OH! thik Gammony Gaÿ is so droll, that

That if he's at hwome by the he'th, hearth

Or wi’ vo'k out o’ door, he's the soul folk

O’ the meetèn vor antics an’ me'th; mirth

He do cast off the thoughts ov ill luck

As the water's a-shot vrom a duck;

He do zing where his naïghbours would cry—

He do laugh where the rest o's would sigh: of us

Noo other's so merry o’ feäce,

In the pleäce, as Gammony Gaÿ.

An’ o’ workèn days, Oh! he do wear

Such a funny roun’ hat,—you mid know't— may

Wi’ a brim all a-strout roun’ his heäir, sticking out

An’ his glissenèn eyes down below't;

An’ a cwoat wi’ broad skirts that do vlee fly

In the wind ov his walk, round his knee;

An’ a peäir o’ girt pockets lik’ bags, great

That do swing an’ do bob at his lags:

While me'th do walk out drough the pleäce, through

In the feäce o’ Gammony Gaÿ.

An’ if he do goo over groun’

Wi’ noo soul vor to greet wi’ his words,

The feäce o'n do look up an’ down, his face

An’ round en so quick as a bird's; him

An’ if he do vall in wi’ vo'k,

Why, tidden vor want ov a joke, ’tisn't

If he don't zend em on vrom the pleäce

Wi’ a smile or a grin on their feäce:

An’ the young wi’ the wold have a-heärd old

A kind word vrom Gammony Gaÿ.

An’ when he do whissel or hum,

'Ithout thinkèn o’ what he's a-doèn,

He'll beät his own lags vor a drum,

An’ bob his gaÿ head to the tuèn; tune

An’ then you mid zee, 'etween whiles, may

His feäce all alive wi’ his smiles,

An’ his gaÿ-breathèn bozom do rise,

An’ his me'th do sheen out ov his eyes: mirth, shine

An’ at last to have praïse or have bleäme,

Is the seäme to Gammony Gaÿ.

AH! when the wold vo'k went abroad old folk, out

They thought it vast enough, fast

If vow'r good ho'ses beät the road four, horses

Avore the coach's ruf; roof

An’ there they zot, sat

A-cwold or hot,

An’ roll'd along the ground,

While the whip did smack

On the ho'ses’ back,

An’ the wheels went swiftly round, Good so's; souls (friends)

The wheels went swiftly round.

Noo iron raïls did streak the land

To keep the wheels in track.

The coachman turn'd his vow'r-in-hand,

Out right, or left, an’ back;

An’ he'd stop avore

A man's own door,

To teäke en up or down: him

While the reïns vell slack

On the ho'ses’ back,

Till the wheels did rottle round ageän;

Till the wheels did rottle round.

An’ there, when wintry win’ did blow,

Athirt the plaïn an’ hill, across

An’ the zun wer peäle above the snow,

An’ ice did stop the mill,

They did laugh an’ joke

Wi’ cwoat or cloke,

So warmly roun’ em bound,

While the whip did crack

On the ho'ses’ back,

An’ the wheels did trundle round, d'ye know;

The wheels did trundle round.

An’ when the rumblèn coach did pass

Where hufflèn winds did roar, gusty

They'd stop to teäke a warmèn glass

By the sign above the door;

An’ did laugh an’ joke

An’ ax the vo'k ask, folk

The miles they wer vrom town,

Till the whip did crack

On the ho'ses back,

An’ the wheels did truckle roun’, good vo'k;

The wheels did truckle roun’.

An’ gaïly rod wold age or youth, rode, old

When zummer light did vall

On woods in leaf, or trees in blooth, bloom

Or girt vo'ks parkzide wall. great

An’ they thought they past

The pleäces vast, fast

Along the dousty groun’, dusty

When the whip did smack

On the ho'ses’ back,

An’ the wheels spun swiftly roun’. Them days

The wheels spun swiftly roun’.

HERE, Jeäne, we vu'st did meet below first

The leafy boughs, a-swingèn slow,

Avore the zun, wi’ evenèn glow,

Above our road, a-beamèn red;

The grass in zwath wer in the meäds,

The water gleäm'd among the reeds

In aïr a-steälen roun’ the hall,

Where ivy clung upon the wall.

Ah! well-a-day! O wall adieu!

The wall is wold, my grief is new.

An’ there you walk'd wi’ blushèn pride,

Where softly-wheelèn streams did glide,

Drough sheädes o’ poplars at my zide, through shadows

An’ there wi’ love that still do live,

Your feäce did wear the smile o’ youth,

The while you spoke wi’ age's truth,

An’ wi’ a rwosebud's mossy ball,

I deck'd your bosom vrom the wall.

Ah! well-a-day! O wall adieu!

The wall is wold, my grief is new.

But now when winter's raïn do vall,

An’ wind do beät ageän the hall,

The while upon the wat'ry wall

In spots o’ grey the moss do grow;

The ruf noo mwore shall overspread roof

The pillor ov our weary head,

Nor shall the rwose's mossy ball

Behang vor you the house's wall.

Ah! well-a-day! O wall adieu!

The wall is wold, my grief is new.

THE aïr to gi'e your cheäks a hue give

O’ rwosy red, so feaïr to view,

Is what do sheäke the grass-bleädes gray

At breäk o’ day, in mornèn dew;

Vor vo'k that will be rathe abrode, folk, outside early

Will meet wi’ health upon their road.

But bidèn up till dead o’ night,

When han's o’ clocks do stan’ upright,

By candle-light, do soon consume

The feäce's bloom, an’ turn it white.

An’ light a-cast vrom midnight skies

Do blunt the sparklèn ov the eyes.

Vor health do weäke vrom nightly dreams

Below the mornèn's eärly beams,

An’ leäve the dead-aïr'd houses’ eaves,

Vor quiv'rèn leaves, an’ bubblèn streams,

A-glitt'rèn brightly to the view,

Below a sky o’ cloudless blue.

THE snow-white clouds did float on high

In shoals avore the sheenèn sky, shining

An’ runnèn weäves in pon’ did cheäse pond, chase

Each other on the water's feäce,

As hufflèn win’ did blow between gusty

The new-leav'd boughs o’ sheenèn green.

An’ there, the while I walked along

The path, drough leäze, above the drong, through the meadow, lane

A little maïd, wi’ bloomèn feäce,

Went on up hill wi’ nimble peäce, pace

A-leänèn to the right-han’ zide,

To car a basket that did ride, carry

A-hangèn down, wi’ all his heft, weight

Upon her elbow at her left.

An’ yet she hardly seem'd to bruise

The grass-bleädes wi’ her tiny shoes,

That pass'd each other, left an’ right,

In steps a'most too quick vor zight.

But she'd a-left her mother's door

A-bearèn vrom her little store

Her father's welcome bit o’ food,

Where he wer out at work in wood;

An’ she wer bless'd wi’ mwore than zwome—

A father out, an’ mother hwome.

An’ there, a-vell'd 'ithin the copse,

Below the timber's new-leav'd tops,

Wer ashen poles, a-castèn straïght, ash-wood

On primrwose beds, their langthy waïght;

Below the yollow light, a-shed

Drough boughs upon the vi'let's head, through

By climèn ivy, that did reach,

A sheenèn roun’ the dead-leav'd beech. Shining

An’ there her father zot, an’ meäde sat

His hwomely meal bezide a gleäde;

While she, a-croopèn down to ground, stooping

Did pull the flowers, where she vound

The droopèn vi'let out in blooth, bloom

Or yollow primrwose in the lewth, shelter

That she mid car em proudly back, might carry

An’ zet em on her mother's tack; shelf

Vor she wer bless'd wi’ mwore than zwome—

A father out, an’ mother hwome.

A father out, an’ mother hwome,

Be blessèns soon a-lost by zome;

A-lost by me, an’ zoo I praÿ'd so

They mid be speär'd the little maïd.

PENTRIDGE!—oh! my heart's a-zwellèn

Vull o’ jaÿ wi’ vo'k a-tellèn joy, folk

Any news o’ thik wold pleäce, that old

An’ the boughy hedges round it,

An’ the river that do bound it

Wi’ his dark but glis'nèn feäce.

Vor there's noo land, on either hand,

To me lik’ Pentridge by the river.

Be there any leaves to quiver

On the aspen by the river?

Doo he sheäde the water still,

Where the rushes be a-growèn,

Where the sullen Stour's a-flowèn

Drough the meäds vrom mill to mill? through

Vor if a tree wer dear to me,

Oh! 'twer thik aspen by the river.

There, in eegrass new a-shootèn, grass regrowing after mowing

I did run on even vootèn, footing

Happy, over new-mow'd land;

Or did zing wi’ zingèn drushes thrushes

While I plaïted, out o’ rushes,

Little baskets vor my hand;

Bezide the clote that there did float, yellow water-lily

Wi’ yollow blossoms, on the river.

When the western zun's a vallèn, falling

What sh'ill vaïce is now a-callèn clear

Hwome the deäiry to the païls; dairy-cows

Who do dreve em on, a-flingèn drive

Wide-bow'd horns, or slowly zwingèn curved

Right an’ left their tufty taïls?

As they do goo a-huddled drough through

The geäte a-leäden up vrom river.

Bleäded grass is now a-shootèn

Where the vloor wer woonce our vootèn, once, footing

While the hall wer still in pleäce.

Stwones be looser in the wallèn; walls

Hollow trees be nearer vallèn; falling

Ev'ry thing ha’ chang'd its feäce.

But still the neäme do bide the seäme—

'Tis Pentridge—Pentridge by the river.

AH! you do seem to think the ground,

Where happiness is best a-vound,

Is where the high-peäl'd park do reach -fenced

Wi’ elem-rows, or clumps o’ beech;

Or where the coach do stand avore

The twelve-tunn'd house's lofty door, chimneyed

Or men can ride behin’ their hounds

Vor miles athirt their own wide grounds, across

An’ seldom wi’ the lowly;

Upon the green that we do tread,

Below the welsh-nut's wide-limb'd head, walnut's

Or grass where apple trees do spread?

No, so's; no, no: not high nor low: souls (friends)

'Tis where the heart is holy.

'Tis true its veet mid tread the vloor, may

'Ithin the marble-pillar'd door,

Where day do cast, in high-ruf'd halls, -roofed

His light drough lofty window'd walls; through

An’ wax-white han's do never tire

Wi’ strokes ov heavy work vor hire,

An’ all that money can avword

Do lwoad the zilver-brighten'd bwoard; table

Or mid be wi’ the lowly,

Where turf's a-smwolderèn avore

The back, to warm the stwonèn vloor, stone

An’ love's at hwome 'ithin the door?

No, so's; no, no; not high nor low:

'Tis where the heart is holy.

An’ ceäre can come 'ithin a ring

O’ sworded guards, to smite a king,

Though he mid hold 'ithin his hands

The zwarmèn vo'k o’ many lands; swarming folk

Or goo in drough the iron-geäte through

Avore the house o’ lofty steäte;

Or reach the miser that do smile

A-buildèn up his goolden pile;

Or else mid smite the lowly, may

That have noo pow'r to loose or bind

Another's body, or his mind,

But only hands to help mankind.

If there is rest 'ithin the breast,

'Tis where the heart is holy.

NOO soul did hear her lips complaïn,

An’ she's a-gone vrom all her païn,

An’ others’ loss to her is gaïn

For she do live in heaven's love;

Vull many a longsome day an’ week

She bore her aïlèn, still, an’ meek; illness (ailing), quiet

A-workèn while her strangth held on,

An’ guidèn housework, when 'twer gone.

Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn,

Oh! there be souls to murn. mourn

The last time I'd a-cast my zight

Upon her feäce, a-feäded white,

Wer in a zummer's mornèn light

In hall avore the smwold'rèn vier, fire

The while the childern beät the vloor,

In plaÿ, wi’ tiny shoes they wore,

An’ call'd their mother's eyes to view

The feät's their little limbs could do.

Oh! Ellen Brine ov Allenburn,

They childern now mus’ murn.

Then woone, a-stoppèn vrom his reäce, one

Went up, an’ on her knee did pleäce

His hand, a-lookèn in her feäce,

An’ wi’ a smilèn mouth so small,

He zaid, ―You promised us to goo

To Shroton feäir, an’ teäke us two!”

She heärd it wi’ her two white ears,

An’ in her eyes there sprung two tears,

Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn

Did veel that they mus’ murn.

September come, wi’ Shroton feäir,

But Ellen Brine wer never there!

A heavy heart wer on the meäre horse

Their father rod his hwomeward road. rode

'Tis true he brought zome feärèns back, gifts bought at a fair

Vor them two childern all in black;

But they had now, wi’ plaÿthings new,

Noo mother vor to shew em to,

Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn

Would never mwore return.

'TWER when the vo'k wer out to hawl folk

A vield o’ haÿ a day in June,

An’ when the zun begun to vall

Toward the west in afternoon,

Woone only wer a-left behind one

To bide indoors, at hwome, an’ mind

The house, an’ answer vo'k avore

The geäte or door,—young Fanny Deäne.

The aïr 'ithin the geärden wall

Wer deadly still, unless the bee

Did hummy by, or in the hall

The clock did ring a-hettèn dree, striking three

An’ there, wi’ busy hands, inside

The iron ceäsement, oben'd wide,

Did zit an’ pull wi’ nimble twitch

Her tiny stitch, young Fanny Deäne.

As there she zot she heärd two blows sat

A-knock'd upon the rumblèn door,

An’ laid azide her work, an’ rose,

An’ walk'd out feäir, athirt the vloor; across

An’ there, a-holdèn in his hand

His bridled meäre, a youth did stand, horse

An’ mildly twold his neäme and pleäce

Avore the feäce o’ Fanny Deäne.

He twold her that he had on hand

Zome business on his father's zide,

But what she didden understand; didn't

An’ zoo she ax'd en if he'd ride so, asked him

Out where her father mid be vound, might

Bezide the plow, in Cowslip Ground; wagon

An’ there he went, but left his mind

Back there behind, wi’ Fanny Deäne.

An’ oh! his hwomeward road wer gaÿ

In aïr a-blowèn, whiff by whiff,

While sheenèn water-weäves did plaÿ shining

An’ boughs did swaÿ above the cliff;

Vor Time had now a-show'd en dim him

The jaÿ it had in store vor him; joy

An’ when he went thik road ageän that

His errand then wer Fanny Deäne.

How strangely things be brought about

By Providence, noo tongue can tell,

She minded house, when vo'k wer out, folk

An’ zoo mus’ bid the house farewell; so

The bees mid hum, the clock mid call may

The lwonesome hours 'ithin the hall,

But in behind the woaken door, oak

There's now noo mwore a Fanny Deäne.

THE zun can zink, the stars mid rise, may

An’ woods be green to sheenèn skies; shining

The cock mid crow to mornèn light,

An’ workvo'k zing to vallèn night; workfolk, falling

The birds mid whissle on the spraÿ,

An’ childern leäp in merry plaÿ,

But our's is now a lifeless pleäce,

Vor we've a-lost a smilèn feäce—

Young Meäry Meäd o’ merry mood,

Vor she's a-woo'd an’ wedded.

The dog that woonce wer glad to bear once

Her fondlèn vingers down his heäir,

Do leän his head ageän the vloor,

To watch, wi’ heavy eyes, the door;

An’ men she zent so happy hwome

O’ Zadurdays, do seem to come

To door, wi’ downcast hearts, to miss

Wi’ smiles below the clematis,

Young Meäry Meäd o’ merry mood,

Vor she's a-woo'd an’ wedded.

When they do draw the evenèn blind,

An’ when the evenèn light's a-tin'd, lost

The cheerless vier do drow a gleäre fire, throw

O’ light ageän her empty chair;

An’ wordless gaps do now meäke thin

Their talk where woonce her vaïce come in.

Zoo lwonesome is her empty pleäce, so

An’ blest the house that ha’ the feäce

O’ Meäry Meäd, o’ merry mood,

Now she's a-woo'd and wedded.

The day she left her father's he'th, hearth

Though sad, wer kept a day o’ me'th, mirth

An’ dry-wheel'd waggons’ empty beds

Wer left 'ithin the tree-screen'd sheds;

An’ all the hosses, at their eäse,

Went snortèn up the flow'ry leäse, meadow

But woone, the smartest for the roäd, one

That pull'd away the dearest lwoad—

Young Meäry Meäd o’ merry mood,

That wer a-woo'd an’ wedded.

JOHN BLEÄKE he had a bit o’ ground

Come to en by his mother's zide; him

An’ after that, two hunderd pound

His uncle left en when he died;

“Well now,” cried John, “my mind's a-bent

To build a house, an’ paÿ noo rent.”

An’ Meäry gi'ed en her consent. gave

“Do, do,”—the maïdens cried.

“True, true,”—his wife replied.

“Done, done,—a house o’ brick or stwone,”

Cried merry Bleäke o’ Blackmwore.

Then John he call'd vor men o’ skill,

An’ builders answer'd to his call;

An’ met to reckon, each his bill;

Vor vloor an’ window, ruf an’ wall. roof

An’ woone did mark it on the groun’, one

An’ woone did think, an’ scratch his crown,

An’ reckon work, an’ write it down:

“Zoo, zoo,”—woone treädesman cried, so, so

“True, true,”—woone mwore replied.

“Aye, aye,—good work, an’ have good paÿ,”

Cried merry Bleäke o’ Blackmwore.

The work begun, an’ trowels rung,

An’ up the brickèn wall did rise,

An’ up the slantèn refters sprung,

Wi’ busy blows, an’ lusty cries!

An’ woone brought planks to meäke a vloor,

An’ woone did come wi’ durns or door, doorposts

An’ woone did zaw, an’ woone did bore.

“Brick, brick,—there down below,

Quick, quick,—why b'ye so slow?”

“Lime, lime,—why we do weäste the time,

Vor merry Bleäke o’ Blackmwore.”

The house wer up vrom groun’ to tun, chimney-top

An’ thatch'd ageän the raïny sky,

Wi’ windows to the noonday zun,

Where rushy Stour do wander by.

In coo'se he had a pworch to screen of course

The inside door, when win's wer keen,

An’ out avore the pworch, a green.

“Here! here!”—the childern cried:

“Dear! dear!”—the wife replied;

“There, there,—the house is perty feäir,”

Cried merry Bleäke o’ Blackmwore.

Then John he ax'd his friends to warm asked

His house, an’ they, a goodish batch,

Did come alwone, or eärm in eärm, arm in arm

All roads, a-meäkèn vor his hatch: wicket-gate

An’ there below the clavy beam mantlepiece

The kettle-spout did zing an’ steam;

An’ there wer ceäkes, an’ tea wi’ cream.

“Lo! lo!”—the women cried;

“Ho! ho!”—the men replied;

“Health, health,—attend ye wi’ your wealth,

Good merry Bleäke o’ Blackmwore.”

O THE wings o’ the rook wer a-glitterèn bright,

As he wheel'd on above, in the zun's evenèn light,

An’ noo snow wer a-left, but in patches o’ white,

On the hill at the turn o’ the days.

An’ along on the slope wer the beäre-timber'd copse, bare-

Wi’ the dry wood a-sheäkèn, wi’ red-twiggèd tops.

Vor the dry-flowèn wind, had a-blow'd off the drops

O’ the raïn, at the turn o’ the days.

There the stream did run on, in the sheäde o’ the hill,

So smooth in his flowèn, as if he stood still,

An’ bright wi’ the skylight, did slide to the mill,

By the meäds, at the turn o’ the days.

An’ up by the copse, down along the hill brow,

Wer vurrows a-cut down, by men out at plough,

So straïght as the zunbeams, a-shot drough the bough through

O’ the tree at the turn o’ the days.

Then the boomèn wold clock in the tower did mark old

His vive hours, avore the cool evenèn wer dark,

An’ ivy did glitter a-clung round the bark

O’ the tree, at the turn o’ the days.

An’ womèn a-fraïd o’ the road in the night,

Wer a-heästenèn on to reach hwome by the light,

A-castèn long sheädes on the road, a-dried white, shadows

Down the hill, at the turn o’ the days.

The father an’ mother did walk out to view

The moss-bedded snow-drop, a-sprung in the lew, shelter

An’ hear if the birds wer a-zingèn anew,

In the boughs, at the turn o’ the days.

An’ young vo'k a-laughèn wi’ smooth glossy feäce, folk

Did hie over vields, wi’ a light-vooted peäce, hurry, pace

To friends where the tow'r did betoken a pleäce

Among trees, at the turn o’ the days.

ABOVE the timber's bendèn sh'ouds, tops

The western wind did softly blow;

An’ up avore the knap, the clouds hillock

Did ride as white as driven snow.

Vrom west to east the clouds did zwim

Wi’ wind that plied the elem's lim’;

Vrom west to east the stream did glide,

A-sheenèn wide, wi’ windèn brim. shining

How feäir, I thought, avore the sky

The slowly-zwimmèn clouds do look;

How soft the win's a-streamèn by;

How bright do roll the weävy brook:

When there, a-passèn on my right,

A-walkèn slow, an’ treadèn light,

Young Jessie Lee come by, an’ there

Took all my ceäre, an’ all my zight.

Vor lovely wer the looks her feäce

Held up avore the western sky:

An’ comely wer the steps her peäce pace

Did meäke a-walkèn slowly by:

But I went east, wi’ beäten breast,

Wi’ wind, an’ cloud, an’ brook, vor rest,

Wi’ rest a-lost, vor Jessie gone

So lovely on, toward the west.

Blow on, O winds, athirt the hill; across

Zwim on, O clouds; O waters vall,

Down mæshy rocks, vrom mill to mill; mossy

I now can overlook ye all.

But roll, O zun, an’ bring to me

My day, if such a day there be,

When zome dear path to my abode

Shall be the road o’ Jessie Lee.

NO! Jenny, there's noo pleäce to charm

My mind lik’ yours at Woakland farm,

A-peärted vrom the busy town, separated

By longsome miles ov aïry down,

Where woonce the meshy wall did gird once, mossy

Your flow'ry geärden, an’ the bird

Did zing in zummer wind that stirr'd

The spreädèn linden on the lawn.

An’ now ov all the trees wi’ sheädes shadows

A-wheelèn round in Blackmwore gleädes,

There's noo tall poplar by the brook,

Nor elem that do rock the rook,

Nor ash upon the shelvèn ledge, sloping

Nor low-bough'd woak bezide the hedge, oak

Nor withy up above the zedge, willow

So dear's thik linden on the lawn. that

Vor there, o’ zummer nights, below

The wall, we zot when aïr did blow, sat

An’ sheäke the dewy rwose a-tied

Up roun’ the window's stwonèn zide. stone

An’ while the carter rod’ along rode

A-zingèn, down the dusky drong, lane

There you did zing a sweeter zong

Below the linden on the lawn.

An’ while your warbled ditty wound

Drough plaÿsome flights o’ mellow sound, through

The nightèngeäle's sh'ill zong, that broke melodious

The stillness ov the dewy woak, oak

Rung clear along the grove, an’ smote

To sudden stillness ev'ry droat; throat

As we did zit, an’ hear it float

Below the linden on the lawn.

Where dusky light did softly vall

'Ithin the stwonèn-window'd hall, stone-

Avore your father's blinkèn eyes,

His evenèn whiff o’ smoke did rise,

An’ vrom the bedroom window's height

Your little John, a-cloth'd in white,

An’ gwaïn to bed, did cry ―good night” going

Towards the linden on the lawn.

But now, as Dobbin, wi’ a nod

Vor ev'ry heavy step he trod,

Did bring me on, to-night, avore

The geäbled house's pworchèd door,

Noo laughèn child a-cloth'd in white,

Look'd drough the stwonèn window's light, through

An’ noo vaïce zung, in dusky night,

Below the linden on the lawn.

An’ zoo, if you should ever vind so

My kindness seem to grow less kind,

An’ if upon my clouded feäce

My smile should yield a frown its pleäce,

Then, Jenny, only laugh an’ call

My mind 'ithin the geärden wall,

Where we did plaÿ at even-fall,

Below the linden on the lawn.

AYE, aye, vull rathe the zun mus’ rise early

To meäke us tired o’ zunny skies,

A-sheenèn on the whole day drough, shining, through

From mornèn's dawn till evenèn's dew.

When trees be brown an meäds be green,

An’ skies be blue, an’ streams do sheen, shine

An’ thin-edg'd clouds be snowy white

Above the bluest hills in zight;

But I can let the daylight goo,

When I've a-met wi’—I know who.

In Spring I met her by a bed

O’ laurels higher than her head;

The while a rwose hung white between

Her blushes an’ the laurel's green;

An’ then in Fall, I went along

The row of elems in the drong, lane

An’ heärd her zing bezide the cows,

By yollow leaves o’ meäple boughs;

But Fall or Spring is feäir to view

When day do bring me—I know who.

An’ when, wi’ wint'r a-comèn roun’,

The purple he'th's a-feädèn brown, heath's

An’ hangèn vern's a-sheäkèn dead, fern's

Bezide the hill's besheäded head:

An’ black-wing'd rooks do glitter bright

Above my head, in peäler light;

Then though the birds do still the glee

That sounded in the zummer tree,

My heart is light the winter drough, through

In me'th at night, wi’—I know who.

I TOOK a flight, awhile agoo,

Along the raïls, a stage or two,

An’ while the heavy wheels did spin

An’ rottle, wi’ a deafnèn din,

In clouds o’ steam, the zweepèn traïn

Did shoot along the hill-bound plaïn,

As sheädes o’ birds in flight, do pass shadows

Below em on the zunny grass.

An’ as I zot, an’ look'd abrode sat, about

On leänen land an’ windèn road,

The ground a-spread along our flight

Did vlee behind us out o’ zight; fly

The while the zun, our heav'nly guide,

Did ride on wi’ us, zide by zide.

An’ zoo, while time, vrom stage to stage, so

Do car us on vrom youth to age, carry

The e'thly pleasures we do vind earthly

Be soon a-met, an’ left behind;

But God, beholdèn vrom above

Our lowly road, wi’ yearnèn love,

Do keep bezide us, stage by stage,

Vrom be'th to youth, vrom youth to age.

COME let's goo down the grove to-night;

The moon is up, 'tis all so light

As day, an’ win’ do blow enough

To sheäke the leaves, but tiddèn rough. ’tisn't

Come, Esther, teäke, vor wold time's seäke, old

Your hooded cloke, that's on the pin, peg

An’ wrap up warm, an’ teäke my eärm, arm

You'll vind it better out than in.

Come, Etty dear; come out o’ door,

An’ teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. once

How charmèn to our very souls,

Wer woonce your evenèn maïden strolls,

The while the zettèn zunlight dyed

Wi’ red the beeches’ western zide,

But back avore your vinger wore

The weddèn ring that's now so thin;

An’ you did sheäre a mother's ceäre,

To watch an’ call ye eärly in.

Come, Etty dear; come out o’ door,

An’ teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

An’ then ageän, when you could slight

The clock a-strikèn leäte at night,

The while the moon, wi’ risèn rim,

Did light the beeches’ eastern lim’.

When I'd a-bound your vinger round

Wi’ thik goold ring that's now so thin, that

An’ you had nwone but me alwone

To teäke ye leäte or eärly in.

Come, Etty dear; come out o’ door,

An’ teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

But often when the western zide

O’ trees did glow at evenèn-tide,

Or when the leäter moon did light

The beeches’ eastern boughs at night,

An’ in the grove, where vo'k did rove folk

The crumpled leaves did vlee an’ spin, fly

You couldèn sheäre the pleasure there:

Your work or childern kept ye in.

Come, Etty dear, come out o’ door,

An’ teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

But ceäres that zunk your oval chin

Ageän your bosom's lily skin,

Vor all they meäde our life so black,

Be now a-lost behind our back.

Zoo never mwope, in midst of hope, so

To slight our blessèns would be sin.

Ha! ha! well done, now this is fun;

When you do like I'll bring ye in.

Here, Etty dear; here, out o’ door,

We'll teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.

WHILE zuns do roll vrom east to west

To bring us work, or leäve us rest,

There down below the steep hill-zide,

Drough time an’ tide, the spring do flow; through

An’ mothers there, vor years a-gone,

Lik’ daughters now a-comèn on,

To bloom when they be weak an’ wan,

Went down the steps vor water.

An’ what do yonder ringers tell

A-ringèn changes, bell by bell;

Or what's a-show'd by yonder zight

O’ vo'k in white, upon the road, folk

But that by John o’ Woodleys zide,

There 's now a-blushèn vor his bride,

A pretty maïd that vu'st he spied, first

Gwaïn down the steps vor water. going

Though she, 'tis true, is feäir an’ kind,

There still be mwore a-left behind;

So cleän 's the light the zun do gi'e, give

So sprack 's a bee when zummer's bright; lively

An’ if I've luck, I woont be slow

To teäke off woone that I do know, one

A-trippèn gaïly to an’ fro,

Upon the steps vor water.

Her father idden poor—but vew isn't, few

In parish be so well to do;

Vor his own cows do swing their taïls

Behind his païls, below his boughs:

An’ then ageän to win my love,

Why, she's as hwomely as a dove,

An’ don't hold up herzelf above

Gwaïn down the steps vor water.

Gwaïn down the steps vor water! No!

How handsome it do meäke her grow.

If she'd be straïght, or walk abrode, out of doors

To tread her road wi’ comely gaït,

She coulden do a better thing

To zet herzelf upright, than bring

Her pitcher on her head, vrom spring

Upon the steps, wi’ water.

No! don't ye neäme in woone seäme breath one

Wi’ bachelors, the husband's he'th; hearth

The happy pleäce, where vingers thin

Do pull woone's chin, or pat woone's feäce.

But still the bleäme is their's, to slight

Their happiness, wi’ such a zight

O’ maïdens, mornèn, noon, an’ night,

A-gwaïn down steps vor water.

WELL! thanks to you, my faïthful Jeäne,

So worksome wi’ your head an’ hand,

We seäved enough to get ageän

My poor vorefather's plot o’ land.

'Twer folly lost, an’ cunnèn got,

What should ha’ come to me by lot.

But let that goo; 'tis well the land

Is come to hand, by be'th or not. birth

An’ there the brook, a-windèn round

The parrick zide, do run below paddock

The grey-stwon'd bridge wi’ gurglèn sound,

A-sheäded by the arches’ bow; span

Where former days the wold brown meäre, old

Wi’ father on her back, did wear

Wi’ heavy shoes the grav'ly leäne, lane

An’ sheäke her meäne o’ yollor heäir. mane

An’ many zummers there ha’ glow'd,

To shrink the brook in bubblèn shoals,

An’ warm the doust upon the road, dust

Below the trav'ller's burnèn zoles.

An’ zome ha’ zent us to our bed

In grief, an’ zome in jaÿ ha’ vled; joy, flown

But vew ha’ come wi’ happier light few

Than what's now bright, above our head.

The brook did peärt, zome years agoo,

Our Grenley meäds vrom Knapton's Ridge;

But now you know, between the two,

A road's a-meäde by Grenley Bridge.

Zoo why should we shrink back at zight so

Ov hindrances we ought to slight?

A hearty will, wi’ God our friend,

Will gaïn its end, if 'tis but right.

THERE's noo pleäce I do like so well,

As Elem Knap in Culver Dell,

Where timber trees, wi’ lofty shouds, canopies

Did rise avore the western clouds;

An’ stan’ ageän, wi’ veathery tops,

A-swaÿèn up in North-Hill Copse.

An’ on the east the mornèn broke

Above a dewy grove o’ woak: oak

An’ noontide shed its burnèn light

On ashes on the southern height;

An’ I could vind zome teäles to tell,

O’ former days in Culver Dell.

An’ all the vo'k did love so well folk

The good wold squire o’ Culver Dell, old

That used to ramble drough the sheädes through

O’ timber, or the burnèn gleädes,

An’ come at evenèn up the leäze meadow

Wi’ red-eär'd dogs bezide his knees,

An’ hold his gun, a-hangèn drough

His eärmpit, out above his tooe. armpit, toe

Wi’ kindly words upon his tongue,

Vor vo'k that met en, wold an’ young, him

Vor he did know the poor so well

's the richest vo'k in Culver Dell.

An’ while the woäk, wi’ spreadèn head,

Did sheäde the foxes’ verny bed; ferny

An’ runnèn heäres, in zunny gleädes,

Did beät the grasses’ quiv'rèn’ bleädes;

An’ speckled pa'tridges took flight

In stubble vields a-feädèn white;

Or he could zee the pheasant strut

In sheädy woods, wi’ païnted cwoat;

Or long-tongued dogs did love to run

Among the leaves, bezide his gun;

We didden want vor call to dwell didn't

At hwome in peace in Culver Dell.

But now I hope his kindly feäce

Is gone to vind a better pleäce;

But still, wi’ vo'k a-left behind

He'll always be a-kept in mind,

Vor all his springy-vooted hounds

Ha’ done o’ trottèn round his grounds,

An’ we have all a-left the spot,

To teäke, a-scatter'd, each his lot;

An’ even Father, lik’ the rest,

Ha’ left our long vorseäken nest;

An’ we should vind it sad to dwell,

Ageän at hwome in Culver Dell.

The aïry mornèns still mid smite may

Our windows wi’ their rwosy light,

An’ high-zunn'd noons mid dry the dew

On growèn groun’ below our shoe;

The blushèn evenèn still mid dye,

Wi’ viry red, the western sky; fiery

The zunny spring-time's quicknèn power

Mid come to oben leaf an’ flower;

An’ days an’ tides mid bring us on

Woone pleasure when another's gone.