Part 26

Oh! I vu'st know'd her a-weepen, As a rain-dimm'd mornen sky, Though her teaer-draps dimm'd her blushes, They wer noo draps I could dry. Ev'ry bright tear that did roll, Wer a keen pain to my soul, But noo heaert's pang she did then veel, Wer vor my words to console.

But the wold times be a-vanish'd, An' my true love is my bride. An' her kind heart have a-meaede her. As an angel at my zide; I've her best smiles that mid play, I've her me'th when she is gay, When her tear-draps be a-rollen, I can now wipe em away.

THE DO'SET MILITIA.

Hurrah! my lads, vor Do'set men! A-muster'd here in red ageaen; All welcome to your ranks, a-spread Up zide to zide, to stand, or wheel, An' welcome to your files, to head The steady march wi' tooe to heel; Welcome to marches slow or quick! Welcome to gath'rens thin or thick; God speed the Colonel on the hill, An' Mrs Bingham,[E] off o' drill.

When you've a-handled well your lock, An' flung about your rifle stock Vrom han' to shoulder, up an' down; When you've a-lwoaded an' a-vired, Till you do come back into town, Wi' all your loppen limbs a-tired, An you be dry an' burnen hot, Why here's your tea an' coffee pot At Mister Greenen's penny till, Wi' Mrs Bingham off o' drill.

Last year John Hinley's mother cried, "Why my bwoy John is quite my pride! Vor he've a-been so good to-year, An' han't a-mell'd wi' any squabbles, An' han't a-drown'd his wits in beer, An' han't a-been in any hobbles. I never thought he'd turn out bad, He always wer so good a lad; But now I'm sure he's better still, Drough Mrs Bingham, off o' drill."

Jeaene Hart, that's Joey Duntley's chaice, Do praise en up wi' her sweet vaice, Vor he's so strait's a hollyhock (Vew hollyhocks be up so tall), An' he do come so true's the clock To Mrs Bingham's coffee-stall; An' Jeaene do write, an' brag o' Joe To teaeke the young recruits in tow, An' try, vor all their good, to bring em, A-come from drill, to Mrs Bingham.

God speed the Colonel, toppen high, An' officers wi' sworded thigh, An' all the sargeants that do bawl All day enough to split their droats, An' all the corporals, and all The band a-playen up their notes, An' all the men vrom vur an' near We'll gi'e em all a hearty cheer. An' then another cheeren still Vor Mrs Bingham, off o' drill.

A DO'SET SALE.

WITH A MISTAKE.

(Thomas and Mr Auctioneer.)

T. Well here, then, Mister auctioneer, Be theaese the virs, I bought, out here?

A. The firs, the fir-poles, you bought? Who? 'Twas furze, not firs, I sold to you.

T. I bid vor virs, and not vor vuzzen, Vor vir-poles, as I thought, two dozen.

A. Two dozen faggots, and I took Your bidding for them. Here's the book.

T. I wont have what I didden buy. I don't want vuzzen, now. Not I. Why firs an' furze do sound the seaeme. Why don't ye gi'e a thing his neaeme? Aye, firs and furze! Why, who can tell Which 'tis that you do meaen to zell? No, no, be kind enough to call Em virs, and vuzzen, then, that's all.

DON'T CEAeRE.

At the feaest, I do mind very well, all the vo'ks Wer a-took in a happeren storm, But we chaps took the maidens, an' kept em wi' clokes Under shelter, all dry an' all warm; An' to my lot vell Jeaene, that's my bride, That did titter, a-hung at my zide; Zaid her aunt, "Why the vo'k 'ull talk finely o' you," An', cried she, "I don't ceaere if they do." When the time o' the feaest wer ageaen a-come round, An' the vo'k wer a-gather'd woonce mwore, Why she guess'd if she went there, she'd soon be a-vound An' a-took seaefely hwome to her door. Zaid her mother, "'Tis sure to be wet." Zaid her cousin, "'T'ull rain by zunzet." Zaid her aunt, "Why the clouds there do look black an' blue," An' zaid she, "I don't ceaere if they do."

An' at last, when she own'd I mid meaeke her my bride, Vor to help me, an' sheaere all my lot, An' wi' faithvulness keep all her life at my zide, Though my way mid be happy or not. Zaid her naighbours, "Why wedlock's a clog, An' a wife's a-tied up lik' a dog." Zaid her aunt, "You'll vind trials enough vor to rue," An', zaid she, "I don't ceaere if I do."

Now she's married, an' still in the midst ov her tweils She's as happy's the daylight is long, She do goo out abroad wi' her feaece vull o' smiles, An' do work in the house wi' a zong. An', zays woone, "She don't grieve, you can tell." Zays another, "Why, don't she look well!" Zays her aunt, "Why the young vo'k do envy you two," An', zays she, "I don't ceaere if they do."

Now vor me I can zing in my business abrode, Though the storm do beaet down on my poll, There's a wife-brighten'd vier at the end o' my road, An' her love vor the jay o' my soul. Out o' door I wi' rogues mid be tried: Out o' door be brow-beaeten wi' pride; Men mid scowl out o' door, if my wife is but true— Let em scowl, "I don't ceaere if they do."

CHANGES.

By time's a-brought the mornen light, By time the light do weaene; By time's a-brought the young man's might, By time his might do weaene; The Winter snow do whiten grass, The zummer flow'rs do brighten grass, Vor zome things we do lose wi' pain, We've mwore that mid be jay to gain, An' my dear life do seem the seaeme While at my zide There still do bide Your welcome feaece an' hwomely neaeme.

Wi' ev'ry day that woonce come on I had to choose a jay, Wi' many that be since a-gone I had to lose a jay. Drough longsome years a-wanderen, Drough lwonesome rest a-ponderen, Woone peaceful daytime wer a-bro't To heal the heart another smote; But my dear life do seem the seaeme While I can hear, A-sounden near, Your answ'ren vaice an' long-call'd neaeme.

An' oh! that hope, when life do dawn, Should rise to light our way, An' then, wi' weaenen het withdrawn, Should soon benight our way. Whatever mid beval me still, Wherever chance mid call me still, Though leaete my evenen tweil mid cease, An' though my night mid lose its peace, My life will seem to me the seaeme While you do sheaere My daily ceaere, An' answer to your long-call'd neaeme.

KINDNESS.

Good Meaester Collins heaerd woone day A man a-talken, that did zay It woulden answer to be kind, He thought, to vo'k o' grov'len mind, Vor they would only teaeke it wrong, That you be weak an' they be strong. "No," cried the goodman, "never mind, Let vo'k be thankless,—you be kind; Don't do your good for e'thly ends At man's own call vor man's amends. Though souls befriended should remain As thankless as the sea vor rain, On them the good's a-lost 'tis true, But never can be lost to you. Look on the cool-feaeced moon at night Wi' light-vull ring, at utmost height, A-casten down, in gleamen strokes, His beams upon the dim-bough'd woaks, To show the cliff a-risen steep, To show the stream a-vallen deep, To show where winden roads do leaed, An' prickly thorns do ward the meaed. While sheaedes o' boughs do flutter dark Upon the woak-trees' moon-bright bark. There in the lewth, below the hill, The nightengeaele, wi' ringen bill, Do zing among the soft-air'd groves, While up below the house's oves The maid, a-looken vrom her room Drough window, in her youthvul bloom, Do listen, wi' white ears among Her glossy heaeirlocks, to the zong. If, then, the while the moon do light The lwonesome zinger o' the night, His cwold-beam'd light do seem to show The prowlen owls the mouse below. What then? Because an evil will, Ov his sweet good, mid meaeke zome ill, Shall all his feaece be kept behind The dark-brow'd hills to leaeve us blind?"

WITHSTANDERS.

When weakness now do strive wi' might In struggles ov an e'thly trial, Might mid overcome the right, An' truth be turn'd by might's denial; Withstanders we ha' mwost to feaer, If selfishness do wring us here, Be souls a-holden in their hand, The might an' riches o' the land.

But when the wicked, now so strong, Shall stan' vor judgment, peaele as ashes, By the souls that rued their wrong, Wi' tears a-hangen on their lashes— Then withstanders they shall deaere The leaest ov all to meet wi' there, Mid be the helpless souls that now Below their wrongvul might mid bow.

Sweet childern o' the dead, bereft Ov all their goods by guile an' forgen; Souls o' driven sleaeves that left Their weaery limbs a-mark'd by scourgen; They that God ha' call'd to die Vor truth ageaen the worold's lie, An' they that groan'd an' cried in vain, A-bound by foes' unrighteous chain.

The maid that selfish craft led on To sin, an' left wi' hope a-blighted; Starven workmen, thin an' wan, Wi' hopeless leaebour ill requited; Souls a-wrong'd, an' call'd to vill Wi' dread, the men that us'd em ill. When might shall yield to right as pliant As a dwarf avore a giant.

When there, at last, the good shall glow In starbright bodies lik' their Seaeviour, Vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show, The marks o' man's unkind beheaeviour: Wi' speechless tongue, an' burnen cheak, The strong shall bow avore the weaek, An' vind that helplessness, wi' right, Is strong beyond all e'thly might.

DANIEL DWITHEN, THE WISE CHAP.

Dan Dwithen wer the chap to show His naighbours mwore than they did know, Vor he could zee, wi' half a thought, What zome could hardly be a-taught; An' he had never any doubt Whatever 'twer, but he did know't, An' had a-reach'd the bottom o't, Or soon could meaeke it out.

Wi' narrow feaece, an' nose so thin That light a'most shone drough the skin, As he did talk, wi' his red peaeir O' lips, an' his vull eyes did steaere, What nippy looks friend Daniel wore, An' how he smiled as he did bring Such reasons vor to clear a thing, As dather'd vo'k the mwore!

When woonce there come along the road At night, zome show-vo'k, wi' a lwoad Ov half the wild outlandish things That crawl'd, or went wi' veet, or wings; Their elephant, to stratch his knees, Walk'd up the road-zide turf, an' left His tracks a-zunk wi' all his heft As big's a vinny cheese.

An' zoo next mornen zome vo'k vound The girt round tracks upon the ground, An' view'd em all wi' stedvast eyes, An' wi' their vingers spann'd their size, An' took their depth below the brink: An' whether they mid be the tracks O' things wi' witches on their backs, Or what, they coulden think.

At last friend Dan come up, an' brought His wit to help their dizzy thought, An' looken on an' off the ea'th, He cried, a-drawen a vull breath, Why, I do know; what, can't ye zee 't? I'll bet a shillen 'twer a deer Broke out o' park, an' sprung on here, Wi' quoits upon his veet.

TURNEN THINGS OFF.

Upzides wi' Polly! no, he'd vind That Poll would soon leaeve him behind. To turn things off! oh! she's too quick To be a-caught by ev'ry trick. Woone day our Jimmy stole down steaeirs On merry Polly unaweaeres, The while her nimble tongue did run A-tellen, all alive wi' fun, To sister Anne, how Simon Heaere Did hanker after her at feaeir. "He left," cried Polly, "cousin Jeaene, An' kept wi' us all down the leaene, An' which way ever we did leaed He vollow'd over hill an' meaed; An' wi' his head o' shaggy heaeir, An' sleek brown cwoat that he do weaere, An' collar that did reach so high 'S his two red ears, or perty nigh, He swung his taeil, wi' steps o' pride, Back right an' left, vrom zide to zide, A-walken on, wi' heavy strides A half behind, an' half upzides." "Who's that?" cried Jimmy, all agog; An' thought he had her now han'-pat, "That's Simon Heaere," but no, "Who's that?" Cried she at woonce, "Why Uncle's dog, Wi' what have you a-been misled I wonder. Tell me what I zaid." Woone evenen as she zot bezide The wall the ranglen vine do hide, A-prattlen on, as she did zend Her needle, at her vinger's end. On drough the work she had in hand, Zome bran-new thing that she'd a-plann'd, Jim overheaerd her talk ageaen O' Robin Hine, ov Ivy Leaene, "Oh! no, what he!" she cried in scorn, "I woulden gie a penny vor'n; The best ov him's outzide in view; His cwoat is gay enough, 'tis true, But then the wold vo'k didden bring En up to know a single thing, An' as vor zingen,—what do seem His zingen's nothen but a scream." "So ho!" cried Jim, "Who's that, then, Meaery, That you be now a-talken o'?" He thought to catch her then, but, no, Cried Polly, "Oh! why Jeaene's caneaery, Wi' what have you a-been misled, I wonder. Tell me what I zaid."

THE GIANTS IN TREAeDES.

GRAMFER'S FEAeBLE.

(How the steam engine come about.)

Vier, Air, E'th, Water, wer a-meaede Good workers, each o'm in his treaede, An' Air an' Water, wer a-match Vor woone another in a mill; The giant Water at a hatch, An' Air on the windmill hill. Zoo then, when Water had a-meaede Zome money, Aeir begrudg'd his treaede, An' come by, unaweaeres woone night, An' vound en at his own mill-head, An' cast upon en, iron-tight, An icy cwoat so stiff as lead. An' there he wer so good as dead Vor grinden any corn vor bread. Then Water cried to Vier, "Alack! Look, here be I, so stiff's a log, Thik fellor Air do keep me back Vrom grinden. I can't wag a cog. If I, dear Vier, did ever souse Your nimble body on a house, When you wer on your merry pranks Wi' thatch or refters, beams or planks, Vorgi'e me, do, in pity's neaeme, Vor 'twerden I that wer to bleaeme, I never wagg'd, though I be'nt cringen, Till men did dreve me wi' their engine. Do zet me free vrom theaese cwold jacket, Vor I myzelf shall never crack it." "Well come," cried Vier, "My vo'k ha' meaede An engine that 'ull work your treaede. If E'th is only in the mood, While I do work, to gi'e me food, I'll help ye, an' I'll meaeke your skill A match vor Mister Air's wold mill." "What food," cried E'th, "'ull suit your bwoard?" "Oh! trust me, I ben't over nice," Cried Vier, "an' I can eat a slice Ov any thing you can avword." "I've lots," cried E'th, "ov coal an' wood." "Ah! that's the stuff," cried Vier, "that's good." Zoo Vier at woonce to Water cried, "Here, Water, here, you get inside O' theaese girt bwoiler. Then I'll show How I can help ye down below, An' when my work shall woonce begin You'll be a thousand times so strong, An' be a thousand times so long An' big as when you vu'st got in. An' I wull meaeke, as sure as death, Thik fellor Air to vind me breath, An' you shall grind, an' pull, an' dreve, An' zaw, an' drash, an' pump, an' heave, An' get vrom Air, in time, I'll lay A pound, the dreven ships at sea." An' zoo 'tis good to zee that might Wull help a man a-wrong'd, to right.

THE LITTLE WOROLD.

My hwome wer on the timber'd ground O' Duncombe, wi' the hills a-bound: Where vew from other peaerts did come, An' vew did travel vur from hwome, An' small the worold I did know; But then, what had it to bestow But Fanny Deaene so good an' feaeir? 'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

In our deep hollow where the zun Did eaerly leaeve the smoky tun, An' all the meaeds a-growen dim, Below the hill wi' zunny rim; Oh! small the land the hills did bound, But there did walk upon the ground Young Fanny Deaene so good an' feaeir: 'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

O' leaete upon the misty plain I stay'd vor shelter vrom the rain, Where sharp-leav'd ashes' heads did twist In hufflen wind, an' driften mist, An' small the worold I could zee; But then it had below the tree My Fanny Deaene so good an' feaeir: 'Twer wide enough if she wer there.

An' I've a house wi' thatchen ridge, Below the elems by the bridge: Wi' small-peaen'd windows, that do look Upon a knap, an' ramblen brook; An' small's my house, my ruf is low, But then who mid it have to show But Fanny Deaene so good an' feaeir? 'Tis fine enough if peace is there.

BAD NEWS.

I do mind when there broke bitter tidens, Woone day, on their ears, An' their souls wer a-smote wi' a stroke As the lightnen do vall on the woak, An' the things that wer bright all around em Seem'd dim drough their tears.

Then unheeded wer things in their vingers, Their grief wer their all. All unheeded wer zongs o' the birds, All unheeded the child's perty words, All unheeded the kitten a-rollen The white-threaded ball.

Oh! vor their minds the daylight around em Had nothen to show. Though it brighten'd their tears as they vell, An' did sheen on their lips that did tell, In their vaices all thrillen an' mwoansome, O' nothen but woe.

But they vound that, by Heavenly mercy, The news werden true; An' they shook, wi' low laughter, as quick As a drum when his blows do vall thick, An' wer eaernest in words o' thanksgiven, Vor mercies anew.

THE TURNSTILE.

Ah! sad wer we as we did peaece The wold church road, wi' downcast feaece, The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep Above our child a-left asleep, Wer now a-zingen all alive Wi' tother bells to meaeke the vive. But up at woone pleaece we come by, 'Twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry: On Steaen-cliff road, 'ithin the drong, Up where, as vo'k do pass along, The turnen stile, a-painted white, Do sheen by day an' show by night. Vor always there, as we did goo To church, thik stile did let us drough, Wi' spreaden eaerms that wheel'd to guide Us each in turn to tother zide. An' vu'st ov all the train he took My wife, wi' winsome gait an' look; An' then zent on my little maid, A-skippen onward, overjay'd To reach ageaen the pleaece o' pride, Her comely mother's left han' zide. An' then, a-wheelen roun', he took On me, 'ithin his third white nook. An' in the fourth, a-sheaeken wild, He zent us on our giddy child. But eesterday he guided slow My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe, An' then my little maid in black, A-walken softly on her track; An' after he'd a-turn'd ageaen, To let me goo along the leaene, He had noo little bwoy to vill His last white eaerms, an' they stood still.

THE BETTER VOR ZEEN O' YOU.

'Twer good what Meaester Collins spoke O' spite to two poor spitevul vo'k, When woone twold tother o' the two "I be never the better vor zeen o' you." If soul to soul, as Christians should, Would always try to do zome good, "How vew," he cried, "would zee our feaece A-brighten'd up wi' smiles o' greaece, An' tell us, or could tell us true, I be never the better vor zeen o' you."

A man mus' be in evil ceaese To live 'ithin a land o' greaece, Wi' nothen that a soul can read O' goodness in his word or deed; To still a breast a-heav'd wi' sighs, Or dry the tears o' weepen eyes; To stay a vist that spite ha' wrung, Or cool the het ov anger's tongue: Or bless, or help, or gi'e, or lend; Or to the friendless stand a friend, An' zoo that all could tell en true, "I be never the better vor zeen o' you."

Oh! no, mid all o's try to spend Our passen time to zome good end, An' zoo vrom day to day teaeke heed, By mind, an' han', by word or deed; To lessen evil, and increase The growth o' righteousness an' peaece, A-speaken words o' loven-kindness, Openen the eyes o' blindness; Helpen helpless striver's weakness, Cheeren hopeless grievers' meekness, Meaeken friends at every meeten, Veel the happier vor their greeten; Zoo that vew could tell us true, "I be never the better vor zeen o' you." No, let us even try to win Zome little good vrom sons o' sin, An' let their evils warn us back Vrom teaeken on their hopeless track, Where we mid zee so clear's the zun That harm a-done is harm a-won, An' we mid cry an' tell em true, "I be even the better vor zeen o' you."