OH! the wood wer a-vell'd in the copse,

An’ the moss-bedded primrwose did blow; bloom

An’ vrom tall-stemmèd trees’ leafless tops, tall-trunked

There did lie but slight sheädes down below. shadows

An’ the sky wer a-showèn, in drough through

By the tree-stems, the deepest o’ blue,

Wi’ a light that did vall on an’ off

The dry ground, a-strew'd over wi’ scroff.

There the hedge that wer leätely so high,

Wer a-plush'd, an’ along by the zide, with half-cut stems interlaced

Where the waggon ‘d a-haul'd the wood by,

There did reach the deep wheelrouts, a-dried. wheel-ruts

An’ the groun’ wi’ the sticks wer bespread,

Zome a-cut off alive, an’ zome dead.

An’ vor burnèn, well wo'th reäkèn off,

By the childern a-pickèn o’ scroff.

In the tree-studded leäze, where the woak meadow, oak

Wer a-spreadèn his head out around,

There the scrags that the wind had a-broke,

Wer a-lyèn about on the ground.

Or the childern, wi’ little red hands,

Wer a-tyèn em up in their bands;

Vor noo squier or farmer turn'd off turned away

Little childern a-pickèn o’ scroff.

There wer woone bloomèn child wi’ a cloak one

On her shoulders, as green as the ground;

An’ another, as gray as the woak,

Wi’ a bwoy in a brown frock, a-brown'd.

An’ woone got up, in plaÿ, vor to taït, play see-saw

On a woak-limb, a-growèn out straïght.

But she soon wer a-taïted down off,

By her meätes out a-pickèn o’ scroff.

When they childern do grow to staïd vo'k, adult folk

An’ goo out in the worold, all wide

Vrom the copse, an’ the zummerleäze woak, summer-pasture

Where at last all their elders ha’ died,

They wull then vind it touchèn to bring,

To their minds, the sweet springs o’ their spring,

Back avore the new vo'k did turn off

The poor childern a-pickèn o’ scroff.

GOOD Meäster Collins heärd woone day one

A man a-talkèn, that did zay

It woulden answer to be kind,

He thought, to vo'k o’ grov'lèn mind, folk, base

Vor they would only teäke it wrong,

That you be weak an’ they be strong.

“No,” cried the goodman, “never mind,

Let vo'k be thankless,—you be kind;

Don't do your good for e'thly ends earthly

At man's own call vor man's amends.

Though souls befriended should remaïn

As thankless as the sea vor raïn,

On them the good's a-lost 'tis true,

But never can be lost to you.

Look on the cool-feäced moon at night

Wi’ light-vull ring, at utmost height,

A-castèn down, in gleamèn strokes,

His beams upon the dim-bough'd woaks, oaks

To show the cliff a-risèn steep,

To show the stream a-vallèn deep,

To show where windèn roads do leäd,

An’ prickly thorns do ward the meäd.

While sheädes o’ boughs do flutter dark shadows

Upon the woak-trees’ moon-bright bark,

There in the lewth, below the hill, shelter

The nightèngeäle, wi’ ringèn bill,

Do zing among the soft-aïr'd groves,

While up below the house's oves eaves

The maïd, a-lookèn vrom her room

Drough window, in her youthvul bloom, through

Do listen, wi’ white ears among

Her glossy heäirlocks, to the zong.

If, then, the while the moon do light

The lwonesome zinger o’ the night,

His cwold-beam'd light do seem to show

The prowlèn owls the mouse below,

What then? Because an evil will,

Ov his sweet good, mid meäke zome ill, may

Shall all his feäce be kept behind

The dark-brow'd hills to leäve us blind?”

HURRAH! my lads, vor Do'set men!

A-muster'd here in red ageän;

All welcome to your ranks, a-spread

Up zide to zide, to stand, or wheel,

An’ welcome to your files, to head

The steady march wi’ tooe to heel;

Welcome to marches slow or quick!

Welcome to gath'rèns thin or thick;

God speed the Colonel on the hill,

An’ Mrs Bingham, off o’ drill.

When you've a-handled well your lock,

An’ flung about your rifle stock

Vrom han’ to shoulder, up an’ down;

When you've a-lwoaded an’ a-vired,

Till you do come back into town,

Wi’ all your loppèn limbs a-tired, drooping

An’ you be dry an’ burnèn hot,

Why here's your tea an’ coffee pot

At Mister Greenèn's penny till,

Wi’ Mrs Bingham off o’ drill.

Last year John Hinley's mother cried,

“Why my bwoy John is quite my pride!

Vor he've a-been so good to-year,

An’ han't a-mell'd wi’ any squabbles, got involved in

An’ han't a-drown'd his wits in beer,

An’ han't a-been in any hobbles. awkward situations

I never thought he'd turn out bad,

He always wer so good a lad;

But now I'm sure he's better still,

Drough Mrs Bingham, off o’ drill.” through

Jeäne Hart, that's Joey Duntley's chaïce,

Do praise en up wi’ her sweet vaïce, him

Vor he's so strait's a hollyhock

(Vew hollyhocks be up so tall),

An’ he do come so true's the clock

To Mrs Bingham's coffee-stall;

An’ Jeäne do write, an’ bag o’ Joe beg

To teäke the young recruits in tow,

An’ try, vor all their good, to bring em,

A-come from drill, to Mrs Bingham.

God speed the Colonel, toppèn high,

An’ officers wi’ sworded thigh,

An’ all the sargeants that do bawl

All day enough to split their droats, throats

An’ all the corporals, and all

The band a-plaÿèn up their notes,

An’ all the men vrom vur an’ near, far

We'll gi'e em all a hearty cheer, give

An’ then another cheerèn still

Vor Mrs Bingham, off o’ drill.

UPON the slope, the hedge did bound

The vield wi’ blossom-whited zide,

An’ charlock patches, yollow-dyed,

Did reach along the white-soil'd ground;

An’ vo'k, a-comèn up vrom meäd, folk

Brought gil'cup meal upon the shoe; buttercup

Or went on where the road did leäd,

Wi’ smeechy doust from heel to tooe, thick dust

As noon did smite, wi’ burnèn light,

The road so white, to Meldonley.

An’ I did tramp the zun-dried ground,

By hedge-climb'd hills, a-spread wi’ flow'rs,

An’ watershootèn dells, an’ tow'rs,

By elem-trees a-hemm'd all round,

To zee a vew wold friends, about old

Wold Meldon, where I still ha’ zome,

That bid me speed as I come out, wished me success

An’ now ha’ bid me welcome hwome,

As I did goo, while skies wer blue,

Vrom view to view, to Meldonley.

An’ there wer timber'd knaps, that show'd hillocks

Cool sheädes, vor rest, on grassy ground,

An’ thatch-brow'd windows, flower-bound,

Where I could wish wer my abode.

I pass'd the maïd avore the spring,

An’ shepherd by the thornèn tree;

An’ heärd the merry dréver zing,

But met noo kith or kin to me,

Till I come down, vrom Meldon's crown

To rufs o’ brown, at Meldonley.

'TWER good what Meäster Collins spoke

O’ spite to two poor spitevul vo'k, folk

When woone twold tother o’ the two one

“ I be never the better vor zeèn o’ you.”

If soul to soul, as Christians should,

Would always try to do zome good,

“How vew,” he cried, “would zee our feäce

A-brighten'd up wi’ smiles o’ greäce,

An’ tell us, or could tell us true,

I be never the better vor zeèn o’ you.”

A man mus’ be in evil ceäse case (plight)

To live 'ithin a land o’ greäce,

Wi’ nothèn that a soul can read

O’ goodness in his word or deed;

To still a breast a-heav'd wi’ sighs,

Or dry the tears o’ weepèn eyes;

To staÿ a vist that spite ha’ wrung, fist, clenched

Or cool the het ov anger's tongue: heat

Or bless, or help, or gi'e, or lend; give

Or to the friendless stand a friend,

An’ zoo that all could tell en true, so, him

“ I be never the better vor zeèn o’ you.”

Oh! no, mid all o's try to spend may

Our passèn time to zome good end,

An’ zoo vrom day to day teäke heed,

By mind, an’ han’, by word or deed;

To lessen evil, and increase

The growth o’ righteousness an’ peäce,

A-speakèn words o’ lovèn-kindness,

Openèn the eyes o’ blindness;

Helpèn helpless strivers’ weakness,

Cheerèn hopeless grievers’ meekness,

Meäken friends at every meetèn,

Veel the happier vor their greetèn;

Zoo that vew could tell us true, so

“I be never the better vor zeèn o’ you.”

No, let us even try to win

Zome little good vrom sons o’ sin,

An’ let their evils warn us back

Vrom teäkèn on their hopeless track,

Where we mid zee so clear's the zun may

That harm a-done is harm a-won,

An’ we mid cry an’ tell em true,

“I be even the better vor zeèn o’ you.”

MY love is the maïd ov all maïdens,

Though all mid be comely, may

Her skin's lik’ the jessamy blossom jasmine

A-spread in the Spring.

Her smile is so sweet as a beäby's

Young smile on his mother,

Her eyes be as bright as the dew drop

A-shed in the Spring.

O grey-leafy pinks o’ the geärden,

Now bear her sweet blossoms;

Now deck wi’ a rwose-bud, O briar,

Her head in the Spring.

O light-rollèn wind blow me hither,

The vaïce ov her talkèn,

Or bring vrom her veet the light doust, dust

She do tread in the Spring.

O zun, meäke the gil'cups all glitter, buttercups

In goold all around her;

An’ meäke o’ the deäisys’ white flowers

A bed in the Spring.

O whissle gaÿ birds, up bezide her,

In drong-waÿ, an’ woodlands, narrow lane

O zing, swingèn lark, now the clouds,

Be a-vled in the Spring. flown

An’ who, you mid ax, be my praïses may

A-meäkèn so much o’,

An’ oh! ‘tis the maïd I'm a-hopèn

To wed in the Spring.

WHEN wind wer keen,

Where ivy-green

Did clwosely wind

Roun’ woak-tree rind, oak-tree bark

An’ ice shone bright,

An’ meäds wer white, wi’ thin-spread snow

Then on the pond, a-spreadèn wide,

We bwoys did zweep along the slide,

A-strikèn on in merry row.

There ruddÿ-feäced,

In busy heäste,

We all did wag move

A spankèn lag,

To win good speed,

When we, straïght-knee'd, wi’ foreright tooes, pointing straight forward

Should shoot along the slipp'ry track,

Wi’ grindèn sound, a-gettèn slack,

The slower went our clumpèn shoes.

Vor zome slow chap,

Did teäke mishap,

As he did veel

His hinder heel

A-het a thump, hit

Wi’ zome big lump, o’ voot an’ shoe.

Down vell the voremost wi’ a squall,

An’ down the next went wi’ a sprawl,

An’ down went all the laughèn crew.

As to an’ fro,

In merry row,

We all went round

On ice, on ground

The maïdens nigh

A-stannèn shy, did zee us slide,

An’ in their eäprons small, did vwold fold

Their little hands, a-got red-cwold,

Or slide on ice o’ two veet wide.

By leafless copse,

An’ beäre tree-tops, bare

An’ zun's low beams,

An’ ice-boun’ streams,

An’ vrost-boun’ mill,

A-stannèn still, come wind, blow on,

An’ gi'e the bwoys, this Chris'mas tide, give

The glitt'rèn ice to meäke a slide,

As we had our slide, years agone.

WE zot bezide the leäfy wall, sat

Upon the bench at evenfall,

While aunt led off our minds vrom ceäre

Wi’ veäiry teäles, I can't tell where: fairy

An’ vound us woone among her stock one

O’ feäbles, o’ the girt Year-clock. great

His feäce wer blue's the zummer skies,

An’ wide's the zight o’ lookèn eyes,

For hands, a zun wi’ glowèn feäce,

An’ peäler moon wi’ swifter peäce,

Did wheel by stars o’ twinklèn light,

By bright-wall'd day, an’ dark-treed night;

An’ down upon the high-sky'd land,

A-reachèn wide, on either hand,

Wer hill an’ dell wi’ win’-swaÿ'd trees,

An’ lights a-zweepèn over seas,

An’ gleamèn cliffs, an’ bright-wall'd tow'rs,

Wi’ sheädes a-markèn on the hours;

An’ as the feäce, a-rollèn round,

Brought comely sheäpes along the ground,

The Spring did come in winsome steäte

Below a glowèn raïnbow geäte;

An’ fan wi’ aïr a-blowèn weak,

Her glossy heäir, an’ rwosy cheäk,

As she did shed vrom oben hand,

The leäpèn zeed on vurrow'd land;

The while the rook, wi’ heästy flight,

A-floatèn in the glowèn light,

Did bear avore her glossy breast

A stick to build her lofty nest,

An’ strong-limb'd Tweil, wi’ steady hands, toil

Did guide along the vallow lands

The heavy zull, wi’ bright-sheär'd beam, plough

Avore the weary oxen team.

Wi’ Spring a-gone there come behind

Sweet Zummer, jaÿ ov ev'ry mind, joy

Wi’ feäce a-beamèn to beguile

Our weary souls ov ev'ry tweil.

While birds did warble in the dell

In softest aïr o’ sweetest smell;

An’ she, so winsome-feäir did vwold fold

Her comely limbs in green an’ goold,

An’ wear a rwosy wreath, wi’ studs

O’ berries green, an’ new-born buds,

A-fring'd in colours vier-bright, fire-

Wi’ sheäpes o’ buttervlees in flight.

THE beäten path where vo'k do meet folk

A-comèn on vrom vur an’ near; far

How many errands had the veet

That wore en out along so clear! it

Where eegrass bleädes be green in meäd, grass regrown after mowing

Where bennets up the leäze be brown, grass-stalks, meadow

An’ where the timber bridge do leäd

Athirt the cloty brook to town, across, yellow water-lilied

Along the path by mile an’ mile,

Athirt the vield, an’ brook, an’ stile,

There runnèn childern's hearty laugh

Do come an’ vlee along—win’ swift: fly

The wold man's glossy-knobbèd staff old

Do help his veet so hard to lift;

The maïd do bear her basket by,

A-hangèn at her breäthèn zide;

An’ ceäreless young men, straïght an’ spry,

Do whissle hwome at eventide,

Along the path, a-reachèn by

Below tall trees an’ oben sky.

There woone do goo to jaÿ a-head; one, joy

Another's jaÿ's behind his back.

There woone his vu'st long mile do tread, first

An’ woone the last ov all his track.

An’ woone mid end a hopevul road, may

Wi’ hopeless grief a-teäkèn on,

As he that leätely vrom abroad

Come hwome to seek his love a-gone,

Noo mwore to tread, wi’ comely eäse,

The beäten path athirt the leäze. across the meadow

In tweilsome hardships, year by year, toilsome

He drough the worold wander'd wide, through

Still bent, in mind, both vur an near far

To come an’ meäke his love his bride.

An’ passèn here drough evenèn dew

He heästen'd, happy, to her door,

But vound the wold vo'k only two, old folk

Wi’ noo mwore vootsteps on the vloor,

To walk ageän below the skies,

Where beäten paths do vall an’ rise;

Vor she wer gone vrom e'thly eyes earthly

To be a-kept in darksome sleep,

Until the good ageän do rise

A jaÿ to souls they left to weep. joy

The rwose wer doust that bound her brow; dust

The moth did eat her Zunday ceäpe;

Her frock wer out o’ fashion now;

Her shoes wer dried up out o’ sheäpe—

The shoes that woonce did glitter black once

Along the leäzes beäten track.

WHY woonce, at Chris'mas-tide, avore once

The wold year wer a-reckon'd out, old

The humstrums here did come about,

A-soundèn up at ev'ry door.

But now a bow do never screäpe

A humstrum, any where all round,

An’ zome can't tell a humstrum's sheäpe,

An’ never heärd his jinglèn sound.

As ing-an-ing did ring the string,

As ang-an-ang the wires did clang.

The strings a-tighten'd lik’ to crack

Athirt the canister's tin zide, across

Did reach, a glitt'rèn, zide by zide,

Above the humstrum's hollow back.

An’ there the bwoy, wi’ bended stick,

A-strung wi’ heäir, to meäke a bow,

Did dreve his elbow, light'nèn quick, drive

Athirt the strings from high to low.

As ing-an-ing did ring the string,

As ang-an-ang the wires did clang.

The mother there did stan’ an’ hush

Her child, to hear the jinglèn sound,

The merry maïd, a-scrubbèn round

Her white-steäv'd païl, did stop her brush. -hooped

The mis'ess there, vor wold time's seäke, old

Had gifts to gi'e, and smiles to show, give

An’ meäster, too, did stan’ an’ sheäke

His two broad zides, a-chucklèn low,

While ing-an-ing did ring the string,

While ang-an-ang the wires did clang.

The plaÿers’ pockets wer a-strout, stretched out

Wi’ wold brown pence, a-rottlèn in,

Their zwangèn bags did soon begin, swinging violently

Wi’ brocks an’ scraps, to plim well out. broken pieces of food, fill

The childern all did run an’ poke

Their heads vrom hatch or door, an’ shout wicket-gate

A-runnèn back to wolder vo'k. older folk

Why, here! the humstrums be about!

As ing-an-ing did ring the string,

As ang-an-ang the wires did clang.

AT night, as drough the meäd I took my waÿ, through

In aïr a-sweeten'd by the new-meäde haÿ,

A stream a-vallèn down a rock did sound,

Though out o’ zight wer foam an’ stwone to me.

Behind the knap, above the gloomy copse, hillock

The wind did russle in the trees’ high tops,

Though evenèn darkness, an’ the risèn hill,

Kept all the quiv'rèn leaves unshown to me.

Within the copse, below the zunless sky,

I heärd a nightèngeäle, a-warblèn high

Her lwoansome zong, a-hidden vrom my zight,

An’ showèn nothèn but her mwoan to me.

An’ by a house, where rwoses hung avore

The thatch-brow'd window, an’ the oben door,

I heärd the merry words, an’ hearty laugh

O’ zome feäir maïd, as eet unknown to me. yet

High over head the white-rimm'd clouds went on,

Wi’ woone a-comèn up, vor woone a-gone; one

An’ feäir they floated in their sky-back'd flight,

But still they never meäde a sound to me.

An’ there the miller, down the stream did float

Wi’ all his childern, in his white-saïl'd bwoat,

Vur off, beyond the stragglèn cows in meäd, far

But zent noo vaïce, athirt the ground, to me. across

An’ then a buttervlee, in zultry light, butterfly

A-wheelèn on about me, vier-bright, fire-

Did show the gaÿest colors to my eye,

But still did bring noo vaïce around to me.

I met the merry laugher on the down,

Bezide her mother, on the path to town,

An’ oh! her sheäpe wer comely to the zight,

But wordless then wer she a-vound to me.

Zoo, sweet ov unzeen things mid be the sound, so, may

An’ feäir to zight mid soundless things be vound,

But I've the laugh to hear, an’ feäce to zee,

Vor they be now my own, a-bound to me.