Part 6

Drough cisterns wet an' malt-kil's het, Mid barley pay the malter's pains; An' mid noo hurt bevall the wort, A-bweilen vrom the brewer's grains. Mid all his beer keep out o' harm Vrom bu'sted hoop or thunder storm, That we mid have a mug to warm Our merry hearts nex' Harvest Hwome. The happy zight,—the merry night, The men's delight,—the Harvest Hwome.

Mid luck an' jay the beaeker pay, As he do hear his vier roar, Or nimbly catch his hot white batch, A-reeken vrom the oven door. An' mid it never be too high Vor our vew zixpences to buy, When we do hear our childern cry Vor bread, avore nex' Harvest Hwome. The happy zight,—the merry night, The men's delight,—the Harvest Hwome.

Wi' jay o' heart mid shooters start The whirren pa'tridges in vlocks; While shots do vlee drough bush an' tree, An' dogs do stan' so still as stocks. An' let em ramble round the farms Wi' guns 'ithin their bended eaerms, In goolden zunsheen free o' storms, Rejaicen vor the Harvest Hwome. The happy zight,—the merry night, The men's delight,—the Harvest Hwome.

POLL'S JACK-DAW.

Ah! Jimmy vow'd he'd have the law Ov ouer cousin Poll's Jack-daw, That had by day his withy jail A-hangen up upon a nail, Ageaen the elem tree, avore The house, jist over-right the door, An' twitted vo'k a-passen by A-most so plain as you or I; Vor hardly any day did pass 'Ithout Tom's teachen o'm zome sa'ce; Till by-an'-by he call'd em all 'Soft-polls' an' 'gawkeys,' girt an' small.

An' zoo, as Jim went down along The leaene a-whisslen ov a zong, The saucy Daw cried out by rote "Girt Soft-poll!" lik' to split his droat. Jim stopp'd an' grabbled up a clot, An' zent en at en lik' a shot; An' down went Daw an' cage avore The clot, up thump ageaen the door. Zoo out run Poll an' Tom, to zee What all the meaenen o't mid be; "Now who did that?" zaid Poll. "Who whurr'd Theaese clot?" "Girt Soft-poll!" cried the bird.

An' when Tom catch'd a glimpse o' Jim, A-looken all so red an' slim, An' slinken on, he vled, red hot, Down leaene to catch en, lik' a shot; But Jim, that thought he'd better trust To lags than vistes, tried em vu'st. An' Poll, that zeed Tom woulden catch En, stood a-smilen at the hatch. An' zoo he vollow'd en for two Or dree stwones' drows, an' let en goo.

THE IVY.

Upon theaese knap I'd sooner be The ivy that do climb the tree, Than bloom the gayest rwose a-tied An' trimm'd upon the house's zide. The rwose mid be the maidens' pride, But still the ivy's wild an' free; An' what is all that life can gi'e, 'Ithout a free light heart, John?

The creepen sheaede mid steal too soon Upon the rwose in afternoon; But here the zun do drow his het Vrom when do rise till when do zet, To dry the leaves the rain do wet. An' evenen air do bring along The merry deaeiry-maiden's zong, The zong of free light hearts, John.

Oh! why do vo'k so often chain Their pinen minds vor love o' gain, An' gi'e their innocence to rise A little in the worold's eyes? If pride could lift us to the skies, What man do value God do slight, An' all is nothen in his zight 'Ithout an honest heart, John.

An ugly feaece can't bribe the brooks To show it back young han'some looks, Nor crooked vo'k intice the light To cast their zummer sheaedes upright: Noo goold can blind our Meaeker's zight. An' what's the odds what cloth do hide The bosom that do hold inside A free an' honest heart, John?

THE WELSHNUT TREE.

When in the evenen the zun's a-zinken, A drowen sheaedes vrom the yollow west, An' mother, weary, 's a-zot a thinken, Wi' vwolded eaerms by the vire at rest, Then we do zwarm, O, Wi' such a charm, O, So vull o' glee by the welshnut tree.

A-leaeven father in-doors, a-leinen' In his girt chair in his easy shoes, Or in the settle so high behine en, While down bezide en the dog do snooze, Our tongues do run, O, Enough to stun, O, Your head wi' glee by the welshnut tree.

There we do play 'thread the woman's needle.' An' slap the maidens a-darten drough: Or try who'll ax em the hardest riddle, Or soonest tell woone a-put us, true; Or zit an' ring, O, The bells, ding, ding, O, Upon our knee by the welshnut tree.

An' zome do goo out, an' hide in orcha't, An' tothers, slily a-stealen by, Where there's a dark cunnen pleaece, do sarch it, Till they do zee em an' cry, "I spy," An' thik a-vound, O, Do gi'e a bound, O, To get off free to the welshnut tree.

Poll went woone night, that we midden vind her, Inzide a woak wi' a hollow moot, An' drough a hole near the groun' behind her, I pok'd a stick in, an' catch'd her voot; An' out she scream'd, O, An' jump'd, an' seem'd, O, A-most to vlee to the welshnut tree.

An' when, at last, at the drashel, mother Do call us, smilen, in-door to rest, Then we do cluster by woone another, To zee hwome them we do love the best: An' then do sound, O, "Good night," all round, O, To end our glee by the welshnut tree.

JENNY OUT VROM HWOME.

O wild-reaeven west winds; as you do roar on, The elems do rock an' the poplars do ply, An' weaeve do dreve weaeve in the dark-water'd pon',— Oh! where do ye rise vrom, an' where do ye die?

O wild-reaeven winds I do wish I could vlee Wi' you, lik' a bird o' the clouds, up above The ridge o' the hill an' the top o' the tree, To where I do long vor, an' vo'k I do love.

Or else that in under theaese rock I could hear, In the soft-zwellen sounds you do leaeve in your road, Zome words you mid bring me, vrom tongues that be dear, Vrom friends that do love me, all scatter'd abrode.

O wild-reaeven winds! if you ever do roar By the house an' the elems vrom where I'm a-come, Breathe up at the window, or call at the door, An' tell you've a-voun' me a-thinken o' hwome.

GRENLEY WATER.

The sheaedeless darkness o' the night Can never blind my mem'ry's zight; An' in the storm, my fancy's eyes Can look upon their own blue skies. The laggen moon mid fail to rise, But when the daylight's blue an' green Be gone, my fancy's zun do sheen At hwome at Grenley Water.

As when the work-vo'k us'd to ride In waggon, by the hedge's zide, Drough evenen sheaedes that trees cast down Vrom lofty stems athirt the groun'; An' in at house the mug went roun', While ev'ry merry man prais'd up The pretty maid that vill'd his cup, The maid o' Grenley Water.

There I do seem ageaen to ride The hosses to the water-zide, An' zee the visher fling his hook Below the withies by the brook; Or Fanny, wi' her blushen look, Car on her pail, or come to dip Wi' ceaereful step, her pitcher's lip Down into Grenley Water.

If I'd a farm wi' vower ploughs, An' vor my deaeiry fifty cows; If Grenley Water winded down Drough two good miles o' my own groun'; If half ov Ashknowle Hill wer brown Wi' my own corn,—noo growen pride Should ever meaeke me cast azide The maid o' Grenley Water.

THE VEAIRY VEET THAT I DO MEET.

When dewy fall's red leaves do vlee Along the grass below the tree, Or lie in yollow beds a-shook Upon the shallow-water'd brook, Or drove 'ithin a sheaedy nook; Then softly, in the evenen, down The knap do steal along the groun' The veaeiry veet that I do meet Below the row o' beech trees.

'Tis jist avore the candle-light Do redden windows up at night, An' peaeler stars do light the vogs A-risen vrom the brooks an' bogs, An' when in barkens yoppen dogs Do bark at vo'k a-comen near, Or growl a-lis'enen to hear The veaeiry veet that I do meet Below the row o' beech trees.

Dree times a-year do bless the road O' womanhood a-gwain abrode: When vu'st her litty veet do tread The eaerly May's white deaeisy bed: When leaves be all a-scattered dead; An' when the winter's vrozen grass Do glissen in the zun lik' glass Vor veaeiry veet that I do meet Below the row o' beech trees.

MORNEN.

When vu'st the breaken day is red, An' grass is dewy wet, An' roun' the blackberry's a-spread The spider's gliss'nen net, Then I do dreve the cows across The brook that's in a vog, While they do trot, an' bleaere, an' toss Their heads to hook the dog; Vor the cock do gi'e me warnen, An' light or dark, So brisk's a lark, I'm up at break o' mornen.

Avore the maiden's sleep's a-broke By window-striken zun, Avore the busy wife's vu'st smoke Do curl above the tun, My day's begun. An' when the zun 'S a-zinken in the west, The work the mornen brought's a-done, An' I do goo to rest, Till the cock do gi'e me warnen; An' light or dark, So brisk's a lark, I'm up ageaen nex' mornen.

We can't keep back the daily zun, The wind is never still, An' never ha' the streams a-done A-runnen down at hill. Zoo they that ha' their work to do, Should do't so soon's they can; Vor time an' tide will come an' goo, An' never wait vor man, As the cock do gi'e me warnen; When, light or dark, So brisk's a lark, I'm up so rathe in mornen.

We've leaezes where the air do blow, An' meaeds wi' deaeiry cows, An' copse wi' lewth an' sheaede below The overhangen boughs. An' when the zun, noo time can tire, 'S a-quench'd below the west, Then we've, avore the bleaezen vire, A settle vor to rest,— To be up ageaen nex' mornen So brisk's a lark, When, light or dark, The cock do gi'e us warnen.

OUT A-NUTTEN.

Last week, when we'd a haul'd the crops, We went a-nutten out in copse, Wi' nutten-bags to bring hwome vull, An' beaky nutten-crooks to pull The bushes down; an' all o's wore Wold clothes that wer in rags avore, An' look'd, as we did skip an' zing, Lik' merry gipsies in a string, A-gwain a-nutten.

Zoo drough the stubble, over rudge An' vurrow, we begun to trudge; An' Sal an' Nan agreed to pick Along wi' me, an' Poll wi' Dick; An' they went where the wold wood, high An' thick, did meet an' hide the sky; But we thought we mid vind zome good Ripe nuts among the shorter wood, The best vor nutten.

We voun' zome bushes that did feaece The downcast zunlight's highest pleaece, Where clusters hung so ripe an' brown, That some slipp'd shell an' vell to groun'. But Sal wi' me zoo hitch'd her lag In brembles, that she coulden wag; While Poll kept clwose to Dick, an' stole The nuts vrom's hinder pocket-hole, While he did nutty.

An' Nanny thought she zaw a sneaeke, An' jump'd off into zome girt breaeke, An' tore the bag where she'd a-put Her sheaere, an' shatter'd ev'ry nut. An' out in vield we all zot roun' A white-stemm'd woak upon the groun', Where yollor evenen light did strik' Drough yollow leaves, that still wer thick In time o' nutten,

An' twold ov all the luck we had Among the bushes, good an' bad! Till all the maidens left the bwoys, An' skipp'd about the leaeze all woys Vor musherooms, to car back zome, A treat vor father in at hwome. Zoo off we trudg'd wi' clothes in slents An' libbets, jis' lik' Jack-o'-lents, Vrom copse a-nutten.

TEAKEN IN APPLES.

We took the apples in last week, An' got, by night, zome eaechen backs A-stoopen down all day to pick So many up in mawns an' zacks. An' there wer Liz so proud an' prim, An' dumpy Nan, an' Poll so sly; An' dapper Tom, an' loppen Jim, An' little Dick, an' Fan, an' I.

An' there the lwoaded tree bent low, Behung wi' apples green an' red; An' springen grass could hardly grow, Drough windvalls down below his head. An' when the maidens come in roun' The heavy boughs to vill their laps, We slily shook the apples down Lik' hail, an' gi'ed their backs some raps.

An' zome big apple, Jimmy flung To squail me, gi'ed me sich a crack; But very shortly his ear rung, Wi' woone I zent to pay en back. An' after we'd a-had our squails, Poor Tom, a-jumpen in a bag, Wer pinch'd by all the maiden's nails, An' rolled down into hwome-groun' quag.

An' then they carr'd our Fan all roun', 'Ithin a mawn, till zome girt stump Upset en over on the groun', An' drow'd her out along-straight, plump. An' in the cider-house we zot Upon the windlass Poll an' Nan, An' spun 'em roun' till they wer got So giddy that they coulden stan'.

MEAPLE LEAVES BE YOLLOW.

Come, let's stroll down so vur's the poun', Avore the sparklen zun is down: The zummer's gone, an' days so feaeir As theaese be now a-getten reaere. The night, wi' mwore than daylight's sheaere O' wat'ry sky, do wet wi' dew The ee-grass up above woone's shoe, An' meaeple leaves be yollow.

The last hot doust, above the road, An' vu'st dead leaves ha' been a-blow'd By playsome win's where spring did spread The blossoms that the zummer shed; An' near blue sloos an' conkers red The evenen zun, a zetten soon, Do leaeve a-quiv'ren to the moon, The meaeple leaves so yollow.

Zoo come along, an' let's injay The last fine weather while do stay; While thou canst hang, wi' ribbons slack, Thy bonnet down upon thy back, Avore the winter, cwold an' black, Do kill thy flowers, an' avore Thy bird-cage is a-took in door, Though meaeple leaves be yollow.

NIGHT A-ZETTEN IN.

When leaezers wi' their laps o' corn Noo longer be a-stoopen, An' in the stubble, all vorlorn, Noo poppies be a-droopen; When theaese young harvest-moon do weaene, That now've his horns so thin, O, We'll leaeve off walken in the leaene, While night's a zetten in, O.

When zummer doust is all a-laid Below our litty shoes, O; When all the rain-chill'd flow'rs be dead, That now do drink the dews, O; When beauty's neck, that's now a-show'd, 'S a-muffled to the chin, O; We'll leaeve off walken in the road, When night's a-zetten in, O.

But now, while barley by the road Do hang upon the bough, O, A-pull'd by branches off the lwoad A-riden hwome to mow, O; While spiders roun' the flower-stalks Ha' cobwebs yet to spin, O, We'll cool ourzelves in out-door walks, When night's a-zetten in, O.

While down at vword the brook so small, That leaetely wer so high, O, Wi' little tinklen sounds do vall In roun' the stwones half dry, O; While twilight ha' sich air in store, To cool our zunburnt skin, O, We'll have a ramble out o' door, When night's a-zetten in, O.

THE WEATHER-BEATEN TREE.

The woaken tree, a-beaet at night By stormy winds wi' all their spite, Mid toss his lim's, an' ply, an' mwoan, Wi' unknown struggles all alwone; An' when the day do show his head, A-stripp'd by winds at last a-laid, How vew mid think that didden zee, How night-time had a-tried thik tree.

An' happy vo'k do seldom know How hard our unknown storms do blow, The while our heads do slowly bend Below the trials God do zend, Like shiv'ren bennets, beaere to all The dreven winds o' dark'nen fall. An' zoo in tryen hardships we Be lik' the weather beaeten tree.

But He will never meaeke our sheaere O' sorrow mwore than we can bear, But meaeke us zee, if 'tis His will, That He can bring us good vrom ill; As after winter He do bring, In His good time, the zunny spring, An' leaves, an' young vo'k vull o' glee A-dancen roun' the woaken tree.

True love's the ivy that do twine Unwith'ren roun' his mossy rine, When winter's zickly zun do sheen Upon its leaves o' glossy green, So patiently a-holden vast Till storms an' cwold be all a-past, An' only liven vor to be A-meaeted to the woaken tree.

SHRODON FEAeIR.

The vu'st Peaert.

An' zoo's the day wer warm an' bright, An' nar a cloud wer up in zight, We wheedled father vor the meaere An' cart, to goo to Shrodon feaeir. An' Poll an' Nan run off up stairs, To shift their things, as wild as heaeres; An' pull'd out, each o'm vrom her box, Their snow-white leaece an' newest frocks, An' put their bonnets on, a-lined Wi' blue, an' sashes tied behind; An' turn'd avore the glass their feaece An' back, to zee their things in pleaece; While Dick an' I did brush our hats An' cwoats, an' cleaen ourzelves lik' cats. At woone or two o'clock, we vound Ourzelves at Shrodon seaefe an' sound, A-strutten in among the rows O' tilted stannens an' o' shows, An' girt long booths wi' little bars Chock-vull o' barrels, mugs, an' jars, An' meat a-cooken out avore The vier at the upper door; Where zellers bwold to buyers shy Did hollow round us, "What d'ye buy?" An' scores o' merry tongues did speak At woonce, an' childern's pipes did squeak, An' horns did blow, an' drums did rumble, An' bawlen merrymen did tumble; An' woone did all but want an edge To peaert the crowd wi', lik' a wedge.

We zaw the dancers in a show Dance up an' down, an' to an' fro, Upon a rwope, wi' chalky zoles, So light as magpies up on poles; An' tumblers, wi' their streaks an' spots, That all but tied theirzelves in knots. An' then a conjurer burn'd off Poll's han'kerchief so black's a snoff, An' het en, wi' a single blow, Right back ageaen so white as snow. An' after that, he fried a fat Girt ceaeke inzide o' my new hat; An' yet, vor all he did en brown, He didden even zweal the crown.

SHRODON FEAeR.

The rest o't.

An' after that we met wi' zome O' Mans'on vo'k, but jist a-come, An' had a raffle vor a treat All roun', o' gingerbread to eat; An' Tom meaede leaest, wi' all his sheaekes, An' paid the money vor the ceaekes, But wer so lwoth to put it down As if a penny wer a poun'. Then up come zidelen Sammy Heaere, That's fond o' Poll, an' she can't bear, A-holden out his girt scram vist, An' ax'd her, wi' a grin an' twist, To have zome nuts; an' she, to hide Her laughen, turn'd her head azide, An' answer'd that she'd rather not, But Nancy mid. An' Nan, so hot As vier, zaid 'twer quite enough Vor Poll to answer vor herzuf: She had a tongue, she zaid, an' wit Enough to use en, when 'twer fit. An' in the dusk, a-riden round Drough Okford, who d'ye think we vound But Sam ageaen, a-gwaein vrom feaeir Astride his broken-winded meaere. An' zoo, a-hetten her, he tried To keep up clwose by ouer zide: But when we come to Hayward-brudge, Our Poll gi'ed Dick a meaenen nudge, An' wi' a little twitch our meaere Flung out her lags so lights a heaere, An' left poor Sammy's skin an' bwones Behind, a-kicken o' the stwones.

MARTIN'S TIDE.

Come, bring a log o' cleft wood, Jack, An' fling en on ageaen the back, An' zee the outside door is vast,— The win' do blow a cwoldish blast. Come, so's! come, pull your chairs in roun' Avore the vire; an' let's zit down, An' keep up Martin's-tide, vor I Shall keep it up till I do die. 'Twer Martinmas, and ouer feaeir, When Jeaene an' I, a happy peaeir, Vu'st walk'd, a-keepen up the tide, Among the stan'ens, zide by zide; An' thik day twel'month, never failen, She gi'ed me at the chancel railen A heart—though I do sound her praise— As true as ever beaet in stays. How vast the time do goo! Do seem But yesterday,—'tis lik' a dream!

Ah, s[=o]'s! 'tis now zome years agoo You vu'st knew me, an' I knew you; An' we've a-had zome bits o' fun, By winter vire an' zummer zun. Aye; we've a-prowl'd an' rigg'd about Lik' cats, in harm's way mwore than out, An' busy wi' the tricks we play'd In fun, to outwit chap or maid. An' out avore the bleaezen he'th, Our naisy tongues, in winter me'th, 'V a-shook the warmen-pan, a-hung Bezide us, till his cover rung. There, 'twer but tother day thik chap, Our Robert, wer a child in lap; An' Poll's two little lags hung down Vrom thik wold chair a span vrom groun', An' now the saucy wench do stride About wi' steps o' dree veet wide. How time do goo! A life do seem As 'twer a year; 'tis lik' a dream!