Part 10

The time will come when thou wouldst gi'e The worold vor to have her smile, Or meet her by the parrock tree, Or catch her jumpen off the stile; Thy life's avore thee vor a while, But thou wilt turn thy mind in time, An' zee the deed as 'tis,—a crime, An' hope a-left behind thee.

Zoo never win a maiden's heart, But her's that is to be thy bride, An' play drough life a manly peaert, An' if she's true when time ha' tried Her mind, then teaeke her by thy zide. True love will meaeke thy hardships light, True love will meaeke the worold bright, When hope's a-left behind thee.

A GOOD FATHER.

No; mind thy father. When his tongue Is keen, he's still thy friend, John, Vor wolder vo'k should warn the young How wickedness will end, John; An' he do know a wicked youth Would be thy manhood's beaene, An' zoo would bring thee back ageaen 'Ithin the ways o' truth.

An' mind en still when in the end His leaebour'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 leaebour back.

An' when his bwones be in the dust, Then honour still his neaeme, John; An' as his godly soul wer just, Let thine be voun' the seaeme, 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 ageaen.

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 seaefe an' sound.

Back when the builders vu'st begun The church,—as still the teaele 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 sparklen 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 pains, Could hardly wag wi' bars an' chains; An' yet he never used to stay O' Zaturdays, to teaeke his pay.

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

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

THE VAICES THAT BE GONE.

When evenen sheaedes o' trees do hide A body by the hedge's zide, An' twitt'ren birds, wi' playsome flight, Do vlee to roost at comen night, Then I do saunter out o' zight In orcha'd, where the pleaece woonce rung Wi' laughs a-laugh'd an' zongs a-zung By vaices 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 heaere below, Wi' merry skippens to an' fro Bezide the banks, where Jim did zit A-playen o' the clarinit To vaices that be gone.

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

Vor all the maidens 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 evenen-tide, I still do saunter out, wi' tears, Down drough the orcha'd, where my ears Do miss the vaices gone.

POLL.

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

An' after they'd a-had enough O' snappen tongs, or blind-man's buff, O' winter nights, an' went an' stood Avore the vire o' bleaezen wood, Though there wer maidens kind an' good, Though there wer maidens feaeir 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' skippen tott'ren veet An' thought noo other kiss so sweet As hers; an' nwone could vind em out Such geaemes to meaeke em jump an' shout, As Poll they cluster'd round.

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

LOOKS A-KNOW'D AVORE.

While zome, a-gwain from pleaece to pleaece, Do daily meet wi' zome new feaece, 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 rejaice In zome wold naighbour's welcome vaice, 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 bleaezed for wold An' young vo'k, now vor ever cwold, Be met wi' jay 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 feaeir, among The chatten, laughen, shiften drong, When wold an' young, an' high an' low, Do streamy round, an' to an' fro; But what new feaece that we don't know, Can ever meaeke 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 bubblen shoals! An' oh! that zome o' them young souls, That we, in jay, did play wi' then Could come back now, an' bring ageaen 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 feaezen do but goo To be a-vollow'd still by new; But souls that be a-tried an' true Shall meet ageaen 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 feaeirest lights, Do zee but inward fancy's zights; When creepen years, wi' with'ren blights, 'V a-took off them that wer so dear, How touchen 'tis if we do hear The tuens o' the dead, John.

When I, a-stannen in the lew O' trees a storm's a-beaeten drough, Do zee the slanten 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 gwain along The brook, I heaerd the milk-maid's zong A-ringen out so clear an' shrill Along the meaeds an' roun' the hill. I catch'd the tuen, an' stood still To hear 't; 'twer woone that Jeaene did zing A-vield a-milken in the spring,— Sweet music o' the dead, John.

Don't tell o' zongs that be a-zung By young chaps now, wi' sheaemeless tongue: Zing me wold ditties, that would start The maiden's tears, or stir my heart To teaeke in life a manly peaert,— The wold vo'k's zongs that twold a teaele, An' vollow'd round their mugs o' eaele, The music o' the dead, John.

THE PLEAeCE A TEAeLE'S A-TWOLD O'.

Why tidden vields an' runnen 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 pleaece a teaele's a-twold o'.

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

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

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

Zoo whether 'tis the humpy ground That wer a battle viel', Or mossy house, all ivy-bound, An' vallen 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 pleaece a teaele's a-twold o'.

AUNT'S TANTRUMS.

Why ees, aunt Anne's a little staid, But kind an' merry, poor wold maid! 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-steppen out Such strides, an' fling the pails 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 heaeir above my crown, An' whizz'd on down upon the groun', An' knock'd the bantam cock right down, But up he sprung, a-teaeken flight Wi' tothers, clucken 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 STWONEN PWORCH.

A new house! Ees, indeed! a small Straight, upstart thing, that, after all, Do teaeke in only half the groun' The wold woone did avore 'twer down; Wi' little windows straight an' flat, Not big enough to zun a-cat, An' dealen door a-meaede 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 meaeke 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 stwonen pworch avore The nail-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' meaede 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 jay than thik wold pworch bestow'd! For there, when yollow evenen shed His light ageaen the elem's head, An' gnots did whiver in the zun, An' uncle's work wer all a-done, His whiffs o' melten smoke did roll Above his benden pipe's white bowl, While he did chat, or, zitten dumb, Injay his thoughts as they did come.

An' Jimmy, wi' his crowd below His chin, did dreve his nimble bow In tuens vor to meaeke us spring A-reelen, or in zongs to zing, An' there, between the dark an' light, Zot Poll by Willy's zide at night A-whisp'ren, while her eyes did zwim In jay 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-paeinted up so fine. If I'd a wold grey house o' mine, Gi'e me vor all it should be small, A stwonen pworch instead [=o]'t all.

FARMER'S SONS.

Ov all the chaps a-burnt so brown By zunny hills an' hollors, Ov all the whindlen 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 waight up that would squot A weakly fellow flat. He wont gi'e up when things don't fay, But turn em into fun, min; An' what's hard work to zome, is play Avore a farmer's son, min.

His bwony eaerm an' knuckly vist ('Tis best to meaeke 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 maid Would never goo a nun, min; She'd have noo call to be afraid Bezide a farmer's son, min.

He'll turn a vurrow, drough his langth, So straight 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 maiden's be but dead alive 'Ithout a farmer's son, min.

Zoo jay be in his heart so light, An' manly feaece so brown; An' health goo wi' en hwome at night, Vrom meaed, 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 worken farmer's son, min.

JEAeNE.

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

An' we've a-trod the sheenen bleaede Ov eegrass in the zummer sheaede, An' when the leaeves begun to feaede Wi' zummer in the weaene, Jeaene; An' we've a-wander'd drough the groun' O' swayen wheat a-turnen brown, An' we've a-stroll'd together roun' The brook an' drough the leaene, Jeane.

An' nwone but I can ever tell Ov all thy tears that have a-vell When trials meaede thy bosom zwell, An' nwone but thou o' mine, Jeaene; 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' leaeve them times behine, Jeaene.

THE DREE WOAKS.

By the brow o' thik hangen 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 sheaede to the green; An' there, as in zummer we play'd at our geaemes, We [=e]ach own'd a tree, Vor we wer but dree, An' zoo the dree woaks wer a-call'd by our neaemes.

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

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

But woone ov his eaecorns, 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 Jeaennet, 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-neaemen her childern to vo'ks, Meaede 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 maid 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 ramblen happy chile, An' chap so strong an' bwold, An' bloomen maid wi' playsome 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 sway wi' moss about their rind Their heads a-nodden 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-worken in our little patch O' parrock, rathe or leaete, John, We little ho'd how vur mid stratch The squier's wide esteaete, 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-swayen 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-growen 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-wanten bread, Zome, better off, ha' died, Noo mwore to ho, Vor homes below The trees a-swayen to an' fro.

An' I could leaed 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 burnen 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 eaerms astrout, A-zenden 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-meaede, at last, a'most A friend o' thik wold guiden post.

An' there, wi' woone white eaerm he show'd, Down over bridge, the Leyton road; Wi' woone, the leaene a-leaeden 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 guiden post.