Part 2

Come, let's goo out, an' fling our heels About in jigs an' vow'r-han' reels; While aell the stiff-lagg'd wolder vo'k, A-zitten roun', do talk an' joke An' smile to zee their own wold rigs. A-show'd by our wild geaemes an' jigs. Vor ever since the vwold church speer Vu'st prick'd the clouds, vrom year to year, When grass in meaed did reach woone's knees, An' blooth did kern in apple-trees, Zome merry day 'v' a-broke to sheen Above the dance at Woodcom' green, An' all o' they that now do lie So low all roun' the speer so high, Woonce, vrom the biggest to the leaest, Had merry hearts at Woodcom' feaest.

Zoo keep it up, an' gi'e it on To other vo'k when we be gone. Come otit; vor when the zetten zun Do leaeve in sheaede our harmless fun, The moon a-risen in the east Do gi'e us light at Woodcom' feaest. Come, Fanny, come! put on thy white, 'Tis merry Woodcom' feaest to night: There's nothen vor to mwope about,— Come out, you leaezy jeaede, come out! An' thou wult be, to woone at leaest, The prettiest maid at Woodcom' feaest.

THE MILK-MAID O' THE FARM.

O Poll's the milk-maid o' the farm! An' Poll's so happy out in groun', Wi' her white pail below her eaerm As if she wore a goolden crown.

An' Poll don't zit up half the night, Nor lie vor half the day a-bed; An' zoo her eyes be sparklen bright, An' zoo her cheaeks be bloomen red.

In zummer mornens, when the lark Do rouse the litty lad an' lass To work, then she's the vu'st to mark Her steps along the dewy grass.

An' in the evenen, when the zun Do sheen ageaen the western brows O' hills, where bubblen brooks do run, There she do zing bezide her cows.

An' ev'ry cow of hers do stand, An' never overzet her pail; Nor try to kick her nimble hand, Nor switch her wi' her heavy tail.

Noo leaedy, wi' her muff an' vail, Do walk wi' sich a steaetely tread As she do, wi' her milken pail A-balanc'd on her comely head.

An' she, at mornen an' at night, Do skim the yollow cream, an' mwold An' wring her cheeses red an' white, An' zee the butter vetch'd an' roll'd.

An' in the barken or the ground, The chaps do always do their best To milk the vu'st their own cows round, An' then help her to milk the rest.

Zoo Poll's the milk-maid o' the farm! An' Poll's so happy out in groun', Wi' her white pail below her eaerm, As if she wore a goolden crown.

THE GIRT WOAK TREE THAT'S IN THE DELL.

The girt woak tree that's in the dell! There's noo tree I do love so well; Vor times an' times when I wer young, I there've a-climb'd, an' there've a-zwung, An' pick'd the eaecorns green, a-shed In wrestlen storms vrom his broad head. An' down below's the cloty brook Where I did vish with line an' hook, An' beaet, in playsome dips and zwims, The foamy stream, wi' white-skinn'd lim's. An' there my mother nimbly shot Her knitten-needles, as she zot At evenen down below the wide Woak's head, wi' father at her zide. An' I've a-played wi' many a bwoy, That's now a man an' gone awoy; Zoo I do like noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.

An' there, in leaeter years, I roved Wi' thik poor maid I fondly lov'd,— The maid too feaeir to die so soon,— When evenen twilight, or the moon, Cast light enough 'ithin the pleaece To show the smiles upon her feaece, Wi' eyes so clear's the glassy pool, An' lips an' cheaeks so soft as wool. There han' in han', wi' bosoms warm, Wi' love that burn'd but thought noo harm, Below the wide-bough'd tree we past The happy hours that went too vast; An' though she'll never be my wife, She's still my leaeden star o' life. She's gone: an' she've a-left to me Her mem'ry in the girt woak tree; Zoo I do love noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell

An' oh! mid never ax nor hook Be brought to spweil his steaetely look; Nor ever roun' his ribby zides Mid cattle rub ther heaeiry hides; Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep His lwonesome sheaede vor harmless sheep; An' let en grow, an' let en spread, An' let en live when I be dead. But oh! if men should come an' vell The girt woak tree that's in the dell, An' build his planks 'ithin the zide O' zome girt ship to plough the tide, Then, life or death! I'd goo to sea, A sailen wi' the girt woak tree: An' I upon his planks would stand, An' die a-fighten vor the land,— The land so dear,—the land so free,— The land that bore the girt woak tree; Vor I do love noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.

VELLEN O' THE TREE.

Aye, the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun' Wer a-stannen this mornen, an' now's a-cut down. Aye, the girt elem tree, so big roun' an' so high, Where the mowers did goo to their drink, an' did lie In the sheaede ov his head, when the zun at his heighth Had a-drove em vrom mowen, wi' het an' wi' drith, Where the hay-meaekers put all their picks an' their reaekes, An' did squot down to snabble their cheese an' their ceaekes, An' did vill vrom their flaggons their cups wi' their eaele, An' did meaeke theirzelves merry wi' joke an' wi' teaele.

Ees, we took up a rwope an' we tied en all round At the top o'n, wi' woone end a-hangen to ground, An' we cut, near the ground, his girt stem a'most drough, An' we bent the wold head o'n wi' woone tug or two; An' he sway'd all his limbs, an' he nodded his head, Till he vell away down like a pillar o' lead: An' as we did run vrom en, there; clwose at our backs, Oh! his boughs come to groun' wi' sich whizzes an' cracks; An' his top wer so lofty that, now he is down, The stem o'n do reach a-most over the groun'. Zoo the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun' Wer a-stannen this mornen, an' now's a-cut down.

BRINGEN WOONE GWAIN[A] O' ZUNDAYS.

Ah! John! how I do love to look At theaese green hollor, an' the brook Among the withies that do hide The stream, a-growen at the zide; An' at the road athirt the wide An' shallow vword, where we young bwoys Did peaert, when we did goo half-woys, To bring ye gwain o' Zundays.

Vor after church, when we got hwome, In evenen you did always come To spend a happy hour or two Wi' us, or we did goo to you; An' never let the comers goo Back hwome alwone, but always took A stroll down wi' em to the brook To bring em gwain o' Zundays.

How we did scote all down the groun', A-pushen woone another down! Or challengen o' zides in jumps Down over bars, an' vuzz, an' humps; An' peaert at last wi' slaps an' thumps, An' run back up the hill to zee Who'd get hwome soonest, you or we. That brought ye gwain o' Zundays.

O' leaeter years, John, you've a-stood My friend, an' I've a-done you good; But tidden, John, vor all that you Be now, that I do like ye zoo, But what you wer vor years agoo: Zoo if you'd stir my heart-blood now. Tell how we used to play, an' how You brought us gwain o' Zundays.

EVENEN TWILIGHT.

Ah! they vew zummers brought us round The happiest days that we've a-vound, When in the orcha'd, that did stratch To westward out avore the patch Ov high-bough'd wood, an' shelve to catch The western zun-light, we did meet Wi' merry tongues an' skippen veet At evenen in the twilight.

The evenen air did fan, in turn, The cheaeks the midday zun did burn. An' zet the russlen leaves at play, An' meaeke the red-stemm'd brembles sway In bows below the snow-white may; An' whirlen roun' the trees, did sheaeke Jeaene's raven curls about her neck, They evenens in the twilight.

An' there the yollow light did rest Upon the bank toward the west, An' twitt'ren birds did hop in drough The hedge, an' many a skippen shoe Did beaet the flowers, wet wi' dew, As underneaeth the tree's wide limb Our merry sheaepes did jumpy, dim, They evenens in the twilight.

How sweet's the evenen dusk to rove Along wi' woone that we do love! When light enough is in the sky To sheaede the smile an' light the eye 'Tis all but heaven to be by; An' bid, in whispers soft an' light 'S the ruslen ov a leaf, "Good night," At evenen in the twilight.

An' happy be the young an' strong, That can but work the whole day long So merry as the birds in spring; An' have noo ho vor any thing Another day mid teaeke or bring; But meet, when all their work's a-done, In orcha'd vor their bit o' fun At evenen in the twilight.

EVENEN IN THE VILLAGE.

Now the light o' the west is a-turn'd to gloom, An' the men be at hwome vrom ground; An' the bells be a-zenden all down the Coombe From tower, their mwoansome sound. An' the wind is still, An' the house-dogs do bark, An' the rooks be a-vled to the elems high an' dark, An' the water do roar at mill.

An' the flickeren light drough the window-peaene Vrom the candle's dull fleaeme do shoot, An' young Jemmy the smith is a-gone down leaene, A-playen his shrill-vaiced flute. An' the miller's man Do zit down at his ease On the seat that is under the cluster o' trees. Wi' his pipe an' his cider can.

MAY.

Come out o' door, 'tis Spring! 'tis May The trees be green, the vields be gay; The weather's warm, the winter blast, Wi' all his train o' clouds, is past; The zun do rise while vo'k do sleep, To teaeke a higher daily zweep, Wi' cloudless feaece a-flingen down His sparklen light upon the groun'.

The air's a-streamen soft,—come drow The windor open; let it blow In drough the house, where vire, an' door A-shut, kept out the cwold avore. Come, let the vew dull embers die, An' come below the open sky; An' wear your best, vor fear the groun' In colours gay mid sheaeme your gown: An' goo an' rig wi' me a mile Or two up over geaete an' stile, Drough zunny parrocks that do leaed, Wi' crooked hedges, to the meaed, Where elems high, in steaetely ranks, Do rise vrom yollow cowslip-banks, An' birds do twitter vrom the spray O' bushes deck'd wi' snow-white may; An' gil'cups, wi' the deaeisy bed, Be under ev'ry step you tread.

We'll wind up roun' the hill, an' look All down the thickly-timber'd nook, Out where the squier's house do show His grey-wall'd peaks up drough the row O' sheaedy elems, where the rook Do build her nest; an' where the brook Do creep along the meaeds, an' lie To catch the brightness o' the sky; An' cows, in water to their knees, Do stan' a-whisken off the vlees.

Mother o' blossoms, and ov all That's feaeir a-yield vrom Spring till Fall, The gookoo over white-weaev'd seas Do come to zing in thy green trees, An' buttervlees, in giddy flight, Do gleaem the mwost by thy gay light Oh! when, at last, my fleshly eyes Shall shut upon the vields an' skies, Mid zummer's zunny days be gone, An' winter's clouds be comen on: Nor mid I draw upon the e'th, O' thy sweet air my leaetest breath; Alassen I mid want to stay Behine' for thee, O flow'ry May!

BOB THE FIDDLER.

Oh! Bob the fiddler is the pride O' chaps an' maidens vur an' wide; They can't keep up a merry tide, But Bob is in the middle. If merry Bob do come avore ye, He'll zing a zong, or tell a story; But if you'd zee en in his glory, Jist let en have a fiddle.

Aye, let en tuck a crowd below His chin, an' gi'e his vist a bow, He'll dreve his elbow to an' fro', An' play what you do please. At Maypolen, or feaest, or feaeir, His eaerm wull zet off twenty peaeir, An' meaeke em dance the groun' dirt-beaere, An' hop about lik' vlees.

Long life to Bob! the very soul O' me'th at merry feaest an' pole; Vor when the crowd do leaeve his jowl, They'll all be in the dumps. Zoo at the dance another year, At Shillinston or Hazelbur', Mid Bob be there to meaeke em stir, In merry jigs, their stumps!

HOPE IN SPRING.

In happy times a while agoo, My lively hope, that's now a-gone Did stir my heart the whole year drough, But mwost when green-bough'd spring come on; When I did rove, wi' litty veet, Drough deaeisy-beds so white's a sheet, But still avore I us'd to meet The blushen cheaeks that bloom'd vor me!

An' afterward, in lightsome youth, When zummer wer a-comen on, An' all the trees wer white wi' blooth, An' dippen zwallows skimm'd the pon'; Sweet hope did vill my heart wi' jay, An' tell me, though thik spring wer gay, There still would come a brighter May, Wi' blushen cheaeks to bloom vor me!

An' when, at last, the time come roun', An' brought a lofty zun to sheen Upon my smilen Fanny, down Drough n[=e]sh young leaves o' yollow green; How charmen wer the het that glow'd, How charmen wer the sheaede a-drow'd, How charmen wer the win' that blow'd Upon her cheaeks that bloom'd vor me!

But hardly did they times begin, Avore I vound em short to stay: An' year by year do now come in, To peaert me wider vrom my jay, Vor what's to meet, or what's to peaert, Wi' maidens kind, or maidens smart, When hope's noo longer in the heart, An' cheaeks noo mwore do bloom vor me!

But there's a worold still to bless The good, where zickness never rose; An' there's a year that's winterless, Where glassy waters never vroze; An' there, if true but e'thly love Do seem noo sin to God above, 'S a smilen still my harmless dove, So feaeir as when she bloom'd vor me!

THE WHITE ROAD UP ATHIRT THE HILL.

When hot-beam'd zuns do strik right down, An' burn our zweaty feaezen brown; An' zunny slopes, a-lyen nigh, Be back'd by hills so blue's the sky; Then, while the bells do sweetly cheem Upon the champen high-neck'd team, How lively, wi' a friend, do seem The white road up athirt the hill.

The zwellen downs, wi' chalky tracks A-climmen up their zunny backs, Do hide green meaeds an' zedgy brooks. An' clumps o' trees wi' glossy rooks, An' hearty vo'k to laugh an' zing, An' parish-churches in a string, Wi' tow'rs o' merry bells to ring, An' white roads up athirt the hills.

At feaest, when uncle's vo'k do come To spend the day wi' us at hwome, An' we do lay upon the bwoard The very best we can avvword, The wolder woones do talk an' smoke, An' younger woones do play an' joke, An' in the evenen all our vo'k Do bring em gwain athirt the hill.

An' while the green do zwarm wi' wold An' young, so thick as sheep in vwold, The bellows in the blacksmith's shop, An' miller's moss-green wheel do stop, An' lwonesome in the wheelwright's shed 'S a-left the wheelless waggon-bed; While zwarms o' comen friends do tread The white road down athirt the hill.

An' when the winden road so white, A-climmen up the hills in zight, Do leaed to pleaezen, east or west, The vu'st a-known, an' lov'd the best, How touchen in the zunsheen's glow, Or in the sheaedes that clouds do drow Upon the zunburnt downs below, 'S the white road up athirt the hill.

What peaceful hollows here the long White roads do windy round among! Wi' deaeiry cows in woody nooks, An' haymeaekers among their pooks, An' housen that the trees do screen From zun an' zight by boughs o' green! Young blushen beauty's hwomes between The white roads up athirt the hills.

THE WOODY HOLLOW.

If mem'ry, when our hope's a-gone, Could bring us dreams to cheat us on, Ov happiness our hearts voun' true In years we come too quickly drough; What days should come to me, but you, That burn'd my youthvul cheaeks wi' zuns O' zummer, in my playsome runs About the woody hollow.

When evenen's risen moon did peep Down drough the hollow dark an' deep, Where gigglen sweethearts meaede their vows In whispers under waggen boughs; When whisslen bwoys, an' rott'len ploughs Wer still, an' mothers, wi' their thin Shrill vaices, call'd their daughters in, From walken in the hollow;

What souls should come avore my zight, But they that had your zummer light? The litsome younger woones that smil'd Wi' comely feaezen now a-spweil'd; Or wolder vo'k, so wise an' mild, That I do miss when I do goo To zee the pleaece, an' walk down drough The lwonesome woody hollow?

When wrongs an' overbearen words Do prick my bleeden heart lik' swords, Then I do try, vor Christes seaeke, To think o' you, sweet days! an' meaeke My soul as 'twer when you did weaeke My childhood's eyes, an' when, if spite Or grief did come, did die at night In sleep 'ithin the hollow.

JENNY'S RIBBONS.

Jean ax'd what ribbon she should wear 'Ithin her bonnet to the feaeir? She had woone white, a-gi'ed her when She stood at Meaery's chrissenen; She had woone brown, she had woone red, A keepseaeke vrom her brother dead, That she did like to wear, to goo To zee his greaeve below the yew.

She had woone green among her stock, That I'd a-bought to match her frock; She had woone blue to match her eyes, The colour o' the zummer skies, An' thik, though I do like the rest, Is he that I do like the best, Because she had en in her heaeir When vu'st I walk'd wi' her at feaeir.

The brown, I zaid, would do to deck Thy heaeir; the white would match thy neck; The red would meaeke thy red cheaek wan A-thinken o' the gi'er gone; The green would show thee to be true; But still I'd sooner zee the blue, Because 'twer he that deck'd thy heaeir When vu'st I walk'd wi' thee at feaeir.

Zoo, when she had en on, I took Her han' 'ithin my elbow's crook, An' off we went athirt the weir An' up the meaed toward the feaeir; The while her mother, at the geaete, Call'd out an' bid her not stay leaete, An' she, a-smilen wi' her bow O' blue, look'd roun' and nodded, No.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

THE 'LOTMENTS.

John and Richard.

JOHN.

Zoo you be in your groun' then, I do zee, A-worken and a-zingen lik' a bee. How do it answer? what d'ye think about it? D'ye think 'tis better wi' it than without it? A-recknen rent, an' time, an' zeed to stock it, D'ye think that you be any thing in pocket?

RICHARD.

O', 'tis a goodish help to woone, I'm sure o't. If I had not a-got it, my poor bwones Would now ha' eaech'd a-cracken stwones Upon the road; I wish I had zome mwore o't.

JOHN.

I wish the girt woones had a-got the greaece To let out land lik' this in ouer pleaece; But I do fear there'll never be nwone vor us, An' I can't tell whatever we shall do: We be a-most starven, an' we'd goo To 'merica, if we'd enough to car us.

RICHARD.

Why 'twer the squire, good now! a worthy man, That vu'st brought into ouer pleaece the plan, He zaid he'd let a vew odd eaecres O' land to us poor leaeb'ren men; An', faith, he had enough o' teaekers Vor that, an' twice so much ageaen. Zoo I took zome here, near my hovel, To exercise my speaede an' shovel; An' what wi' dungen, diggen up, an' zeeden, A-thinnen, cleaenen, howen up an' weeden, I, an' the biggest o' the childern too, Do always vind some useful jobs to do.

JOHN.

Aye, wi' a bit o' ground, if woone got any, Woone's bwoys can soon get out an' eaern a penny; An' then, by worken, they do learn the vaster The way to do things when they have a meaester; Vor woone must know a deael about the land Bevore woone's fit to lend a useful hand, In geaerden or a-vield upon a farm.