LET en zit, wi’ his dog an’ his cat, him

Wi’ their noses a-turn'd to the vier, fire

An’ have all that a man should desire;

But there idden much reädship in that. isn't, sense

Whether vo'k mid have childern or no, folk may

Wou'dden meäke mighty odds in the maïn;

They do bring us mwore jaÿ wi’ mwore ho, joy, care

An’ wi’ nwone we've less jaÿ wi’ less païn.

We be all lik’ a zull's idle sheäre out, plough's, share

An’ shall rust out, unless we do wear out,

Lik’ do-nothèn, rue-nothèn,

Dead alive dumps.

As vor me, why my life idden bound isn't

To my own heart alwone, among men;

I do live in myzelf, an’ ageän

In the lives o’ my childern all round:

I do live wi’ my bwoy in his plaÿ,

An’ ageän wi’ my maïd in her zongs; daughter

An’ my heart is a-stirr'd wi’ their jaÿ,

An’ would burn at the zight o’ their wrongs.

I ha’ nine lives, an’ zoo if a half so

O'm do cry, why the rest o'm mid laugh of them, may

All so plaÿvully, jaÿvully,

Happy wi’ hope.

Tother night I come hwome a long road,

When the weather did sting an’ did vreeze;

An’ the snow—vor the day had a-snow'd—

Wer avroze on the boughs o’ the trees;

An’ my tooes an’ my vingers wer num’, toes

An’ my veet wer so lumpy as logs,

An’ my ears wer so red's a cock's cwom’; comb

An my nose wer so cwold as a dog's;

But so soon's I got hwome I vorgot

Where my limbs wer a-cwold or wer hot,

When wi’ loud cries an’ proud cries

They coll'd me so cwold. hugged

Vor the vu'st that I happen'd to meet first

Come to pull my girtcwoat vrom my eärm, greatcoat, arm

An’ another did rub my feäce warm,

An’ another hot-slipper'd my veet;

While their mother did cast on a stick,

Vor to keep the red vier alive; fire

An’ they all come so busy an’ thick

As the bees vlee-èn into their hive, flying

An’ they meäde me so happy an’ proud,

That my heart could ha’ crow'd out a-loud;

They did tweil zoo, an’ smile zoo, toil so

An’ coll me so cwold.

O SMALL-FEÄC'D flow'r that now dost bloom

To stud wi’ white the shallow Frome,

An’ leäve the clote to spread his flow'r yellow water-lily

On darksome pools o’ stwoneless Stour,

When sof'ly-rizèn aïrs do cool

The water in the sheenèn pool, shining

Thy beds o’ snow-white buds do gleam

So feäir upon the sky-blue stream,

As whitest clouds, a-hangèn high

Avore the blueness o’ the sky;

An’ there, at hand, the thin-heäir'd cows,

In aïry sheädes o’ withy boughs, shadows, willow

Or up bezide the mossy raïls,

Do stan’ an’ zwing their heavy taïls,

The while the ripplèn stream do flow

Below the dousty bridge's bow; dusty, arch

An’ quiv'rèn water-gleams do mock mimic

The weäves, upon the sheäded rock;

An’ up athirt the copèn stwone across

The laïtren bwoy do leän alwone, loitering

A-watchèn, wi’ a stedvast look,

The vallèn waters in the brook, falling

The while the zand o’ time do run

An’ leäve his errand still undone.

An’ oh! as long's thy buds would gleam

Above the softly-slidèn stream,

While sparklèn zummer-brooks do run

Below the lofty-climèn zun, high-climbing

I only wish that thou could'st staÿ

Vor noo man's harm, an’ all men's jaÿ.

But no, the waterman 'ull weäde

Thy water wi’ his deadly bleäde,

To slaÿ thee even in thy bloom,

Fair small-feäced flower o’ the Frome.

A. BACK here, but now, the jobber John odd-job man

Come by, an’ cried, ―Well done, zing on,

I thought as I come down the hill,

An’ heärd your zongs a-ringèn sh'ill, tunefully

Who woudden like to come, an’ fling

A peäir o’ prongs where you did zing?”

J. Aye, aye, he woudden vind it plaÿ,

To work all day a-meäkèn haÿ,

Or pitchèn o't, to eärms a-spread it, arms

By lwoaders, yards above his head,

'T'ud meäke en wipe his drippèn brow. it would make him

A. Or else a-reäken after plow. the wagon

J. Or workèn, wi’ his nimble pick,

A-stiffled wi’ the haÿ, at rick. stifled

A. Our Company would suit en best, him

When we do teäke our bit o’ rest,

At nunch, a-gather'd here below lunch

The sheäde theäse wide-bough'd woak do drow, this, oak, throw

Where hissèn froth mid rise, an’ float might

In horns o’ eäle, to wet his droat. ale, throat

J. Aye, if his zwellèn han’ could drag

A meat-slice vrom his dinner bag.

'T'ud meäke the busy little chap it would

Look rather glum, to zee his lap

Wi’ all his meal ov woone dry croust, one, crust

An’ vinny cheese so dry as doust. blue vinny (made from skimmed milk), dust

A. Well, I don't grumble at my food,

'Tis wholesome, John, an’ zoo 'tis good. so

J. Whose reäke is that a-lyèn there?

Do look a bit the woo'se vor wear. worse

A. Oh! I mus’ get the man to meäke

A tooth or two vor thik wold reäke, that old

'Tis leäbour lost to strik a stroke strike

Wi’ him, wi’ half his teeth a-broke. it, its

J. I should ha’ thought your han’ too fine

To break your reäke, if I broke mine.

A. The ramsclaws thin'd his wooden gum creeping crowfoot, its

O’ two teeth here, an’ here were zome

That broke when I did reäke a patch

O’ groun’ wi’ Jimmy, vor a match:

An’ here's a gap ov woone or two one

A-broke by Simon's clumsy shoe,

An’ when I gi'ed his poll a poke, gave, head

Vor better luck, another broke.

In what a veag have you a-swung rage

Your pick, though, John?

THE thissledown by winds a-roll'd

In Fall along the zunny plaïn,

Did catch the grass, but lose its hold,

Or cling to bennets, but in vaïn. grass-stalks

But when it zwept along the grass,

An’ zunk below the hollow's edge,

It lay at rest while winds did pass

Above the pit-bescreenèn ledge.

The plaïn ha’ brightness wi’ his strife,

The pit is only dark at best,

There's pleasure in a worksome life,

An’ sloth is tiresome wi’ its rest.

Zoo, then, I'd sooner beär my peärt, so

Ov all the trials vo'k do rue, folk

Than have a deadness o’ the heart,

Wi’ nothèn mwore to veel or do.

AN’ while I went 'ithin a traïn,

A-ridèn on athirt the plaïn, across

A-cleärèn swifter than a hound,

On twin-laid raïls, the zwimmèn ground;

I cast my eyes 'ithin a park,

Upon a woak wi’ grey-white bark, oak

An’ while I kept his head my mark, its

The rest did wheel around en. it

An’ when in life our love do cling

The clwosest round zome single thing,

We then do vind that all the rest

Do wheel roun’ that, vor vu'st an best; first

Zoo while our life do last, mid nought so, may

But what is good an’ feäir be sought,

In word or deed, or heart or thought,

An’ all the rest wheel round it.

AN’ while I zot, wi’ thoughtvul mind, sat

Up where the lwonesome Coombs do wind,

An’ watch'd the little gully slide

So crookèd to the river-zide;

I thought how wrong the Stour did zeem

To roll along his ramblèn stream,

A-runnèn wide the left o’ south,

To vind his mouth, the right-hand zide.

But though his stream do teäke, at mill,

An’ eastward bend by Newton Hill,

An’ goo to lay his welcome boon

O’ daïly water round Hammoon,

An’ then wind off ageän, to run

By Blanvord, to the noonday zun,

'Tis only bound by woone rule all,

An’ that's to vall down steepest ground.

An’ zoo, I thought, as we do bend so

Our waÿ drough life, to reach our end, through

Our God ha’ gi'ed us, vrom our youth, given

Woone rule to be our guide—His truth.

An’ zoo wi’ that, though we mid teäke may

Wide rambles vor our callèns’ seäke,

What is, is best, we needen fear,

An’ we shall steer to happy rest.

SINCE I noo mwore do zee your feäce,

Up steäirs or down below,

I'll zit me in the lwonesome pleäce,

Where flat-bough'd beech do grow:

Below the beeches’ bough, my love,

Where you did never come,

An’ I don't look to meet ye now,

As I do look at hwome.

Since you noo mwore be at my zide,

In walks in zummer het, heat

I'll goo alwone where mist do ride,

Drough trees a-drippèn wet: through

Below the raïn-wet bough, my love,

Where you did never come,

An’ I don't grieve to miss ye now,

As I do grieve at home.

Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard -table

Your vaïce do never sound,

I'll eat the bit I can avword,

A-vield upon the ground;

Below the darksome bough, my love,

Where you did never dine,

An’ I don't grieve to miss ye now,

As I at hwome do pine.

Since I do miss your vaïce an’ feäce

In praÿer at eventide,

I'll praÿ wi’ woone sad vaïce vor greäce one

To goo where you do bide;

Above the tree an’ bough, my love,

Where you be gone avore,

An’ be a-waïtèn vor me now,

To come vor evermwore.

OH! aye! the spring 'ithin the leäne,

A-leäden down to Lyddan Brook;

An’ still a-nesslèn in his nook,

As weeks do pass, an’ moons do weäne. wane

Nwone the drier,

Nwone the higher,

Nwone the nigher to the door

Where we did live so long avore.

An’ oh! what vo'k his mossy brim folk

Ha’ gathered in the run o’ time!

The wife a-blushèn in her prime;

The widow wi’ her eyezight dim;

Maïdens dippèn,

Childern sippèn,

Water drippèn, at the cool

Dark wallèn ov the little pool. walls

Behind the spring do lie the lands

My father till'd, vrom Spring to Spring,

Awäitèn on vor time to bring

The crops to paÿ his weary hands.

Wheat a-growèn,

Beäns a-blowèn,

Grass vor mowèn, where the bridge

Do leäd to Ryall's on the ridge.

But who do know when liv'd an’ died

The squier o’ the mwoldrèn hall; mouldering

That lined en wi’ a stwonèn wall, it, stone

An’ steän'd so cleän his wat'ry zide? paved with stone

We behind en, him

Now can't vind en, it

But do mind en, an’ do thank remember

His meäker vor his little tank.

WHEN mornèn winds, a-blowèn high,

Do zweep the clouds vrom all the sky,

An’ laurel-leaves do glitter bright,

The while the newly broken light

Do brighten up, avore our view,

The vields wi’ green, an’ hills wi’ blue;

What then can highten to my eyes

The cheerful feäce ov e'th an’ skies, earth

But Meäry's smile, o’ Morey's Mill,

My rwose o’ Mowy Lea.

An’ when, at last, the evenèn dews

Do now begin to wet our shoes;

An’ night's a-ridèn to the west,

To stop our work, an’ gi'e us rest, give

Oh! let the candle's ruddy gleäre

But brighten up her sheenèn heäir; shining

Or else, as she do walk abroad, outside

Let moonlight show, upon the road,

My Meäry's smile, o’ Morey's Mill,

My rwose o’ Mowy Lea.

An’ O! mid never tears come on, may

To wash her feäce's blushes wan,

Nor kill her smiles that now do plaÿ

Like sparklèn weäves in zunny Maÿ;

But mid she still, vor all she's gone

Vrom souls she now do smile upon,

Show others they can vind woone jaÿ one

To turn the hardest work to plaÿ:

My Meäry's smile, o’ Morey's Mill,

My rwose o’ Mowy Lea.

'TWER where my fondest thoughts do light,

At Fifehead, while we spent the night;

The millwheel's restèn rim wer dry,

An’ houn's held up their evenèn cry;

An’ lofty, drough the midnight sky, through

Above the vo'k, wi’ heavy heads, folk

Asleep upon their darksome beds,

The stars wer all awake, John.

Noo birds o’ day wer out to spread

Their wings above the gully's bed,

An’ darkness roun’ the elem-tree

'D a-still'd the charmy childern's glee. noisy

All he'ths wer cwold but woone, where we hearths, one

Wer gaÿ, 'tis true, but gaÿ an’ wise,

An’ laugh'd in light o’ maïdens’ eyes,

That glissen'd wide awake, John.

An’ when we all, lik’ loosen'd hounds,

Broke out o’ doors, wi’ merry sounds,

Our friends among the plaÿsome team,

All brought us gwäin so vur's the stream. came with us as far as

But Jeäne, that there, below a gleam

O’ light, watch'd woone o's out o’ zight; one of us

Vor willènly, vor his ―Good night,”

She'd longer bide awake, John.

An’ while up Leighs we stepp'd along

Our grassy path, wi’ joke an’ zong,

There Plumber, wi’ its woody ground,

O’ slopèn knaps a-screen'd around, hillocks

Rose dim 'ithout a breath o’ sound,

The wold abode o’ squiers a-gone, old

Though while they lay a-sleepèn on,

Their stars wer still awake, John.

'Tis zome vo'ks jaÿ to teäke the road, folk's joy

An’ goo abro'd, a-wand'rèn wide, out and about

Vrom shere to shere, vrom pleäce to pleäce, shire to shire

The swiftest peäce that vo'k can ride. pace

But I've a jaÿ 'ithin the door,

Wi’ friends avore the vier-zide.

An’ zoo, when winter skies do lour, so

An’ when the Stour's a-rollèn wide,

Drough bridge-voot raïls, a-païnted white, through

To be at night the traveller's guide,

Gi'e me a pleäce that's warm an’ dry, give

A-zittèn nigh my vier-zide.

Vor where do love o’ kith an’ kin,

At vu'st begin, or grow an’ wride, first, spread

Till souls a-lov'd so young, be wold, old

Though never cwold, drough time nor tide,

But where in me'th their gather'd veet mirth

Do often meet—the vier-zide.

If, when a friend ha’ left the land,

I shook his hand a-most wet-eyed,

I velt too well the ob'nèn door opening

Would leäd noo mwore where he did bide,

An’ where I heärd his vaïce's sound,

In me'th around the vier-zide.

As I've a-zeed how vast do vall seen, fast

The mwold'rèn hall, the wold vo'ks pride, mouldering, old folk's

Where merry hearts wer woonce a-ved once

Wi’ daily bread, why I've a-sigh'd,

To zee the wall so green wi’ mwold,

An’ vind so cwold the vier-zide.

An’ Chris'mas still mid bring his me'th may, its mirth

To ouer he'th, but if we tried our hearth

To gather all that woonce did wear once

Gay feäces there! Ah! zome ha’ died,

An’ zome be gone to leäve wi’ gaps

O’ missèn laps, the vier-zide.

But come now, bring us in your hand,

A heavy brand o’ woak a-dried, oak

To cheer us wi’ his het an’ light, heat

While vrosty night, so starry-skied,

Do gather souls that time do speäre

To zit an’ sheäre our vier-zide.

AYE, aye, the leäne wi’ flow'ry zides

A-kept so lew, by hazzle-wrides, sheltered by hazel-clumps

Wi’ beds o’ grægles out in bloom, bluebells

Below the timber's windless gloom,

An’ geäte that I've a-swung,

An’ rod as he's a-hung, ridden on

When I wer young, in Woakley Coomb.

'Twer there at feäst we all did pass

The evenèn on the leänezide grass,

Out where the geäte do let us drough, through

Below the woak-trees in the lew, oak-trees, shelter

In merry geämes an’ fun

That meäde us skip an’ run,

Wi’ burnèn zun, an’ sky o’ blue.

But still there come a scud that drove

The titt'rèn maïdens vrom the grove;

An’ there a-left wer flow'ry mound,

'Ithout a vaïce, 'ithout a sound,

Unless the aïr did blow

Drough ruslèn leaves, an’ drow through, throw

The raïn drops low, upon the ground.

I linger'd there an’ miss'd the naïse; noise

I linger'd there an’ miss'd our jaÿs;

I miss'd woone soul beyond the rest; one

The maïd that I do like the best.

Vor where her vaïce is gaÿ

An’ where her smiles do plaÿ,

There's always jaÿ vor ev'ry breast. joy

Vor zome vo'k out abroad ha’ me'th, folk, outside, mirth

But nwone at hwome bezide the he'th; hearth

An’ zome ha’ smiles vor strangers’ view,

An’ frowns vor kith an’ kin to rue;

But her sweet vaïce do vall,

Wi’ kindly words to all,

Both big an’ small, the whole day drough. through

An’ when the evenèn sky wer peäle,

We heärd the warblèn nightèngeäle,

A-drawèn out his lwonesome zong,

In windèn music down the drong; lane

An’ Jenny vrom her he'th, hearth

Come out, though not in me'th, mirth

But held her breath, to hear his zong.

Then, while the bird wi’ oben bill

Did warble on, her vaïce wer still;

An’ as she stood avore me, bound

In stillness to the flow'ry mound,

“The bird's a jaÿ to zome,” joy

I thought, ―but when he's dum, silent

Her vaïce will come, wi’ sweeter sound.”

This is the second volume in a series that sets out to provide a phonemic transcript and an audio recording of each poem in Barnes's three collections of Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect.

The individual volumes in the series are not designed to be critical editions: they do not contain variant readings from different versions of the poems or detailed notes on matters of linguistic, literary, social, historical, or biographical interest. The aim is simply to provide a self-contained, uncluttered, and reader-friendly text, which may be read on-screen or on the page, with marginal glosses for any words or phrases that might cause difficulty, together with audio recordings that may be freely audited online.

In addition to the many kind friends whose help is acknowledged in the Pronunciation Guide from which this series derives I wish particularly to thank John Emerson, Director of the University of Adelaide Press, and his staff, for their unshakeable patience and their staunch support.

Now the zunny aïr's a-blowèn

Softly over flowers a-growèn;

An’ the sparklèn light do quiver

On the ivy-bough an’ river;

Bleätèn lambs, wi’ woolly feäces,

Now do plaÿ, a-runnèn reäces;

An’ the springèn

Lark's a-zingèn,

Lik’ a dot avore the cloud,

High above the ashes’ sh'oud. canopy

Housèn, in the open brightness,

Now do sheen in spots o’ whiteness; shine

Here an’ there, on upland ledges,

In among the trees an’ hedges,

Where, along by vlocks o’ sparrows,

Chatt'rèn at the ploughman's harrows,

Dousty rwoaded, dusty

Errand-lwoaded;

Jenny, though her cloak is thin,

Do wish en hwome upon the pin. it, peg

Zoo come along, noo longer heedvul so

Ov the viër, leätely needvul, fire

Over grass o’ slopèn leäzes, meadows

Zingèn zongs in zunny breezes;

Out to work in copse, a-mootèn, digging up stumps

Where the primrwose is a-shootèn,

An’ in gladness,

Free o’ sadness,

In the warmth o’ Spring vorget

Leafless winter's cwold an’ wet.

THERE Liddy zot bezide her cow, sat

Upon her lowly seat, O;

A hood did overhang her brow,

Her païl wer at her veet, O;

An’ she wer kind, an’ she wer feäir,

An’ she wer young, an’ free o’ ceäre;

Vew winters had a-blow'd her heäir, few

Bezide the Winter's Willow.

She idden woone a-rear'd in town, isn't one

Where many a gaÿer lass, O,

Do trip a-smilèn up an’ down,

So peäle wi’ smoke an’ gas, O;

But here, in vields o’ greäzèn herds,

Her väice ha’ mingled sweetest words

Wi’ evenèn cheärms o’ busy birds, noises

Bezide the Winter's Willow.

An’ when, at last, wi’ beätèn breast,

I knock'd avore her door, O,

She ax'd me in to teäke the best asked

O’ pleäces on the vloor, O;

An’ smilèn feäir avore my zight,

She blush'd bezide the yollow light

O’ bleäzèn brands, while winds o’ night

Do sheäke the Winter's Willow.

An’ if there's readship in her smile, trustworthiness

She don't begrudge to speäre, O,

To zomebody, a little while,

The empty woaken chair, O; oak

An’ if I've luck upon my zide,

Why, I do think she'll be my bride

Avore the leaves ha’ twice a-died

Upon the Winter's Willow.

Above the coach-wheels’ rollèn rims

She never rose to ride, O,

Though she do zet her comely lim's

Above the mare's white zide, O;

But don't become too proud to stoop

An’ scrub her milkèn païl's white hoop,

Or zit a-milkèn where do droop

The wet-stemm'd Winter's Willow. -trunked

An’ I've a cow or two in leäze, meadow

Along the river-zide, O,

An’ païls to zet avore her knees,

At dawn an’ evenèn-tide, O;

An’ there she still mid zit, an’ look may

Athirt upon the woody nook across

Where vu'st I zeed her by the brook first, saw

Bezide the Winter's Willow.

Zoo, who would heed the treeless down, so

A-beät by all the storms, O,

Or who would heed the busy town,

Where vo'k do goo in zwarms, O; folk

If he wer in my house below

The elems, where the vier did glow fire

In Liddy's feäce, though winds did blow

Ageän the Winter's Willow.