Part 19

But though the air is cwold below The creaken copses' darksome screen, The truest sheaede do only show How strong the warmer zun do sheen; An' even times o' grief an' pain, Ha' good a-comen in their train, An' 'tis but happiness do mark The sheaedes o' sorrow out so dark. As tweils be sad, Or smiles be glad, Or times be bad, at hwome, O

An' there the zunny land do lie Below the hangen, in the lew, Wi' vurrows now a-crumblen dry, Below the plowman's dousty shoe; An' there the bwoy do whissel sh'ill, Below the skylark's merry bill, Where primrwose beds do deck the zides O' banks below the meaeple wrides. As trees be bright Wi' bees in flight, An' weather's bright, abroad, O.

An' there, as sheenen wheels do spin Vull speed along the dousty rwoad, He can but stan', an' wish 'ithin His mind to be their happy lwoad, That he mid gaily ride, an' goo To towns the rwoad mid teaeke en drough, An' zee, for woonce, the zights behind The bluest hills his eyes can vind, O' towns, an' tow'rs, An' downs, an' flow'rs, In zunny hours, abroad, O.

But still, vor all the weather's feaeir, Below a cloudless sky o' blue, The bwoy at plough do little ceaere How vast the brightest day mid goo; Vor he'd be glad to zee the zun A-zetten, wi' his work a-done, That he, at hwome, mid still injay His happy bit ov evenen play, So light's a lark Till night is dark, While dogs do bark, at hwome, O.

THE BWOAT.

Where cows did slowly seek the brink O' Stour, drough zunburnt grass, to drink; Wi' vishen float, that there did zink An' rise, I zot as in a dream. The dazzlen zun did cast his light On hedge-row blossom, snowy white, Though nothen yet did come in zight, A-stirren on the strayen stream;

Till, out by sheaedy rocks there show'd, A bwoat along his foamy road, Wi' thik feaeir maid at mill, a-row'd Wi' Jeaene behind her brother's oars. An' steaetely as a queen o' vo'k, She zot wi' floaten scarlet cloak, An' comen on, at ev'ry stroke, Between my withy-sheaeded shores.

The broken stream did idly try To show her sheaepe a-riden by, The rushes brown-bloom'd stems did ply, As if they bow'd to her by will. The rings o' water, wi' a sock, Did break upon the mossy rock, An' gi'e my beaeten heart a shock, Above my float's up-leapen quill.

Then, lik' a cloud below the skies, A-drifted off, wi' less'nen size, An' lost, she floated vrom my eyes, Where down below the stream did wind; An' left the quiet weaeves woonce mwore To zink to rest, a sky-blue'd vloor, Wi' all so still's the clote they bore, Aye, all but my own ruffled mind.

THE PLEAeCE OUR OWN AGEAeN.

Well! thanks to you, my faithful Jeaene, So worksome wi' your head an' hand, We seaeved enough to get ageaen My poor vorefather's plot o' land. 'Twer folly lost, an' cunnen got, What should ha' come to me by lot. But let that goo; 'tis well the land Is come to hand, by be'th or not.

An' there the brook, a-winden round The parrick zide, do run below The grey-stwon'd bridge wi' gurglen sound, A-sheaeded by the arches' bow; Where former days the wold brown meaere, Wi' father on her back, did wear Wi' heavy shoes the grav'ly leaene, An' sheaeke her meaene o' yollor heaeir.

An' many zummers there ha' glow'd, To shrink the brook in bubblen shoals, An' warm the doust upon the road, Below the trav'ller's burnen zoles. An' zome ha' zent us to our bed In grief, an' zome in jay ha' vled; But vew ha' come wi' happier light Than what's now bright, above our head.

The brook did peaert, zome years agoo, Our Grenley meaeds vrom Knapton's Ridge But now you know, between the two, A-road's a-meaede by Grenley Bridge. Zoo why should we shrink back at zight Ov hindrances we ought to slight? A hearty will, wi' God our friend, Will gain its end, if 'tis but right.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

John an' Thomas.

THOMAS.

How b'ye, then, John, to-night; an' how Be times a-waggen on w' ye now? I can't help slackenen my peaece When I do come along your pleaece, To zee what crops your bit o' groun' Do bear ye all the zummer roun'. 'Tis true you don't get fruit nor blooth, 'Ithin the glassen houses' lewth; But if a man can rear a crop Where win' do blow an' rain can drop, Do seem to come, below your hand, As fine as any in the land.

JOHN.

Well, there, the geaerden stuff an' flow'rs Don't leaeve me many idle hours; But still, though I mid plant or zow, 'Tis Woone above do meaeke it grow.

THOMAS.

Aye, aye, that's true, but still your strip O' groun' do show good workmanship: You've onions there nine inches round, An' turmits that would waigh a pound; An' cabbage wi' its hard white head, An' teaeties in their dousty bed, An' carrots big an' straight enough Vor any show o' geaerden stuff; An' trees ov apples, red-skinn'd balls An' purple plums upon the walls, An' peas an' beaens; bezides a store O' heaerbs vor ev'ry pain an' zore.

JOHN.

An' over hedge the win's a-heaerd, A ruslen drough my barley's beard; An' swayen wheat do overspread Zix ridges in a sheet o' red; An' then there's woone thing I do call The girtest handiness ov all: My ground is here at hand, avore My eyes, as I do stand at door; An' zoo I've never any need To goo a mile to pull a weed.

THOMAS.

No, sure, a miel shoulden stratch Between woone's geaerden an' woone's hatch. A man would like his house to stand Bezide his little bit o' land.

JOHN.

Ees. When woone's groun' vor geaerden stuff Is roun' below the house's ruf, Then woone can spend upon woone's land Odd minutes that mid lie on hand, The while, wi' night a-comen on, The red west sky's a-wearen wan; Or while woone's wife, wi' busy hands, Avore her vier o' burnen brands, Do put, as best she can avword, Her bit o' dinner on the bwoard. An' here, when I do teaeke my road, At breakfast-time, agwain abrode, Why, I can zee if any plot O' groun' do want a hand or not; An' bid my childern, when there's need, To draw a reaeke or pull a weed, Or heal young beaens or peas in line, Or tie em up wi' rods an' twine, Or peel a kindly withy white To hold a droopen flow'r upright.

THOMAS.

No. Bits o' time can zeldom come To much on groun' a mile vrom hwome. A man at hwome should have in view The jobs his childern's hands can do, An' groun' abrode mid teaeke em all Beyond their mother's zight an' call, To get a zoaken in a storm, Or vall, i' may be, into harm.

JOHN.

Ees. Geaerden groun', as I've a-zed, Is better near woone's bwoard an' bed.

PENTRIDGE BY THE RIVER.

Pentridge!—oh! my heart's a-zwellen Vull o' jay wi' vo'k a-tellen Any news o' thik wold pleaece, An' the boughy hedges round it, An' the river that do bound it Wi' his dark but glis'nen feaece. Vor there's noo land, on either hand, To me lik' Pentridge by the river.

Be there any leaves to quiver On the aspen by the river? Doo he sheaede the water still, Where the rushes be a-growen, Where the sullen Stour's a-flowen Drough the meaeds vrom mill to mill? Vor if a tree wer dear to me, Oh! 'twer thik aspen by the river.

There, in eegrass new a-shooten, I did run on even vooten, Happy, over new-mow'd land; Or did zing wi' zingen drushes While I plaited, out o' rushes, Little baskets vor my hand; Bezide the clote that there did float, Wi' yollow blossoms, on the river.

When the western zun's a vallen, What sh'ill vaice is now a-callen Hwome the deaeiry to the pails; Who do dreve em on, a-flingen Wide-bow'd horns, or slowly zwingen Right an' left their tufty tails? As they do goo a-huddled drough The geaete a-leaeden up vrom river.

Bleaeded grass is now a-shooten Where the vloor wer woonce our vooten, While the hall wer still in pleaece. Stwones be looser in the wallen; Hollow trees be nearer vallen; Ev'ry thing ha' chang'd its feaece. But still the neaeme do bide the seaeme— 'Tis Pentridge—Pentridge by the river.

WHEAT.

In brown-leav'd Fall the wheat a-left 'Ithin its darksome bed, Where all the creaken roller's heft Seal'd down its lowly head, Sprung sheaeken drough the crumblen mwold, Green-yollow, vrom below, An' bent its bleaedes, a-glitt'ren cwold, At last in winter snow. Zoo luck betide The upland zide, Where wheat do wride, In corn-vields wide, By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

An' while the screamen bird-bwoy shook Wi' little zun-burnt hand, His clacker at the bright-wing'd rook, About the zeeded land; His meaester there did come an' stop His bridle-champen meaere, Wi' thankvul heart, to zee his crop A-comen up so feaeir. As there awhile By geaete or stile, He gi'ed the chile A cheeren smile, By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

At last, wi' eaers o' darksome red, The yollow stalks did ply, A-swayen slow, so heavy 's lead, In air a-blowen by; An' then the busy reapers laid In row their russlen grips, An' sheaeves, a-leaenen head by head, Did meaeke the stitches tips. Zoo food's a-vound, A-comen round, Vrom zeed in ground, To sheaves a-bound, By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

An' now the wheat, in lofty lwoads, Above the meaeres' broad backs, Do ride along the cracklen rwoads, Or dousty waggon-tracks. An' there, mid every busy pick, Ha' work enough to do; An' where, avore, we built woone rick, Mid theaese year gi'e us two; Wi' God our friend, An' wealth to spend, Vor zome good end, That times mid mend, In towns, an' Do'set Downs, O.

Zoo let the merry thatcher veel Fine weather on his brow, As he, in happy work, do kneel Up roun' the new-built mow, That now do zwell in sich a size, An' rise to sich a height, That, oh! the miller's wistful eyes Do sparkle at the zight An' long mid stand, A happy band, To till the land, Wi' head an' hand, By crowns o' Do'set Downs, O.

THE MEAeD IN JUNE.

Ah! how the looks o' sky an' ground Do change wi' months a-stealen round, When northern winds, by starry night, Do stop in ice the river's flight; Or brooks in winter rains do zwell, Lik' rollen seas athirt the dell; Or trickle thin in zummer-tide; Among the mossy stwones half dried; But still, below the zun or moon, The fearest vield's the meaed in June.

An' I must own, my heart do beaet Wi' pride avore my own blue geaete, Where I can bid the steaetely tree Be cast, at langth, avore my knee; An' clover red, an' deaezies feair, An' gil'cups wi' their yollow gleaere, Be all a-match'd avore my zight By wheelen buttervlees in flight, The while the burnen zun at noon Do sheen upon my meaed in June.

An' there do zing the swingen lark So gay's above the finest park, An' day do sheaede my trees as true As any steaetely avenue; An' show'ry clouds o' Spring do pass To shed their rain on my young grass, An' air do blow the whole day long, To bring me breath, an' teaeke my zong, An' I do miss noo needvul boon A-gi'ed to other meaeds in June.

An' when the bloomen rwose do ride Upon the boughy hedge's zide, We haymeaekers, in snow-white sleeves, Do work in sheaedes o' quiv'ren leaves, In afternoon, a-liften high Our reaekes avore the viery sky, A-reaeken up the hay a-dried By day, in lwongsome weaeles, to bide In chilly dew below the moon, O' shorten'd nights in zultry June.

An' there the brook do softly flow Along, a-benden in a bow, An' vish, wi' zides o' zilver-white, Do flash vrom shoals a dazzlen light; An' alders by the water's edge, Do sheaede the ribbon-bleaeded zedge, An' where, below the withy's head, The zwimmen clote-leaves be a-spread, The angler is a-zot at noon Upon the flow'ry bank in June.

Vor all the aier that do bring My little meaed the breath o' Spring, By day an' night's a-flowen wide Above all other vields bezide; Vor all the zun above my ground 'S a-zent vor all the naighbours round, An' rain do vall, an' streams do flow, Vor lands above, an' lands below, My bit o' meaed is God's own boon, To me alwone, vrom June to June.

EARLY RISEN.

The air to gi'e your cheaeks a hue O' rwosy red, so feair to view, Is what do sheaeke the grass-bleaedes gray At breaek o' day, in mornen dew; Vor vo'k that will be rathe abrode, Will meet wi' health upon their road.

But biden up till dead o' night, When han's o' clocks do stan' upright, By candle-light, do soon consume The feaece's bloom, an' turn it white. An' light a-cast vrom midnight skies Do blunt the sparklen ov the eyes.

Vor health do weaeke vrom nightly dreams Below the mornen's eaerly beams, An' leaeve the dead-air'd houses' eaves, Vor quiv'ren leaves, an' bubblen streams, A-glitt'ren brightly to the view, Below a sky o' cloudless blue.

ZELLEN WOONE'S HONEY TO BUY ZOME'HAT SWEET.

Why, his heart's lik' a popple, so hard as a stwone, Vor 'tis money, an' money's his ho, An' to handle an' reckon it up vor his own, Is the best o' the jays he do know. Why, vor money he'd gi'e up his lags an' be leaeme, Or would peaert wi' his zight an' be blind, Or would lose vo'k's good will, vor to have a bad neaeme, Or his peace, an' have trouble o' mind. But wi' ev'ry good thing that his meaenness mid bring, He'd pay vor his money, An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

He did whisper to me, "You do know that you stood By the Squier, wi' the vote that you had, You could ax en to help ye to zome'hat as good, Or to vind a good pleaece vor your lad." "Aye, aye, but if I wer beholden vor bread To another," I zaid, "I should bind All my body an' soul to the nod of his head, An' gi'e up all my freedom o' mind." An' then, if my pain wer a-zet wi' my gain, I should pay vor my money, An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

Then, if my bit o' brook that do wind so vur round, Wer but his, why, he'd straighten his bed, An' the wold stunpole woak that do stan' in my ground, Shoudden long sheaede the grass wi' his head. But if I do vind jay where the leaves be a-shook On the limbs, wi' their sheaedes on the grass, Or below, in the bow o' the withy-bound nook, That the rock-washen water do pass, Then wi' they jays a-vled an' zome goold in their stead, I should pay vor my money, An' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

No, be my lot good work, wi' the lungs well in play, An' good rest when the body do tire, Vor the mind a good conscience, wi' hope or wi' jay, Vor the body, good lewth, an' good vire, There's noo good o' goold, but to buy what 'ull meaeke Vor our happiness here among men; An' who would gi'e happiness up vor the seaeke O' zome money to buy it ageaen? Vor 'twould seem to the eyes ov a man that is wise, Lik' money vor money, Or zellen woone's honey to buy zome'hat sweet.

DOBBIN DEAD.

Thomas (1) an' John (2) a-ta'en o't.

2. I do veel vor ye, Thomas, vor I be a-feaer'd You've a-lost your wold meaere then, by what I've a-heaerd.

1. Ees, my meaere is a-gone, an' the cart's in the shed Wi' his wheelbonds a-rusten, an' I'm out o' bread; Vor what be my han's vor to eaern me a croust, Wi' noo meaere's vower legs vor to trample the doust.

2. Well, how did it happen? He vell vrom the brim Ov a cliff, as the teaele is, an' broke ev'ry lim'.

1. Why, I gi'ed en his run, an' he shook his wold meaene, An' he rambled a-veeden in Westergap Leaene; An' there he must needs goo a-riggen, an' crope Vor a vew bleaedes o' grass up the wo'st o' the slope; Though I should ha' thought his wold head would ha' know'd That vor stiff lags, lik' his, the best pleaece wer the road.

2. An' you hadden a-kept en so short, he must clim', Lik' a gwoat, vor a bleaede, at the risk ov a lim'.

1. Noo, but there, I'm a-twold, he did clim' an' did slide, An' did screaepe, an' did slip, on the shelven bank-zide, An' at langth lost his vooten, an' roll'd vrom the top, Down, thump, kick, an' higgledly, piggledly, flop.

2. Dear me, that is bad! I do veel vor your loss, Vor a vew years agoo, Thomas, I lost my ho'se.

1. How wer't? If I heaerd it, I now ha' vorgot; Wer the poor thing bewitch'd or a-pweison'd, or what?

2. He wer out, an' a-meaeken his way to the brink O' the stream at the end o' Church Leaene, vor to drink; An' he met wi' zome yew-twigs the men had a-cast Vrom the yew-tree, in churchyard, the road that he past. He wer pweison'd. (1.) O dear, 'tis a hard loss to bear, Vor a tranter's whole bread is a-lost wi' his meaere; But ov all churches' yew-trees, I never zet eyes On a tree that would come up to thik woone vor size.

2. Noo, 'tis long years agone, but do linger as clear In my mind though as if I'd a-heaerd it to year. When King George wer in Do'set, an' show'd us his feaece By our very own doors, at our very own pleaece, That he look'd at thik yew-tree, an' nodded his head, An' he zaid,—an' I'll tell ye the words that he zaid:— "I'll be bound, if you'll sarch my dominions all drough. That you woon't vind the fellow to thik there wold yew."

HAPPINESS.

Ah! you do seem to think the ground, Where happiness is best a-vound, Is where the high-peael'd park do reach Wi' elem-rows, or clumps o' beech; Or where the coach do stand avore The twelve-tunn'd house's lofty door, Or men can ride behin' their hounds Vor miles athirt their own wide grounds, An' seldom wi' the lowly; Upon the green that we do tread, Below the welsh-nut's wide-limb'd head, Or grass where apple trees do spread? No, so's; no, no: not high nor low: 'Tis where the heart is holy.

'Tis true its veet mid tread the vloor, 'Ithin the marble-pillar'd door, Where day do cast, in high-ruf'd halls. His light drough lofty window'd walls; An' wax-white han's do never tire Wi' strokes ov heavy work vor hire, An' all that money can avword Do lwoad the zilver-brighten'd bwoard: Or mid be wi' the lowly, Where turf's a-smwolderen avore The back, to warm the stwonen vloor An' love's at hwome 'ithin the door? No, so's; no, no; not high nor low: 'Tis where the heart is holy.

An' ceaere can come 'ithin a ring O' sworded guards, to smite a king, Though he mid hold 'ithin his hands The zwarmen vo'k o' many lands; Or goo in drough the iron-geaete Avore the house o' lofty steaete; Or reach the miser that do smile A-builden up his goolden pile; Or else mid smite the lowly, That have noo pow'r to loose or bind Another's body, or his mind, But only hands to help mankind. If there is rest 'ithin the breast, 'Tis where the heart is holy.

GRUFFMOODY GRIM.

Aye, a sad life his wife must ha' led, Vor so snappish he's leaetely a-come, That there's nothen but anger or dread Where he is, abroad or at hwome; He do wreak all his spite on the bwones O' whatever do vlee, or do crawl; He do quarrel wi' stocks, an' wi' stwones, An' the rain, if do hold up or vall; There is nothen vrom mornen till night Do come right to Gruffmoody Grim.

Woone night, in his anger, he zwore At the vier, that didden burn free: An' he het zome o't out on the vloor, Vor a vlanker it cast on his knee. Then he kicked it vor burnen the child, An' het it among the cat's heairs; An' then beaet the cat, a-run wild, Wi' a spark on her back up the steairs: Vor even the vier an' fleaeme Be to bleaeme wi' Gruffmoody Grim.