Part 18

Aye, aye, it mid be true that zome, When they do wander out vrom hwome, Do leaeve their nearest friends behind, Bwoth out o' zight, an' out o' mind; But John an' I ha' ties to bind Our souls together, vur or near, For, who is he but John o' Weer. An' I, but William Wellburn.

Look, there he is, with twinklen eyes, An' elbows down upon his thighs. A-chucklen low, wi' merry grin. Though time ha' roughen'd up his chin, 'Tis still the seaeme true soul 'ithin, As woonce I know'd, when year by year, Thik very chap, thik John o' Weer, Did play wi' William Wellburn.

Come, John, come; don't be dead-alive Here, reach us out your clust'r o' vive. Oh! you be happy. Ees, but that Woon't do till you can laugh an' chat. Don't blinky, lik' a purren cat, But leaep an' laugh, an' let vo'k hear What's happen'd, min, that John o' Weer Ha' met wi' William Wellburn.

Vor zome, wi' selfishness too strong Vor love, do do each other wrong; An' zome do wrangle an' divide In hets ov anger, bred o' pride; But who do think that time or tide Can breed ill-will in friends so dear, As William wer to John o' Weer, An' John to William Wellburn?

If other vo'ks do gleen to zee How loven an' how glad we be, What, then, poor souls, they had but vew Sich happy days, so long agoo, As they that I've a-spent wi' you; But they'd hold woone another dear, If woone o' them wer John o' Weer, An' tother William Wellburn.

FIFEHEAD.

'Twer where my fondest thoughts do light, At Fifehead, while we spent the night; The millwheel's resten rim wer dry, An' houn's held up their evenen cry; An' lofty, drough the midnight sky, Above the vo'k, wi' heavy heads, Asleep upon their darksome beds, The stars wer all awake, John.

Noo birds o' day wer out to spread Their wings above the gully's bed, An' darkness roun' the elem-tree 'D a-still'd the charmy childern's glee. All he'ths wer cwold but woone, where we Wer gay, 'tis true, but gay an' wise, An' laugh'd in light o' maiden's eyes, That glissen'd wide awake, John.

An' when we all, lik' loosen'd hounds, Broke out o' doors, wi' merry sounds, Our friends among the playsome team, All brought us gwaein so vur's the stream. But Jeaene, that there, below a gleam O' light, watch'd woone o's out o' zight; Vor willenly, vor his "Good night," She'd longer bide awake, John.

An' while up Leighs we stepp'd along Our grassy path, wi' joke an' zong, There Plumber, wi' its woody ground, O' slopen knaps a-screen'd around, Rose dim 'ithout a breath o' sound, The wold abode o' squiers a-gone, Though while they lay a-sleepen on, Their stars wer still awake, John.

IVY HALL.

If I've a-stream'd below a storm, An' not a-velt the rain, An' if I ever velt me warm, In snow upon the plain, 'Twer when, as evenen skies wer dim, An' vields below my eyes wer dim, I went alwone at evenen-fall, Athirt the vields to Ivy Hall.

I voun' the wind upon the hill, Last night, a-roaren loud, An' rubben boughs a-creaken sh'ill Upon the ashes' sh'oud; But oh! the reelen copse mid groan; An' timber's lofty tops mid groan; The hufflen winds be music all, Bezide my road to Ivy Hall.

A sheaedy grove o' ribbed woaks, Is Wootton's shelter'd nest, An' woaks do keep the winter's strokes Vrom Knapton's evenen rest. An' woaks ageaen wi' bossy stems, An' elems wi' their mossy stems, Do rise to screen the leafy wall An' stwonen ruf ov Ivy Hall.

The darksome clouds mid fling their sleet. An' vrost mid pinch me blue, Or snow mid cling below my veet, An' hide my road vrom view. The winter's only jay ov heart, An' storms do meaeke me gay ov heart, When I do rest, at evenen-fall, Bezide the he'th ov Ivy Hall.

There leafy stems do clim' around The mossy stwonen eaves; An' there be window-zides a-bound Wi' quiv'ren ivy-leaves. But though the sky is dim 'ithout, An' feaeces mid be grim 'ithout, Still I ha' smiles when I do call, At evenen-tide, at Ivy Hall.

FALSE FRIENDS-LIKE.

When I wer still a bwoy, an' mother's pride, A bigger bwoy spoke up to me so kind-like, "If you do like, I'll treat ye wi' a ride In theaese wheel-barrow here." Zoo I wer blind-like To what he had a-worken in his mind-like, An' mounted vor a passenger inside; An' comen to a puddle, perty wide, He tipp'd me in, a-grinnen back behind-like. Zoo when a man do come to me so thick-like, An' sheaeke my hand, where woonce he pass'd me by, An' tell me he would do me this or that, I can't help thinken o' the big bwoy's trick-like. An' then, vor all I can but wag my hat An' thank en, I do veel a little shy.

THE BACHELOR.

No! I don't begrudge en his life, Nor his goold, nor his housen, nor lands; Teaeke all o't, an' gi'e me my wife, A wife's be the cheapest ov hands. Lie alwone! sigh alwone! die alwone! Then be vorgot. No! I be content wi' my lot.

Ah! where be the vingers so feaeir, Vor to pat en so soft on the feaece, To mend ev'ry stitch that do tear, An' keep ev'ry button in pleaece? Crack a-tore! brack a-tore! back a-tore! Buttons a-vled! Vor want ov a wife wi' her thread.

Ah! where is the sweet-perty head That do nod till he's gone out o' zight? An' where be the two eaerms a-spread, To show en he's welcome at night? Dine alwone! pine alwone! whine alwone! Oh! what a life! I'll have a friend in a wife.

An' when vrom a meeten o' me'th Each husban' do leaed hwome his bride, Then he do slink hwome to his he'th, Wi' his eaerm a-hung down his cwold zide. Slinken on! blinken on! thinken on! Gloomy an' glum; Nothen but dullness to come.

An' when he do onlock his door, Do rumble as hollow's a drum, An' the veaeries a-hid roun' the vloor, Do grin vor to see en so glum. Keep alwone! sleep alwone! weep alwone! There let en bide, I'll have a wife at my zide.

But when he's a-laid on his bed In a zickness, O, what wull he do! Vor the hands that would lift up his head, An' sheaeke up his pillor anew. Ills to come! pills to come! bills to come! Noo soul to sheaere The trials the poor wratch must bear.

MARRIED PEAeIR'S LOVE WALK.

Come let's goo down the grove to-night; The moon is up, 'tis all so light As day, an' win' do blow enough To sheaeke the leaves, but tidden rough. Come, Esther, teaeke, vor wold time's seaeke, Your hooded cloke, that's on the pin, An' wrap up warm, an' teaeke my eaerm, You'll vind it better out than in. Come, Etty dear; come out o' door, An' teaeke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

How charmen to our very souls, Wer woonce your evenen maiden strolls, The while the zetten zunlight dyed Wi' red the beeches' western zide, But back avore your vinger wore The wedden ring that's now so thin; An' you did sheaere a mother's ceaere, To watch an' call ye eaerly in. Come, Etty dear; come out o' door, An' teaeke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

An' then ageaen, when you could slight The clock a-striken leaete at night, The while the moon, wi' risen rim, Did light the beeches' eastern lim'. When I'd a-bound your vinger round Wi' thik goold ring that's now so thin, An' you had nwone but me alwone To teaeke ye leaete or eaerly in. Come, Etty dear; come out o' door, An' teaeke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

But often when the western zide O' trees did glow at evenen-tide, Or when the leaeter moon did light The beeches' eastern boughs at night, An' in the grove, where vo'k did rove The crumpled leaves did vlee an' spin, You coulden sheaere the pleasure there: Your work or childern kept ye in. Come, Etty dear, come out o' door, An' teaeke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

But ceaeres that zunk your oval chin Ageaen your bosom's lily skin, Vor all they meaede our life so black, Be now a-lost behind our back. Zoo never mwope, in midst of hope, To slight our blessens would be sin. Ha! ha! well done, now this is fun; When you do like I'll bring ye in. Here, Etty dear; here, out o' door, We'll teaeke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

A WIFE A-PRAIS'D.

'Twer May, but ev'ry leaf wer dry All day below a sheenen sky; The zun did glow wi' yollow gleaere, An' cowslips blow wi' yollow gleaere, Wi' graegles' bells a-droopen low, An' bremble boughs a-stoopen low; While culvers in the trees did coo Above the vallen dew.

An' there, wi' heaeir o' glossy black, Bezide your neck an' down your back, You rambled gay a-bloomen feaeir; By boughs o' may a-bloomen feaeir; An' while the birds did twitter nigh, An' water weaeves did glitter nigh, You gather'd cowslips in the lew, Below the vallen dew.

An' now, while you've a-been my bride As years o' flow'rs ha' bloom'd an' died, Your smilen feaece ha' been my jay; Your soul o' greaece ha' been my jay; An' wi' my evenen rest a-come, An' zunsheen to the west a-come, I'm glad to teaeke my road to you Vrom vields o' vallen dew.

An' when the rain do wet the may, A-bloomen where we woonce did stray, An' win' do blow along so vast, An' streams do flow along so vast; Ageaen the storms so rough abroad, An' angry tongues so gruff abroad, The love that I do meet vrom you Is lik' the vallen dew.

An' you be sprack's a bee on wing, In search ov honey in the Spring: The dawn-red sky do meet ye up; The birds vu'st cry do meet ye up; An' wi' your feaece a-smilen on, An' busy hands a-tweilen on, You'll vind zome useful work to do Until the vallen dew.

THE WIFE A-LOST.

Since I noo mwore do zee your feaece, Up steaeirs or down below, I'll zit me in the lwonesome pleaece, Where flat-bough'd beech do grow: Below the beeches' bough, my love, Where you did never come, An' I don't look to meet ye now, As I do look at hwome.

Since you noo mwore be at my zide, In walks in zummer het, I'll goo alwone where mist do ride, Drough trees a-drippen wet: Below the rain-wet bough, my love, Where you did never come, An' I don't grieve to miss ye now, As I do grieve at home.

Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard Your vaice do never sound, I'll eat the bit I can avword, A-vield upon the ground; Below the darksome bough, my love, Where you did never dine, An' I don't grieve to miss ye now, As I at hwome do pine.

Since I do miss your vaice an' feaece In prayer at eventide, I'll pray wi' woone said vaice vor greaece To goo where you do bide; Above the tree an' bough, my love, Where you be gone avore, An' be a-waiten vor me now, To come vor evermwore.

THE THORNS IN THE GEAeTE.

Ah! Meaester Collins overtook Our knot o' vo'k a-stannen still, Last Zunday, up on Ivy Hill, To zee how strong the corn did look. An' he stay'd back awhile an' spoke A vew kind words to all the vo'k, Vor good or joke, an' wi' a smile Begun a-playen wi' a chile.

The zull, wi' iron zide awry, Had long a-vurrow'd up the vield; The heavy roller had a-wheel'd It smooth vor showers vrom the sky; The bird-bwoy's cry, a-risen sh'ill, An' clacker, had a-left the hill, All bright but still, vor time alwone To speed the work that we'd a-done.

Down drough the wind, a-blowen keen, Did gleaere the nearly cloudless sky, An' corn in bleaede, up ancle-high, 'lthin the geaete did quiver green; An' in the geaete a-lock'd there stood A prickly row o' thornen wood Vor vo'k vor food had done their best, An' left to Spring to do the rest.

"The geaete," he cried, "a-seal'd wi' thorn Vrom harmvul veet's a-left to hold The bleaede a-springen vrom the mwold, While God do ripen it to corn. An' zoo in life let us vulvil Whatever is our Meaeker's will, An' then bide still, wi' peacevul breast, While He do manage all the rest."

ANGELS BY THE DOOR.

Oh! there be angels evermwore, A-passen onward by the door, A-zent to teaeke our jays, or come To bring us zome—O Meaerianne. Though doors be shut, an' bars be stout, Noo bolted door can keep em out; But they wull leaeve us ev'ry thing They have to bring—My Meaerianne.

An' zoo the days a-stealen by, Wi' zuns a-riden drough the sky, Do bring us things to leaeve us sad, Or meaeke us glad—O Meaerianne. The day that's mild, the day that's stern, Do teaeke, in stillness, each his turn; An' evils at their worst mid mend, Or even end—My Meaerianne.

But still, if we can only bear Wi' faith an' love, our pain an' ceaere, We shan't vind missen jays a-lost, Though we be crost—O Meaerianne. But all a-took to heav'n, an' stow'd Where we can't weaeste em on the road, As we do wander to an' fro, Down here below—My Meaerianne.

But there be jays I'd soonest choose To keep, vrom them that I must lose; Your workzome hands to help my tweil, Your cheerful smile—O Meaerianne. The Zunday bells o' yonder tow'r, The moonlight sheaedes o' my own bow'r, An' rest avore our vier-zide, At evenen-tide—My Meaerianne.

VO'K A-COMEN INTO CHURCH.

The church do zeem a touchen zight, When vo'k, a-comen in at door, Do softly tread the long-ail'd vloor Below the pillar'd arches' height, Wi' bells a-pealen, Vo'k a-kneelen, Hearts a-healen, wi' the love An' peaece a-zent em vrom above.

An' there, wi' mild an' thoughtvul feaece, Wi' downcast eyes, an' vaices dum', The wold an' young do slowly come, An' teaeke in stillness each his pleaece, A-zinken slowly, Kneelen lowly, Seeken holy thoughts alwone, In pray'r avore their Meaeker's throne.

An' there be sons in youthvul pride, An' fathers weak wi' years an' pain, An' daughters in their mother's train. The tall wi' smaller at their zide; Heads in murnen Never turnen, Cheaeks a-burnen, wi' the het O' youth, an' eyes noo tears do wet.

There friends do settle, zide by zide, The knower speechless to the known; Their vaice is there vor God alwone To flesh an' blood their tongues be tied. Grief a-wringen, Jay a-zingen, Pray'r a-bringen welcome rest So softly to the troubled breast.

WOONE RULE.

An' while I zot, wi' thoughtvul mind, Up where the lwonesome Coombs do wind, An' watch'd the little gully slide So crooked to the river-zide; I thought how wrong the Stour did zeem To roll along his ramblen stream, A-runnen wide the left o' south, To vind his mouth, the right-hand zide.

But though his stream do teaeke, at mill. An' eastward bend by Newton Hill, An' goo to lay his welcome boon O' daily water round Hammoon, An' then wind off ageaen, to run By Blanvord, to the noonday zun, 'Tis only bound by woone rule all, An' that's to vall down steepest ground.

An' zoo, I thought, as we do bend Our way drough life, to reach our end, Our God ha' gi'ed us, vrom our youth, Woone rule to be our guide—His truth. An' zoo wi' that, though we mid teaeke Wide rambles vor our callens' seaeke, What is, is best, we needen fear, An' we shall steer to happy rest.

GOOD MEAeSTER COLLINS.

Aye, Meaester Collins wer a-blest Wi' greaece, an' now's a-gone to rest; An' though his heart did beaet so meek 'S a little child's, when he did speak, The godly wisdom ov his tongue Wer dew o' greaece to wold an' young.

'Twer woonce, upon a zummer's tide, I zot at Brookwell by his zide, Avore the leaeke, upon the rocks, Above the water's idle shocks, As little playsome weaeves did zwim Ageaen the water's windy brim, Out where the lofty tower o' stwone Did stan' to years o' wind an' zun; An' where the zwellen pillars bore A pworch above the heavy door, Wi' sister sheaedes a-reachen cool Athirt the stwones an' sparklen pool.

I spoke zome word that meaede en smile, O' girt vo'k's wealth an' poor vo'k's tweil, As if I pin'd, vor want ov greaece, To have a lord's or squier's pleaece. "No, no," he zaid, "what God do zend Is best vor all o's in the end, An' all that we do need the mwost Do come to us wi' leaest o' cost;— Why, who could live upon the e'th 'Ithout God's gift ov air vor breath? Or who could bide below the zun If water didden rise an' run? An' who could work below the skies If zun an' moon did never rise? Zoo air an' water, an' the light, Be higher gifts, a-reckon'd right, Than all the goold the darksome clay Can ever yield to zunny day: But then the air is roun' our heads, Abroad by day, or on our beds; Where land do gi'e us room to bide, Or seas do spread vor ships to ride; An' He do zend his waters free, Vrom clouds to lands, vrom lands to sea: An' mornen light do blush an' glow, 'Ithout our tweil—'ithout our ho.

"Zoo let us never pine, in sin, Vor gifts that ben't the best to win; The heaps o' goold that zome mid pile, Wi' sleepless nights an' peaceless tweil; Or manor that mid reach so wide As Blackmwore is vrom zide to zide, Or kingly sway, wi' life or death, Vor helpless childern ov the e'th: Vor theaese ben't gifts, as He do know, That He in love should vu'st bestow; Or else we should have had our sheaere O'm all wi' little tweil or ceaere.

"Ov all His choicest gifts, His cry Is, 'Come, ye moneyless, and buy.' Zoo blest is he that can but lift His prayer vor a happy gift."

HERRENSTON.

Zoo then the leaedy an' the squier, At Chris'mas, gather'd girt an' small, Vor me'th, avore their roaren vier, An! roun' their bwoard, 'ithin the hall; An' there, in glitt'ren rows, between The roun'-rimm'd pleaetes, our knives did sheen, Wi' frothy eaele, an' cup an' can, Vor maid an' man, at Herrenston.

An' there the jeints o' beef did stand, Lik' cliffs o' rock, in goodly row; Where woone mid quarry till his hand Did tire, an' meaeke but little show; An' after we'd a-took our seat, An' greaece had been a-zaid vor meat, We zet to work, an' zoo begun Our feaest an' fun at Herrenston.

An' mothers there, bezide the bwoards, Wi' little childern in their laps, Did stoop, wi' loven looks an' words, An' veed em up wi' bits an' draps; An' smilen husbands went in quest O' what their wives did like the best; An' you'd ha' zeed a happy zight, Thik merry night, at Herrenston.

An' then the band, wi' each his leaf O' notes, above us at the zide, Play'd up the praise ov England's beef An' vill'd our hearts wi' English pride; An' leafy chains o' garlands hung, Wi' dazzlen stripes o' flags, that swung Above us, in a bleaeze o' light, Thik happy night, at Herrenston.

An' then the clerk, avore the vier, Begun to lead, wi' smilen feaece, A carol, wi' the Monkton quire, That rung drough all the crowded pleaece. An' dins' o' words an' laughter broke In merry peals drough clouds o' smoke; Vor hardly wer there woone that spoke, But pass'd a joke, at Herrenston.

Then man an' maid stood up by twos, In rows, drough passage, out to door, An' gaily beaet, wi' nimble shoes, A dance upon the stwonen floor. But who is worthy vor to tell, If she that then did bear the bell, Wer woone o' Monkton, or o' Ceaeme, Or zome sweet neaeme ov Herrenston.

Zoo peace betide the girt vo'k's land, When they can stoop, wi' kindly smile, An' teaeke a poor man by the hand, An' cheer en in his daily tweil. An' oh! mid He that's vur above The highest here, reward their love, An' gi'e their happy souls, drough greaece, A higher pleaece than Herrenston.

OUT AT PLOUGH.

Though cool avore the sheenen sky Do vall the sheaedes below the copse, The timber-trees, a-reachen high, Ha' zunsheen on their lofty tops, Where yonder land's a-lyen plow'd, An' red, below the snow-white cloud, An' vlocks o' pitchen rooks do vwold Their wings to walk upon the mwold. While floods be low, An' buds do grow, An' air do blow, a-broad, O.