Part 5

How sweet's the mornen fresh an' new, Wi' sparklen brooks an' glitt'ren dew; How sweet's the noon wi' sheaedes a-drow'd Upon the groun' but leaetely mow'd, An' bloomen flowers all abrode; But sweeter still, as I do clim', Theaese woody hill in evenen dim 'S the evenen star o' zummer.

THE CLOTE.

(Water-lily.)

O zummer clote! when the brook's a-gliden So slow an' smooth down his zedgy bed, Upon thy broad leaves so seaefe a-riden The water's top wi' thy yollow head, By alder's heads, O, An' bulrush beds, O. Thou then dost float, goolden zummer clote!

The grey-bough'd withy's a-leaenen lowly Above the water thy leaves do hide; The benden bulrush, a-swayen slowly, Do skirt in zummer thy river's zide; An' perch in shoals, O, Do vill the holes, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

Oh! when thy brook-drinken flow'r's a-blowen, The burnen zummer's a-zetten in; The time o' greenness, the time o' mowen, When in the hay-vield, wi' zunburnt skin, The vo'k do drink, O, Upon the brink, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

Wi' eaerms a-spreaden, an' cheaeks a-blowen, How proud wer I when I vu'st could zwim Athirt the pleaece where thou bist a-growen, Wi' thy long more vrom the bottom dim; While cows, knee-high, O, In brook, wer nigh, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!

Ov all the brooks drough the meaeds a-winden, Ov all the meaeds by a river's brim, There's nwone so feaeir o' my own heart's vinden, As where the maidens do zee thee swim, An' stan' to teaeke, O, Wi' long-stemm'd reaeke, O, Thy flow'r afloat, goolden zummer clote!

I GOT TWO VIELDS.

I got two vields, an' I don't ceaere What squire mid have a bigger sheaere. My little zummer-leaeze do stratch All down the hangen, to a patch O' meaed between a hedge an' rank Ov elems, an' a river bank. Where yollow clotes, in spreaden beds O' floaten leaves, do lift their heads By benden bulrushes an' zedge A-swayen at the water's edge, Below the withy that do spread Athirt the brook his grey-leav'd head. An' eltrot flowers, milky white, Do catch the slanten evenen light; An' in the meaeple boughs, along The hedge, do ring the blackbird's zong; Or in the day, a-vleen drough The leafy trees, the whoa'se gookoo Do zing to mowers that do zet Their zives on end, an' stan' to whet. From my wold house among the trees A leaene do goo along the leaeze O' yollow gravel, down between Two mossy banks vor ever green. An' trees, a-hangen overhead, Do hide a trinklen gully-bed, A-cover'd by a bridge vor hoss Or man a-voot to come across. Zoo wi' my hwomestead, I don't ceaere What squire mid have a bigger sheaere!

POLLY BE-EN UPZIDES WI' TOM.

Ah! yesterday, d'ye know, I voun' Tom Dumpy's cwoat an' smock-frock, down Below the pollard out in groun'; An' zoo I slyly stole An' took the smock-frock up, an' tack'd The sleeves an' collar up, an' pack'd Zome nice sharp stwones, all fresh a-crack'd 'Ithin each pocket-hole.

An' in the evenen, when he shut Off work, an' come an' donn'd his cwoat, Their edges gi'ed en sich a cut, How we did stan' an' laugh! An' when the smock-frock I'd a-zow'd Kept back his head an' hands, he drow'd Hizzelf about, an' teaev'd, an' blow'd, Lik' any up-tied calf.

Then in a veag away he flung His frock, an' after me he sprung, An' mutter'd out sich dreats, an' wrung His vist up sich a size! But I, a-runnen, turn'd an' drow'd Some doust, a-pick'd up vrom the road, Back at en wi' the wind, that blow'd It right into his eyes.

An' he did blink, an' vow he'd catch Me zomehow yet, an' be my match. But I wer nearly down to hatch Avore he got vur on; An' up in chammer, nearly dead Wi' runnen, lik' a cat I vled, An' out o' window put my head To zee if he wer gone.

An' there he wer, a-prowlen roun' Upon the green; an' I look'd down An' told en that I hoped he voun' He mussen think to peck Upon a body zoo, nor whip The meaere to drow me off, nor tip Me out o' cart ageaen, nor slip Cut hoss-heaeir down my neck.

BE'MI'STER.

Sweet Be'mi'ster, that bist a-bound By green an' woody hills all round, Wi' hedges, reachen up between A thousan' vields o' zummer green, Where elems' lofty heads do drow Their sheaedes vor hay-meakers below, An' wild hedge-flow'rs do charm the souls O' maidens in their evenen strolls.

When I o' Zunday nights wi' Jeaene Do saunter drough a vield or leaene, Where elder-blossoms be a-spread Above the eltrot's milk-white head, An' flow'rs o' blackberries do blow Upon the brembles, white as snow, To be outdone avore my zight By Jeaen's gay frock o' dazzlen white;

Oh! then there's nothen that's 'ithout Thy hills that I do ho about,— Noo bigger pleaece, noo gayer town, Beyond thy sweet bells' dyen soun', As they do ring, or strike the hour, At evenen vrom thy wold red tow'r. No: shelter still my head, an' keep My bwones when I do vall asleep.

THATCHEN O' THE RICK.

As I wer out in meaed last week, A-thatchen o' my little rick, There green young ee-grass, ankle-high, Did sheen below the cloudless sky; An' over hedge in tother groun', Among the bennets dry an' brown, My dun wold meaere, wi' neck a-freed Vrom Zummer work, did snort an' veed; An' in the sheaede o' leafy boughs, My vew wold ragged-cwoated cows Did rub their zides upon the rails, Or switch em wi' their heaeiry tails.

An' as the mornen zun rose high Above my mossy roof clwose by, The blue smoke curreled up between The lofty trees o' feaeden green: A zight that's touchen when do show A busy wife is down below, A-worken hard to cheer woone's tweil Wi' her best feaere, an' better smile. Mid women still in wedlock's yoke Zend up, wi' love, their own blue smoke, An' husbands vind their bwoards a-spread By faithvul hands when I be dead, An' noo good men in ouer land Think lightly o' the wedden band. True happiness do bide alwone Wi' them that ha' their own he'th-stwone To gather wi' their childern roun', A-smilen at the worold's frown.

My bwoys, that brought me thatch an' spars, Wer down a-taiten on the bars, Or zot a-cutten wi' a knife, Dry eltrot-roots to meaeke a fife; Or dreven woone another round The rick upon the grassy ground. An', as the aier vrom the west Did fan my burnen feaece an' breast, An' hoppen birds, wi' twitt'ren beaks, Did show their sheenen spots an' streaks, Then, wi' my heart a-vill'd wi' love An' thankvulness to God above, I didden think ov anything That I begrudg'd o' lord or king; Vor I ha' round me, vur or near, The mwost to love an' nwone to fear, An' zoo can walk in any pleaece, An' look the best man in the feaece. What good do come to eaechen heads, O' lien down in silken beds? Or what's a coach, if woone do pine To zee woone's naighbour's twice so fine? Contentment is a constant feaest, He's richest that do want the leaest.

BEES A-ZWARMEN.

Avore we went a-milken, vive Or six o's here wer all alive A-teaeken bees that zwarm'd vrom hive; An' we'd sich work to catch The hummen rogues, they led us sich A dance all over hedge an' ditch; An' then at last where should they pitch, But up in uncle's thatch?

Dick rung a sheep-bell in his han'; Liz beaet a cannister, an' Nan Did bang the little fryen-pan Wi' thick an' thumpen blows; An' Tom went on, a-carren roun' A bee-pot up upon his crown, Wi' all his edge a-reachen down Avore his eyes an' nose.

An' woone girt bee, wi' spitevul hum, Stung Dicky's lip, an' meaede it come All up amost so big's a plum; An' zome, a-vleen on, Got all roun' Liz, an' meaede her hop An' scream, a-twirlen lik' a top, An' spring away right backward, flop Down into barken pon':

An' Nan' gi'ed Tom a roguish twitch Upon a bank, an' meaede en pitch Right down, head-voremost, into ditch,— Tom coulden zee a wink. An' when the zwarm wer seaefe an' sound In mother's bit o' bee-pot ground, She meaede us up a treat all round O' sillibub to drink.

READEN OV A HEAD-STWONE.

As I wer readen ov a stwone In Grenley church-yard all alwone, A little maid ran up, wi' pride To zee me there, an' push'd a-zide A bunch o' bennets that did hide A verse her father, as she zaid, Put up above her mother's head, To tell how much he loved her:

The verse wer short, but very good, I stood an' larn'd en where I stood:— "Mid God, dear Meaery, gi'e me greaece To vind, lik' thee, a better pleaece, Where I woonce mwore mid zee thy feaece; An' bring thy childern up to know His word, that they mid come an' show Thy soul how much I lov'd thee."

"Where's father, then," I zaid, "my chile?" "Dead too," she answer'd wi' a smile; "An' I an' brother Jim do bide At Betty White's, o' tother zide O' road." "Mid He, my chile," I cried, "That's father to the fatherless, Become thy father now, an' bless, An' keep, an' leaed, an' love thee."

Though she've a-lost, I thought, so much, Still He don't let the thoughts o't touch Her litsome heart by day or night; An' zoo, if we could teaeke it right, Do show He'll meaeke his burdens light To weaker souls, an' that his smile Is sweet upon a harmless chile, When they be dead that lov'd it.

ZUMMER EVENEN DANCE.

Come out to the parrock, come out to the tree, The maidens an' chaps be a-waiten vor thee; There's Jim wi' his fiddle to play us some reels, Come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels.

Come, all the long grass is a-mow'd an' a-carr'd, An' the turf is so smooth as a bwoard an' so hard; There's a bank to zit down, when y'ave danced a reel drough, An' a tree over head vor to keep off the dew.

There be rwoses an' honeyzucks hangen among The bushes, to put in thy weaest; an' the zong O' the nightingeaele's heaerd in the hedges all roun'; An' I'll get thee a glow-worm to stick in thy gown.

There's Meaery so modest, an' Jenny so smart, An' Mag that do love a good rompse to her heart; There's Joe at the mill that do zing funny zongs, An' short-lagged Dick, too, a-waggen his prongs.

Zoo come to the parrock, come out to the tree, The maidens an' chaps be a-waiten vor thee; There's Jim wi' his fiddle to play us some reels,— Come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels.

[Gothic: Eclogue.]

THE VEAIRIES.

Simon an' Samel.

SIMON.

There's what the vo'k do call a veaeiry ring Out there, lo'k zee. Why, 'tis an oddish thing.

SAMEL.

Ah! zoo do seem. I wunder how do come! What is it that do meaeke it, I do wonder?

SIMON.

Be hang'd if I can tell, I'm sure! But zome Do zay do come by lightnen when do thunder; An' zome do say sich rings as thik ring there is, Do grow in dancen-tracks o' little veaeiries, That in the nights o' zummer or o' spring Do come by moonlight, when noo other veet Do tread the dewy grass, but their's, an' meet An' dance away together in a ring.

SAMEL.

An' who d'ye think do work the fiddlestick? A little veaeiry too, or else wold Nick!

SIMON.

Why, they do zay, that at the veaeiries' ball, There's nar a fiddle that's a-heaer'd at all; But they do play upon a little pipe A-meaede o' kexes or o' straws, dead ripe, A-stuck in row (zome short an' longer zome) Wi' slime o' snails, or bits o' plum-tree gum, An' meaeke sich music that to hear it sound, You'd stick so still's a pollard to the ground.

SAMEL.

What do em dance? 'Tis plain by theaese green wheels, They don't frisk in an' out in dree-hand reels; Vor else, instead o' theaese here girt round O, The'd cut us out a figure aight (8), d'ye know.

SIMON.

Oh! they ha' jigs to fit their little veet. They woulden dance, you know, at their fine ball, The dree an' vow'r han' reels that we do sprawl An' kick about in, when we men do meet.

SAMEL.

An' zoo have zome vo'k, in their midnight rambles, A-catch'd the veaeiries, then, in theaesem gambols.

SIMON.

Why, yes; but they be off lik' any shot, So soon's a man's a-comen near the spot

SAMEL.

But in the day-time where do veaeiries hide? Where be their hwomes, then? where do veaeiries bide?

SIMON.

Oh! they do get away down under ground, In hollow pleaezen where they can't be vound. But still my gramfer, many years agoo, (He liv'd at Grenley-farm, an milk'd a deaeiry), If what the wolder vo'k do tell is true, Woone mornen eaerly vound a veaeiry.

SAMEL.

An' did he stop, then, wi' the good wold bwoy? Or did he soon contrive to slip awoy?

SIMON.

Why, when the vo'k were all asleep, a-bed, The veaeiries us'd to come, as 'tis a-zaid, Avore the vire wer cwold, an' dance an hour Or two at dead o' night upon the vloor; Var they, by only utteren a word Or charm, can come down chimney lik' a bird; Or draw their bodies out so long an' narrow, That they can vlee drough keyholes lik' an arrow. An' zoo woone midnight, when the moon did drow His light drough window, roun' the vloor below, An' crickets roun' the bricken he'th did zing, They come an' danced about the hall in ring; An' tapp'd, drough little holes noo eyes could spy, A kag o' poor aunt's meaed a-stannen by. An' woone o'm drink'd so much, he coulden mind The word he wer to zay to meaeke en small; He got a-dather'd zoo, that after all Out tothers went an' left en back behind. An' after he'd a-beaet about his head, Ageaen the keyhole till he wer half dead, He laid down all along upon the vloor Till gramfer, comen down, unlocked the door: An' then he zeed en ('twer enough to frighten en) Bolt out o' door, an' down the road lik' lightenen.

FALL.

CORN A-TURNEN YOLLOW.

The windless copse ha' sheaedy boughs, Wi' blackbirds' evenen whistles; The hills ha' sheep upon their brows, The zummerleaeze ha' thistles: The meaeds be gay in grassy May, But, oh! vrom hill to hollow, Let me look down upon a groun' O' corn a-turnen yollow.

An' pease do grow in tangled beds, An' beaens be sweet to snuff, O; The teaeper woats do bend their heads, The barley's beard is rough, O. The turnip green is fresh between The corn in hill or hollow, But I'd look down upon a groun' O' wheat a-turnen yollow.

'Tis merry when the brawny men Do come to reap it down, O, Where glossy red the poppy head 'S among the stalks so brown, O. 'Tis merry while the wheat's in hile, Or when, by hill or hollow, The leaezers thick do stoop to pick The ears so ripe an' yollow.

A-HAULEN O' THE CORN.

Ah! yesterday, you know, we carr'd The piece o' corn in Zidelen Plot, An' work'd about it pretty hard, An' vound the weather pretty hot. 'Twer all a-tied an' zet upright In tidy hile o' Monday night; Zoo yesterday in afternoon We zet, in eaernest, ev'ry woone A-haulen o' the corn.

The hosses, wi' the het an' lwoad, Did froth, an' zwang vrom zide to zide, A-gwain along the dousty road, An' seem'd as if they would a-died. An' wi' my collar all undone, An' neck a-burnen wi' the zun, I got, wi' work, an' doust, an' het, So dry at last, I coulden spet, A-haulen o' the corn.

At uncle's orcha'd, gwain along, I begged some apples, vor to quench My drith, o' Poll that wer among The trees: but she, a saucy wench, Toss'd over hedge some crabs vor fun. I squail'd her, though, an' meaede her run; An' zoo she gie'd me, vor a treat, A lot o' stubberds vor to eat. A-haulen o' the corn.

An' up at rick, Jeaene took the flagon, An' gi'ed us out zome eaele; an' then I carr'd her out upon the waggon, Wi' bread an' cheese to gi'e the men. An' there, vor fun, we dress'd her head Wi' nodden poppies bright an' red, As we wer catchen vrom our laps, Below a woak, our bits an' draps, A-haulen o' the corn.

HARVEST HWOME.

The vu'st peaert. The Supper.

Since we wer striplens naighbour John, The good wold merry times be gone: But we do like to think upon What we've a-zeed an' done. When I wer up a hardish lad, At harvest hwome the work-vo'k had Sich suppers, they wer jumpen mad Wi' feaesten an' wi' fun.

At uncle's, I do mind, woone year, I zeed a vill o' hearty cheer; Fat beef an' pudden, eaele an' beer, Vor ev'ry workman's crop An' after they'd a-gie'd God thanks, They all zot down, in two long ranks, Along a teaeble-bwoard o' planks, Wi' uncle at the top.

An' there, in platters, big and brown, Wer red fat beaecon, an' a roun' O' beef wi' gravy that would drown A little rwoasten pig; Wi' beaens an' teaeties vull a zack, An' cabbage that would meaeke a stack, An' puddens brown, a-speckled black Wi' figs, so big's my wig.

An' uncle, wi' his elbows out, Did carve, an' meaeke the gravy spout; An' aunt did gi'e the mugs about A-frothen to the brim. Pleaetes werden then ov e'then ware, They ate off pewter, that would bear A knock; or wooden trenchers, square, Wi' zalt-holes at the rim.

An' zoo they munch'd their hearty cheer, An' dipp'd their beards in frothy-beer, An' laugh'd, an' jok'd—they couldden hear What woone another zaid. An' all o'm drink'd, wi' woone accword, The wold vo'k's health: an' beaet the bwoard, An' swung their eaerms about, an' roar'd, Enough to crack woone's head.

HARVEST HWOME.

Second Peaert. What they did after Supper.

Zoo after supper wer a-done, They clear'd the teaebles, an' begun To have a little bit o' fun, As long as they mid stop. The wold woones took their pipes to smoke, An' tell their teaeles, an' laugh an' joke, A-looken at the younger vo'k, That got up vor a hop.

Woone screaep'd away, wi' merry grin, A fiddle stuck below his chin; An' woone o'm took the rollen pin, An' beaet the fryen pan. An' tothers, dancen to the soun', Went in an' out, an' droo an' roun', An' kick'd, an' beaet the tuen down, A-laughen, maid an' man.

An' then a maid, all up tip-tooe, Vell down; an' woone o'm wi' his shoe Slit down her pocket-hole in two, Vrom top a-most to bottom. An' when they had a-danc'd enough, They got a-playen blindman's buff, An' sard the maidens pretty rough, When woonce they had a-got em.

An' zome did drink, an' laugh, an' roar, An' lots o' teaeles they had in store, O' things that happen'd years avore To them, or vo'k they know'd. An' zome did joke, an' zome did zing, An' meaeke the girt wold kitchen ring; Till uncle's cock, wi' flappen wing, Stratch'd out his neck an' crow'd.

A ZONG OV HARVEST HWOME.

The ground is clear. There's nar a ear O' stannen corn a-left out now, Vor win' to blow or rain to drow; 'Tis all up seaefe in barn or mow. Here's health to them that plough'd an' zow'd; Here's health to them that reap'd an' mow'd, An' them that had to pitch an' lwoad, Or tip the rick at Harvest Hwome. The happy zight,—the merry night, The men's delight,—the Harvest Hwome.

An' mid noo harm o' vire or storm Beval the farmer or his corn; An' ev'ry zack o' zeed gi'e back A hunderd-vwold so much in barn. An' mid his Meaeker bless his store, His wife an' all that she've a-bore, An' keep all evil out o' door, Vrom Harvest Hwome to Harvest Hwome. The happy zight,—the merry night, The men's delight,—the Harvest Hwome.

Mid nothen ill betide the mill, As day by day the miller's wheel Do dreve his clacks, an' heist his zacks, An' vill his bins wi' show'ren meal: Mid's water never overflow His dousty mill, nor zink too low, Vrom now till wheat ageaen do grow, An' we've another Harvest Hwome. The happy zight,—the merry night, The men's delight,—the Harvest Hwome.