Anne an’ Joey a-ta'ken. talking

A. A plague! theäse cow wont stand a bit, this

Noo sooner do she zee me zit

Ageän her, than she's in a trot,

A-runnèn to zome other spot.

J. Why 'tis the dog do sceäre the cow,

He worried her a-vield benow. just now

A. Goo in, Ah! Liplap, where's your taïl!

J. He's off; then up athirt the raïl. across

Your cow there, Anne's a-come to hand

A goodish milcher. A. If she'd stand, milking cow

But then she'll steäre an’ start wi’ fright

To zee a dumbledore in flight. bumble-bee

Last week she het the païl a flought, blow

An’ flung my meal o’ milk half out.

J. Ha! Ha! But Anny, here, what lout

Broke half your small païl's bottom out?

A. What lout indeed! What, do ye own

The neäme? What dropp'd en on a stwone? it

J. Hee! Hee! Well now he's out o’ trim

Wi’ only half a bottom to en; it

Could you still vill en’ to the brim

An’ yit not let the milk run drough en? through

A. Aye, as for nonsense, Joe, your head

Do hold it all so tight's a blather, bladder

But if 'tis any good, do shed

It all so leäky as a lather. ladder

Could you vill païls 'ithout a bottom,

Yourself that be so deeply skill'd?

J. Well, ees, I could, if I'd a-got em yes

Inside o’ bigger woones a-vill'd. ones

A. La! that is zome'hat vor to hatch! think up

Here answer me theäse little catch. this, riddle

Down under water an’ o’ top o't of it

I went, an’ didden touch a drop o't.

J. Not when at mowèn time I took

An’ pull'd ye out o’ Longmeäd brook,

Where you'd a-slidder'd down the edge

An’ zunk knee-deep bezide the zedge,

A-tryèn to reäke out a clote. yellow water-lily

A. Aye I do hear your chucklèn droat. throat

When I athirt the brudge did bring across

Zome water on my head vrom spring,

Then under water an’ o’ top o't

Wer I an’ didden touch a drop o't.

THE zun'd a-zet back tother night,

But in the zettèn pleäce

The clouds, a-redden'd by his light, its

Still glow'd avore my feäce.

An’ I've a-lost my Meäry's smile,

I thought; but still I have her chile,

Zoo like her, that my eyes can treäce so

The mother's in her daughter's feäce.

O little feäce so near to me,

An’ like thy mother's gone; why need I zay

Sweet night cloud, wi’ the glow o’ my lost day,

Thy looks be always dear to me.

The zun'd a-zet another night;

But, by the moon on high,

He still did zend us back his light

Below a cwolder sky.

My Meäry's in a better land

I thought, but still her chile's at hand,

An’ in her chile she'll zend me on

Her love, though she herzelf's a-gone.

O little chile so near to me,

An’ like thy mother gone; why need I zay,

Sweet moon, the messenger vrom my lost day,

Thy looks be always dear to me.

IF souls should only sheen so bright shine

In heaven as in e'thly light, earthly

An’ nothèn better wer the ceäse,

How comely still, in sheäpe an’ feäce,

Would many reach thik happy pleäce,— that

The hopeful souls that in their prime

Ha’ seem'd a-took avore their time—

The young that died in beauty.

But when woone's lim's ha’ lost their strangth one's

A-tweilèn drough a lifetime's langth, toiling through

An’ over cheäks a-growèn wold old

The slowly-weästen years ha’ rolled

The deep'nèn wrinkle's hollow vwold; fold

When life is ripe, then death do call

Vor less ov thought, than when do vall

On young vo'ks in their beauty. folk

But pinèn souls, wi’ heads a-hung

In heavy sorrow vor the young,

The sister ov the brother dead,

The father wi’ a child a-vled, flown

The husband when his bride ha’ laid

Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn,

Have all a-vound the time to murn mourn

Vor youth that died in beauty.

An’ yeet the church, where praÿer do rise yet

Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi’ downcast eyes,

An’ village greens, a-beät half beäre bare

By dancers that do meet, an’ weär

Such merry looks at feäst an’ feäir,

Do gather under leätest skies,

Their bloomèn cheäks an’ sparklèn eyes,

Though young ha’ died in beauty.

But still the dead shall mwore than keep

The beauty ov their eärly sleep;

Where comely looks shall never weär

Uncomely, under tweil an’ ceäre. toil

The feäir at death be always feäir,

Still feäir to livers’ thought an’ love,

An’ feäirer still to God above,

Than when they died in beauty.

THOUGH cool avore the sheenèn sky shining

Do vall the sheädes below the copse, shadows

The timber-trees, a-reachèn high,

Ha’ zunsheen on their lofty tops, sunshine

Where yonder land's a-lyèn plow'd,

An’ red, below the snow-white cloud,

An’ vlocks o’ pitchèn rooks do vwold fold

Their wings to walk upon the mwold, earth

While floods be low,

An’ buds do grow,

An’ aïr do blow, a-broad, O. outside

But though the aïr is cwold below

The creakèn copses’ darksome screen,

The truest sheäde do only show

How strong the warmer zun do sheen; shine

An’ even times o’ grief an’ païn,

Ha’ good a-comèn in their traïn,

An’ 'tis but happiness do mark

The sheädes o’ sorrow out so dark.

As tweils be sad, toils

Or smiles be glad,

Or times be bad, at hwome, O.

An’ there the zunny land do lie

Below the hangèn, in the lew, slope, shelter

Wi’ vurrows now a-crumblèn dry,

Below the plowman's dousty shoe; dusty

An’ there the bwoy do whissel sh'ill, tunefully

Below the skylark's merry bill,

Where primrwose beds do deck the zides

O’ banks below the meäple wrides. Clumps

As trees be bright

Wi’ bees in flight,

An’ weather's bright, abroad, O. outside

An’ there, as sheenèn wheels do spin shining

Vull speed along the dousty rwoad, dusty

He can but stan’, an’ wish 'ithin

His mind to be their happy lwoad,

That he mid gaïly ride, an’ goo might

To towns the rwoad mid teäke en drough, him, through

An’ zee, for woonce, the zights behind once

The bluest hills his eyes can vind,

O’ towns, an’ tow'rs,

An’ downs, an’ flow'rs,

In zunny hours, abroad, O.

But still, vor all the weather's feäir,

Below a cloudless sky o’ blue,

The bwoy at plough do little ceäre

How vast the brightest day mid goo; fast

Vor he'd be glad to zee the zun

A-zettèn, wi’ his work a-done,

That he, at hwome, mid still injaÿ enjoy

His happy bit ov evenèn plaÿ,

So light's a lark

Till night is dark,

While dogs do bark, at hwome, O.

AYE, at that time our days wer but vew, few

An’ our lim's wer but small, an’ a-growèn;

An’ then the feäir worold wer new,

An’ life wer all hopevul an’ gaÿ;

An’ the times o’ the sproutèn o’ leaves,

An’ the cheäk-burnèn seasons o’ mowèn,

An’ bindèn o’ red-headed sheaves,

Wer all welcome seasons o’ jaÿ.

Then the housen seem'd high, that be low,

An’ the brook did seem wide that is narrow,

An’ time, that do vlee, did goo slow, fly

An’ veelèns now feeble wer strong, feelings

An’ our worold did end wi’ the neämes

Ov the Sha'sbury Hill or Bulbarrow;

An’ life did seem only the geämes

That we plaÿ'd as the days rolled along.

Then the rivers, an’ high-timber'd lands,

An’ the zilvery hills, 'ithout buyèn,

Did seem to come into our hands

Vrom others that own'd em avore;

An’ all zickness, an’ sorrow, an’ need,

Seem'd to die wi’ the wold vo'k a-dyèn, old folk

An’ leäve us vor ever a-freed

Vrom evils our vorefathers bore.

But happy be childern the while

They have elders a-livèn to love em,

An’ teäke all the wearisome tweil toil

That zome hands or others mus’ do;

Like the low-headed shrubs that be warm,

In the lewth o’ the trees up above em, shelter

A-screen'd vrom the cwold blowèn storm

That the timber avore em must rue.

As I at work do look aroun’

Upon the groun’ I have in view,

To yonder hills that still do rise

Avore the skies, wi’ backs o’ blue;

'Ithin the ridges that do vall

An’ rise roun’ Blackmwore lik’ a wall,

'Tis yonder knap do teäke my zight hillock

Vrom dawn till night, the mwost ov all.

An’ there, in Maÿ, 'ithin the lewth shelter

O’ boughs in blooth, be sheädy walks, bloom

An’ cowslips up in yollow beds

Do hang their heads on downy stalks;

An’ if the weather should be feäir

When I've a holiday to speäre,

I'll teäke the chance o’ gettèn drough through

An hour or two wi’ zome vo'k there. folk

An’ there I now can dimly zee

The elem-tree upon the mound,

An’ there meäke out the high-bough'd grove

An’ narrow drove by Redcliff ground;

An’ there by trees a-risèn tall,

The glowèn zunlight now do vall,

Wi’ shortest sheädes o’ middle day, shadows

Upon the gray wold house's wall. old

An’ I can zee avore the sky

A-risèn high the churches speer, spire

Wi’ bells that I do goo to swing,

An’ like to ring, an’ like to hear;

An’ if I've luck upon my zide,

They bells shall sound bwoth loud an’ wide,

A peal above they slopes o’ gray,

Zome merry day wi’ Jeäne a bride.

NO! I don't begrudge en his life, him

Nor his goold, nor his housen, nor lands;

Teäke all o't, an’ gi'e me my wife, of it, give

A wife's be the cheapest ov hands.

Lie alwone! sigh alwone! die alwone!

Then be vorgot.

No! I be content wi’ my lot.

Ah! where be the vingers so feäir,

Vor to pat en so soft on the feäce, him

To mend ev'ry stitch that do tear,

An’ keep ev'ry button in pleäce?

Crack a-tore! brack a-tore! back a-tore! flaw in clothing

Buttons a-vled! flown away

Vor want ov a wife wi’ her thread.

Ah! where is the sweet-perty head

That do nod till he's gone out o’ zight?

An’ where be the two eärms a-spread, arms

To show en he's welcome at night?

Dine alwone! pine alwone! whine alwone!

Oh! what a life!

I'll have a friend in a wife.

An’ when vrom a meetèn o’ me'th mirth

Each husban’ do leäd hwome his bride,

Then he do slink hwome to his he'th, hearth

Wi’ his eärm a-hung down his cwold zide. arm

Slinkèn on! blinkèn on! thinkèn on!

Gloomy an’ glum;

Nothèn but dullness to come.

An’ when he do onlock his door,

Do rumble as hollow's a drum,

An’ the veäries a-hid roun’ the vloor, fairies

Do grin vor to see en so glum. him

Keep alwone! sleep alwone! weep alwone!

There let en bide,

I'll have a wife at my zide.

But when he's a-laid on his bed

In a zickness, O, what wull he do!

Vor the hands that would lift up his head,

An’ sheäke up his pillor anew.

Ills to come! pills to come! bills to come!

Noo soul to sheäre

The trials the poor wratch must bear.

AT peace day, who but we should goo (In 1856 after the Crimean War)

To Caundle vor an’ hour or two:

As gaÿ a day as ever broke

Above the heads o’ Caundle vo'k, folk

Vor peace, a-come vor all, did come

To them wi’ two new friends at hwome.

Zoo while we kept, wi’ nimble peäce, pace

The wold dun tow'r avore our feäce, old

The aïr, at last, begun to come

Wi’ drubbèns ov a beäten drum;

An’ then we heärd the horns’ loud droats throats

Plaÿ off a tuen's upper notes; tune's

An’ then ageän a-risèn cheärm noise

Vrom tongues o’ people in a zwarm:

An’ zoo, at last, we stood among so

The merry feäces o’ the drong. lane

An’ there, wi’ garlands all a-tied

In wreaths and bows on every zide,

An’ color'd flags, a fluttrèn high

An’ bright avore the sheenèn sky, shining

The very guide-post wer a-drest signpost

Wi’ posies on his eärms an’ breast. arms

At last, the vo'k zwarm'd in by scores folk

An’ hundreds droo the high barn-doors, through

To dine on English feäre, in ranks, fare (food)

A-zot on chairs, or stools, or planks,

By bwoards a-reachèn, row an’ row, tables

Wi’ cloths so white as driven snow.

An’ while they took, wi’ merry cheer,

Their pleäces at the meat an’ beer,

The band did blow an’ beät aloud

Their merry tuèns to the crowd; tunes

An’ slowly-zwingèn flags did spread

Their hangèn colors over head.

An’ then the vo'k, wi’ jaÿ an’ pride, folk, joy

Stood up in stillness, zide by zide,

Wi’ downcast heads, the while their friend

Rose up avore the teäble's end,

An’ zaid a timely greäce, an’ blest

The welcome meat to every guest.

An’ then arose a mingled naïse noise

O’ knives an’ pleätes, an’ cups an’ traÿs,

An’ tongues wi’ merry tongues a-drown'd

Below a deaf'nèn storm o’ sound.

An’ zoo, at last, their worthy host so

Stood up to gi'e em all a twoast, give

That they did drink, wi’ shouts o’ glee,

An’ whirlèn eärms to dree times dree. arms, three

An’ when the bwoards at last wer beäre tables, bare

Ov all the cloths an’ goodly feäre, fare (food)

An’ froth noo longer rose to zwim

Within the beer-mugs sheenèn rim, shining

The vo'k, a-streamèn drough the door, folk, through

Went out to geämes they had in store.

How dear's the door a latch do shut,

An’ geärden that a hatch do shut, wicket-gate

Where vu'st our bloomèn cheäks ha’ prest first

The pillor ov our childhood's rest;

Or where, wi’ little tooes, we wore toes

The paths our fathers trod avore;

Or clim'd the timber's bark aloft,

Below the zingèn lark aloft,

The while we heärd the echo sound

Drough all the ringèn valley round. through

A lwonesome grove o’ woak did rise, oak

To screen our house, where smoke did rise,

A-twistèn blue, while yeet the zun yet

Did langthen on our childhood's fun;

An’ there, wi’ all the sheäpes an’ sounds

O’ life, among the timber'd grounds,

The birds upon their boughs did zing,

An’ milkmaïds by their cows did zing,

Wi’ merry sounds, that softly died,

A-ringèn down the valley zide.

By river banks, wi’ reeds a-bound,

An’ sheenèn pools, wi’ weeds a-bound, shining

The long-neck'd gander's ruddy bill

To snow-white geese did cackle sh'ill; loudly

An’ stridèn peewits heästen'd by,

O’ tiptooe wi’ their screamèn cry;

An’ stalkèn cows a-lowèn loud,

An’ struttèn cocks a-crowèn loud,

Did rouse the echoes up to mock mimic

Their mingled sounds by hill an’ rock.

The stars that clim'd our skies all dark,

Above our sleepèn eyes all dark,

An’ zuns a-rollèn round to bring

The seasons on, vrom Spring to Spring,

Ha’ vled, wi’ never-restèn flight, flown

Drough green-bough'd day, an’ dark-tree'd night; through

Till now our childhood's pleäces there,

Be gaÿ wi’ other feäces there,

An’ we ourselves do vollow on

Our own vorelivers dead an’ gone.

Dree o'm a-ta'kèn o't. three of them talking about it

(1) WELL, here we be, then, wi’ the vu'st poor lwoad first

O’ vuzz we brought, a-stoodèd in the road. furze (gorse)

(2) The road, George, no. There's na'r a road. That's wrong. never a

If we'd a road, we mid ha’ got along. might

(1) Noo road! Ees 'tis, the road that we do goo. yes

(2) Do goo, George, no. The pleäce we can't get drough. through

(1) Well, there, the vu'st lwoad we 've a-haul'd to day

Is here a-stoodèd in theäse bed o’ clay. this

Here's rotten groun’! an’ how the wheels do cut!

The little woone's a-zunk up to the nut. one's

(3) An’ yeet this rotten groun’ don't reach a lug. yet, is no bigger than

a pole (5½ yards)

(1) Well, come, then, gi'e the plow another tug. give the wagon

(2) They meäres wull never pull the waggon out, horses

A-lwoaded, an’ a-stoodèd in thik rout. that rut

(3) We'll try. Come, Smiler, come! C’ up, Whitevoot, gee!

(2) White-voot wi’ lags all over mud! Hee! Hee!

(3) 'Twoon't wag. We shall but snap our gear, move

An’ overstraïn the meäres. 'Twoon't wag, 'tis clear.

(1) That's your work, William. No, in coo'se, 'twoon't wag. of course

Why did ye drēve en into theäse here quag? drive it, this, bog

The vore-wheels be a-zunk above the nuts.

(3) What then? I coulden leäve the beäten track,

To turn the waggon over on the back

Ov woone o’ theäsem wheel-high emmet-butts. one, these, ant-hills

If you be sich a drēver, an’ do know't, driver

You drēve the plow, then; but you'll overdrow 't. wagon, turn it over

(1) I drēve the plow, indeed! Oh! ees, what, now yes

The wheels woont wag, then, I mid drēve the plow! move, may

We'd better dig away the groun’ below

The wheels. (2) There's na'r a speäde to dig wi’. never a

(1) An’ teäke an’ cut a lock o’ frith, an’ drow brushwood, throw it

Upon the clay. (2) Nor hook to cut a twig wi’.

(1) Oh! here's a bwoy a-comèn.

As in the cool-aïr'd road I come by,

—in the night,

Under the moon-clim'd height o’ the sky, -climbed

—in the night,

There by the lime's broad lim's as I staÿ'd,

Dark in the moonlight, bough's sheädows plaÿ'd

Up on the window-glass that did keep

Lew vrom the wind, my true love asleep, sheltered

—in the night.

While in the grey-wall'd height o’ the tow'r,

—in the night,

Sounded the midnight bell wi’ the hour,

—in the night,

There lo! a bright-heäir'd angel that shed

Light vrom her white robe's zilvery thread,

Put her vore-vinger up vor to meäke

Silence around lest sleepers mid weäke, might

—in the night.

―Oh! then,” I whisper'd, ―do I behold

—in the night.

Linda, my true-love, here in the cwold,

—in the night?”

―No,” she meäde answer, ―you do misteäke:

She is asleep, but I that do weäke,

Here be on watch, an’ angel a-blest,

Over her slumber while she do rest,

—in the night.”

―Zee how the winds, while here by the bough,

—in the night,

They do pass on, don't smite on her brow,

—in the night;

Zee how the cloud-sheädes naïseless do zweep shadows, noiselessly

Over the house-top where she's asleep.

You, too, goo by, in times that be near,

You too, as I, mid speak in her ear may

—in the night.”

Zoo then the leädy an’ the squier, so

At Chris'mas, gather'd girt an’ small, great

Vor me'th, avore their roarèn vier, mirth, fire

An’ roun’ their bwoard, 'ithin the hall; table

An’ there, in glitt'rèn rows, between

The roun’-rimm'd pleätes, our knives did sheen, shine

Wi’ frothy eäle, an’ cup an’ can, ale

Vor maïd an’ man, at Herrenston.

An’ there the jeints o’ beef did stand,

Lik’ cliffs o’ rock, in goodly row;

Where woone mid quarry till his hand one might

Did tire, an’ meäke but little show;

An’ after we'd a-took our seat,

An’ greäce had been a-zaid vor meat, food

We zet to work, an’ zoo begun so

Our feäst an’ fun at Herrenston.

An’ mothers there, bezide the bwoards,

Wi’ little childern in their laps,

Did stoop, wi’ lovèn looks an’ words,

An’ veed em up wi’ bits an’ draps;

An’ smilèn husbands went in quest

O’ what their wives did like the best;

An’ you'd ha’ zeed a happy zight, seen

Thik merry night, at Herrenston. that

An’ then the band, wi’ each his leaf

O’ notes, above us at the zide,

Plaÿ'd up the praïse ov England's beef

An’ vill'd our hearts wi’ English pride;

An’ leafy chaïns o’ garlands hung,

Wi’ dazzlèn stripes o’ flags, that swung

Above us, in a bleäze o’ light,

Thik happy night, at Herrenston. that

An’ then the clerk, avore the vier, fire

Begun to leäd, wi’ smilèn feäce,

A carol, wi’ the Monkton quire,

That rung drough all the crowded pleäce. through

An’ dins’ o’ words an’ laughter broke

In merry peals drough clouds o’ smoke;

Vor hardly wer there woone that spoke, one

But pass'd a joke, at Herrenston.

Then man an’ maïd stood up by twos,

In rows, drough passage, out to door,

An’ gaïly beät, wi’ nimble shoes,

A dance upon the stwonèn floor. stone

But who is worthy vor to tell,

If she that then did bear the bell,

Wer woone o’ Monkton, or o’ Ceäme,

Or zome sweet neäme ov Herrenston.

Zoo peace betide the girt vo'k's land, so, great folk's

When they can stoop, wi’ kindly smile,

An’ teäke a poor man by the hand,

An’ cheer en in his daily tweil.

'TWER Maÿ, but ev'ry leaf wer dry

All day below a sheenèn sky; shining

The zun did glow wi’ yollow gleäre,

An’ cowslips blow wi’ yollow gleäre,

Wi’ grægles’ bells a-droopèn low, bluebells’

An’ bremble boughs a-stoopèn low;

While culvers in the trees did coo doves

Above the vallèn dew. falling

An’ there, wi’ heäir o’ glossy black,

Bezide your neck an’ down your back,

You rambled gaÿ a-bloomèn feäir;

By boughs o’ maÿ a-bloomèn feäir;

An’ while the birds did twitter nigh,

An’ water weäves did glitter nigh,

You gather'd cowslips in the lew, shelter

Below the vallèn dew.

An’ now, while you've a-been my bride

As years o’ flow'rs ha’ bloom'd an’ died,

Your smilèn feäce ha’ been my jaÿ;

Your soul o’ greäce ha’ been my jaÿ;

An’ wi’ my evenèn rest a-come,

An’ zunsheen to the west a-come, sunshine

I'm glad to teäke my road to you

Vrom vields o’ vallèn dew.

An’ when the raïn do wet the maÿ,

A-bloomèn where we woonce did straÿ, once

An’ win’ do blow along so vast, fast

An’ streams do flow along so vast;

Ageän the storms so rough abroad, outside

An’ angry tongues so gruff abroad,

The love that I do meet vrom you

Is lik’ the vallèn dew.

An’ you be sprack's a bee on wing, lively

In search ov honey in the Spring:

The dawn-red sky do meet ye up;

The birds vu'st cry do meet ye up; first

An’ wi’ your feäce a-smilèn on,

An’ busy hands a-tweilèn on, toiling

You'll vind zome useful work to do

Until the vallèn dew.

AH! they wer times, when Nanny Gill

Went so'jerèn ageänst her will, soldiering

Back when the King come down to view

His ho'se an’ voot, in red an’ blue, horse

An’ they did march in rows,

An’ wheel in lines an’ bows, curves

Below the King's own nose;

An’ guns did pwoint, an’ swords did gleäre,

A-fightèn foes that werden there. weren't

Poor Nanny Gill did goo to zell

In town her glitt'rèn macarel, mackerel

A-pack'd wi’ ceäre, in even lots,

A-ho'seback in a peäir o’ pots.

An’ zoo when she did ride so

Between her panniers wide,

Red-cloked in all her pride,

Why, who but she, an’ who but broke

The road avore her scarlet cloke!

But Nanny's ho'se that she did ride,

Woonce carr'd a sword ageän his zide, once carried

An’ had, to prick en into rank, him

A so'jer's spurs ageän his flank; soldier's

An’ zoo, when he got zight

O’ swords a-gleamèn bright,

An’ men agwaïn to fight, going

He set his eyes athirt the ground, across

An’ prick'd his ears to catch the sound.

Then Nanny gi'ed his zide a kick, gave

An’ het en wi’ her limber stick; hit him, pliant

But suddenly a horn did sound,

An’ zend the ho'semen on vull bound;

An’ her ho'se at the zight

Went after em, vull flight,

Wi’ Nanny in a fright,

A-pullèn, wi’ a scream an’ grin,

Her wold brown raïns to hold en in. old, reins, him

But no! he went away vull bound,

As vast as he could tear the ground, fast

An’ took, in line, a so'jer's pleäce,

Vor Nanny's cloke an’ frighten'd feäce;

While vo'k did laugh an’ shout folk

To zee her cloke stream out,

As she did wheel about,

A-cryèn, ―Oh! la! dear!” in fright,

The while her ho'se did plaÿ sham fight.

IN zummer, when the knaps wer bright hillocks

In cool-aïr'd evenèn's western light,

An’ haÿ that had a-dried all day,

Did now lie grey, to dewy night;

I went, by happy chance, or doom,

Vrom Broadwoak Hill, athirt to Coomb, across

An’ met a maïd in all her bloom:

The feaïrest maïd o’ Newton.

She bore a basket that did ride

So light, she didden leän azide; didn't

Her feäce wer oval, an’ she smil'd

So sweet's a child, but walk'd wi’ pride.

I spoke to her, but what I zaid

I didden know; wi’ thoughts a-vled, flown

I spoke by heart, an’ not by head,

Avore the maïd o’ Newton.

I call'd her, oh! I don't know who,

'Twer by a neäme she never knew;

An’ to the heel she stood upon,

She then brought on her hinder shoe,

An’ stopp'd avore me, where we met,

An’ wi’ a smile woone can't vorget, one

She zaid, wi’ eyes a-zwimmèn wet,

’ No, I be woone o’ Newton.’

Then on I rambled to the west,

Below the zunny hangèn's breast, slope's

Where, down athirt the little stream, across

The brudge's beam did lie at rest:

But all the birds, wi’ lively glee,

Did chirp an’ hop vrom tree to tree,

As if it wer vrom pride, to zee

Goo by the maïd o’ Newton.

By fancy led, at evenèn's glow,

I woonce did goo, a-rovèn slow, once

Down where the elèms, stem by stem, trunk by trunk

Do stan’ to hem the grove below;

But after that, my veet vorzook

The grove, to seek the little brook

At Coomb, where I mid zometimes look, might

To meet the maïd o’ Newton.

AH! Jeäne, my maïd, I stood to you, daughter

When you wer christen'd, small an’ light,

Wi’ tiny eärms o’ red an’ blue, arms

A-hangèn in your robe o’ white.

We brought ye to the hallow'd stwone,

Vor Christ to teäke ye vor his own,

When harvest work wer all a-done,

An’ time brought round October zun—

The slantèn light o’ Fall.

An’ I can mind the wind wer rough, remember

An’ gather'd clouds, but brought noo storms,

An’ you did nessle warm enough,

'Ithin your smilèn mother's eärms. arms

The whindlèn grass did quiver light, fragile

Among the stubble, feäded white,

An’ if at times the zunlight broke

Upon the ground, or on the vo'k, folk

'Twer slantèn light o’ Fall.

An’ when we brought ye drough the door through

O’ Knapton Church, a child o’ greäce,

There cluster'd round a'most a score

O’ vo'k to zee your tiny feäce.

An’ there we all did veel so proud,

To zee an’ op'nèn in the cloud,

An’ then a stream o’ light break drough,

A-sheenèn brightly down on you— shining

The slantèn light o’ Fall.

But now your time's a-come to stand

In church, a-blushèn at my zide,

The while a bridegroom vrom my hand

Ha’ took ye vor his faïthvul bride.

Your christèn neäme we gi'd ye here,

When Fall did cool the weästèn year; wasting

An’ now, ageän, we brought ye drough through

The doorway, wi’ your surneäme new,

In slantèn light o’ Fall.

An’ zoo vur, Jeäne, your life is feäir, so far

An’ God ha’ been your steadvast friend,

An’ mid ye have mwore jaÿ than ceäre, may, joy

Vor ever, till your journey's end.

An’ I've a-watch'd ye on wi’ pride,

But now I soon mus’ leäve your zide,

Vor you ha’ still life's spring-tide zun,

But my life, Jeäne, is now a-run

To slantèn light o’ Fall.

AH! how the looks o’ sky an’ ground

Do change wi’ months a-stealèn round,

When northern winds, by starry night,

Do stop in ice the river's flight;

Or brooks in winter raïns do zwell,

Lik’ rollèn seas athirt the dell; across

Or trickle thin in zummer-tide,

Among the mossy stwones half dried;

But still, below the zun or moon,

The feärest vield's the meäd in June.

An’ I must own, my heart do beät

Wi’ pride avore my own blue geäte,

Where I can bid the steätely tree

Be cast, at langth, avore my knee;

An’ clover red, an’ deäzies feäir,

An’ gil'cups wi’ their yollow gleäre, buttercups

Be all a-match'd avore my zight

By wheelèn buttervlees in flight, butterflies

The while the burnèn zun at noon

Do sheen upon my meäd in June. shine

An’ there do zing the swingèn lark

So gaÿ's above the finest park,

An’ day do sheäde my trees as true

As any steätely avenue;

An’ show'ry clouds o’ Spring do pass

To shed their raïn on my young grass,

An’ aïr do blow the whole day long,

To bring me breath, an’ teäke my zong,

An’ I do miss noo needvul boon

A-gi'ed to other meäds in June. Given

An’ when the bloomèn rwose do ride

Upon the boughy hedge's zide,

We haymeäkers, in snow-white sleeves,

Do work in sheädes o’ quiv'rèn leaves, shadows

In afternoon, a-liftèn high

Our reäkes avore the viery sky, fiery

A-reäken up the haÿ a-dried

By day, in lwongsome weäles, to bide ridges

In chilly dew below the moon,

O’ shorten'd nights in zultry June.

An’ there the brook do softly flow

Along, a-bendèn in a bow, curve

An’ vish, wi’ zides o’ zilver-white,

Do flash vrom shoals a dazzlèn light;

An’ alders by the water's edge,

Do sheäde the ribbon-bleäded zedge,

An’ where, below the withy's head, willow's

The zwimmèn clote-leaves be a-spread, yellow water-lily

The angler is a-zot at noon seated

Upon the flow'ry bank in June.

AN’ then we went along the gleädes

O’ zunny turf, in quiv'rèn sheädes, shadows

A-windèn off, vrom hand to hand,

Along a path o’ yollow zand,

An’ clomb a stickle slope, an’ vound climbed, steep

An open patch o’ lofty ground,

Up where a steätely tow'r did spring,

So high as highest larks do zing.

―Oh! Meäster Collins,” then I zaid,

A-lookèn up wi’ back-flung head;

Vor who but he, so mild o’ feäce,

Should teäke me there to zee the pleäce.

―What is it then theäse tower do meän, this

A-built so feäir, an’ kept so cleän?”

―Ah! me,” he zaid, wi’ thoughtvul feäce,

―'Twer grief that zet theäse tower in pleäce.

The squier's e'thly life's a-blest earthly

Wi’ gifts that mwost do teäke vor best;

The lofty-pinion'd rufs do rise roofs

To screen his head vrom stormy skies;

His land's a-spreadèn roun’ his hall,

An’ hands do leäbor at his call;

The while the ho'se do fling, wi’ pride, horse

His lofty head where he do guide;

But still his e'thly jaÿ's a-vled, flown by

His woone true friend, his wife, is dead. one

Zoo now her happy soul's a-gone, so

An’ he in grief's a-ling'rèn on,

Do do his heart zome good to show it does

His love to flesh an’ blood below.

An’ zoo he rear'd, wi’ smitten soul, built (raised)

Theäse Leädy's Tower upon the knowl. this

An’ there you'll zee the tow'r do spring

Twice ten veet up, as roun's a ring,

Wi’ pillars under mwolded eäves,

Above their heads a-carv'd wi’ leaves;

An’ have to peäce, a-walkèn round pace

His voot, a hunderd veet o’ ground.

An’ there, above his upper wall,

A roundèd tow'r do spring so tall

's a springèn arrow shot upright,

A hunderd giddy veet in height.

An’ if you'd like to straïn your knees

A-climèn up above the trees,

To zee, wi’ slowly wheelèn feäce,

The vur-sky'd land about the pleäce, far-

You'll have a flight o’ steps to wear

Vor forty veet, up steäir by steäir,

That roun’ the risèn tow'r do wind,

Like withwind roun’ the saplèn's rind, bindweed

An’ reach a landèn, wi’ a seat,

To rest at last your weary veet,

'Ithin a breast be-screenèn wall,

To keep ye vrom a longsome vall.