Part 4

An' zoo, when we brought back our pails, The woman met us at the rails, An' zaid she'd tell us, if we'd show Our han's, what we should like to know. Zoo Poll zaid she'd a mind to try Her skill a bit, if I would vu'st; Though, to be sure, she didden trust To gipsies any mwore than I.

Well; I agreed, an' off all dree O's went behind an elem tree, An' after she'd a-zeed 'ithin My han' the wrinkles o' the skin, She twold me—an' she must a-know'd That Dicky met me in the leaene,— That I'd a-walk'd, an' should ageaen, Wi' zomebody along thik road.

An' then she twold me to bewar O' what the letter M stood vor. An' as I walk'd, o' Monday night, Drough Meaed wi' Dicky overright The Mill, the Miller, at the stile, Did stan' an' watch us teaeke our stroll, An' then, a blabben dousty-poll! Twold Mother o't. Well wo'th his while!

An' Poll too wer a-bid bewar O' what the letter F stood vor; An' then, because she took, at Feaeir, A bosom-pin o' Jimmy Heaere, Young Franky beaet en black an' blue. 'Tis F vor Feaeir; an' 'twer about A Fearen Frank an' Jimmy foueght, Zoo I do think she twold us true.

In short, she twold us all about What had a-vell, or would vall out; An' whether we should spend our lives As maidens, or as wedded wives; But when we went to bundle on, The gipsies' dog were at the rails A-lappen milk vrom ouer pails,— A pretty deael o' Poll's wer gone.

JEANE'S WEDDEN DAY IN MORNEN.

At last Jeaene come down stairs, a-drest Wi' wedden knots upon her breast, A-blushen, while a tear did lie Upon her burnen cheaek half dry; An' then her Robert, drawen nigh Wi' tothers, took her han' wi' pride, To meaeke her at the church his bride, Her wedden day in mornen.

Wi' litty voot an' beaeten heart She stepp'd up in the new light cart, An' took her bridemaid up to ride Along wi' Robert at her zide: An' uncle's meaere look'd roun' wi' pride To zee that, if the cart wer vull, 'Twer Jenny that he had to pull, Her wedden day in mornen.

An' aunt an' uncle stood stock-still, An' watch'd em trotten down the hill; An' when they turn'd off out o' groun' Down into leaene, two tears run down Aunt's feaece; an' uncle, turnen roun', Sigh'd woonce, an' stump'd off wi' his stick, Because did touch en to the quick To peaert wi' Jeaene thik mornen.

"Now Jeaene's agone," Tom mutter'd, "we Shall mwope lik' owls 'ithin a tree; Vor she did zet us all agog Vor fun, avore the burnen log." An' as he zot an' talk'd, the dog Put up his nose athirt his thighs, But coulden meaeke en turn his eyes, Jeaene's wedden day in mornen.

An' then the naighbours round us, all By woones an' twos begun to call, To meet the young vo'k, when the meaere Mid bring em back a married peaeir: An' all o'm zaid, to Robert's sheaere, There had a-vell the feaerest feaece, An' kindest heart in all the pleaece, Jeaene's wedden day in mornen.

RIVERS DON'T GI'E OUT.

The brook I left below the rank Ov alders that do sheaede his bank, A-runnen down to dreve the mill Below the knap, 's a runnen still; The creepen days an' weeks do vill Up years, an' meaeke wold things o' new, An' vok' do come, an' live, an' goo, But rivers don't gi'e out, John.

The leaves that in the spring do shoot Zo green, in fall be under voot; May flow'rs do grow vor June to burn, An' milk-white blooth o' trees do kern, An' ripen on, an' vall in turn; The miller's moss-green wheel mid rot, An' he mid die an' be vorgot, But rivers don't gi'e out, John.

A vew short years do bring an' rear A maid—as Jeaene wer—young an' feaeir, An' vewer zummer-ribbons, tied In Zunday knots, do feaede bezide Her cheaek avore her bloom ha' died: Her youth won't stay,—her rwosy look 'S a feaeden flow'r, but time's a brook To run an' not gi'e out, John.

An' yet, while things do come an' goo, God's love is steadvast, John, an' true; If winter vrost do chill the ground, 'Tis but to bring the zummer round, All's well a-lost where He's a-vound, Vor if 'tis right, vor Christes seaeke He'll gi'e us mwore than he do teaeke,— His goodness don't gi'e out, John.

MEAKEN UP A MIFF.

Vorgi'e me, Jenny, do! an' rise Thy hangen head an' teary eyes, An' speak, vor I've a-took in lies, An' I've a-done thee wrong; But I wer twold,—an' thought 'twer true,— That Sammy down at Coome an' you Wer at the feaeir, a-walken drough The pleaece the whole day long.

An' tender thoughts did melt my heart, An' zwells o' viry pride did dart Lik' lightnen drough my blood; a-peaert Ov your love I should scorn, An' zoo I vow'd, however sweet Your looks mid be when we did meet, I'd trample ye down under veet, Or let ye goo forlorn.

But still thy neaeme would always be The sweetest, an' my eyes would zee Among all maidens nwone lik' thee Vor ever any mwore; Zoo by the walks that we've a-took By flow'ry hedge an' zedgy brook, Dear Jenny, dry your eyes, an' look As you've a-look'd avore.

Look up, an' let the evenen light But sparkle in thy eyes so bright, As they be open to the light O' zunzet in the west; An' let's stroll here vor half an hour, Where hangen boughs do meaeke a bow'r Above theaese bank, wi' eltrot flow'r An' robinhoods a-drest.

HAY-MEAKEN.

'Tis merry ov a zummer's day, Where vo'k be out a-meaeken hay; Where men an' women, in a string, Do ted or turn the grass, an' zing, Wi' cheemen vaices, merry zongs, A-tossen o' their sheenen prongs Wi' eaerms a-zwangen left an' right, In colour'd gowns an' shirtsleeves white; Or, wider spread, a reaeken round The rwosy hedges o' the ground, Where Sam do zee the speckled sneaeke, An' try to kill en wi' his reaeke; An' Poll do jump about an' squall, To zee the twisten slooworm crawl.

'Tis merry where a gay-tongued lot Ov hay-meaekers be all a-squot, On lightly-russlen hay, a-spread Below an elem's lofty head, To rest their weary limbs an' munch Their bit o' dinner, or their nunch; Where teethy reaekes do lie all round By picks a-stuck up into ground. An' wi' their vittles in their laps, An' in their hornen cups their draps O' cider sweet, or frothy eaele, Their tongues do run wi' joke an' teaele.

An' when the zun, so low an' red, Do sheen above the leafy head O' zome broad tree, a-rizen high Avore the vi'ry western sky, 'Tis merry where all han's do goo Athirt the groun', by two an' two, A-reaeken, over humps an' hollors, The russlen grass up into rollers. An' woone do row it into line, An' woone do clwose it up behine; An' after them the little bwoys Do stride an' fling their eaerms all woys, Wi' busy picks, an' proud young looks A-meaeken up their tiny pooks. An' zoo 'tis merry out among The vo'k in hay-vield all day long.

HAY-CARREN.

'Tis merry ov a zummer's day, When vo'k be out a-haulen hay, Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground, Do meaeke the staddle big an' round; An' grass do stand in pook, or lie In long-back'd weaeles or parsels, dry. There I do vind it stir my heart To hear the frothen hosses snort, A-haulen on, wi' sleek heaeir'd hides, The red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides. Aye; let me have woone cup o' drink, An' hear the linky harness clink, An' then my blood do run so warm, An' put sich strangth 'ithin my eaerm, That I do long to toss a pick, A-pitchen or a-meaeken rick.

The bwoy is at the hosse's head, An' up upon the waggon bed The lwoaders, strong o' eaerm do stan', At head, an' back at tail, a man, Wi' skill to build the lwoad upright An' bind the vwolded corners tight; An' at each zide [=o]'m, sprack an' strong, A pitcher wi' his long-stem'd prong, Avore the best two women now A-call'd to reaeky after plough.

When I do pitchy, 'tis my pride Vor Jenny Hine to reaeke my zide, An' zee her fling her reaeke, an' reach So vur, an' teaeke in sich a streech; An' I don't shatter hay, an' meaeke Mwore work than needs vor Jenny's reaeke. I'd sooner zee the weaeles' high rows Lik' hedges up above my nose, Than have light work myzelf, an' vind Poor Jeaene a-beaet an' left behind; Vor she would sooner drop down dead. Than let the pitchers get a-head.

'Tis merry at the rick to zee How picks do wag, an' hay do vlee. While woone's unlwoaden, woone do teaeke The pitches in; an' zome do meaeke The lofty rick upright an' roun', An' tread en hard, an' reaeke en down, An' tip en, when the zun do zet, To shoot a sudden vall o' wet. An' zoo 'tis merry any day Where vo'k be out a-carren hay.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

THE BEST MAN IN THE VIELD.

Sam and Bob.

SAM.

That's slowish work, Bob. What'st a-been about? Thy pooken don't goo on not over sprack. Why I've a-pook'd my weaele, lo'k zee, clear out, An' here I be ageaen a-turnen back.

BOB.

I'll work wi' thee then, Sammy, any day, At any work dost like to teaeke me at, Vor any money thou dost like to lay. Now, Mister Sammy, what dost think o' that? My weaele is nearly twice so big as thine, Or else, I warnt, I shouldden be behin'.

SAM.

Ah! hang thee, Bob! don't tell sich whoppen lies. My weaele's the biggest, if do come to size. 'Tis jist the seaeme whatever bist about; Why, when dost goo a-tedden grass, you sloth, Another hand's a-fwo'c'd to teaeke thy zwath, An' ted a half way back to help thee out; An' then a-reaeken rollers, bist so slack, Dost keep the very bwoys an' women back. An' if dost think that thou canst challenge I At any thing,—then, Bob, we'll teaeke a pick a-piece, An' woonce theaese zummer, goo an' try To meaeke a rick a-piece. A rick o' thine wull look a little funny, When thou'st a-done en, I'll bet any money.

BOB.

You noggerhead! last year thou meaed'st a rick, An' then we had to trig en wi' a stick. An' what did John that tipp'd en zay? Why zaid He stood a-top o'en all the while in dread, A-thinken that avore he should a-done en He'd tumble over slap wi' him upon en.

SAM.

You yoppen dog! I warnt I meaede my rick So well's thou meaed'st thy lwoad o' hay last week. They hadden got a hundred yards to haul en, An' then they vound 'twer best to have en boun', Vor if they hadden, 'twould a-tumbl'd down; An' after that I zeed en all but vallen, An' trigg'd en up wi' woone o'm's pitchen pick, To zee if I could meaeke en ride to rick; An' when they had the dumpy heap unboun', He vell to pieces flat upon the groun'.

BOB.

Do shut thy lyen chops! What dosten mind Thy pitchen to me out in Gully-plot, A-meaeken o' me wait (wast zoo behind) A half an hour vor ev'ry pitch I got? An' how didst groun' thy pick? an' how didst quirk To get en up on end? Why hadst hard work To rise a pitch that wer about so big 'S a goodish crow's nest, or a wold man's wig! Why bist so weak, dost know, as any roller: Zome o' the women vo'k will beaet thee hollor.

SAM.

You snub-nos'd flopperchops! I pitch'd so quick, That thou dost know thou hadst a hardish job To teaeke in all the pitches off my pick; An' dissen zee me groun' en, nother, Bob. An' thou bist stronger, thou dost think, than I? Girt bandy-lags! I jist should like to try. We'll goo, if thou dost like, an' jist zee which Can heave the mwost, or car the biggest nitch.

BOB.

There, Sam, do meaeke me zick to hear thy braggen! Why bissen strong enough to car a flagon.

SAM.

You grinnen fool! why I'd zet thee a-blowen, If thou wast wi' me vor a day a-mowen. I'd wear my cwoat, an' thou midst pull thy rags off, An' then in half a zwath I'd mow thy lags off.

BOB.

Thee mow wi' me! Why coossen keep up wi' me: Why bissen fit to goo a-vield to skimmy, Or mow down docks an' thistles! Why I'll bet A shillen, Samel, that thou cassen whet.

SAM.

Now don't thee zay much mwore than what'st a-zaid, Or else I'll knock thee down, heels over head.

BOB.

Thou knock me down, indeed! Why cassen gi'e A blow half hard enough to kill a bee.

SAM.

Well, thou shalt veel upon thy chops and snout.

BOB.

Come on, then, Samel; jist let's have woone bout.

WHERE WE DID KEEP OUR FLAGON.

When we in mornen had a-drow'd The grass or russlen hay abrode, The lit'some maidens an' the chaps, Wi' bits o' nunchens in their laps, Did all zit down upon the knaps Up there, in under hedge, below The highest elem o' the row, Where we did keep our flagon.

There we could zee green vields at hand, Avore a hunderd on beyand, An' rows o' trees in hedges roun' Green meaeds, an' zummerleaezes brown, An' thorns upon the zunny down, While aier, vrom the rocken zedge In brook, did come along the hedge, Where we did keep our flagon.

There laughen chaps did try in play To bury maidens up in hay, As gigglen maidens tried to roll The chaps down into zome deep hole, Or sting wi' nettles woone o'm's poll; While John did hele out each his drap O' eaele or cider, in his lap Where he did keep the flagon.

Woone day there spun a whirlwind by Where Jenny's clothes wer out to dry; An' off vled frocks, a'most a-catch'd By smock-frocks wi' their sleeves outstratch'd, An' caps a-frill'd an' eaeperns patch'd; An' she a-steaeren in a fright, Wer glad enough to zee em light Where we did keep our flagon.

An' when white clover wer a-sprung Among the eegrass, green an' young, An' elder-flowers wer a-spread Among the rwosen white an' red, An' honeyzucks wi' hangen head,— O' Zunday evenens we did zit To look all roun' the grounds a bit, Where we'd a-kept our flagon.

WEEK'S END IN ZUMMER, IN THE WOLD VO'K'S TIME.

His aunt an' uncle,—ah! the kind Wold souls be often in my mind: A better couple never stood In shoes, an' vew be voun' so good. She cheer'd the work-vo'k in their tweils Wi' timely bits an' draps, an' smiles; An' he paid all o'm at week's end, Their money down to goo an' spend.

In zummer, when week's end come roun' The hay-meaekers did come vrom groun', An' all zit down, wi' weary bwones, Within the yard a-peaeved wi' stwones, Along avore the peaeles, between The yard a-steaen'd an' open green. There women zot wi' bare-neck'd chaps, An' maidens wi' their sleeves an' flaps To screen vrom het their eaerms an' polls. An' men wi' beards so black as coals: Girt stocky Jim, an' lanky John, An' poor wold Betty dead an' gone; An' cleaen-grown Tom so spry an' strong, An' Liz the best to pitch a zong, That now ha' nearly half a score O' childern zwarmen at her door; An' whindlen Ann, that cried wi' fear To hear the thunder when 'twer near,— A zickly maid, so peaele's the moon, That voun' her zun goo down at noon; An' blushen Jeaene so shy an' meek, That seldom let us hear her speak, That wer a-coorted an' undone By Farmer Woodley's woldest son; An' after she'd a-been vorzook, Wer voun' a-drown'd in Longmeaed brook.

An' zoo, when he'd a-been all roun', An' paid em all their wages down, She us'd to bring vor all, by teaele A cup o' cider or ov eaele, An' then a tutty meaede o' lots O' blossoms vrom her flower-nots, To wear in bands an' button-holes At church, an' in their evenen strolls. The pea that rangled to the oves, An' columbines an' pinks an' cloves, Sweet rwosen vrom the prickly tree, An' jilliflow'rs, an' jessamy; An' short-liv'd pinies, that do shed Their leaves upon a eaerly bed. She didden put in honeyzuck: She'd nwone, she zaid, that she could pluck Avore wild honeyzucks, a-vound In ev'ry hedge ov ev'ry ground.

Zoo maid an' woman, bwoy an' man, Went off, while zunzet air did fan Their merry zunburnt feaezen; zome Down leaene, an' zome drough parrocks hwome.

Ah! who can tell, that ha'nt a-vound, The sweets o' week's-end comen round! When Zadurday do bring woone's mind Sweet thoughts o' Zunday clwose behind; The day that's all our own to spend Wi' God an' wi' an e'thly friend. The worold's girt vo'k, wi' the best O' worldly goods mid be a-blest; But Zunday is the poor man's peaert, To seaeve his soul an' cheer his heart.

THE MEAD A-MOW'D.

When sheaedes do vall into ev'ry hollow, An' reach vrom trees half athirt the groun'; An' banks an' walls be a-looken yollow, That be a-turn'd to the zun gwain down; Drough hay in cock, O, We all do vlock, O, Along our road vrom the meaed a-mow'd.

An' when the last swayen lwoad's a-started Up hill so slow to the lofty rick, Then we so weary but merry-hearted, Do shoulder each [=o]'s a reaeke an' pick, Wi' empty flagon, Behind the waggon, To teaeke our road vrom the meaed a-mow'd.

When church is out, an' we all so slowly About the knap be a-spreaden wide, How gay the paths be where we do strolly Along the leaene an' the hedge's zide; But nwone's a voun', O, Up hill or down, O, So gay's the road drough the meaed a-mow'd.

An' when the visher do come, a-drowen His flutt'ren line over bleaedy zedge, Drough groun's wi' red thissle-heads a-blowen, An' watchen o't by the water's edge; Then he do love, O, The best to rove, O, Along his road drough the meaed a-mow'd.

THE SKY A-CLEAREN.

The dreven scud that overcast The zummer sky is all a-past, An' softer air, a-blowen drough The quiv'ren boughs, do sheaeke the vew Last rain drops off the leaves lik' dew; An' peaeviers, now a-getten dry, Do steam below the zunny sky That's now so vast a-cleaeren.

The sheaedes that wer a-lost below The stormy cloud, ageaen do show Their mocken sheaepes below the light; An' house-walls be a-looken white, An' vo'k do stir woonce mwore in zight, An' busy birds upon the wing Do whiver roun' the boughs an' zing, To zee the sky a-clearen.

Below the hill's an ash; below The ash, white elder-flow'rs do blow: Below the elder is a bed O' robinhoods o' blushen red; An' there, wi' nunches all a-spread, The hay-meaekers, wi' each a cup O' drink, do smile to zee hold up The rain, an' sky a-cleaeren.

'Mid blushen maidens, wi' their zong, Still draw their white-stemm'd reaekes among The long-back'd weaeles an' new-meaede pooks, By brown-stemm'd trees an' cloty brooks; But have noo call to spweil their looks By work, that God could never meaeke Their weaker han's to underteaeke, Though skies mid be a-cleaeren.

'Tis wrong vor women's han's to clips The zull an' reap-hook, speaedes an' whips; An' men abroad, should leaeve, by right, Woone faithful heart at hwome to light Their bit o' vier up at night, An' hang upon the hedge to dry Their snow-white linen, when the sky In winter is a-cleaeren.

THE EVENEN STAR O' ZUMMER.

When vu'st along theaese road vrom mill, I zeed ye hwome all up the hill, The poplar tree, so straight an' tall, Did rustle by the watervall; An' in the leaeze the cows wer all A-lyen down to teaeke their rest An' slowly zunk toward the west The evenen star o' zummer.

In parrock there the hay did lie In weaele below the elems, dry; An' up in hwome-groun' Jim, that know'd We all should come along thik road, D a-tied the grass in knots that drow'd Poor Poll, a-watchen in the West Woone brighter star than all the rest,— The evenen star o' zummer.

The stars that still do zet an' rise, Did sheen in our forefather's eyes; They glitter'd to the vu'st men's zight, The last will have em in their night; But who can vind em half so bright As I thought thik peaele star above My smilen Jeaene, my zweet vu'st love, The evenen star o' zummer.