R is given in Dorset by a rolling of the tongue back under the roof.
For or, as an ending sometimes given before a free breathing, or h, try ow,—hollor, hollow.
R before s, st, and th often goes out, as bu'st, burst; ve'ss, verse; be'th, birth; cu'st, curst; fwo'ce, force; me'th, mirth.
Raft, to rouse, excite.
Rake, to reek.
Ram, Rammish, rank of smell.
Rammil, raw milk (cheese), of unskimmed milk.
Ramsclaws, the creeping crowfoot. Ranunculus repens.
Randy, a merry uproar or meeting.
Rangle, to range or reach about.
Rathe, early; whence rather.
Ratch, to stretch.
Readship, criterion, counsel.
Reaemes, (1, 3), skeleton, frame.
Reaen (1, 4), to reach in greedily in eating.
Reaeves, a frame of little rongs on the side of a waggon.
Reed (2), wheat hulm drawn for thatching.
Reely, to dance a reel.
Reem, to stretch, broaden.
Rick, a stack.
Rig, to climb about.
Rivel, shrivel; to wrinkle up.
Robin Hood, The Red campion.
Roller (6, 4). See Haymeaeken. A Roller was also a little roll of wool from the card of a woolcomber.
Rottlepenny, the yellow rattle. Rhinanthus Crista-galli.
Rouet, a rough tuft of grass.
Sammy, soft, a soft head; simpleton.
Sar, to serve or give food to (cattle).
Sarch, to search.
Scote, to shoot along fast in running.
Scrag, a crooked branch of a tree.
Scraggle, to screw scramly about (of a man), to screw the limbs scramly as from rheumatism.
Scram, distorted, awry.
Scroff, bits of small wood or chips, as from windfalls or hedge plushing.
Scroop, to skreak lowly as new shoes or a gate hinge.
Scud, a sudden or short down-shooting of rain, a shower.
Scwo'ce, chop or exchange.
Settle, a long bench with a high planken back.
Shard, a small gap in a hedge.
Sharps, shafts of a waggon.
Shatten, shalt not.
Shroud (trees), to cut off branches.
Sheeted cow, with a broad white band round her body.
Shoulden (Shoodn), should not.
Shrow, Sh'ow, Sh'ow-crop, the shrew mouse.
Skim, Skimmy, grass; to cut off rank tuffs, or rouets.
Slait, (5, 1) Slite, a slade, or sheep run.
Slent, a tear in clothes.
Slidder, to slide about.
Slooworm, the slow-worm.
Smame, to smear.
Smeech, a cloud of dust.
Smert, to smart; pain.
Snabble, to snap up quickly.
Snags, small pea-big sloes, also stumps.
Sneaed (1, 4), a scythe stem.
Snoatch, to breathe loudly through the nose.
Snoff, a snuff of a candle.
Sock, a short loud sigh.
Spur (dung), to cast it abroad.
Squail (5, 1), to fling something at a bird or ought else.
Squot, to flatten by a blow.
Sowel, Zowel, a hurdle stake.
Sparbill, Sparrabill, a kind of shoe nail.
Spars, forked sticks used in thatching.
Speaeker (1 4), a long spike of wood to bear the hedger's nitch on his shoulder.
Spears, Speers, the stalks of reed grass.
Spik, spike, lavender.
Sprethe (2), to chap as of the skin, from cold.
Spry, springy in leaping, or limb work.
Staddle, a bed or frame for ricks.
Staid (5, 1), steady, oldish.
Stannens, stalls in a fair or market.
Steaen (1, 4) (a road), to lay it in stone.
Steaert (1, 4), a tail or outsticking thing.
Stout, the cowfly, Tabanus.
Stitch (of corn), a conical pile of sheaves.
Strawen, a strewing. All the potatoes of one mother potatoe.
Strawmote, a straw or stalk.
Strent, a long slent or tear.
Streech, an outstretching (as of a rake in raking); a-strout stretched out stiffly like frozen linen.
Stubbard, a kind of apple.
Stunpoll (7), stone head, blockhead; also an old tree almost dead.
th is soft (as th in thee), as a heading of these words:— thatch, thief, thik, thimble, thin, think, thumb.
Tack, a shelf on a wall.
Taffle, to tangle, as grass or corn beaten down by storms.
Tait, to play at see-saw.
Tamy (3, 1), tammy (5, 1), tough, that may be drawn out in strings, as rich toasted cheese.
Teaeve, (1, 3), to reach about strongly as in work or a struggle.
Teery, Tewly, weak of growth.
Theaese, this or these.
Theasum (1, 4), these.
Tidden (tidn), it is not.
Tilty, touchy, irritable.
Tine, to kindle, also to fence in ground.
Tistytosty, a toss ball of cowslip blooms.
To-year, this year (as to-day.)
Tranter, a common carrier.
Trendel, a shallow tub.
Tump, a little mound.
Tun, the top of the chimney above the roof ridge.
Tut (work), piecework.
Tutty, a nosegay.
Tweil, (4, 1) toil.
Twite, to twit reproach.
Unheal, uncover, unroof.
v is taken for f as the heading of some purely English words, as vall, fall, vind, find.
Veag, Vēg (2), a strong fit of anger.
Ve'se, vess, a verse.
Vinny cheese, cheese with fen or blue-mould.
Vitty, nice in appearance.
Vlanker, a flake of fire.
Vooty, unhandily little.
Vuz, Vuzzen, furze, gorse.
wo (8, 4), for the long o, 7, as bwold, bold; cwold, cold.
Wag, to stir.
Wagwanton, quaking grass.
Weaese, (1, 4) a pad or wreath for the head under a milkpail.
Weaele (1, 3), a ridge of dried hay; see Haymeaeken.
Welshnut, a walnut.
Werden, were not or was not.
Wevet, a spider's web.
Whindlen, weakly, small of growth.
Whicker, to neigh.
Whiver, to hover, quiver.
Whog, go off; to a horse.
Whur, to fling overhanded.
Widdicks, withes or small brushwood.
Wink, a winch; crank of a well.
Withwind, the bindweed,
Wont, a mole.
Wops, wasp. ps, not sp, in Anglo-Saxon, and now in Holstein.
Wotshed, Wetshod, wet-footed.
Wride, to spread out in growth.
Wride, the set of stems or stalks from one root or grain of corn.
Writh, a small wreath of tough wands, to link hurdles to the sowels (stakes).
Wrix, wreathed or wattle work, as a fence.
z for s as a heading of some, not all, pure Saxon words, nor [or?] for s of inbrought foreign words.
Zennit, Zennight, seven night; "This day zennit."
Zew, azew, milkless.
Zive, a scythe.
Zull a plough to plough ground.
Zwath, a swath.
* * * * *
Turnbull & Spears, Printers.
* * * * *
TOC: 423 corrected to 243
Page 137: Replaced missing end-quote.
Page 194: Replaced missing end-quote.
Page 197: Changed jaey to jay.
Page 235: replaced two periods with commas.
Page 243: restored title: BLEAeKE'S HOUSE IN BLACKMWORE.
Page 297: Replaced missing end-quote.
Page 350: Changed jaey to jay.
Page 432: changed daey to day.
Page 444: Replaced missing end-quote.
Index: Added missing stops to E, F, G, H.
Realigned 'Scote' alphabetically.