O, AYE! they had woone child bezide, one

An’ a finer your eyes never met,

‘Twer a dear little fellow that died

In the zummer that come wi’ such het; heat

By the mowers, too thoughtless in fun,

He wer then a-zent off vrom our eyes,

Vrom the light ov the dew-dryèn zun,—

Aye! vrom days under blue-hollow'd skies.

He went out to the mowers in meäd,

When the zun wer a-rose to his height,

An’ the men wer a-swingèn the sneäd, scythe handle

Wi’ their eärms in white sleeves, left an’ right; arms

An’ out there, as they rested at noon,

O! they drench'd en vrom eäle-horns too deep, gave him drink

Till his thoughts wer a-drown'd in a swoon; [ale-horns

Aye! his life wer a-smother'd in sleep.

Then they laid en there-right on the ground, him

On a grass-heap, a-zweltrèn wi’ het,

Wi’ his heäir all a-wetted around

His young feäce, wi’ the big drops o’ zweat;

In his little left palm he'd a-zet,

Wi’ his right hand, his vore-vinger's tip,

As for zome'hat he woulden vorget,—

Aye! zome thought that he woulden let slip.

Then they took en in hwome to his bed,

An’ he rose vrom his pillow noo mwore,

Vor the curls on his sleek little head

To be blown by the wind out o’ door.

Vor he died while the häy russled grey

On the staddle so leätely begun: haystack-base

Lik’ the mown-grass a-dried by the day,—

Aye! the zwath-flow'r's a-killed by the zun.

AH! then the grassy-meäded Maÿ

Did warm the passèn year, an’ gleam

Upon the yellow-grounded stream,

That still by beech-tree sheädes do straÿ. shadows

The light o’ weäves, a-runnèn there,

Did plaÿ on leaves up over head,

An’ vishes sceäly zides did gleäre, scaly

A-dartèn on the shallow bed,

An’ like the stream a-slidèn on,

My zun-out-measur'd time's agone.

There by the path, in grass knee-high,

Wer buttervlees in giddy flight, butterflies

All white above the deäisies white,

Or blue below the deep blue sky.

Then glowèn warm wer ev'ry brow,

O’ maïd, or man, in zummer het, heat

An’ warm did glow the cheäks I met

That time, noo mwore to meet em now.

As brooks, a-slidèn on their bed,

My season-measur'd time's a-vled. flown by

Vrom yonder window, in the thatch,

Did sound the maïdens’ merry words,

As I did stand, by zingèn birds,

Bezide the elem-sheäded hatch. wicket-gate

‘Tis good to come back to the pleäce,

Back to the time, to goo noo mwore;

‘Tis good to meet the younger feäce

A-mentèn others here avore. taking after

As streams do glide by green mead-grass,

My zummer-brighten'd years do pass.

THERE the ash-tree leaves do vall

In the wind a-blowèn cwolder,

An’ my childern, tall or small,

Since last Fall be woone year wolder. one, older

Woone year wolder, woone year dearer,

Till when they do leäve my he'th, hearth

I shall be noo mwore a hearer

O’ their vaïces or their me'th. mirth

There dead ash leaves be a-toss'd

In the wind, a-blowèn stronger,

An’ our life-time, since we lost

Souls we lov'd, is woone year longer.

Woone year longer, woone year wider,

Vrom the friends that death ha’ took,

As the hours do teäke the rider

Vrom the hand that last he shook.

No. If he do ride at night

Vrom the zide the zun went under,

Woone hour vrom his western light

Needen meäke woone hour asunder;

Woone hour onward, woone hour nigher

To the hopeful eastern skies,

Where his mornèn rim o vier fire

Soon ageän shall meet his eyes.

Leaves be now a-scatter'd round

In the wind, a-blowèn bleaker,

An’ if we do walk the ground

Wi’ our life-strangth woone year weaker.

Woone year weaker, woone year nigher

To the pleäce where we shall vind

Woone that's deathless vor the dier,

Voremost they that dropp'd behind.

Ov all the roads that ever bridge

Did bear athirt a river's feäce, across

Or ho'ses up an’ down the ridge

Did wear to doust at ev'ry peäce, dust

I'll teäke the Stalton leäne to tread,

By banks wi’ primrwose-beds bespread,

An’ steätely elems over head,

Where Ruth do come a-ridèn.

An’ I would rise when vields be grey

Wi’ mornèn dew, avore 'tis dry,

An’ beät the doust droughout the day throughout

To bluest hills ov all the sky;

If there, avore the dusk o’ night,

The evenèn zun, a-sheenèn bright, shining

Would paÿ my leäbors wi’ the zight

O’ Ruth—o’ Ruth a-ridèn.

Her healthy feäce is rwosy feäir,

She's comely in her gaït an’ lim’,

An’ sweet's the smile her feäce do wear,

Below her cap's well-rounded brim;

An’ while her skirt's a-spreädèn wide,

In vwolds upon the ho'se's zide, folds

He'll toss his head, an’ snort wi’ pride,

To trot wi’ Ruth a-ridèn.

An’ as her ho'se's rottlèn peäce

Do slacken till his veet do beät

A slower trot, an’ till her feäce

Do bloom avore the tollman's geäte;

Oh! he'd be glad to oben wide

His high-back'd geäte, an’ stand azide,

A-givèn up his toll wi’ pride,

Vor zight o’ Ruth a-ridèn.

An’ oh! that Ruth could be my bride,

An’ I had ho'ses at my will,

That I mid teäke her by my zide, might

A-ridèn over dell an’ hill;

I'd zet wi’ pride her litty tooe light

'Ithin a stirrup, sheenèn new, shining

An’ leäve all other jaÿs to goo joys

Along wi’ Ruth a-ridèn.

If maïdens that be weäk an’ peäle

A-mwopèn in the house's sheäde,

Would wish to be so blithe and heäle hale

As you did zee young Ruth a-meäde;

Then, though the zummer zun mid glow,

Or though the Winter win’ mid blow,

They'd leäp upon the saddle's bow,

An’ goo, lik’ Ruth, a-ridèn.

While evenèn light do sofly gild

The moss upon the elem's bark,

Avore the zingèn bird's a-still'd,

Or woods be dim, or day is dark,

Wi’ quiv'rèn grass avore his breast,

In cowslip beds, do lie at rest,

The ho'se that now do goo the best

Wi’ rwosy Ruth a-ridèn.

UPON the hedge theäse bank did bear, this

Wi’ lwonesome thought untwold in words,

I woonce did work, wi’ noo sound there once

But my own strokes, an’ chirpèn birds;

As down the west the zun went wan,

An’ days brought on our Zunday's rest,

When sounds o’ cheemèn bells did vill chiming

The aïr, an’ hook an’ axe wer still.

Along the wold town-path vo'k went, old, folk

An’ met unknown, or friend wi’ friend,

The maïd her busy mother zent, daughter

The mother wi’ noo maïd to zend;

An’ in the light the gleäzier's glass,

As he did pass, wer dazzlèn bright,

Or woone went by wi’ down-cast head, one

A-wrapp'd in blackness vor the dead.

An’ then the bank, wi’ risèn back,

That's now a-most a-troddèn down,

Bore thorns wi’ rind o’ sheeny black, bark, shiny

An’ meäple stems o’ ribby brown;

An’ in the lewth o’ theäse tree heads, shelter, these

Wer primrwose beds a-sprung in blooth, bloom

An’ here a geäte, a-slammèn to,

Did let the slow-wheel'd plough roll drough. wagon, through

Ov all that then went by, but vew

Be now a-left behine’, to beät

The mornèn flow'rs or evenèn dew,

Or slam the woakèn vive-bar'd geäte; made of oak

But woone, my wife, so litty-stepp'd, light-

That have a-kept my path o’ life,

Wi’ her vew errands on the road,

Where woonce she bore her mother's lwoad. once

No, no, good Meäster Collins cried,

Why you've a good wife at your zide;

Zoo do believe the heart is true so

That gi'ed up all bezide vor you, gave

An’ still beheäve as you begun

To seek the love that you've a-won

When woonce in dewy June, once

In hours o’ hope soft eyes did flash,

Each bright below his sheädy lash,

A-glisnèn to the moon.

Think how her girlhood met noo ceäre

To peäle the bloom her feäce did weär,

An’ how her glossy temple prest

Her pillow down, in still-feäced rest,

While sheädes o’ window bars did vall shadows

In moonlight on the gloomy wall,

In cool-aïr'd nights o’ June;

The while her lids, wi’ bendèn streäks

O’ lashes, met above her cheäks,

A-bloomèn to the moon.

Think how she left her childhood's pleäce,

An’ only sister's long-known feäce,

An’ brother's jokes so much a-miss'd,

An’ mother's cheäk, the last a-kiss'd;

An’ how she lighted down avore

Her new abode, a husband's door,

Your weddèn night in June;

Wi’ heart that beät wi’ hope an’ fear,

While on each eye-lash hung a tear,

A-glisnèn to the moon.

Think how her father zot all dum’, sat

A-thinkèn on her, back at hwome,

The while grey axan gather'd thick, ashes

On dyèn embers, on the brick;

An’ how her mother look'd abrode, out

Drough window, down the moon-bright road, through

Thik cloudless night o’ June, that

Wi’ tears upon her lashes big

As raïn-drops on a slender twig,

A-glisnèn to the moon.

Zoo don't zit thoughtless at your cup so

An’ keep your wife a-wäitèn up,

The while the clock's a-tickèn slow

The chilly hours o’ vrost an’ snow,

Until the zinkèn candle's light

Is out avore her drowsy sight,

A-dimm'd wi’ grief too soon;

A-leävèn there alwone to murn mourn

The feädèn cheäk that woonce did burn, fading, once

A-bloomèn to the moon.

“COME on. Be sprack, a-laggèn back.” hurry up

“Oh! be there any cows to hook?” gore

“ Lauk she's afraïd, a silly maïd.” Lord

“Cows? No, the cows be down by brook.”

“O here then, oh! here is a lot.”

“A lot o’ what? what is it? what?”

“Why blackberries, as thick

As ever they can stick.”

“ I've dewberries, oh! twice low-growing blackberries

As good as they; so nice.”

“Look here. Theäse boughs be all but blue these

Wi’ snags.” sloes

“Oh! gi'e me down a vew.” give

“Come here, oh! do but look.”

“What's that? what is it now?”

“Why nuts a-slippèn shell.”

“Hee! hee! pull down the bough.”

“I wish I had a crook.”

“ There zome o'm be a-vell.” of them, fallen

(One sings)

“I wish I was on Bimport Hill

I would zit down and cry my vill.”

“ Hee! hee! there's Jenny zomewhere nigh,

A-zingèn that she'd like to cry.”

(Jenny sings)

“I would zit down and cry my vill

Until my tears would dreve a mill.” drive

“ Oh! here's an ugly crawlèn thing,

A sneäke.” “A slooworm; he wont sting.” slow-worm (snake-like lizard)

“ Hee! hee! how she did squal an’ hop,

A-spinnèn roun’ so quick's a top.”

“Look here, oh! quick, be quick.”

“What is it? what then? where?”

“A rabbit.” “No, a heäre.”

“Ooh! ooh! the thorns do prick.”

“How he did scote along the ground race

As if he wer avore a hound.”

“Now mind the thistles.” “Hee, hee, hee,

Why they be knapweeds.” “No.” “They be.”

“I've zome'hat in my shoe.”

“Zit down, an’ sheäke it out.”

“Oh! emmets, oh! ooh, ooh, ants

A-crawlèn all about.”

“What bird is that, O harken, hush.

How sweetly he do zing.”

“A nightingeäle.” “La! no, a drush.” thrush

“Oh! here's a funny thing.”

“Oh! how the bull do hook,

An’ bleäre, an’ fling the dirt.” bellow

“Oh! wont he come athirt?” across

“No, he's beyond the brook.”

“O lauk! a hornet rose Lord

Up clwose avore my nose.”

“Oh! what wer that so white

Rush'd out o’ thik tree's top?” that

“An owl.” “How I did hop,

How I do sheäke wi’ fright.”

“A musheroom.” “O lau!

A twoadstool! Pwoison! Augh.”

“What's that, a mouse?”

WHERE the bridge out at Woodley did stride,

Wi’ his wide arches’ cool sheäded bow, span

Up above the clear brook that did slide

By the popples, befoam'd white as snow: pebbles

As the gilcups did quiver among buttercups

The white deäisies, a-spread in a sheet,

There a quick-trippèn maïd come along,—

Aye, a girl wi’ her light-steppèn veet.

An’ she cried “I do praÿ, is the road

Out to Lincham on here, by the meäd?”

An’ “oh! ees,” I meäde answer, an’ show'd yes

Her the way it would turn an’ would leäd:

“Goo along by the beech in the nook,

Where the childern do plaÿ in the cool,

To the steppèn stwones over the brook,—

Aye, the grey blocks o’ rock at the pool.”

Then, “You don't seem a-born an’ a-bred,”

I spoke up, “at a place here about;”

An’ she answer'd wi’ cheäks up so red

As a pi'ny but leäte a-come out, peony

“No, I liv'd wi’ my uncle that died

Back in Eäpril, an’ now I'm a-come

Here to Ham, to my mother, to bide,—

Aye, to her house to vind a new hwome.”

I'm asheämed that I wanted to know

Any mwore of her childhood or life,

But then, why should so feäir a child grow

Where noo father did bide wi’ his wife;

Then wi’ blushes of zunrisèn morn,

She replied “that it midden be known, mightn't

Oh! they zent me awaÿ to be born,—*

Aye, they hid me when zome would be shown.”

Oh! it meäde me a'most teary-ey'd,

An’ I vound I a'most could ha’ groan'd—

What! so winnèn, an’ still cast a-zide—

What! so lovely, an’ not to be own'd;

Oh! a God-gift a-treated wi’ scorn,

Oh! a child that a squier should own;

An’ to zend her awaÿ to be born!—

Aye, to hide her where others be shown!

* Words once spoken to the writer.

ALL up the down's cool brow

I work'd in noontide's gleäre,

On where the slow-wheel'd plow wagon

'D a-wore the grass half bare.

An’ gil'cups quiver'd quick, buttercups

As aïr did pass,

An’ deäisies huddled thick

Among the grass.

The while my eärms did swing arms

Wi’ work I had on hand,

The quick-wing'd lark did zing

Above the green-tree'd land,

An’ bwoys below me chafed

The dog vor fun,

An’ he, vor all they laef'd, laughed

Did meäke em run.

The south zide o’ the hill,

My own tun-smoke rose blue,— chimney-

In North Coomb, near the mill,

My mother's wer in view—

Where woonce her vier vor all once, fire

Ov us did burn,

As I have childern small

Round mine in turn.

An’ zoo I still wull cheer so

Her life wi’ my small store,

As she do drop a tear

Bezide her lwonesome door.

The love that I do owe

Her ruf, I'll paÿ, roof

An’ then zit down below

My own wi’ jaÿ.

WHEN high-flown larks wer on the wing,

A warm-aïr'd holiday in Spring,

We stroll'd, ‘ithout a ceäre or frown,

Up roun’ the down at Meldonley;

An’ where the hawthorn-tree did stand

Alwone, but still wi’ mwore at hand,

We zot wi’ sheädes o’ clouds on high sat, shadows

A-flittèn by, at Meldonley.

An’ there, the while the tree did sheäde

Their gigglèn heads, my knife's keen bleäde

Carved out, in turf avore my knee,

J. L., * T. D., at Meldonley.

‘Twer Jessie Lee J. L. did meän,

T. D. did stan’ vor Thomas Deäne;

The “L” I scratch'd but slight, vor he

Mid soon be D, at Meldonley. might

An’ when the vields o’ wheat did spread

Vrom hedge to hedge in sheets o’ red,

An’ bennets wer a-sheäkèn brown, grass-stalks

Upon the down at Meldonley,

We stroll'd ageän along the hill,

An’ at the hawthorn-tree stood still,

To zee J. L. vor Jessie Lee,

An’ my T. D., at Meldonley.

The grey-poll'd bennet-stems did hem grey-headed

Each half-hid letter's zunken rim,

By leädy's-vingers that did spread kidney vetches

In yollow red, at Meldonley.

An’ heärebells there wi’ light blue bell

Shook soundless on the letter L,

To ment the bells when L vor Lee imitate

Become a D at Meldonley.

Vor Jessie, now my wife, do strive

Wi’ me in life, an’ we do thrive;

Two sleek-heäired meäres do sprackly pull horses, briskly

My waggon vull, at Meldonley;

An’ small-hoofd sheep, in vleeces white,

Wi’ quickly-pankèn zides, do bite panting

My thymy grass, a-mark'd vor me

In black, T.D., at Meldonley.

OH! if my ling'rèn life should run,

Drough years a-reckoned ten by ten, through

Below the never-tirèn zun,

Till beäbes ageän be wives an’ men;

An’ stillest deafness should ha’ bound

My ears, at last, vrom ev'ry sound;

Though still my eyes in that sweet light,

Should have the zight o’ sky an’ ground:

Would then my steäte

In time so leäte,

Be jaÿ or païn, be païn or jaÿ? joy

When Zunday then, a-weänèn dim, waning

As theäse that now's a-clwosèn still, this one, closing

Mid lose the zun's down-zinkèn rim, might

In -bound hill; fire-

An’ when the bells’ last peal's a-rung,

An’ I mid zee the wold an’ young old

A-vlockèn by, but shoulden hear,

However near, a voot or tongue:

Mid zuch a zight,

In that soft light

Be jaÿ or païn, be païn or jaÿ?

If I should zee among em all,

In merry youth, a-glidèn by,

My son's bwold son, a-grown man-tall,

Or daughter's daughter, woman-high;

An’ she mid smile wi’ your good feäce,

Or she mid walk your comely peäce,

But seem, although a-chattèn loud,

So dumb's a cloud, in that bright pleäce:

Would youth so feäir,

A-passèn there,

Be jaÿ or païn, be païn or jaÿ?

‘Tis seldom strangth or comeliness

Do leäve us long. The house do show

Men's sons wi’ mwore, as they ha’ less,

An’ daughters brisk, vor mothers slow.

A dawn do clear the night's dim sky,

Woone star do zink, an’ woone goo high, one

An’ livèn gifts o’ youth do vall,

Vrom girt to small, but never die: great

An’ should I view,

What God mid do, may

Wi’ jaÿ or païn, wi’ païn or jaÿ?

O JAŸ betide the dear wold mill, joy, old

My naïghbour plaÿmeätes’ happy hwome,

Wi’ rollèn wheel, an’ leäpèn foam,

Below the overhangèn hill,

Where, wide an’ slow,

The stream did flow,

An’ flags did grow, an’ lightly vlee fly

Below the grey-leav'd withy tree, willow

While clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,

Wi’ whirlèn stwone, an’ streamèn flour,

Did goo the mill by cloty Stour. yellow water-lilied

An’ there in geämes by evenèn skies,

When Meäry zot her down to rest, sat

The broach upon her pankèn breast, panting

Did quickly vall an’ lightly rise,

While swans did zwim

In steätely trim.

An’ swifts did skim the water, bright

Wi’ whirlèn froth, in western light;

An’ clack, clack, clack, that happy hour,

Wi’ whirlèn stwone, an’ streamèn flour,

Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.

Now mortery jeints, in streaks o’ white, joints

Along the geärden wall do show

In Maÿ, an’ cherry boughs do blow, bloom

Wi’ bloomèn tutties, snowy white, bunches of blossom

Where rollèn round,

Wi’ rumblèn sound,

The wheel woonce drown'd the vaïce so dear once

To me. I faïn would goo to hear

The clack, clack, clack, vor woone short hour, one

Wi’ whirlèn stwone, an’ streamèn flour,

Bezide the mill on cloty Stour.

But should I vind a-heavèn now

Her breast wi’ aïr o’ thik dear pleäce? that

Or zee dark locks by such a brow,

Or het o’ plaÿ on such a feäce? heat

No! She's now staïd, grown up

An’ where she plaÿ'd,

There's noo such maïd that now ha’ took

The pleäce that she ha’ long vorsook,

Though clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,

Wi’ whirlèn stwone an’ streamèn flour,

Do goo the mill by cloty Stour.

An’ still the pulley rwope do heist hoist

The wheat vrom red-wheeled waggon beds.

An’ ho'ses there wi’ lwoads of grist,

Do stand an’ toss their heavy heads;

But on the vloor,

Or at the door,

Do show noo mwore the kindly feäce

Her father show'd about the pleäce,

As clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,

Wi’ whirlèn stwone, an’ streamèn flour,

Did goo his mill by cloty Stour.

O! MEÄRY, when the zun went down,

Woone night in Spring, wi’ vi'ry rim, fiery

Behind thik nap wi’ woody crown, that hillock

An’ left your smilèn feäce so dim;

Your little sister there, inside,

Wi’ bellows on her little knee,

Did blow the vier, a-glearèn wide fire

Drough window-peänes, that I could zee,— through

As you did stan’ wi’ me, avore

The house, a-peärten,—woone smile mwore.

The chatt‘rèn birds, a-risèn high,

An’ zinkèn low, did swiftly vlee fly

Vrom shrinkèn moss, a-growèn dry,

Upon the leänèn apple tree.

An’ there the dog, a-whippèn wide

His heäiry taïl, an’ comèn near,

Did fondly lay ageän your zide

His coal-black nose an’ russet ear:

To win what I’ d a-won avore,

Vrom your gaÿ feäce, his woone smile mwore.

An’ while your mother bustled sprack, briskly

A-gettèn supper out in hall,

An’ cast her sheäde, a-whiv‘rèn black shadow, quivering

Avore the vier, upon the wall;

Your brother come, wi’ easy peäce,

In drough the slammèn geäte, along through

The path, wi’ healthy-bloomèn feäce,

A-whis'lèn shrill his last new zong; tunefully

An’ when he come avore the door,

He met vrom you his woone smile mwore.

Now you that wer the daughter there,

Be mother on a husband's vloor,

An’ mid ye meet wi’ less o’ ceäre may

Than what your hearty mother bore;

An’ if abroad I have to rue

The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed,

Mid I come hwome to sheäre wi’ you share

What 's needvul free o’ pinchèn need:

An’ vind that you ha’ still in store,

My evenèn meal, an’ woone smile mwore.