Part 24

Where the vaice o' the winds is mildest, In the plain, their stroke is keen; Where their dreatnen vaice is wildest, In the grove, the grove's our screen. An' where the worold in their strife Do dreaten mwost our tweilsome life, Why there Almighty ceaere mid cast A better screen ageaen the blast. Zoo I woon't live in fear o' men, But, man-neglected, God-directed, Still wull tweil an' tweil ageaen.

FANCY.

In stillness we ha' words to hear, An' sheaepes to zee in darkest night, An' tongues a-lost can hail us near, An' souls a-gone can smile in zight; When Fancy now do wander back To years a-spent, an' bring to mind Zome happy tide a-left behind In' weaesten life's slow-beaten track.

When feaeden leaves do drip wi' rain, Our thoughts can ramble in the dry; When Winter win' do zweep the plain We still can have a zunny sky. Vor though our limbs be winter-wrung, We still can zee, wi' Fancy's eyes, The brightest looks ov e'th an' skies, That we did know when we wer young.

In pain our thoughts can pass to eaese, In work our souls can be at play, An' leaeve behind the chilly leaese Vor warm-air'd meaeds o' new mow'd hay. When we do vlee in Fancy's flight Vrom daily ills avore our feaece, An' linger in zome happy pleaece Ov me'th an' smiles, an' warmth an' light.

THE BROKEN HEART.

News o' grief had overteaeken Dark-ey'd Fanny, now vorseaeken; There she zot, wi' breast a-heaven, While vrom zide to zide, wi' grieven, Vell her head, wi' tears a-creepen Down her cheaeks, in bitter weepen. There wer still the ribbon-bow She tied avore her hour ov woe, An' there wer still the han's that tied it Hangen white, Or wringen tight, In ceaere that drown'd all ceaere bezide it.

When a man, wi' heartless slighten, Mid become a maiden's blighten, He mid ceaerlessly vorseaeke her, But must answer to her Meaeker; He mid slight, wi' selfish blindness, All her deeds o' loven-kindness, God wull waigh em wi' the slighten That mid be her love's requiten; He do look on each deceiver, He do know What weight o' woe Do breaek the heart ov ev'ry griever.

EVENEN LIGHT.

The while I took my bit o' rest, Below my house's eastern sheaede, The things that stood in vield an' gleaede Wer bright in zunsheen vrom the west. There bright wer east-ward mound an' wall, An' bright wer trees, arisen tall, An' bright did break 'ithin the brook, Down rocks, the watervall.

There deep 'ithin my pworches bow Did hang my heavy woaken door, An' in beyond en, on the vloor, The evenen dusk did gather slow; But bright did gleaere the twinklen spwokes O' runnen carriage wheels, as vo'ks Out east did ride along the road, Bezide the low-bough'd woaks,

An' I'd a-lost the zun vrom view, Until ageaen his feaece mid rise, A-sheenen vrom the eastern skies To brighten up the rwose-borne dew; But still his lingren light did gi'e My heart a touchen jay, to zee His beams a-shed, wi' stratchen sheaede, On east-ward wall an' tree.

When jay, a-zent me vrom above, Vrom my sad heart is now agone, An' others be a-walken on, Amid the light ov Heaven's love, Oh! then vor loven-kindness seaeke, Mid I rejaeice that zome do teaeke My hopes a-gone, until ageaen My happy dawn do breaek.

VIELDS BY WATERVALLS.

When our downcast looks be smileless, Under others' wrongs an' slightens, When our daily deeds be guileless, An' do meet unkind requitens, You can meaeke us zome amends Vor wrongs o' foes, an' slights o' friends;— O flow'ry-gleaeded, timber-sheaeded Vields by flowen watervalls!

Here be softest airs a-blowen Drough the boughs, wi' zingen drushes, Up above the streams, a-flowen Under willows, on by rushes. Here below the bright-zunn'd sky The dew-bespangled flow'rs do dry, In woody-zided, stream-divided Vields by flowen watervalls.

Waters, wi' their giddy rollens; Breezes wi' their playsome wooens; Here do heal, in soft consolens, Hearts a-wrung wi' man's wrong doens. Day do come to us as gay As to a king ov widest sway, In deaeisy-whiten'd, gil'cup-brighten'd Vields by flowen watervalls.

Zome feaeir buds mid outlive blightens, Zome sweet hopes mid outlive sorrow. After days of wrongs an' slightens There mid break a happy morrow. We mid have noo e'thly love; But God's love-tokens vrom above Here mid meet us, here mid greet us, In the vields by watervalls.

THE WHEEL ROUTS.

'Tis true I brought noo fortune hwome Wi' Jenny, vor her honey-moon, But still a goodish hansel come Behind her perty soon, Vor stick, an' dish, an' spoon, all vell To Jeaene, vrom Aunt o' Camwy dell.

Zoo all the lot o' stuff a-tied Upon the plow, a tidy tod, On gravel-crunchen wheels did ride, Wi' ho'ses, iron-shod, That, as their heads did nod, my whip Did guide along wi' lightsome flip.

An' there it rod 'ithin the rwope, Astrain'd athirt, an' strain'd along, Down Thornhay's evenen-lighted slope An' up the beech-tree drong; Where wheels a-bound so strong, cut out On either zide a deep-zunk rout.

An' when at Fall the trees wer brown, Above the bennet-bearen land, When beech-leaves slowly whiver'd down. By evenen winds a-fann'd; The routs wer each a band o' red, A-vill'd by drifted beech-leaves dead.

An' when, in Winter's leafless light, The keener eastern wind did blow. An' scatter down, avore my zight, A chilly cwoat o' snow; The routs ageaen did show vull bright, In two long streaks o' glitt'ren white.

But when, upon our wedden night, The cart's light wheels, a-rollen round, Brought Jenny hwome, they run too light To mark the yielden ground; Or welcome would be vound a peaeir O' green-vill'd routs a-runnen there.

Zoo let me never bring 'ithin My dwellen what's a-won by wrong, An' can't come in 'ithout a sin; Vor only zee how long The waggon marks in drong, did show Wi' leaves, wi' grass, wi' groun' wi' snow.

NANNY'S NEW ABODE.

Now day by day, at lofty height, O zummer noons, the burnen zun 'Ve a-show'd avore our eastward zight, The sky-blue zide ov Hameldon, An' shone ageaen, on new-mow'd ground, Wi' hay a-piled up grey in pook, An' down on leaezes, bennet-brown'd, An' wheat a-vell avore the hook; Till, under elems tall, The leaves do lie on leaenen lands, In leaeter light o' Fall.

An' last year, we did zee the red O' dawn vrom Ash-knap's thatchen oves, An' walk on crumpled leaves a-laid In grassy rook-trees' timber'd groves, Now, here, the cooler days do shrink To vewer hours o' zunny sky, While zedge, a-weaeven by the brink O' shallow brooks, do slowly die. An' on the timber tall, The boughs, half beaere, do bend above The bulgen banks in Fall.

There, we'd a spring o' water near, Here, water's deep in wink-drain'd wells, The church 'tis true, is nigh out here, Too nigh wi' vive loud-boomen bells. There, naighbours wer vull wide a-spread, But vo'k be here too clwose a-stow'd. Vor childern now do stun woone's head, Wi' naisy play bezide the road, Where big so well as small, The little lad, an' lump'ren lout, Do leaep an' laugh theaese Fall.

LEAVES A-VALLEN.

There the ash-tree leaves do vall In the wind a-blowen cwolder, An' my childern, tall or small, Since last Fall be woone year wolder. Woone year wolder, woone year dearer, Till when they do leave my he'th, I shall be noo mwore a hearer O' their vaices or their me'th.

There dead ash leaves be a-toss'd In the wind, a-blowen stronger, An' our life-time, since we lost Souls we lov'd, is woone year longer. Woone year longer, woone year wider, Vrom the friends that death ha' took, As the hours do teaeke the rider Vrom the hand that last he shook.

No. If he do ride at night Vrom the zide the zun went under, Woone hour vrom his western light Needen meaeke woone hour asunder; Woone hour onward, woone hour nigher To the hopeful eastern skies, Where his mornen rim o' vier Soon ageaen shall meet his eyes.

Leaves be now a-scatter'd round In the wind, a-blowen bleaker, An' if we do walk the ground Wi' our life-strangth woone year weaker. Woone year weaker, woone year nigher To the pleaece where we shall vind Woone that's deathless vor the dier, Voremost they that dropp'd behind.

LIZZIE.

O Lizzie is so mild o' mind, Vor ever kind, an' ever true; A-smilen, while her lids do rise To show her eyes as bright as dew. An' comely do she look at night, A-dancen in her skirt o' white, An' blushen wi' a rwose o' red Bezide her glossy head.

Feaeir is the rwose o' blushen hue, Behung wi' dew, in mornen's hour, Feaeir is the rwose, so sweet below The noontide glow, bezide the bow'r. Vull feaeir, an' eet I'd rather zee The rwose a-gather'd off the tree, An' bloomen still with blossom red, By Lizzie's glossy head.

Mid peace droughout her e'thly day, Betide her way, to happy rest, An' mid she, all her weanen life, Or maid or wife, be loved and blest. Though I mid never zing anew To neaeme the maid so feaeir an' true, A-blushen, wi' a rwose o' red, Bezide her glossy head.

BLESSENS A-LEFT.

Lik' souls a-toss'd at sea I bore Sad strokes o' trial, shock by shock, An' now, lik' souls a-cast ashore To rest upon the beaeten rock, I still do seem to hear the sound O' weaeves that drove me vrom my track, An' zee my strugglen hopes a-drown'd, An' all my jays a-floated back. By storms a-toss'd, I'll gi'e God praise, Wi' much a-lost I still ha' jays. My peace is rest, my faith is hope, An' freedom's my unbounded scope.

Vor faith mid blunt the sting o' fear, An' peace the pangs ov ills a-vound, An' freedom vlee vrom evils near, Wi' wings to vwold on other ground, Wi' much a-lost, my loss is small, Vor though ov e'thly goods bereft, A thousand times well worth em all Be they good blessens now a-left. What e'th do own, to e'th mid vall, But what's my own my own I'll call, My faith, an' peaece, the gifts o' greaece, An' freedom still to shift my pleaece.

When I've a-had a tree to screen My meal-rest vrom the high zunn'd-sky, Or ivy-holden wall between My head an' win's a-rustlen by, I had noo call vor han's to bring Their seaev'ry dainties at my nod, But stoop'd a-drinken vrom the spring, An' took my meal, wi' thanks to God, Wi' faith to keep me free o' dread, An' peaece to sleep wi' steadvast head, An' freedom's hands, an' veet unbound To woone man's work, or woone seaeme ground.

FALL TIME.

The gather'd clouds, a-hangen low, Do meaeke the woody ridge look dim; An' rain-vill'd streams do brisker flow, Arisen higher to their brim. In the tree, vrom lim' to lim', Leaves do drop Vrom the top, all slowly down, Yollow, to the gloomy groun'.

The rick's a-tipp'd an' weather-brown'd, An' thatch'd wi' zedge a-dried an' dead; An' orcha'd apples, red half round, Have all a-happer'd down, a-shed Underneath the trees' wide head. Ladders long, Rong by rong, to clim' the tall Trees, be hung upon the wall.

The crumpled leaves be now a-shed In mornen winds a-blowen keen; When they wer green the moss wer dead, Now they be dead the moss is green. Low the evenen zun do sheen By the boughs, Where the cows do swing their tails Over the merry milkers' pails.

FALL.

Now the yollow zun, a-runnen Daily round a smaller bow, Still wi' cloudless sky's a-zunnen All the sheenen land below. Vewer blossoms now do blow, But the fruit's a-showen Reds an' blues, an' purple hues, By the leaves a-glowen.

Now the childern be a-pryen Roun' the berried bremble-bow, Zome a-laughen, woone a-cryen Vor the slent her frock do show. Bwoys be out a-pullen low Slooe-boughs, or a-runnen Where, on zides of hazzle-wrides, Nuts do hang a-zunnen.

Where do reach roun' wheat-ricks yollow Oves o' thatch, in long-drawn ring, There, by stubbly hump an' hollow, Russet-dappled dogs do spring. Soon my apple-trees wull fling Bloomen balls below em, That shall hide, on ev'ry zide Ground where we do drow em.

THE ZILVER-WEED.

The zilver-weed upon the green, Out where my sons an' daughters play'd, Had never time to bloom between The litty steps o' bwoy an' maid. But rwose-trees down along the wall, That then wer all the maiden's ceaere, An' all a-trimm'd an' train'd, did bear Their bloomen buds vrom Spring to Fall.

But now the zilver leaves do show To zummer day their goolden crown, Wi' noo swift shoe-zoles' litty blow, In merry play to beaet em down. An' where vor years zome busy hand Did train the rwoses wide an' high; Now woone by woone the trees do die, An' vew of all the row do stand.

THE WIDOW'S HOUSE.

I went hwome in the dead o' the night, When the vields wer all empty o' vo'k, An' the tuns at their cool-winded height Wer all dark, an' all cwold 'ithout smoke; An' the heads o' the trees that I pass'd Wer a-swayen wi' low-ruslen sound, An' the doust wer a-whirl'd wi' the blast, Aye, a smeech wi' the wind on the ground.

Then I come by the young widow's hatch, Down below the wold elem's tall head, But noo vinger did lift up the latch, Vor the vo'k wer so still as the dead; But inside, to a tree a-meaede vast, Wer the childern's light swing, a-hung low, An' a-rock'd by the brisk-blowen blast, Aye, a-swung by the win' to an' fro.

Vor the childern, wi' pillow-borne head, Had vorgotten their swing on the lawn, An' their father, asleep wi' the dead, Had vorgotten his work at the dawn; An' their mother, a vew stilly hours, Had vorgotten where he sleept so sound, Where the wind wer a-sheaeken the flow'rs, Aye, the blast the feaeir buds on the ground.

Oh! the moon, wi' his peaele lighted skies, Have his sorrowless sleepers below. But by day to the zun they must rise To their true lives o' tweil an' ov ho. Then the childern wull rise to their fun, An' their mother mwore sorrow to veel, While the air is a-warm'd by the zun, Aye, the win' by the day's vi'ry wheel.

THE CHILD'S GREAeVE.

Avore the time when zuns went down On zummer's green a-turn'd to brown, When sheaedes o' swayen wheat-eaers vell Upon the scarlet pimpernel; The while you still mid goo, an' vind 'Ithin the geaerden's mossy wall, Sweet blossoms, low or risen tall, To meaeke a tutty to your mind, In churchyard heav'd, wi' grassy breast, The greaeve-mound ov a beaeby's rest.

An' when a high day broke, to call A throng 'ithin the churchyard wall, The mother brought, wi' thoughtvul mind, The feaeirest buds her eyes could vind, To trim the little greaeve, an' show To other souls her love an' loss, An' meaede a Seaevior's little cross O' brightest flow'rs that then did blow, A-droppen tears a-sheenen bright, Among the dew, in mornen light

An' woone sweet bud her han' did pleaece Up where did droop the Seaevior's feaece; An' two she zet a-bloomen bright, Where reach'd His hands o' left an' right; Two mwore feaeir blossoms, crimson dyed, Did mark the pleaeces ov his veet, An' woone did lie, a-smellen sweet, Up where the spear did wound the zide Ov Him that is the life ov all Greaeve sleepers, whether big or small.

The mother that in faith could zee The Seaevior on the high cross tree Mid be a-vound a-grieven sore, But not to grieve vor evermwore, Vor He shall show her faithvul mind, His chaice is all that she should choose, An' love that here do grieve to lose, Shall be, above, a jay to vind, Wi' Him that evermwore shall keep The souls that He do lay asleep.

WENT VROM HWOME.

The stream-be-wander'd dell did spread Vrom height to woody height, An' meaeds did lie, a grassy bed, Vor elem-sheaeden light. The milkmaid by her white-horn'd cow, Wi' pail so white as snow, Did zing below the elem bough A-swayen to an' fro.

An' there the evenen's low-shot light Did smite the high tree-tops, An' rabbits vrom the grass, in fright, Did leaep 'ithin the copse. An' there the shepherd wi' his crook. An' dog bezide his knee, Went whisslen by, in air that shook The ivy on the tree.

An' on the hill, ahead, wer bars A-showen dark on high, Avore, as eet, the evenen stars Did twinkle in the sky, An' then the last sweet evenen-tide That my long sheaede vell there, I went down Brindon's thymy zide, To my last sleep at Ware.

THE FANCY FEAeIR AT MAIDEN NEWTON.

The Frome, wi' ever-water'd brink, Do run where shelven hills do zink Wi' housen all a-cluster'd roun' The parish tow'rs below the down. An' now, vor woonce, at leaest, ov all The pleaecen where the stream do vall, There's woone that zome to-day mid vind, Wi' things a-suited to their mind. An' that's out where the Fancy Feaeir Is on at Maiden Newton.

An' vo'k, a-smarten'd up, wull hop Out here, as ev'ry train do stop, Vrom up the line, a longish ride, An' down along the river-zide. An' zome do beaet, wi' heels an' tooes, The leaenes an' paths, in nimble shoes, An' bring, bezides, a biggish knot, Ov all their childern that can trot, A-vlocken where the Fancy Feaeir Is here at Maiden Newton.

If you should goo, to-day, avore A Chilfrome house or Downfrome door, Or Frampton's park-zide row, or look Drough quiet Wraxall's slopy nook, Or elbow-streeted Catt'stock, down By Castlehill's cwold-winded crown, An' zee if vo'k be all at hwome, You'd vind em out—they be a-come Out hither, where the Fancy Feaeir Is on at Maiden Newton.

Come, young men, come, an' here you'll vind A gift to please a maiden's mind; Come, husbands, here be gifts to please Your wives, an' meaeke em smile vor days; Come, so's, an' buy at Fancy Feaeir A keepseaeke vor your friends elsewhere; You can't but stop an' spend a cwein Wi' leaedies that ha' goods so fine; An' all to meake, vor childern's seaeke, The School at Maiden Newton.

THINGS DO COME ROUND.

Above the leafless hazzle-wride The wind-drove rain did quickly vall, An' on the meaeple's ribby zide Did hang the rain-drops quiv'ren ball; Out where the brook o' foamy yollow Roll'd along the meaed's deep hollow, An' noo birds wer out to beaet, Wi' flappen wings, the vleen wet O' zunless clouds on flow'rless ground. How time do bring the seasons round!

The moss, a-beaet vrom trees, did lie Upon the ground in ashen droves, An' western wind did huffle high, Above the sheds' quick-drippen oves. An' where the ruslen straw did sound So dry, a-shelter'd in the lew, I staied alwone, an' weather-bound, An' thought on times, long years agoo, Wi' water-floods on flow'rless ground. How time do bring the seasons round!

We then, in childhood play, did seem In work o' men to teaeke a peaert, A-dreven on our wild bwoy team, Or lwoaden o' the tiny cart. Or, on our little refters, spread The zedgen ruf above our head, But coulden tell, as now we can, Where each would goo to tweil a man. O jays a-lost, an' jays a-vound, How Providence do bring things round!

Where woonce along the sky o' blue The zun went roun' his longsome bow, An' brighten'd, to my soul, the view About our little farm below. There I did play the merry geaeme, Wi' childern ev'ry holitide, But coulden tell the vaice or neaeme That time would vind to be my bride. O hwome a-left, O wife a-vound, How Providence do bring things round!

An' when I took my manhood's pleaece, A husband to a wife's true vow, I never thought by neaeme or feaece O' childern that be round me now. An' now they all do grow vrom small, Drough life's feaeir sheaepes to big an' tall, I still be blind to God's good plan, To pleaece em out as wife, or man. O thread o' love by God unwound, How He in time do bring things round;

ZUMMER THOUGHTS IN WINTER TIME.

Well, aye, last evenen, as I shook My locks ov hay by Leecombe brook. The yollow zun did weakly glance Upon the winter meaed askance, A-casten out my narrow sheaede Athirt the brook, an' on the meaed. The while ageaen my lwonesome ears Did russle weatherbeaeten spears, Below the withy's leafless head That overhung the river's bed; I there did think o' days that dried The new-mow'd grass o' zummer-tide, When white-sleev'd mowers' whetted bleaedes Rung sh'ill along the green-bough'd gleaedes, An' maidens gay, wi' playsome chaps, A-zot wi' dinners in their laps, Did talk wi' merry words that rung Around the ring, vrom tongue to tongue; An' welcome, when the leaves ha' died, Be zummer thoughts in winter-tide.