Part 22

There the copse-wood, a-grow'd to a height, Wer a-vell'd, an' the primrwose in blooth, Among chips on the ground a-turn'd white, Wer a-quiv'ren, all beaere ov his lewth. The green moss wer a-spread on the thatch, That I left yollow reed, an' avore The small green, there did swing a new hatch, Vor to let me walk into the door. Oh! the rook did still rock o'er the rick, But wi' Meaery a-married away.

PICKEN O' SCROFF.

Oh! the wood wer a-vell'd in the copse, An' the moss-bedded primrwose did blow; An' vrom tall-stemmed trees' leafless tops, There did lie but slight sheaedes down below. An' the sky wer a-showen, in drough By the tree-stems, the deepest o' blue, Wi' a light that did vall on an' off The dry ground, a-strew'd over wi' scroff.

There the hedge that wer leaetely so high, Wer a-plush'd, an' along by the zide, Where the waggon 'd a-haul'd the wood by, There did reach the deep wheelrouts, a-dried. An' the groun' wi' the sticks wer bespread, Zome a-cut off alive, an' zome dead. An' vor burnen, well wo'th reaeken off, By the childern a-picken o' scroff.

In the tree-studded leaeze, where the woak Wer a-spreaden his head out around, There the scrags that the wind had a-broke, Wer a-lyen about on the ground Or the childern, wi' little red hands, Wer a-tyen em up in their bands; Vor noo squier or farmer turn'd off Little childern a-picken o' scroff.

There wer woone bloomen child wi' a cloak On her shoulders, as green as the ground; An' another, as gray as the woak, Wi' a bwoy in a brown frock, a-brown'd. An' woone got up, in play, vor to tait, On a woak-limb, a-growen out straight. But she soon wer a-taited down off, By her meaetes out a-picken o' scroff.

When they childern do grow to staid vo'k, An' goo out in the worold, all wide Vrom the copse, an' the zummerleaeze woak, Where at last all their elders ha' died, They wull then vind it touchen to bring, To their minds, the sweet springs o' their spring, Back avore the new vo'k did turn off The poor childern a-picken o' scroff.

GOOD NIGHT.

While down the meaeds wound slow, Water vor green-wheel'd mills, Over the streams bright bow, Win' come vrom dark-back'd hills. Birds on the win' shot along down steep Slopes, wi' a swift-swung zweep. Dim weaen'd the red streak'd west Lim'-weary souls "Good rest."

Up on the plough'd hill brow, Still wer the zull's wheel'd beam, Still wer the red-wheel'd plough, Free o' the strong limb'd team, Still wer the shop that the smith meaede ring, Dark where the sparks did spring; Low shot the zun's last beams. Lim'-weary souls "Good dreams."

Where I vrom dark bank-sheaedes Turn'd up the west hill road, Where all the green grass bleaedes Under the zunlight glow'd. Startled I met, as the zunbeams play'd Light, wi' a zunsmote maid, Come vor my day's last zight, Zun-brighten'd maid "Good night."

WENT HWOME.

Upon the slope, the hedge did bound The yield wi' blossom-whited zide, An' charlock patches, yollow-dyed, Did reach along the white-soil'd ground, An' vo'k, a-comen up vrom meaed, Brought gil'cup meal upon the shoe; Or went on where the road did leaed, Wi' smeechy doust from heel to tooe. As noon did smite, wi' burnen light, The road so white, to Meldonley.

An' I did tramp the zun-dried ground, By hedge-climb'd hills, a-spread wi' flow'rs, An' watershooten dells, an' tow'rs, By elem-trees a-hemm'd all round, To zee a vew wold friends, about Wold Meldon, where I still ha' zome, That bid me speed as I come out, An' now ha' bid me welcome hwome, As I did goo, while skies wer blue, Vrom view to view, to Meldonley.

An' there wer timber'd knaps, that show'd Cool sheaedes, vor rest, on grassy ground, An' thatch-brow'd windows, flower-bound, Where I could wish wer my abode. I pass'd the maid avore the spring, An' shepherd by the thornen tree; An' heaerd the merry drever zing, But met noo kith or kin to me, Till I come down, vrom Meldon's crown To rufs o' brown, at Meldonley.

THE HOLLOW WOAK.

The woaken tree, so hollow now, To souls ov other times wer sound, An' reach'd on ev'ry zide a bough Above their heads, a-gather'd round, But zome light veet That here did meet In friendship sweet, vor rest or jay, Shall be a-miss'd another May.

My childern here, in playvul pride Did zit 'ithin his wooden walls, A-menten steaetely vo'k inside O' castle towers an' lofty halls. But now the vloor An' mossy door That woonce they wore would be too small To teaeke em in, so big an' tall.

Theaese year do show, wi' snow-white cloud, An' deaesies in a sprinkled bed, An' green-bough birds a-whislen loud, The looks o' zummer days a-vled; An' grass do grow, An' men do mow, An' all do show the wold times' feaece Wi' new things in the wold things' pleaece.

CHILDERN'S CHILDERN.

Oh! if my ling'ren life should run, Drough years a-reckoned ten by ten, Below the never-tiren zun, Till beaebes ageaen be wives an' men; An' stillest deafness should ha' bound My ears, at last, vrom ev'ry sound; Though still my eyes in that sweet light, Should have the zight o' sky an' ground: Would then my steaete In time so leaete, Be jay or pain, be pain or jay?

When Zunday then, a-weaenen dim, As theaese that now's a-clwosen still, Mid lose the zun's down-zinken rim, In light behind the vier-bound hill; An' when the bells' last peal's a-rung, An' I mid zee the wold an' young A-vlocken by, but shoulden hear, However near, a voot or tongue: Mid zuch a zight, In that soft light Be jay or pain, be pain or jay.

If I should zee among em all, In merry youth, a-gliden by, My son's bwold son, a-grown man-tall, Or daughter's daughter, woman-high; An' she mid smile wi' your good feaece, Or she mid walk your comely peaece, But seem, although a-chatten loud, So dumb's a cloud, in that bright pleaece: Would youth so feaeir, A-passen there, Be jay or pain, be pain or jay.

'Tis seldom strangth or comeliness Do leaeve us long. The house do show Men's sons wi' mwore, as they ha' less, An' daughters brisk, vor mothers slow. A dawn do clear the night's dim sky, Woone star do zink, an' woone goo high, An' liven gifts o' youth do vall, Vrom girt to small, but never die: An' should I view, What God mid do, Wi' jay or pain, wi' pain or jay?

THE RWOSE IN THE DARK.

In zummer, leaete at evenen tide, I zot to spend a moonless hour 'Ithin the window, wi' the zide A-bound wi' rwoses out in flow'r, Bezide the bow'r, vorsook o' birds, An' listen'd to my true-love's words.

A-risen to her comely height, She push'd the swingen ceaesement round; And I could hear, beyond my zight, The win'-blow'd beech-tree softly sound, On higher ground, a-swayen slow, On drough my happy hour below.

An' tho' the darkness then did hide The dewy rwose's blushen bloom, He still did cast sweet air inside To Jeaene, a-chatten in the room; An' though the gloom did hide her feaece, Her words did bind me to the pleaece.

An' there, while she, wi' runnen tongue, Did talk unzeen 'ithin the hall, I thought her like the rwose that flung His sweetness vrom his darken'd ball, 'Ithout the wall, an' sweet's the zight Ov her bright feaece by mornen light.

COME.

Wull ye come in eaerly Spring, Come at Easter, or in May? Or when Whitsuntide mid bring Longer light to show your way? Wull ye come, if you be true, Vor to quicken love anew. Wull ye call in Spring or Fall? Come now soon by zun or moon? Wull ye come?

Come wi' vaice to vaice the while All their words be sweet to hear; Come that feaece to feaece mid smile, While their smiles do seem so dear; Come within the year to seek Woone you have sought woonce a week? Come while flow'rs be on the bow'rs. And the bird o' zong's a-heaerd. Wull ye come?

Ees come to ye, an' come vor ye, is my word, I wull come.

ZUMMER WINDS.

Let me work, but mid noo tie Hold me vrom the oben sky, When zummer winds, in playsome flight, Do blow on vields in noon-day light, Or ruslen trees, in twilight night. Sweet's a stroll, By flow'ry knowl, or blue-feaeced pool That zummer win's do ruffle cool.

When the moon's broad light do vill Plains, a-sheenen down the hill; A-glitteren on window glass, O then, while zummer win's do pass The rippled brook, an' swayen grass, Sweet's a walk, Where we do talk, wi' feaeces bright, In whispers in the peacevul night.

When the swayen men do mow Flow'ry grass, wi' zweepen blow, In het a-most enough to dry The flat-spread clote-leaf that do lie Upon the stream a-stealen by, Sweet's their rest, Upon the breast o' knap or mound Out where the goocoo's vaice do sound.

Where the sleek-heaeir'd maid do zit Out o' door to zew or knit, Below the elem where the spring 'S a-runnen, an' the road do bring The people by to hear her zing, On the green, Where she's a-zeen, an' she can zee, O gay is she below the tree.

Come, O zummer wind, an' bring Sounds o' birds as they do zing, An' bring the smell o' bloomen may, An' bring the smell o' new-mow'd hay; Come fan my feaece as I do stray, Fan the heaeir O' Jessie feaeir; fan her cool, By the weaeves o' stream or pool.

THE NEAeME LETTERS.

When high-flown larks wer on the wing, A warm-air'd holiday in Spring, We stroll'd, 'ithout a ceaere or frown, Up roun' the down at Meldonley; An' where the hawthorn-tree did stand Alwone, but still wi' mwore at hand, We zot wi' sheaedes o' clouds on high A-flitten by, at Meldonley.

An' there, the while the tree did sheaede Their gigglen heads, my knife's keen bleaede Carved out, in turf avore my knee, J. L., T. D., at Meldonley. 'Twer Jessie Lee J. L. did meaen, T. D. did stan' vor Thomas Deaene; The "L" I scratch'd but slight, vor he Mid soon be D, at Meldonley.

An' when the vields o' wheat did spread Vrom hedge to hedge in sheets o' red. An' bennets wer a-sheaeken brown. Upon the down at Meldonley, We stroll'd ageaen along the hill, An' at the hawthorn-tree stood still, To zee J. L. vor Jessie Lee, An' my T. D., at Meldonley.

The grey-poll'd bennet-stems did hem Each half-hid letter's zunken rim, By leaedy's-vingers that did spread In yollow red, at Meldonley. An' heaerebells there wi' light blue bell Shook soundless on the letter L, To ment the bells when L vor Lee Become a D at Meldonley.

Vor Jessie, now my wife, do strive Wi' me in life, an' we do thrive; Two sleek-heaeired meaeres do sprackly pull My waggon vull, at Meldonley; An' small-hoof'd sheep, in vleeces white, Wi' quickly-panken zides, do bite My thymy grass, a-mark'd vor me In black, T. D., at Meldonley.

THE NEW HOUSE A-GETTEN WOLD.

Ah! when our wedded life begun, Theaese clean-wall'd house of ours wer new; Wi' thatch as yollor as the zun Avore the cloudless sky o' blue; The sky o' blue that then did bound The blue-hilled worold's flow'ry ground.

An' we've a-vound it weather-brown'd, As Spring-tide blossoms oben'd white, Or Fall did shed, on zunburnt ground, Red apples from their leafy height: Their leafy height, that Winter soon Left leafless to the cool-feaeced moon.

An' rain-bred moss ha' stain'd wi' green The smooth-feaeced wall's white-morter'd streaks, The while our childern zot between Our seats avore the fleaeme's red peaks: The fleaeme's red peaks, till axan white Did quench em vor the long-sleep'd night.

The bloom that woonce did overspread Your rounded cheaek, as time went by, A-shrinken to a patch o' red, Did feaede so soft's the evenen sky: The evenen sky, my faithful wife, O' days as feaeir's our happy life.

ZUNDAY.

In zummer, when the sheaedes do creep Below the Zunday steeple, round The mossy stwones, that love cut deep Wi' neaemes that tongues noo mwore do sound, The leaene do lose the stalken team, An' dry-rimm'd waggon-wheels be still, An' hills do roll their down-shot stream Below the resten wheel at mill. O holy day, when tweil do ceaese, Sweet day o' rest an' greaece an' peaece!

The eegrass, vor a while unwrung By hoof or shoe, 's a sheenen bright, An' clover flowers be a-sprung On new-mow'd knaps in beds o' white, An' sweet wild rwoses, up among The hedge-row boughs, do yield their smells. To aier that do bear along The loud-rung peals o' Zunday bells, Upon the day o' days the best, The day o' greaece an' peaece an' rest.

By brightshod veet, in peaeir an' peaeir, Wi' comely steps the road's a-took To church, an' work-free han's do beaer Woone's walken stick or sister's book; An' there the bloomen niece do come To zee her aunt, in all her best; Or married daughter do bring hwome Her vu'st sweet child upon her breast, As she do seek the holy pleaece, The day o' rest an' peaece an' greaece.

THE PILLAR'D GEAeTE.

As I come by, zome years agoo, A-burnt below a sky o' blue, 'Ithin the pillar'd geaete there zung A vaice a-sounden sweet an' young, That meaede me veel awhile to zwim In weaeves o' jay to hear its hymn; Vor all the zinger, angel-bright, Wer then a-hidden vrom my zight, An' I wer then too low To seek a meaete to match my steaete 'Ithin the lofty-pillar'd geaete, Wi' stwonen balls upon the walls: Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

Another time as I come by The house, below a dark-blue sky, The pillar'd geaete wer oben wide, An' who should be a-show'd inside, But she, the comely maid whose hymn Woonce meaede my giddy brain to zwim, A-zitten in the sheaede to zew, A-clad in robes as white as snow. What then? could I so low Look out a meaete ov higher steaete So gay 'ithin a pillar'd geaete, Wi' high walls round the smooth-mow'd ground? Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

Long years stole by, a-gliden slow, Wi' winter cwold an' zummer glow, An' she wer then a widow, clad In grey; but comely, though so sad; Her husband, heartless to his bride, Spent all her store an' wealth, an' died, Though she noo mwore could now rejaice, Yet sweet did sound her zongless vaice. But had she, in her woe, The higher steaete she had o' leaete 'Ithin the lofty pillar'd geaete, Wi' stwonen balls upon the walls? Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

But while she vell, my Meaeker's greaece Led me to teaeke a higher pleaece, An' lighten'd up my mind wi' lore, An' bless'd me wi' a worldly store; But still noo winsome feaece or vaice, Had ever been my wedded chaice; An' then I thought, why do I mwope Alwone without a jay or hope? Would she still think me low? Or scorn a meaete, in my feaeir steaete, In here 'ithin a pillar'd geaete, A happy pleaece wi' her kind feaece? Oh, no! my hope, no, no.

I don't stand out 'tis only feaete Do gi'e to each his wedded meaete; But eet there's woone above the rest, That every soul can like the best. An' my wold love's a-kindled new, An' my wold dream's a-come out true; But while I had noo soul to sheaere My good an' ill, an' jaey an ceaere, Should I have bliss below, In gleaemen pleaete an' lofty steaete 'Ithin the lofty pillar'd geaete, Wi' feaeirest flow'rs, an' ponds an' tow'rs? Oh, no! my heart, no, no.

ZUMMER STREAM.

Ah! then the grassy-meaeded May Did warm the passen year, an' gleam Upon the yellow-grounded stream, That still by beech-tree sheaedes do stray. The light o' weaeves, a-runnen there, Did play on leaves up over head, An' vishes sceaely zides did gleaere, A-darten on the shallow bed, An' like the stream a-sliden on, My zun out-measur'd time's agone.

There by the path, in grass knee-high, Wer buttervlees in giddy flight, All white above the deaeisies white, Or blue below the deep blue sky. Then glowen warm wer ev'ry brow, O' maid, or man, in zummer het, An' warm did glow the cheaeks I met That time, noo mwore to meet em now. As brooks, a-sliden on their bed, My season-measur'd time's a-vled.

Vrom yonder window, in the thatch, Did sound the maidens' merry words, As I did stand, by zingen birds, Bezide the elem-sheaeded hatch. 'Tis good to come back to the pleaece, Back to the time, to goo noo mwore; 'Tis good to meet the younger feaece A-menten others here avore. As streams do glide by green mead-grass, My zummer-brighten'd years do pass.

LINDA DEAeNE.

The bright-tunn'd house, a-risen proud, Stood high avore a zummer cloud, An' windy sheaedes o' tow'rs did vall Upon the many-window'd wall; An' on the grassy terrace, bright Wi' white-bloom'd zummer's deaisy beds, An' snow-white lilies nodden heads, Sweet Linda Deaene did walk in white; But ah! avore too high a door, Wer Linda Deaene ov Ellendon.

When sparklen brooks an' grassy ground, By keen-air'd Winter's vrost wer bound, An' star-bright snow did streak the forms O' beaere-lim'd trees in darksome storms, Sweet Linda Deaene did lightly glide, Wi' snow-white robe an' rwosy feaece, Upon the smooth-vloor'd hall, to treaece The merry dance o' Chris'mas tide; But oh! not mine be balls so fine As Linda Deaene's at Ellendon.

Sweet Linda Deaene do match the skies Wi' sheenen blue o' glisnen eyes, An' feairest blossoms do but show Her forehead's white, an' feaece's glow; But there's a winsome jay above, The brightest hues ov e'th an' skies. The dearest zight o' many eyes, Would be the smile o' Linda's love; But high above my lowly love Is Linda Deaene ov Ellendon.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

COME AND ZEE US IN THE ZUMMER.

John; William; William's Bwoy; and William's Maid at Feaeir.

JOHN.

Zoo here be your childern, a-sheaeren Your feaeir-day, an' each wi' a feaeiren.

WILLIAM.

Aye, well, there's noo peace 'ithout comen To stannen an' show, in the zummer.

JOHN.

An' how is your Jeaene? still as merry As ever, wi' cheaeks lik' a cherry?

WILLIAM.

Still merry, but beauty's as feaedesome 'S the rain's glowen bow in the zummer.

JOHN.

Well now, I do hope we shall vind ye Come soon, wi' your childern behind ye, To Stowe, while o' bwoth zides o' hedges, The zunsheen do glow in the zummer.

WILLIAM.

Well, aye, when the mowen is over, An' ee-grass do whiten wi' clover. A man's a-tired out, vor much walken, The while he do mow in the zummer.

WILLIAM'S BWOY.

I'll goo, an' we'll zet up a wicket, An' have a good innens at cricket; An' teaeke a good plounce in the water. Where clote-leaves do grow in the zummer.

WILLIAM'S MAID.

I'll goo, an' we'll play "Thread the needle" Or "Hunten the slipper," or wheedle Young Jemmy to fiddle, an' reely So brisk to an' fro in the zummer.

JOHN.

An' Jeaene. Mind you don't come 'ithout her, My wife is a-thinken about her; At our house she'll find she's as welcome 'S the rwose that do blow in the zummer.

LINDENORE.

At Lindenore upon the steep, Bezide the trees a-reachen high, The while their lower limbs do zweep The river-stream a-flowen by; By graegle bells in beds o' blue, Below the tree-stems in the lew, Calm air do vind the rwose-bound door, Ov Ellen Dare o' Lindenore.

An' there noo foam do hiss avore Swift bwoats, wi' water-plowen keels, An' there noo broad high-road's a-wore By vur-brought trav'lers' cracklen wheels; Noo crowd's a-passen to and fro, Upon the bridge's high-sprung bow: An' vew but I do seek the door Ov Ellen Dare o' Lindenore.

Vor there the town, wi' zun-bright walls, Do sheen vur off, by hills o' grey, An' town-vo'k ha' but seldom calls O' business there, from day to day: But Ellen didden leaeve her ruf To be admir'd, an' that's enough— Vor I've a-vound 'ithin her door, Feaeir Ellen Dare o' Lindenore.

ME'TH BELOW THE TREE.

O when theaese elems' crooked boughs, A'most too thin to sheaede the cows, Did slowly swing above the grass As winds o' Spring did softly pass, An' zunlight show'd the shiften sheaede, While youthful me'th wi' laughter loud, Did twist his lim's among the crowd Down there below; up there above Wer bright-ey'd me'th below the tree.

Down there the merry vo'k did vill The stwonen doorway, now so still; An' zome did joke, wi' ceaesement wide, Wi' other vo'k a-stood outside, Wi' words that head by head did heed. Below blue sky an' blue-smok'd tun, 'Twer jay to zee an' hear their fun, But sweeter jay up here above Wi' bright-ey'd me'th below the tree.