Part 11

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

An' when the hay-meaekers did zwarm O' zummer evenens out vrom farm. The merry maidens an' the chaps, A-peaerten there wi' jokes an' slaps, Did goo, zome woone way off, an' zome Another, all a-zingen hwome; Vor vew o'm had to goo, at mwost, A mile beyond the guiden post.

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

GWAIN TO FEAeIR.

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

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

JEAeNE O' GRENLEY MILL.

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

She wer feaeirer, by her cows In her work-day frock a-drest, Than the rest wi' scornvul brows All a-flanten in their best. Gay did seem, at feaest or feaeir, Zights that I had her to sheaere; Gay would be my own heart still, But vor Jeaene o' Grenley Mill.

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

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

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

THE BELLS OV ALDERBURNHAM.

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

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

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

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

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

THE GIRT WOLD HOUSE O' MOSSY STWONE.

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

Don't talk ov housen all o' brick, Wi' rocken walls nine inches thick, A-trigg'd together zide by zide In streets, wi' fronts a straddle wide, Wi' yards a-sprinkled wi' a mop, Too little vor a vrog to hop; But let me live an' die where I Can zee the ground, an' trees, an' sky. The girt wold house o' mossy stwone Had wings vor either sheaede or zun: Woone where the zun did glitter drough, When vu'st he struck the mornen dew; Woone feaeced the evenen sky, an' woone Push'd out a pworch to zweaty noon: Zoo woone stood out to break the storm, An' meaede another lew an' warm. An' there the timber'd copse rose high, Where birds did build an' heaeres did lie, An' beds o' graegles in the lew, Did deck in May the ground wi' blue. An' there wer hills an' slopen grounds, That they did ride about wi' hounds; An' drough the meaed did creep the brook Wi' bushy bank an' rushy nook, Where perch did lie in sheaedy holes Below the alder trees, an' shoals O' gudgeon darted by, to hide Theirzelves in hollows by the zide. An' there by leaenes a-winden deep, Wer mossy banks a-risen steep; An' stwonen steps, so smooth an' wide, To stiles an' vootpaths at the zide. An' there, so big's a little ground, The geaerden wer a-wall'd all round: An' up upon the wall wer bars A-sheaeped all out in wheels an' stars, Vor vo'k to walk, an' look out drough Vrom trees o' green to hills o' blue. An' there wer walks o' peaevement, broad Enough to meaeke a carriage-road, Where steaetely leaedies woonce did use To walk wi' hoops an' high-heel shoes, When yonder hollow woak wer sound, Avore the walls wer ivy-bound, Avore the elems met above The road between em, where they drove Their coach all up or down the road A-comen hwome or gwain abroad. The zummer air o' theaese green hill 'V a-heav'd in bosoms now all still, An' all their hopes an' all their tears Be unknown things ov other years. But if, in heaven, souls be free To come back here; or there can be An e'thly pleaece to meaeke em come To zee it vrom a better hwome,— Then what's a-twold us mid be right, That still, at dead o' tongueless night, Their gauzy sheaepes do come an' glide By vootways o' their youthvul pride.

An' while the trees do stan' that grow'd Vor them, or walls or steps they know'd Do bide in pleaece, they'll always come To look upon their e'thly hwome. Zoo I would always let alwone The girt wold house o' mossy stwone: I woulden pull a wing o'n down, To meaeke ther speechless sheaedes to frown; Vor when our souls, mid woonce become Lik' their's, all bodiless an' dumb, How good to think that we mid vind Zome thought vrom them we left behind, An' that zome love mid still unite The hearts o' blood wi' souls o' light. Zoo, if 'twer mine, I'd let alwone The girt wold house o' mossy stwone.

A WITCH.

There's thik wold hag, Moll Brown, look zee, jus' past! I wish the ugly sly wold witch Would tumble over into ditch; I woulden pull her out not very vast. No, no. I don't think she's a bit belied, No, she's a witch, aye, Molly's evil-eyed. Vor I do know o' many a-withren blight A-cast on vo'k by Molly's mutter'd spite; She did, woone time, a dreadvul deael o' harm To Farmer Gruff's vo'k, down at Lower Farm. Vor there, woone day, they happened to offend her, An' not a little to their sorrow, Because they woulden gi'e or lend her Zome'hat she come to bag or borrow; An' zoo, they soon began to vind That she'd agone an' left behind Her evil wish that had such pow'r, That she did meaeke their milk an' eaele turn zour, An' addle all the aggs their vowls did lay; They coulden vetch the butter in the churn, An' all the cheese begun to turn All back ageaen to curds an' whey; The little pigs, a-runnen wi' the zow, Did zicken, zomehow, noobody know'd how, An' vall, an' turn their snouts toward the sky. An' only gi'e woone little grunt, and die; An' all the little ducks an' chicken Wer death-struck out in yard a-picken Their bits o' food, an' vell upon their head, An' flapp'd their little wings an' drapp'd down dead. They coulden fat the calves, they woulden thrive; They coulden seaeve their lambs alive; Their sheep wer all a-coath'd, or gi'ed noo wool; The hosses vell away to skin an' bwones, An' got so weak they coulden pull A half a peck o' stwones: The dog got dead-alive an' drowsy, The cat vell zick an' woulden mousy; An' every time the vo'k went up to bed, They wer a-hag-rod till they wer half dead. They us'd to keep her out o' house, 'tis true, A-nailen up at door a hosses shoe; An' I've a-heaerd the farmer's wife did try To dawk a needle or a pin In drough her wold hard wither'd skin, An' draw her blood, a-comen by: But she could never vetch a drap, For pins would ply an' needless snap Ageaen her skin; an' that, in coo'se, Did meaeke the hag bewitch em woo'se.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

THE TIMES.

John an' Tom.

JOHN.

Well, Tom, how be'st? Zoo thou'st a-got thy neaeme Among the leaguers, then, as I've a heaerd.

TOM.

Aye, John, I have, John; an' I ben't afeaerd To own it. Why, who woulden do the seaeme? We shant goo on lik' this long, I can tell ye. Bread is so high an' wages be so low, That, after worken lik' a hoss, you know, A man can't eaern enough to vill his belly.

JOHN.

Ah! well! Now there, d'ye know, if I wer sure That theaesem men would gi'e me work to do All drough the year, an' always pay me mwore Than I'm a-eaernen now, I'd jein em too. If I wer sure they'd bring down things so cheap, That what mid buy a pound o' mutton now Would buy the hinder quarters, or the sheep, Or what wull buy a pig would buy a cow: In short, if they could meaeke a shillen goo In market just so vur as two, Why then, d'ye know, I'd be their man; But, hang it! I don't think they can.

TOM.

Why ees they can, though you don't know't, An' theaesem men can meaeke it clear. Why vu'st they'd zend up members ev'ry year To Parli'ment, an' ev'ry man would vote; Vor if a fellow midden be a squier, He mid be just so fit to vote, an' goo To meaeke the laws at Lon'on, too, As many that do hold their noses higher. Why shoulden fellows meaeke good laws an' speeches A-dressed in fusti'n cwoats an' cord'roy breeches? Or why should hooks an' shovels, zives an' axes, Keep any man vrom voten o' the taxes? An' when the poor've a-got a sheaere In meaeken laws, they'll teaeke good ceaere To meaeke some good woones vor the poor. Do stan' by reason, John; because The men that be to meaeke the laws, Will meaeke em vor theirzelves, you mid be sure.

JOHN.

Ees, that they wull. The men that you mid trust To help you, Tom, would help their own zelves vu'st.

TOM.

Aye, aye. But we would have a better plan O' voten, than the woone we got. A man, As things be now, d'ye know, can't goo an' vote Ageaen another man, but he must know't. We'll have a box an' balls, vor voten men To pop their hands 'ithin, d'ye know; an' then, If woone don't happen vor to lik' a man, He'll drop a little black ball vrom his han', An' zend en hwome ageaen. He woon't be led To choose a man to teaeke away his bread.

JOHN.

But if a man you midden like to 'front, Should chance to call upon ye, Tom, zome day, An' ax ye vor your vote, what could ye zay? Why if you woulden answer, or should grunt Or bark, he'd know you'd meaen "I won't." To promise woone a vote an' not to gi'e't, Is but to be a liar an' a cheat. An' then, bezides, when he did count the balls, An' vind white promises a-turn'd half black; Why then he'd think the voters all a pack O' rogues together,—ev'ry woone o'm false. An' if he had the power, very soon Perhaps he'd vall upon em, ev'ry woone. The times be pinchen me, so well as you, But I can't tell what ever they can do.

TOM.

Why meaeke the farmers gi'e their leaebouren men Mwore wages,—half or twice so much ageaen As what they got.

JOHN.

But, Thomas, you can't meaeke A man pay mwore away than he can teaeke. If you do meaeke en gi'e, to till a vield, So much ageaen as what the groun' do yield, He'll shut out farmen—or he'll be a goose— An' goo an' put his money out to use. Wages be low because the hands be plenty; They mid be higher if the hands wer skenty. Leaebour, the seaeme's the produce o' the yield, Do zell at market price—jist what 'till yield. Thou wouldsten gi'e a zixpence, I do guess, Vor zix fresh aggs, if zix did zell for less. If theaesem vo'k could come an' meaeke mwore lands, If they could teaeke wold England in their hands An' stratch it out jist twice so big ageaen, They'd be a-doen some'hat vor us then.

TOM.

But if they wer a-zent to Parli'ment To meaeke the laws, dost know, as I've a-zaid, They'd knock the corn-laws on the head; An' then the landlards must let down their rent, An' we should very soon have cheaper bread: Farmers would gi'e less money vor their lands.

JOHN.

Aye, zoo they mid, an' prices mid be low'r Vor what their land would yield; an' zoo their hands Would be jist where they wer avore. An' if theaese men wer all to hold together, They coulden meaeke new laws to change the weather! They ben't so mighty as to think o' frightenen The vrost an' rain, the thunder an' the lightenen! An' as vor me, I don't know what to think O' them there fine, big-talken, cunnen, Strange men, a-comen down vrom Lon'on. Why they don't stint theirzelves, but eat an' drink The best at public-house where they do stay; They don't work gratis, they do get their pay. They woulden pinch theirzelves to do us good, Nor gi'e their money vor to buy us food. D'ye think, if we should meet em in the street Zome day in Lon'on, they would stand a treat?

TOM.

They be a-paid, because they be a-zent By corn-law vo'k that be the poor man's friends, To tell us all how we mid gain our ends, A-zenden peaepers up to Parli'ment.

JOHN.

Ah! teaeke ceaere how dost trust em. Dost thou know The funny feaeble o' the pig an' crow? Woone time a crow begun to strut an' hop About some groun' that men'd a-been a-drillen Wi' barley or some wheat, in hopes o' villen Wi' good fresh corn his empty crop. But lik' a thief, he didden like the pains O' worken hard to get en a vew grains; Zoo while the sleeky rogue wer there a-hunten, Wi' little luck, vor corns that mid be vound A-pecken vor, he heaerd a pig a-grunten Just tother zide o' hedge, in tother ground. "Ah!" thought the cunnen rogue, an' gi'ed a hop, "Ah! that's the way vor me to vill my crop; Aye, that's the plan, if nothen don't defeaet it. If I can get thik pig to bring his snout In here a bit an' turn the barley out, Why, hang it! I shall only have to eat it." Wi' that he vled up straight upon a woak, An' bowen, lik' a man at hustens, spoke: "My friend," zaid he, "that's poorish liven vor ye In thik there leaeze. Why I be very zorry To zee how they hard-hearted vo'k do sarve ye. You can't live there. Why! do they meaen to starve ye?" "Ees," zaid the pig, a-grunten, "ees; What wi' the hosses an' the geese, There's only docks an' thissles here to chaw. Instead o' liven well on good warm straw, I got to grub out here, where I can't pick Enough to meaeke me half an ounce o' flick." "Well," zaid the crow, "d'ye know, if you'll stan' that, You mussen think, my friend, o' getten fat. D'ye want some better keep? Vor if you do, Why, as a friend, I be a-come to tell ye, That if you'll come an' jus' get drough Theaese gap up here, why you mid vill your belly. Why, they've a-been a-drillen corn, d'ye know, In theaese here piece o' groun' below; An' if you'll just put in your snout, An' run en up along a drill, Why, hang it! you mid grub it out, An' eat, an' eat your vill. Their idden any fear that vo'k mid come, Vor all the men be jist a-gone in hwome." The pig, believen ev'ry single word That wer a-twold en by the cunnen bird Wer only vor his good, an' that 'twer true, Just gi'ed a grunt, an' bundled drough, An' het his nose, wi' all his might an' main, Right up a drill, a-routen up the grain; An' as the cunnen crow did gi'e a caw A-praisen [=o]'n, oh! he did veel so proud! An' work'd, an' blow'd, an' toss'd, an' ploughed The while the cunnen crow did vill his maw. An' after worken till his bwones Did eaeche, he soon begun to veel That he should never get a meal, Unless he dined on dirt an' stwones. "Well," zaid the crow, "why don't ye eat?" "Eat what, I wonder!" zaid the heaeiry plougher. A-brislen up an' looken rather zour; "I don't think dirt an' flints be any treat." "Well," zaid the crow, "why you be blind. What! don't ye zee how thick the corn do lie Among the dirt? An' don't ye zee how I Do pick up all that you do leaeve behind? I'm zorry that your bill should be so snubby." "No," zaid the pig, "methinks that I do zee My bill will do uncommon well vor thee, Vor thine wull peck, an' mine wull grubby." An' just wi' this a-zaid by mister Flick To mister Crow, wold John the farmer's man Come up, a-zwingen in his han' A good long knotty stick, An' laid it on, wi' all his might, The poor pig's vlitches, left an' right; While mister Crow, that talk'd so fine O' friendship, left the pig behine, An' vled away upon a distant tree, Vor pigs can only grub, but crows can vlee.

TOM.

Aye, thik there teaele mid do vor childern's books: But you wull vind it hardish for ye To frighten me, John, wi' a storry O' silly pigs an' cunnen rooks. If we be grubben pigs, why then, I s'pose, The farmers an' the girt woones be the crows.

JOHN.

'Tis very odd there idden any friend To poor-vo'k hereabout, but men mus' come To do us good away from tother end Ov England! Han't we any frien's near hwome? I mus' zay, Thomas, that 'tis rather odd That strangers should become so very civil,— That ouer vo'k be childern o' the Devil, An' other vo'k be all the vo'k o' God! If we've a-got a friend at all, Why who can tell—I'm sure thou cassen— But that the squier, or the pa'son, Mid be our friend, Tom, after all? The times be hard, 'tis true! an' they that got His blessens, shoulden let theirzelves vorget How 'tis where the vo'k do never zet A bit o' meat within their rusty pot. The man a-zitten in his easy chair To flesh, an' vowl, an' vish, should try to speaere The poor theaese times, a little vrom his store; An' if he don't, why sin is at his door.