Part 20

Then he snarl'd at the tea in his cup, Vor 'twer all a-got cwold in the pot, But 'twer woo'se when his wife vill'd it up Vrom the vier, vor 'twer then scalden hot; Then he growl'd that the bread wer sich stuff As noo hammer in parish could crack, An' flung down the knife in a huff; Vor the edge o'n wer thicker'n the back. Vor beaekers an' meaekers o' tools Be all fools wi' Gruffmoody Grim.

Oone day as he vish'd at the brook, He flung up, wi' a quick-handed knack, His long line, an' his high-vleen hook Wer a-hitch'd in zome briars at his back. Then he zwore at the brembles, an' prick'd His beaere hand, as he pull'd the hook free; An' ageaen, in a rage, as he kick'd At the briars, wer a-scratch'd on the knee. An' he wish'd ev'ry bremble an' briar Wer o' vier, did Gruffmoody Grim.

Oh! he's welcome, vor me, to breed dread Wherever his sheaede mid alight, An' to live wi' noo me'th round his head, An' noo feaece wi' a smile in his zight; But let vo'k be all merry an' zing At the he'th where my own logs do burn, An' let anger's wild vist never swing In where I have a door on his durn; Vor I'll be a happier man, While I can, than Gruffmoody Grim.

To zit down by the vier at night, Is my jay—vor I woon't call it pride,— Wi' a brand on the bricks, all alight, An' a pile o' zome mwore at the zide. Then tell me o' zome'hat that's droll, An' I'll laugh till my two zides do eaeche Or o' naighbours in sorrow o' soul, An' I'll tweil all the night vor their seaeke; An' show that to teaeke things amiss Idden bliss, to Gruffmoody Grim.

An' then let my child clim' my lag, An' I'll lift en, wi' love, to my chin; Or my maid come an' coax me to bag Vor a frock, an' a frock she shall win; Or, then if my wife do meaeke light O' whatever the bwoys mid ha' broke, It wull seem but so small in my zight, As a leaf a-het down vrom a woak An' not meaeke me ceaeper an' froth Vull o' wrath, lik' Gruffmoody Grim.

THE TURN O' THE DAYS.

O the wings o' the rook wer a-glitteren bright, As he wheel'd on above, in the zun's evenen light, An' noo snow wer a-left, but in patches o' white, On the hill at the turn o' the days. An' along on the slope wer the beaere-timber'd copse, Wi' the dry wood a-sheaeken, wi' red-twigged tops. Vor the dry-flowen wind, had a-blow'd off the drops O' the rain, at the turn o' the days.

There the stream did run on, in the sheaede o' the hill, So smooth in his flowen, as if he stood still, An' bright wi' the skylight, did slide to the mill, By the meaeds, at the turn o' the days. An' up by the copse, down along the hill brow, Wer vurrows a-cut down, by men out at plough, So straight as the zunbeams, a-shot drough the bough O' the tree at the turn o' the days.

Then the boomen wold clock in the tower did mark His vive hours, avore the cool evenen wer dark, An' ivy did glitter a-clung round the bark O' the tree, at the turn o' the days. An' women a-fraid o' the road in the night, Wer a-heaestenen on to reach hwome by the light, A-casten long sheaedes on the road, a-dried white, Down the hill, at the turn o' the days.

The father an' mother did walk out to view The moss-bedded snow-drop, a-sprung in the lew, An' hear if the birds wer a-zingen anew, In the boughs, at the turn o' the days. An' young vo'k a-laughen wi' smooth glossy feaece, Did hie over vields, wi' a light-vooted peaece, To friends where the tow'r did betoken a pleaece Among trees, at the turn o' the days.

THE SPARROW CLUB.

Last night the merry farmers' sons, Vrom biggest down to leaest, min, Gi'ed in the work of all their guns, An' had their sparrow feaest, min. An' who vor woone good merry soul Should goo to sheaere their me'th, min, But Gammon Gay, a chap so droll, He'd meaeke ye laugh to death, min.

Vor heads o' sparrows they've a-shot They'll have a prize in cwein, min, That is, if they can meaeke their scot, Or else they'll pay a fine, min. An' all the money they can teaeke 'S a-gather'd up there-right, min, An' spent in meat an' drink, to meaeke A supper vor the night, min.

Zoo when they took away the cloth, In middle of their din, min, An' cups o' eaele begun to froth, Below their merry chin, min. An' when the zong, by turn or chaice, Went roun' vrom tongue to tongue, min, Then Gammon pitch'd his merry vaice, An' here's the zong he zung, min.

Zong.

If you'll but let your clackers rest Vrom jabberen an' hooten, I'll teaeke my turn, an' do my best, To zing o' sparrow shooten. Since every woone mus' pitch his key, An' zing a zong, in coo'se, lads, Why sparrow heads shall be to-day The heads o' my discoo'se, lads.

We'll zend abroad our viery hail Till ev'ry foe's a-vled, lads, An' though the rogues mid all turn tail, We'll quickly show their head, lads. In corn, or out on oben ground, In bush, or up in tree, lads, If we don't kill em, I'll be bound, We'll meaeke their veathers vlee, lads.

Zoo let the belted spwortsmen brag When they've a-won a neaeme, so's, That they do vind, or they do bag, Zoo many head o' geaeme, so's; Vor when our cwein is woonce a-won, By heads o' sundry sizes, Why, who can slight what we've a-done? We've all a-won head prizes.

Then teaeke a drap vor harmless fun, But not enough to quarrel; Though where a man do like the gun, He can't but need the barrel. O' goodly feaere, avore we'll start, We'll zit an' teaeke our vill, min; Our supper-bill can be but short, 'Tis but a sparrow-bill, min.

GAMMONY GA[:Y].

Oh! thik Gammony Gay is so droll, That if he's at hwome by the he'th, Or wi' vo'k out o' door, he's the soul O' the meeten vor antics an' me'th; He do cast off the thoughts ov ill luck As the water's a-shot vrom a duck; He do zing where his naighbours would cry He do laugh where the rest o's would sigh: Noo other's so merry o' feaece, In the pleaece, as Gammony Gay.

An' o' worken days, Oh! he do wear Such a funny roun' hat,—you mid know't— Wi' a brim all a-strout roun' his heaeir, An' his glissenen eyes down below't; An' a cwoat wi' broad skirts that do vlee In the wind ov his walk, round his knee; An' a peaeir o' girt pockets lik' bags, That do swing an' do bob at his lags: While me'th do walk out drough the pleaece, In the feaece o' Gammony Gay.

An' if he do goo over groun' Wi' noo soul vor to greet wi' his words, The feaece o'n do look up an' down, An' round en so quick as a bird's; An' if he do vall in wi' vo'k, Why, tidden vor want ov a joke, If he don't zend em on vrom the pleaece Wi' a smile or a grin on their feaece: An' the young wi' the wold have a-heaerd A kind word vrom Gammony Gay.

An' when he do whissel or hum, 'Ithout thinken o' what he's a-doen, He'll beaet his own lags vor a drum, An' bob his gay head to the tuen; An' then you mid zee, 'etween whiles, His feaece all alive wi' his smiles, An' his gay-breathen bozom do rise, An' his me'th do sheen out ov his eyes: An' at last to have praise or have bleaeme, Is the seaeme to Gammony Gay.

When he drove his wold cart out, an' broke The nut o' the wheel at a butt. There wer "woo'se things," he cried, wi' a joke. "To grieve at than cracken a nut." An' when he tipp'd over a lwoad Ov his reed-sheaves woone day on the rwoad, Then he spet in his han's, out o' sleeves, An' whissel'd, an' flung up his sheaves, As very vew others can wag, Eaerm or lag, but Gammony Gay.

He wer wi' us woone night when the band Wer a-come vor to gi'e us a hop, An' he pull'd Grammer out by the hand All down drough the dance vrom the top; An' Grammer did hobble an' squall, Wi' Gammon a-leaeden the ball; While Gammon did sheaeke up his knee An' his voot, an' zing "Diddle-ee-dee!" An' we laugh'd ourzelves all out o' breath At the me'th o' Gammony Gay.

When our tun wer' o' vier he rod Out to help us, an' meaede us sich fun, Vor he clomb up to dreve in a wad O' wet thorns, to the he'th, vrom the tun; An' there he did stamp wi' his voot, To push down the thorns an' the zoot, Till at last down the chimney's black wall Went the wad, an' poor Gammon an' all: An' seaefe on the he'th, wi' a grin On his chin pitch'd Gammony Gay.

All the house-dogs do waggle their tails, If they do but catch zight ov his feaece; An' the ho'ses do look over rails, An' do whicker to zee'n at the pleaece; An' he'll always bestow a good word On a cat or a whisselen bird; An' even if culvers do coo, Or an owl is a-cryen "Hoo, hoo," Where he is, there's always a joke To be spoke, by Gammony Gay.

THE HEARE.

(Dree o'm a-ta'ken o't.)

(1) There be the greyhounds! lo'k! an' there's the heaere! (2) What houn's, the squier's, Thomas? where, then, where?

(1) Why, out in Ash Hill, near the barn, behind Thik tree. (3) The pollard? (1) Pollard! no, b'ye blind? (2) There, I do zee em over-right thik cow. (3) The red woone? (1) No, a mile beyand her now. (3) Oh! there's the heaere, a-meaeken for the drong. (2) My goodness! How the dogs do zweep along, A-poken out their pweinted noses' tips. (3) He can't allow hizzelf much time vor slips! (1) They'll hab'en, after all, I'll bet a crown. (2) Done vor a crown. They woon't! He's gwaein to groun'. (3) He is! (1) He idden! (3) Ah! 'tis well his tooes Ha' got noo corns, inside o' hobnail shoes. (1) He's geaeme a runnen too. Why, he do mwore Than eaern his life. (3) His life wer his avore. (1) There, now the dogs wull turn en. (2) No! He's right. (1) He idden! (2) Ees he is! (3) He's out o' zight. (1) Aye, aye. His mettle wull be well a-tried Agwain down Verny Hill, o' tother zide. They'll have en there. (3) O no! a vew good hops Wull teaeke en on to Knapton Lower Copse. (2) An' that's a meesh that he've a-took avore. (3) Ees, that's his hwome. (1) He'll never reach his door. (2) He wull. (1) He woon't. (3) Now, hark, d'ye heaer em now? (2) O! here's a bwoy a-come athirt the brow O' Knapton Hill. We'll ax en. (1) Here, my bwoy! Can'st tell us where's the heaere? (4) He's got awoy. (2) Ees, got awoy, in coo'se, I never zeed A heaere a-scoten on wi' half his speed. (1) Why, there, the dogs be wold, an' half a-done. They can't catch anything wi' lags to run. (2) Vrom vu'st to last they had but little chance O' catchen o'n. (3) They had a perty dance. (1) No, catch en, no! I little thought they would; He know'd his road too well to Knapton Wood. (3) No! no! I wish the squier would let me feaere On rabbits till his hounds do catch thik heaere.

NANNY GILL.

Ah! they wer times, when Nanny Gill Went so'jeren ageaenst her will, Back when the King come down to view His ho'se an' voot, in red an' blue, An' they did march in rows, An' wheel in lines an' bows, Below the King's own nose; An' guns did pwoint, an' swords did gleaere, A-fighten foes that werden there.

Poor Nanny Gill did goo to zell In town her glitt'ren macarel, A-pack'd wi' ceaere, in even lots, A-ho'seback in a peaeir o' pots. An' zoo when she did ride Between her panniers wide, Red-cloked in all her pride, Why, who but she, an' who but broke The road avore her scarlet cloke!

But Nanny's ho'se that she did ride, Woonce carr'd a sword ageaen his zide, An' had, to prick en into rank, A so'jer's spurs ageaen his flank; An' zoo, when he got zight O' swords a-gleamen bright, An' men agwain to fight, He set his eyes athirt the ground, An' prick'd his ears to catch the sound.

Then Nanny gi'ed his zide a kick, An' het en wi' her limber stick; But suddenly a horn did sound, An' zend the ho'semen on vull bound; An' her ho'se at the zight Went after em, vull flight, Wi' Nanny in a fright, A-pullen, wi' a scream an' grin, Her wold brown rains to hold en in.

But no! he went away vull bound, As vast as he could tear the ground, An' took, in line, a so'jer's pleaece, Vor Nanny's cloke an' frighten'd feaece; While vo'k did laugh an' shout To zee her cloke stream out, As she did wheel about, A-cryen, "Oh! la! dear!" in fright, The while her ho'se did play sham fight.

MOONLIGHT ON THE DOOR.

A-swayen slow, the poplar's head, Above the slopen thatch did ply, The while the midnight moon did shed His light below the spangled sky. An' there the road did reach avore The hatch, all vootless down the hill; An' hands, a-tired by day, wer still, Wi' moonlight on the door.

A-boomen deep, did slowly sound The bell, a-tellen middle night; The while the quiv'ren ivy, round The tree, did sheaeke in softest light. But vootless wer the stwone avore The house where I, the maidens guest, At evenen, woonce did zit at rest By moonlight on the door.

Though till the dawn, where night's a-meaede The day, the laughen crowds be gay, Let evenen zink wi' quiet sheaede, Where I do hold my little sway. An' childern dear to my heart's core, A-sleep wi' little heaven breast, That pank'd by day in play, do rest Wi' moonlight on the door.

But still 'tis good, woonce now an' then To rove where moonlight on the land Do show in vain, vor heedless men, The road, the vield, the work in hand. When curtains be a-hung avore The glitt'ren windows, snowy white, An' vine-leaf sheaedes do sheaeke in light O' moonlight on the door.

MY LOVE'S GUARDIAN ANGEL.

As in the cool-air'd road I come by, —in the night, Under the moon-clim'd height o' the sky, —in the night, There by the lime's broad lim's as I stay'd, Dark in the moonlight, bough's sheaedows play'd Up on the window-glass that did keep Lew vrom the wind, my true love asleep, —in the night.

While in the grey-wall'd height o' the tow'r, —in the night, Sounded the midnight bell wi' the hour, —in the night, There lo! a bright-heaeir'd angel that shed Light vrom her white robe's zilvery thread, Put her vore-vinger up vor to meaeke Silence around lest sleepers mid weaeke, —in the night.

"Oh! then," I whisper'd, do I behold —in the night. Linda, my true-love, here in the cwold, —in the night?" "No," she meaede answer, "you do misteaeke: She is asleep, but I that do weaeke, Here be on watch, an' angel a-blest, Over her slumber while she do rest, —in the night."

"Zee how the winds, while here by the bough, —in the night, They do pass on, don't smite on her brow, in the night; Zee how the cloud-sheaedes naiseless do zweep Over the house-top where she's asleep. You, too, goo by, in times that be near, You too, as I, mid speak in her ear —in the night."

LEEBURN MILL,

Ov all the meaeds wi' shoals an' pools, Where streams did sheaeke the limber zedge, An' milken vo'k did teaeke their stools, In evenen zun-light under hedge: Ov all the wears the brook did vill, Or all the hatches where a sheet O' foam did leaep below woone's veet, The pleaece vor me wer Leeburn Mill.

An' while below the mossy wheel All day the foamen stream did roar, An' up in mill the floaten meal Did pitch upon the sheaeken vloor. We then could vind but vew han's still, Or veet a-resten off the ground, An' seldom hear the merry sound O' geaemes a-play'd at Leeburn Mill.

But when they let the stream goo free, Bezide the drippen wheel at rest, An' leaves upon the poplar-tree Wer dark avore the glowen west; An' when the clock, a-ringen sh'ill, Did slowly beaet zome evenen hour, Oh! then 'ithin the leafy bow'r Our tongues did run at Leeburn Mill.

An' when November's win' did blow, Wi' hufflen storms along the plain, An' blacken'd leaves did lie below The neaeked tree, a-zoak'd wi' rain, I werden at a loss to vill The darkest hour o' rainy skies, If I did vind avore my eyes The feaeces down at Leeburn Mill.

PRAISE O' DO'SET.

We Do'set, though we mid be hwomely, Be'nt asheaem'd to own our pleaece; An' we've zome women not uncomely; Nor asheaem'd to show their feaece: We've a meaed or two wo'th mowen, We've an ox or two we'th showen, In the village, At the tillage, Come along an' you shall vind That Do'set men don't sheaeme their kind. Friend an' wife, Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, Happy, happy, be their life! Vor Do'set dear, Then gi'e woone cheer; D'ye hear? woone cheer!

If you in Do'set be a-roamen, An' ha' business at a farm, Then woont ye zee your eaele a-foamen! Or your cider down to warm? Woont ye have brown bread a-put ye, An' some vinny cheese a-cut ye? Butter?—rolls o't! Cream?—why bowls o't! Woont ye have, in short, your vill, A-gi'ed wi' a right good will? Friend an' wife, Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers. Happy, happy, be their life! Vor Do'set dear, Then gi'e woone cheer; D'ye hear? woone cheer!

An' woont ye have vor ev'ry shillen, Shillen's wo'th at any shop, Though Do'set chaps be up to zellen, An' can meaeke a tidy swop? Use em well, they'll use you better; In good turns they woont be debtor. An' so comely, An' so hwomely, Be the maidens, if your son Took woone o'm, then you'd cry "Well done!" Friend an' wife, Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, Happy, happy, be their life! Vor Do'set dear, Then gi'e woone cheer; D'ye hear? woone cheer!

If you do zee our good men travel, Down a-voot, or on their meaeres, Along the winden leaenes o' gravel, To the markets or the feaeirs,— Though their ho'ses cwoats be ragged, Though the men be muddy-lagged, Be they roughish, Be they gruffish, They be sound, an' they will stand By what is right wi' heart an' hand. Friend an' wife, Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, Happy, happy, be their life! Vor Do'set dear, Then gi'e woone cheer; D'ye hear? woone cheer!

POEMS OF RURAL LIFE.

THIRD COLLECTION.

WOONE SMILE MWORE.

O! Meaery, when the zun went down, Woone night in Spring, wi' vi'ry rim, Behind thik nap wi' woody crown, An' left your smilen feaece so dim; Your little sister there, inside, Wi' bellows on her little knee, Did blow the vier, a-glearen wide Drough window-peaenes, that I could zee,— As you did stan' wi' me, avore The house, a-peaerten,—woone smile mwore.

The chatt'ren birds, a-risen high, An' zinken low, did swiftly vlee Vrom shrinken moss, a-growen dry, Upon the leaenen apple tree. An' there the dog, a-whippen wide His heaeiry tail, an' comen near, Did fondly lay ageaen your zide His coal-black nose an' russet ear: To win what I'd a-won avore, Vrom your gay feaece, his woone smile mwore.

An' while your mother bustled sprack, A-getten supper out in hall, An' cast her sheaede, a-whiv'ren black Avore the vier, upon the wall; Your brother come, wi' easy peaece, In drough the slammen geaete, along The path, wi' healthy-bloomen feaece, A-whis'len shrill his last new zong; An' when he come avore the door, He met vrom you his woone smile mwore.

Now you that wer the daughter there, Be mother on a husband's vloor, An' mid ye meet wi' less o' ceaere Than what your hearty mother bore; An' if abroad I have to rue The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed, Mid I come hwome to sheaere wi' you What's needvul free o' pinchen need: An' vind that you ha' still in store, My evenen meal, an' woone smile mwore.