Part 13

(3) You build your lwoads up tight enough to ride.

(1) I can't do less, d'ye know, wi' you vor guide.

GWAIN DOWN THE STEPS VOR WATER.

While zuns do roll vrom east to west To bring us work, or leaeve us rest, There down below the steep hill-zide, Drough time an' tide, the spring do flow; An' mothers there, vor years a-gone, Lik' daughters now a-comen on, To bloom when they be weak an' wan, Went down the steps vor water.

An' what do yonder ringers tell A-ringen changes, bell by bell; Or what's a-show'd by yonder zight O' vo'k in white, upon the road, But that by John o' Woodleys zide, There's now a-blushen vor his bride, A pretty maid that vu'st he spied, Gwain down the steps vor water.

Though she, 'tis true, is feaeir an' kind, There still be mwore a-left behind; So cleaen 's the light the zun do gi'e, So sprack 's a bee when zummer's bright; An' if I've luck, I woont be slow To teaeke off woone that I do know, A-trippen gaily to an' fro, Upon the steps vor water.

Her father idden poor—but vew In parish be so well to do; Vor his own cows do swing their tails Behind his pails, below his boughs: An' then ageaen to win my love, Why, she's as hwomely as a dove, An' don't hold up herzelf above Gwain down the steps vor water.

Gwain down the steps vor water! No! How handsome it do meaeke her grow. If she'd be straight, or walk abrode, To tread her road wi' comely gait, She coulden do a better thing To zet herzelf upright, than bring Her pitcher on her head, vrom spring Upon the steps, wi' water.

No! don't ye neaeme in woone seaeme breath Wi' bachelors, the husband's he'th; The happy pleaece, where vingers thin Do pull woone's chin, or pat woone's feaece. But still the bleaeme is their's, to slight Their happiness, wi' such a zight O' maidens, mornen, noon, an' night, A-gwain down steps vor water.

ELLEN BRINE OV ALLENBURN.

Noo soul did hear her lips complain, An' she's a-gone vrom all her pain, An' others' loss to her is gain For she do live in heaven's love; Vull many a longsome day an' week She bore her ailen, still, an' meek; A-worken while her strangth held on, An' guiden housework, when 'twer gone. Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn, Oh! there be souls to murn.

The last time I'd a-cast my zight Upon her feaece, a-feaeded white, Wer in a zummer's mornen light In hall avore the smwold'ren vier, The while the childern beaet the vloor, In play, wi' tiny shoes they wore, An' call'd their mother's eyes to view The feaet's their little limbs could do. Oh! Ellen Brine ov Allenburn, They childern now mus' murn.

Then woone, a-stoppen vrom his reaece, Went up, an' on her knee did pleaece His hand, a-looken in her feaece, An' wi' a smilen mouth so small, He zaid, "You promised us to goo To Shroton feaeir, an' teaeke us two!" She heaerd it wi' her two white ears, An' in her eyes there sprung two tears, Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn Did veel that they mus' murn.

September come, wi' Shroton feaeir, But Ellen Brine wer never there! A heavy heart wer on the meaere Their father rod his hwomeward road. 'Tis true he brought zome feaerens back, Vor them two childern all in black; But they had now, wi' playthings new, Noo mother vor to shew em to, Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn Would never mwore return.

THE MOTHERLESS CHILD.

The zun'd a-zet back tother night, But in the zetten pleaece The clouds, a-redden'd by his light, Still glow'd avore my feaece. An' I've a-lost my Meaery's smile, I thought; but still I have her chile, Zoo like her, that my eyes can treaece The mother's in her daughter's feaece. O little feaece so near to me, An' like thy mother's gone; why need I zay Sweet night cloud, wi' the glow o' my lost day, Thy looks be always dear to me. The zun'd a-zet another night; But, by the moon on high, He still did zend us back his light Below a cwolder sky. My Meaery's in a better land I thought, but still her chile's at hand, An' in her chile she'll zend me on Her love, though she herzelf's a-gone. O little chile so near to me, An' like thy mother gone; why need I zay, Sweet moon, the messenger vrom my lost day, Thy looks be always dear to me.

THE LEAeDY'S TOWER.

An' then we went along the gleaedes O' zunny turf, in quiv'ren sheaedes, A-winden off, vrom hand to hand, Along a path o' yollow zand, An' clomb a stickle slope, an' vound An open patch o' lofty ground, Up where a steaetely tow'r did spring, So high as highest larks do zing.

"Oh! Meaester Collins," then I zaid, A-looken up wi' back-flung head; Vor who but he, so mild o' feaece, Should teaeke me there to zee the pleaece. "What is it then theaese tower do meaen, A-built so feaeir, an' kept so cleaen?" "Ah! me," he zaid, wi' thoughtvul feaece, "'Twer grief that zet theaese tower in pleaece. The squier's e'thly life's a-blest Wi' gifts that mwost do teaeke vor best; The lofty-pinion'd rufs do rise To screen his head vrom stormy skies; His land's a-spreaden roun' his hall, An' hands do leaebor at his call; The while the ho'se do fling, wi' pride, His lofty head where he do guide; But still his e'thly jay's a-vled, His woone true friend, his wife, is dead. Zoo now her happy soul's a-gone, An' he in grief's a-ling'ren on, Do do his heart zome good to show His love to flesh an' blood below. An' zoo he rear'd, wi' smitten soul, Theaese Leaedy's Tower upon the knowl. An' there you'll zee the tow'r do spring Twice ten veet up, as roun's a ring, Wi' pillars under mwolded eaeves, Above their heads a-carv'd wi' leaves; An' have to peaece, a-walken round His voot, a hunderd veet o' ground. An' there, above his upper wall, A rounded tow'r do spring so tall 'S a springen arrow shot upright, A hunderd giddy veet in height. An' if you'd like to strain your knees A-climen up above the trees, To zee, wi' slowly wheelen feaece, The vur-sky'd land about the pleaece, You'll have a flight o' steps to wear Vor forty veet, up steaeir by steaeir, That roun' the risen tow'r do wind, Like withwind roun' the saplen's rind, An' reach a landen, wi' a seat, To rest at last your weary veet, 'Ithin a breast be-screenen wall, To keep ye vrom a longsome vall. An' roun' the winden steaeirs do spring Aight stwonen pillars in a ring, A-reachen up their heavy strangth Drough forty veet o' slender langth, To end wi' carved heads below The broad-vloor'd landen's airy bow. Aight zides, as you do zee, do bound The lower builden on the ground, An' there in woone, a two-leav'd door Do zwing above the marble vloor: An' aye, as luck do zoo betide Our comen, wi' can goo inside. The door is oben now. An' zoo The keeper kindly let us drough. There as we softly trod the vloor O' marble stwone, 'ithin the door, The echoes ov our vootsteps vled Out roun' the wall, and over head; An' there a-painted, zide by zide, In memory o' the squier's bride, In zeven paintens, true to life, Wer zeven zights o' wedded life."

Then Meaester Collins twold me all The teaeles a-painted roun' the wall; An' vu'st the bride did stan' to plight Her wedden vow, below the light A-shooten down, so bright's a fleaeme, In drough a churches window freaeme. An' near the bride, on either hand, You'd zee her comely bridemaids stand, Wi' eyelashes a-bent in streaeks O' brown above their bloomen cheaeks: An' sheenen feaeir, in mellow light, Wi' flowen heaeir, an' frocks o' white.

"An' here," good Meaester Collins cried, "You'll zee a creaedle at her zide, An' there's her child, a-lyen deep 'Ithin it, an' a-gone to sleep, Wi' little eyelashes a-met In fellow streaeks, as black as jet; The while her needle, over head, Do nimbly leaed the snow-white thread, To zew a robe her love do meaeke Wi' happy leaebor vor his seaeke.

"An' here a-geaen's another pleaece, Where she do zit wi' smilen feaece, An' while her bwoy do leaen, wi' pride, Ageaen her lap, below her zide, Her vinger tip do leaed his look To zome good words o' God's own book.

"An' next you'll zee her in her pleaece, Avore her happy husband's feaece, As he do zit, at evenen-tide, A-resten by the vier-zide. An' there the childern's heads do rise Wi' laughen lips, an' beamen eyes, Above the bwoard, where she do lay Her sheenen tacklen, wi' the tea.

"An' here another zide do show Her vinger in her scizzars' bow Avore two daughters, that do stand, Wi' leaernsome minds, to watch her hand A-sheaepen out, wi' skill an' ceaere, A frock vor them to zew an' wear.

"Then next you'll zee her bend her head Above her ailen husband's bed, A-fannen, wi' an inward pray'r, His burnen brow wi' beaeten air; The while the clock, by candle light, Do show that 'tis the dead o' night.

"An' here ageaen upon the wall, Where we do zee her last ov all, Her husband's head's a-hangen low, 'Ithin his hands in deepest woe. An' she, an angel ov his God, Do cheer his soul below the rod, A-liften up her han' to call His eyes to writen on the wall, As white as is her spotless robe, 'Hast thou remembered my servant Job?'

"An' zoo the squier, in grief o' soul, Built up the Tower upon the knowl."

FATHERHOOD.

Let en zit, wi' his dog an' his cat, Wi' their noses a-turn'd to the vier, An' have all that a man should desire; But there idden much reaedship in that. Whether vo'k mid have childern or no, Wou'dden meaeke mighty odds in the main; They do bring us mwore jay wi' mwore ho, An' wi' nwone we've less jay wi' less pain We be all lik' a zull's idle sheaere out, An' shall rust out, unless we do wear out, Lik' do-nothen, rue-nothen, Dead alive dumps.

As vor me, why my life idden bound To my own heart alwone, among men; I do live in myzelf, an' ageaen In the lives o' my childern all round: I do live wi' my bwoy in his play, An' ageaen wi' my maid in her zongs; An' my heart is a-stirr'd wi' their jay, An' would burn at the zight o' their wrongs. I ha' nine lives, an' zoo if a half O'm do cry, why the rest o'm mid laugh All so playvully, jayvully, Happy wi' hope.

Tother night I come hwome a long road, When the weather did sting an' did vreeze; An' the snow—vor the day had a-snow'd— Wer avroze on the boughs o' the trees; An' my tooes an' my vingers wer num', An' my veet wer so lumpy as logs, An' my ears wer so red's a cock's cwom'; An' my nose wer so cwold as a dog's; But so soon's I got hwome I vorgot Where my limbs wer a-cwold or wer hot, When wi' loud cries an' proud cries They coll'd me so cwold.

Vor the vu'st that I happen'd to meet Come to pull my girtcwoat vrom my eaerm, An' another did rub my feaece warm, An' another hot-slipper'd my veet; While their mother did cast on a stick, Vor to keep the red vier alive; An' they all come so busy an' thick As the bees vlee-en into their hive, An' they meaede me so happy an' proud, That my heart could ha' crow'd out a-loud; They did tweil zoo, an' smile zoo, An' coll me so cwold.

As I zot wi' my teacup, at rest, There I pull'd out the tays I did bring; Men a-kicken, a-wagg'd wi' a string, An' goggle-ey'd dolls to be drest; An' oh! vrom the childern there sprung Such a charm when they handled their tays, That vor pleasure the bigger woones wrung Their two hands at the zight o' their jays; As the bwoys' bigger vaices vell in Wi' the maidens a-titteren thin, An' their dancen an' prancen, An' little mouth's laughs.

Though 'tis hard stripes to breed em all up, If I'm only a-blest vrom above, They'll meaeke me amends wi' their love, Vor their pillow, their pleaete, an' their cup; Though I shall be never a-spweil'd Wi' the sarvice that money can buy; Still the hands ov a wife an' a child Be the blessens ov low or ov high; An' if there be mouths to be ved, He that zent em can zend me their bread, An' will smile on the chile That's a-new on the knee.

THE MAID O' NEWTON.

In zummer, when the knaps wer bright In cool-air'd evenen's western light, An' hay that had a-dried all day, Did now lie grey, to dewy night; I went, by happy chance, or doom, Vrom Broadwoak Hill, athirt to Coomb, An' met a maid in all her bloom: The feairest maid o' Newton.

She bore a basket that did ride So light, she didden leaen azide; Her feaece wer oval, an' she smil'd So sweet's a child, but walk'd wi' pride. I spoke to her, but what I zaid I didden know; wi' thoughts a-vled, I spoke by heart, an' not by head, Avore the maid o' Newton.

I call'd her, oh! I don't know who, 'Twer by a neaeme she never knew; An' to the heel she stood upon, She then brought on her hinder shoe, An' stopp'd avore me, where we met, An' wi' a smile woone can't vorget, She zaid, wi' eyes a-zwimmen wet, "No, I be woone o' Newton."

Then on I rambled to the west, Below the zunny hangen's breast, Where, down athirt the little stream, The brudge's beam did lie at rest: But all the birds, wi' lively glee, Did chirp an' hop vrom tree to tree, As if it wer vrom pride, to zee Goo by the maid o' Newton.

By fancy led, at evenen's glow, I woonce did goo, a-roven slow, Down where the elems, stem by stem, Do stan' to hem the grove below; But after that, my veet vorzook The grove, to seek the little brook At Coomb, where I mid zometimes look, To meet the maid o' Newton.

CHILDHOOD.

Aye, at that time our days wer but vew, An' our lim's wer but small, an' a-growen; An' then the feaeir worold wer new, An' life wer all hopevul an' gay; An' the times o' the sprouten o' leaves, An' the cheaek-burnen seasons o' mowen, An' binden o' red-headed sheaves, Wer all welcome seasons o' jay.

Then the housen seem'd high, that be low, An' the brook did seem wide that is narrow, An' time, that do vlee, did goo slow, An' veelens now feeble wer strong, An' our worold did end wi' the neaemes Ov the Sha'sbury Hill or Bulbarrow; An' life did seem only the geaemes That we play'd as the days rolled along.

Then the rivers, an' high-timber'd lands, An' the zilvery hills, 'ithout buyen, Did seem to come into our hands Vrom others that own'd em avore; An' all zickness, an' sorrow, an' need, Seem'd to die wi' the wold vo'k a-dyen, An' leaeve us vor ever a-freed Vrom evils our vorefathers bore.

But happy be childern the while They have elders a-liven to love em, An' teaeke all the wearisome tweil That zome hands or others mus' do; Like the low-headed shrubs that be warm, In the lewth o' the trees up above em, A-screen'd vrom the cwold blowen storm That the timber avore em must rue.

MEAeRY'S SMILE.

When mornen winds, a-blowen high, Do zweep the clouds vrom all the sky, An' laurel-leaves do glitter bright, The while the newly broken light Do brighten up, avore our view, The vields wi' green, an' hills wi' blue; What then can highten to my eyes The cheerful feaece ov e'th an' skies, But Meaery's smile, o' Morey's Mill, My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

An' when, at last, the evenen dews Do now begin to wet our shoes; An' night's a-riden to the west, To stop our work, an' gi'e us rest, Oh! let the candle's ruddy gleaere But brighten up her sheenen heaeir; Or else, as she do walk abroad, Let moonlight show, upon the road, My Meaery's smile, o' Morey's Mill, My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

An' O! mid never tears come on, To wash her feaece's blushes wan, Nor kill her smiles that now do play Like sparklen weaeves in zunny May; But mid she still, vor all she's gone Vrom souls she now do smile upon, Show others they can vind woone jay To turn the hardest work to play. My Meaery's smile, o' Morey's Mill, My rwose o' Mowy Lea.

MEAeRY WEDDED.

The zun can zink, the stars mid rise, An' woods be green to sheenen skies; The cock mid crow to mornen light, An' workvo'k zing to vallen night; The birds mid whissle on the spray, An' childern leaep in merry play, But our's is now a lifeless pleaece, Vor we've a-lost a smilen feaece— Young Meaery Meaed o' merry mood, Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded.

The dog that woonce wer glad to bear Her fondlen vingers down his heaeir, Do leaen his head ageaen the vloor, To watch, wi' heavy eyes, the door; An' men she zent so happy hwome O' Zadurdays, do seem to come To door, wi' downcast hearts, to miss Wi' smiles below the clematis, Young Meaery Meaed o' merry mood, Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded.

When they do draw the evenen blind, An' when the evenen light's a-tin'd, The cheerless vier do drow a gleaere O' light ageaen her empty chair; An' wordless gaps do now meaeke thin Their talk where woonce her vaice come in. Zoo lwonesome is her empty pleaece, An' blest the house that ha' the feaece O' Meaery Meaed, o' merry mood, Now she's a-woo'd and wedded.

The day she left her father's he'th, Though sad, wer kept a day o' me'th, An' dry-wheel'd waggons' empty beds Wer left 'ithin the tree-screen'd sheds; An' all the hosses, at their eaese, Went snorten up the flow'ry leaese, But woone, the smartest for the roaed, That pull'd away the dearest lwoad— Young Meaery Meaed o' merry mood, That wer a-woo'd an' wedded.

THE STWONEN BWOY UPON THE PILLAR.

Wi' smokeless tuns an' empty halls, An' moss a-clingen to the walls, In ev'ry wind the lofty tow'rs Do teaeke the zun, an' bear the show'rs; An' there, 'ithin a geaet a-hung, But vasten'd up, an' never swung, Upon the pillar, all alwone, Do stan' the little bwoy o' stwone; 'S a poppy bud mid linger on, Vorseaeken, when the wheat's a-gone. An' there, then, wi' his bow let slack, An' little quiver at his back, Drough het an' wet, the little chile Vrom day to day do stan' an' smile. When vu'st the light, a-risen weak, At break o' day, do smite his cheaek, Or while, at noon, the leafy bough Do cast a sheaede a-thirt his brow, Or when at night the warm-breath'd cows Do sleep by moon-belighted boughs; An' there the while the rooks do bring Their scroff to build their nest in Spring, Or zwallows in the zummer day Do cling their little huts o' clay, 'Ithin the rainless sheaedes, below The steadvast arches' mossy bow. Or when, in Fall, the woak do shed The leaves, a-wither'd, vrom his head, An' western win's, a-blowen cool, Do dreve em out athirt the pool, Or Winter's clouds do gather dark An' wet, wi' rain, the elem's bark, You'll zee his pretty smile betwixt His little sheaede-mark'd lips a-fix'd; As there his little sheaepe do bide Drough day an' night, an' time an' tide, An' never change his size or dress, Nor overgrow his prettiness. But, oh! thik child, that we do vind In childhood still, do call to mind A little bwoy a-call'd by death, Long years agoo, vrom our sad he'th; An' I, in thought, can zee en dim The seaeme in feaece, the seaeme in lim', My heaeir mid whiten as the snow, My limbs grow weak, my step wear slow, My droopen head mid slowly vall Above the han'-staff's glossy ball, An' yeet, vor all a wid'nen span Ov years, mid change a liven man, My little child do still appear To me wi' all his childhood's gear, 'Ithout a beard upon his chin, 'Ithout a wrinkle in his skin, A-liven on, a child the seaeme In look, an' sheaepe, an' size, an' neaeme.