cornish catches author's note. the author begs to thank the editors of the following papers for their courtesy in allowing him to reprint some of the poems in this book:--the _academy_, _country life_, _fry's magazine_, the _grand magazine_, the _sphere_, _t.p's magazine_, the _vineyard_, the _windsor magazine_, the _western morning news_, and the _westminster gazette_. _hutton, advertiser press, ormskirk._ cornish catches and other verses by bernard moore [illustration] london erskine macdonald 1914 to my mother. contents page well, there 'tis 9 gardens 10 grocery 12 eddication 14 jenny 16 in the kittereen 17 maids 18 cap'n john 19 dolly pentreath 20 sunday 22 granfer's proverbs 24 seining song 25 how be'ee, me deear? 26 what have'ee catched? 27 a mevagissey haul 28 dicky 30 the old fisherman's lament 31 a looe lay 32 on the kay 33 riches 34 a fireside spell 35 cornish comfort 36 i mind me 37 sure 'nuff 38 the garment of time 40 in a garden 41 sorrow's courage 42 a choosing 43 star signs 44 the old knight's song 45 fealty 47 treasure trove 48 roses and rue 49 definitions 50 blue sky 51 shadows 52 when i was a lad 53 a call 55 the return 56 in the bay 58 sea foam 59 echoes 60 a ballade of cornwall 61 the fisherman's prayer 63 well, there 'tis well, there 'tis. you wakes up cryin' an' callin', you'm cold an' hungered, an' skeered o' the turble dark; it feels most like a gert black cloud's a fallin' to crunch you to nothin', an' leave you smuttered an' stark. but a kind hand comes when the gert black clouds would drownd you, an' a warm breast holds you tight to cuddle an' kiss, an' you know that the world o' love be all around you. well! there 'tis. then you grows a bit, and you finds a mort o' pleasure in the rush o' the waves an' the roarin' wind in the sky; an' you plays your games at pirates seekin' treasure, or penny-come-quick when the breton boys go by. an' you don't much trouble at difrent kinds o' weather, if 'tis sunny 'tis sunny, but rain won't make you miss the chance to trample away thro' the moorland heather; well! there 'tis. but you keeps on growin', an' then you begin in a fashion to want some things you'd never a thought on before; an' you sees some eyes be blue, an' you gets a passion for jest a very perticlar cottage door. an' you don't feel tired at the end o' the day o' toilin' so long as it ends with the sound an' song of a kiss, so long as it ends with arms round you coilin'; well! there 'tis. then you grows old, an' at last you falls on sleepin'. do you count you'll be all alone in the turble dark? do you think you'll be left to the sound o' wailin' an' weepin' lonely an' cold in the cloam, unmothered an' stark? when you was a baby, helpless an' cryin' an' callin' didn' the kind arms take, an' the warm lips kiss? an' won't there be arms at last, to save you from fallin'? well! there 'tis. gardens passun he've a garden, 'tis trim an' nate an' vitty, he'm mortal proud o' growin' things that's turble hard to grow; he'm mighty fond of orchises an' mazed for pellygomiuns, an' calls 'em all furrin' names us don't belong to know. squire, he have a garden, a gert an' gorjus garden, with hollyhocks a standin' like soljers in the sun; he likes tremenjus peonies, an' roses crowdin' arches, an' thinks as what the passun grows the whishtest sort o' fun. feyther have a garden, but don't run much to flowers, for he've to think o' tatties, an' useful sort o' things; his cabbages be famous, an' his collyflowers a wonder, an' you should see the runners when they'm scarlet on the strings! but i've a finer garden than the squire or the passun; 'tis all along the hedgerows, an' all about the lanes; it stretches up the hillside an' spreads acrost the moorland, 'tis sweet with cornish sunshine an' green with cornish rains. there's scent of honeysuckle shakin' sweet along the sunshine, an' ragged robins sprinklin' scarlet stars among the grass, an' foxgloves, with a peal o' bells a swingin' in the steeple, a ringin' fairy music to the breezes as they pass. an' where the lanes climb up along, an' break upon the moorland, the heather weaves a carpet all acrost the purple hills; an' gorse gleams in the sunshine like a thousand burnin' bushes, an' birds shout happy answers to the ripplin' o' the rills. so squire may keep his garden, an' his gardeners a diggin', an' passun's clanely welcome to the flowers he counts so fine, (i won't say nort o' feyther's, for his tatties be so mealy), but the bestest of all gardens is the garden that is mine. grocery john pengelly be a clever man, an' he keeps a grocery store; he've got a seat on the burryin' board, an' a sow as turns three score; on sunday night he holds the plate an' on thursday shuts at four. he talks to passon on clover crops, an' farmer hain on sin; an' keeps the parish register, an' a dog that isn' thin; an' wears a watch-chain on his chest, an' a moses beard on his chin. he allays takes the rhubarb prize at the flower show every year; an' if 'ee mind to order it he'll get 'ee bottled beer; (though some as don't agree with that) besides it's rather dear. two different kinds of lard he sells, but awnly one of tay; an' he've a yaller oilskin coat he hopes to sell some day, but the awnly man it might have fit was drownded out to say. his matches hang in a cabbage net, an' his onions hang in strings; an' allays at the church bazaar he sells the hooplar rings; an' if us get a concert up an' there's no one else, _he_ sings. so be you'm seekin' clever men, come down along o' we; we'll show 'ee john pengelly then behind his grocery; an' when you taste his peppermints, sure 'nuff, tis mazed you'll be. eddication feyther sez as "larnin' be the proper trade for boys," an' so us have to go to school, an' dursn't make a noise, but jest sits on a form an' hears what schoolmaister do say, an' all the time we'm thinkin' how the boats go in the bay. there's different kinds o' larnin', an' there's some i can't abide, they'm worse than swimmin' round the main at ebbin' o' the tide. i likes the tales o' travels an' at readin' do be praised, an' i'm dacent doin' adders, but goseinters send me mazed. the bible stories baint so bad excep' the fat head calf, an' when schoolmaister tells of 'ee i allays wants to laugh; our kitty likes the donkeys as was found by sunno kish, but i likes best the tale about ole peter an' the fish. schoolmaister knaws a mort o' things as baint a bit o' use; i've heered un tell the biggest boys about high potty mews; but if he had to earn his bread, the same as feyther do, i count he'd soon belong to know it wasn' much he knew. one day he gave a sum about a herrin' an' a half, an' sez as how the boys was rude when they began to laugh; he must a been a bufflehead to think as people bought _half_ herrins, when we'm bringin' 'em by thousans into port. i'm allays sittin' thinkin' when he'm talkin' to the board, about the many things there be a boy can larn aboard; there's sheets to haul an' gear to staw an' reefs to take an' tie, an' wind to watch acomin' in the corner of your eye. now if they larned us some o' these, or how to bend a hook, 'twould be a darned sight usefuller than rubbige in a book; but what's the good o' larnin' how to hold a scriggley pen, an' spell a lot of orkard words, an' say to ten times ten? 'tis little use to grumble when 'ee have to keep the rules, an' jest so long as there be boys, i count there must be schools; an' tho' they'm good for larnin' if 'ee awnly knaws the way, i'd sooner be a whifflin' arter mack'rel in the bay. jenny when jenny goes a milkin' in the dewy time o' morn i allays be contrivin' to be callin' at the farm, for her cheeks be red as roses an' her hair like rippled corn, an' i be fairly mazed to kiss the dimple on her arm. jenny, jenny, won't 'ee let me love 'ee? you'm brighter far than any star that's shinin' up above 'ee. sartin sure, you make me mazed, iss, me deear, a whist an' crazed; jenny, jenny, won't 'ee let me love 'ee? when jenny goes to fairin' with blue ribbons in her hair, i count the queen of england never looks a half as sweet, an' when she'm in the country dance no other maids be there, for i never stops a glazin' at the twinkle of her feet. jenny, jenny, won't 'ee let me love 'ee? aw----but!!! when jenny goes to mittin' house dressed in her sunday clo'es she looks so like a hangell in her little pew apart, that when i try to sing the hymns my throttle seems to close, an' i cussn't hear the sermon for the beatin' of my heart. jenny, jenny, won't 'ee let me love 'ee? you'm brighter far than any star that's shinin' up above 'ee; sartin sure, you make me mazed, iss, me deear, a whisht an' crazed; jenny, jenny, won't 'ee let me love 'ee? in the kittereen (kittereen: cornish for a covered cart). jenny an' me in the kittereen drove to callington fair; there wasn' much more than a foot between jenny an' me in the kittereen for both of us was just thirteen, an' of course us didn' care. jenny an' me in the kittereen drove from callington fair; there wasn' much more than an inch between jenny an' me in the kittereen for both of us was just fifteen with a packet of pops to share. jenny an' me in the kittereen drove to callington fair; there wasn' much less than a yard between jenny an' me in the kittereen for both of us was just seventeen an' both knew the other was there. jenny an' me in the kittereen drove from callington fair; there was very much less than an inch between jenny an' me in the kittereen for wasn' we both of us turned nineteen? an' wasn' there love to share? maids i've knawed a many o' devon maids with cheeks merry an' red, they'm pleasant an' 'ansum single, an' homely an' cosy wed; but i shan't marry a devon maid; i reckon i'd rather be dead. i've seed a many o' london maids abroad in london town; they'm larky an' flittery single, but marryin' calms 'em down; but i shan't marry a london maid; i reckon i'd rather drown. for i have knawed the cornish maids, an' like 'em best of any. so take the london an' devon maids, they'm goin' at two a penny; an' i shan't marry nobody else, for i be tokened to jenny. cap'n john cap'n john has been to frisky, injy an' australy too; now he runs a lug-an'-mizzen arter pilchers out o' looe, iss, he do. cap'n john was braave an' slippey till the say catched hold of he; now he'm tanned an' tough an' wrinkled, simming like mohogany. iss, he be. cap'n john baint smurt an' 'ansum, like a claned up sarvice coor; stiff hair all aroun' his niddick makes him like a hedgaboor. iss, be gor! cap'n john don't boast o' beauty, beauty don't set down with tar; but he've got a pair o' patches shows how dacent patches are. iss, with tar. cap'n john thinks books is rubbige; sez that printin' spoils his eyes; but he reads the book o' weather written in the say an' skies; iss, he's wise. cap'n john, us looks towards 'ee, wish 'ee luck when shuttin' seine, wish 'ee tummals at the jowstin', wish 'ee out an' home again. clink you'm cider at the call, "cap'n john, an' one an' all." dolly pentreath dolly pentreath is dead an' gone, her stone stands up to paul; but dolly pentreath her still lives on in the hearts of one and all. her smoked an' snuffed, an' the cusses her knowed was mortal hard to bate, but her carried her creel like a mousehole maid, an' allays selled out her cate. her wern't afeerd at livin' alone, an' many a tale is told, as shows as how her face was brass, but her heart was true as gold. one day a sailor had tooked his leave afore his leave was given, an' knowed if they catched him the yard arm rope would show him the way to heaven, so he scatted to dolly, an' jest in time her thought of the chimley wide, an' her collared him hold by the slack of his breeks an' shoved him up inside. cussin' an' fussin' they searchers came, but awnly dolly they sees, washin' her feet in her old oak keeve, with her petticoat up to her knees. an' didn' her give them a tang o' tongue, an' didn' her cuss them sweet, for thinkin' her'd let a man bide there an' see her washin' her feet? but her called the loudest cusses of all, an' scraiched like a rat at a stoat, when the sailor gave a chokely cough for the fuzzen smoke in his throat. the storm her raised drove the buffleheads out a grumpling into the street, an' the sailor washed hisself in the keeve where dolly had washed her feet. * * * * * dolly pentreath is dead an' gone, her stone stands up to paul; but dolly pentreath her still lives on in the hearts of one and all. sunday in the cornish port there b'aint no fishin' in the bay, the boats be moored 'longside the kay, with sails reefed in an' stawed away, an' all so calm an' still- excep' the ripple o' the tide, an' gulls awheelin' up 'longside the clifts, to where the church do bide atop the flag-staff hill. above the slip where boats be moored the cottage doors be set abroad, an' singin' voices praise the lord for mercies which endure; an' happy childer in the street, dressed all so vitty, clane, an' neat, puts somethin' in the music sweet it didn' had before. now every fisherman be dressed in shiny suit o' black for best, as fittin' to the day o' rest, an' sign o' death to sin; the jerseys in the lockers bide, for sunday knaws its proper pride, an' likes to show a clane outside to match the heart within. mid mornin', church bell clangs a call. an' some don't take no heed at all, but some goes up the hill to paul, an' some to chapel goes; whilst some strolls down upon the kay, an' sits an' spits into the say; but all the same, they knaws the day, an' doesn' dirt their clo'es. but whether church be right or b'aint, or mittin' houses make'ee faint, or whether you'm a solemn saint or jest a cheerful sinner, for sartin, not so long by noon, you'll all be playin' the same tune wi' knife an' fork an' mebbe spoon, asettin' down to dinner. then mos'ly us do strawl away along the clifts that line the bay, though some prefers a dish o' tay an' snooze along the settle; but whether we'm been far or near, we'm never losted, don't 'ee fear. we'm allays home in time to hear the singin' o' the kettle. an' when the sun, a lantern red asinkin' at the world's mast-head, goes down, then us goes home to bed: an' so us ends the sunday. for sunday 'tis the day o' days, when all the fish do as 'em plaise, while in the little port we prays a banger catch for monday. granfer's proverbs granfer sits in the winder an' looks acrost the bay; sure 'nuff he thinks a mort o' things tho' 'tis little he has to say. 'tis time he came to his moorin's an' heaved his gear ashore, for the sea is a bit too chancy for a man gone eighty-four. he've catched a plenty of wisdom in the net inside his head, an' often us be tellin' of the clever things he've said. they'm cleverer nor things you read in books an' papers too, because he dosn' make 'em up, but awnly knaws they'm true. he've good advice for sailor lads who musn't come to grief: "don't try to shine you'm centrebit by cuts acrost the reef. don't make you'm mainsail fast an' look for mermaids on the lew, an' don't take cider kegs aboard because they spile the view." he've good advice for all the maids whom lookin' arter lads: "if you baint catchin' mackerel then be content with skads; an' if you've tried the seinin' an' the fishes won't be took, just get a dacent bit o' bait, an' drop a line an' hook." he've good advice for husbands, which he tells them all alone: "go suant comin' into port an' watch the weather cone; jest keep your hellum stiddy if there's tokens of a squall- cross words is nigh as useless as a porpus in the trawl." he've good advice for housewives but he keeps it to hisself: for he knows they awnly puts it with the jowds upon the shelf; his wisest words to women be the words he doesn' say, for he jest sits in the winder an' looks acrost the bay. a cornish seining song the huer is up on the cliff, me deears, glazing out to say; slip youm moorin's and ship youm gears, there's pilchers in the bay; lift youm faistins on muggoty pie. down along an' away. 'tisn the time for maids, me deears, don't 'ee be duffed by they; there's lashins o' time to taise their ears an' maze 'em wi' fal-de-lay. they'll wait till arter the pilcher's catched, down along an' away. us'll be shuttin' soon, me deears, there's purple on the say, an' jowstin' this arternoon, me deears, when us comes back to kay. who's for a banger, a bender haul down along an' away? pilchers is budiful fried, me deears, or baked in a bussa o' clay, so sterry away wi' the tide, me deears, for pilchers in the bay. slip youm moorin's an' ship youm gears, down along an' away! "how be'ee, me deear?" (the cornish greeting). "how be'ee, me deear?" i heard her say, but i was foached to be far away, for the breeze was braave an' the boat in the bay, an' granny was old an' grey. i didn' turn back to say "good-bye," for slottery weather was in the sky, the anchor was up an' the punt stood by, yet granny was old an' grey! far i sailed, an' didn' i cast many a look at the old times past? the lil' grey port as i saw it last? an' granny old an' grey? at last i came from the yowlin' main, guessin' to see the place again jest as it was, as nate an' plain, an' granny old an' grey. why didn' i seed the end was nigh? why didn' i bide to say "good-bye?" it's too late now to make reply, granny is gone away. but someday beyond the farthest tide, at last i shall safely at anchor ride, an' i shall be hailed as i come 'longside, "how be'ee, me deear?" "what have'ee catched?" "what have'ee catched, lil' lad on the shore?" "shrimps an' a crayfish out o' the pool, an' a tinful o' lugworms, a tidy score, to scrig on the night lines after school." "what have'ee catched, lil' maid in the lane?" "the scent o' the thyme an' the cheep of a bird, an' the sound of a song that is joy an' pain, but the sweetest song as ever i heard." "what have'ee catched, strong man from the say?" "a seineful o' pilchers, a sailful o' foam, an' a twenty-knot breeze from the nor'rard away, that drove me a-scuddin' an' rollickin' home." "what have'ee catched, good dame by the door?" "a lil' brown sail comin' with the tide, that's bringin' back peace to my heart once more, an' my man again to the chimley side." a mevagissey haul (a million pilchards, august 6th, 1912). a sou' sou' west was blowin' up to more than half a gale, an' a prutty bit o' billow talked ashore, but there baint no use for seiners as be afeared to sail, when the catches have been runnin' light an' poor, so we plugged out oar to oar. out along from old mevagissey,- beatin' out from old mevagissey,- with a sky full o' scud blowin' over us, an' a stiddy brazzle plonkin' at the bow. we shut the seine, an' watched the lights a dancin' green an' red, an' wallowed first to starboard, then to port, until the dimsey touched the west, an' we was slowin' dead, an' then we knawed 'twas tummals we had caught, for the corks was bobbin' short. out along from old mevagissey,- low lay old mevagissey,- when the grey dawn showed the shadows over us, an' the brazzle came alippin' at the bow. we lugged the silver net aboard until the bilge was hid, for crates was little use for such a haul, an' then we let the main-sheet go, an' home along we slid, with the hellum nearly buried in a squall, but we didn' care at all. for it was home along to old mevagissey, back along to old mevagissey, with the dangers of the night blown over us, an' a million pilchers slitherin' below. we tacked into the harbour with the ground-say grindin' hard, an' we bumped to berth at last 'longside the quay, which was chockered up with barrels so you couldn' step a yard, when we brought our shinin' harvest from the say:- now 'tis salt an' stawed away. an' we'm home along in old mevagissey, home again in old mevagissey, with the cloud o' winter care blown over us, whatever winter winds may blow. dicky a year agone, a year agone, our dicky sailed away; a blue light danced about his eyes like sunshine on the bay, he whissled passin' down along, his heart was glad an' gay, a year agone, a year agone, when dicky sailed away. a year agone! a year agone! the time do speed so fast, it scairce do seem a year agone we saw our dicky last; it seems as if his steps must come aclatterin' to the door, an' he be claimin' payment with his breakfast for the score. he loved the lanes in springtime an' he loved them at the fall, but when the honeysuckle bloomed he loved them best of all; i mind me how he had a sprig stuck in his cap that day, a year agone, a year agone, when dicky sailed away. there wasn' lad was handier at stawin' of a sail, there wasn' lad was cheerfuller at stemmin' through a gale, there wasn' lad was heartier at fishin' or at play, a year agone, a year agone, when dicky sailed away. a many ships come into port along the flowin' tide, a many lads come home again an' safe in harbour ride, but all in vain we watch for one, an' all in vain we pray. * * * * * a year agone, a year agone, our dicky sailed away! the old fisherman's lament 'tis well an' fine for the steam-trawler to sweep the floor of the say, but 'tis turble hard for the fisherman as awnly sails the bay, for the fish gets scaircer an' scaircer an' hardly ait at all, an' what's to be catched with the seinin' be barely wuth the haul. us used to count on the herrin's to buy us chris'mus cheer, but the catch runs lighter an' lighter, an' pervisions be allays dear, an' what us gets in the crab-pots that don't take long to sell, especial when most of the pots be gone on a long ground swell. 'tis a whisht poor life for a lad to lead, an' mos'ly they wont abide, but sterry away to the furrin' ports athurt a keenly tide, an' us be left, all lone an' long, to moil as best us may, while the clankin' trawler steams along, an' sweeps the floor of the say. a looe lay ole sammy took fish from downderry to looe; jest the darnedest thing that ole sammy could do; an' nobody knawed what ole sammy was thinkin' for when he got there the fish was a stinkin'. he cried them in stores an' he cried them in housen, but no one would have them at tuppence a thousan'; he cried them in fore street an' then on the pier, but folks said as "nothin' was tuppence too dear." sure awnly a saftie would ever be carin' to pay for the fish when they'd had such a airin'! an' any regreater deserve to be stranded for carryin' fish to the port where they'm landed! so sammy went homeways from looe to downderry, an' on to torpoint an' acrost by the ferry, an' up along plymouth, remarkable flish, he selled out to wance all his basket of fish. 'tis sartin that 'tis, an' can't be no 'tisser, us knaws fish an' fish from the rame to the lizzer; what's hansun for devon for us doesn' do, so don't 'ee be carryin' fish into looe. on the kay (quay). as i was bendin' a hook one day a furriner* strawled along the kay. his cheeks was white as gannet's wing, an' he looked a whisht an' wakely thing. his clo'es was nate an' spickety span, but i sez to meself "now there's a man!" an' i sez to meself "now look at his legs, they'm like a couple o' crabpot pegs." an' i sez to meself "a bit of a squall would blow his bones to the end of all." an' i sez--but i didn' had time to say for a scraitch went up from the end o' the kay, where a cheeld was aswingin' jest afore, an' now there wasn' no cheeld no more, then a'most afore i could see him go, that furriner sprang in the say below. he couldn' swim much, but he keeped afloat jest while i tumbled into the boat, an' i hooked him up an' lugged him aboard, an' he had that cheeld clipped tight as cord. he trembled an' shook, he was wake an' white, but he awnly sez "is the kid alright?" sure 'nuff, an' he simmed to understand when i gived him a hearty shake o' the hand. i started abendin' the hook agen, an' i sez "there's different looks to men, braave hearts in whisht poor bodies bide, an' looks don't count to what's inside." [footnote *: to cornishmen, non-cornish are "furriners."] riches miss tregear be a whisht poor woman, with her big fine house an' her carriage an' pair; her keeps four maids, not countin' the tweeny, an' another especial to do her hair. ruth penwarne be a braave rich woman; her lives in a cottage with a warpley door; her've got four childer, not countin' the baby, an' there baint no tellin' but her might have more. miss tregear have a room for dinin', an' a room for drawin', where her doesn' draw, an' a room where books be shut in cupboards, an' others us don't knaw what they'm for. ruth penwarne have a little linhay, an' there her washes when the rain be nigh, but when 'tis sunny her goes in the garden, an' spreads her clo'es on the fuzzen to dry. miss tregear have a pile o' carpets; her be frit of a moth or a speck o' dust; her be feared that the sun will spile her curtains, an' the damp will make her fire-irons rust. ruth penwarne have a fine stone kitchen; an' two rooms aloft as be crammed with beds; her don't have carpets, so they can't get dirty, an' her soon clanes up where the childer treads. miss tregear have a face that's lonely; her be often sad, tho' her can't tell why; her be allays asayin there's nothin' doin', an' thinks how slow all the days go by. ruth penwarne haven't time for thinkin', with makin' an' mendin' an' scrubbin' too, an' sartin sure, she'm a braave rich woman, with childer an' home an' her work to do. a fireside spell "i've spanked young tom an' sent him to bed, an' i reckon it sarves him right; for 'tisn no use asayin' things when the rope's end baint in sight, an' he shouldn' go steerin' out along when the tide is runnin' away, i've telled him afore; i cussn't keep on atellin' him every day." "now when i was a boy--" "iss, when you was a boy, you was jest such a scalliant too, all'ays athinkin' o' darin' things as you didn' belong to do. climbin' they clifts for saygulls' eggs or clambering ower the crags an' heavin' tuffs at the cormorants, an' shyin' stones at the shags." "but when i was a boy--" "iss, when you was a boy you worried you'm mother a mort, i mind how'ee tried to swim out to the point, an' how in the race'ee was caught; i know they had dared'ee at doin' their dags, but dags didn' keep'ee afloat, an' the say 'ud have catched'ee that mornin', sure 'nuff, if they hadn' raced out with the boat." "well, mebbe i was jest sich a limb, as'ee says, an' all'ays full sail for a game, an' i reckon as boys will be boys when they'm boys, but grows into men what are tame, an' when tom is a feyther alarnin' _his_ son to feel the weight of _his_ hand, mebbe he'll fergive me for spankin' him now, an' remember, an' understand." cornish comfort "don't 'ee cry, lil' maid, 'tis awnly a broken bussa; the jowds won't mend, best lave the attle abide. there's tummals o' bussas left, an' it might be wusser." but the lil' maid cried. "don't 'ee cry, li'l maid. if fellows gets changy and chancy, tomorrow a braaver will come than the totle who stepped. floshed milk baint no use, an' it isn' wuth scrowlin', i fancy." still the lil' maid wept. "don't 'ee cry, li'l maid--iss, the say be a terrible net, an' 'tis wearisome waitin' a meetin' beyont the big tide; jest try to catch sleep on you'm pellaw, mebbe you'll forget." still the lil' maid cried. "don't 'ee cry did un say? well, youm feyther jest wanted to cheer'ee, but men doesn' knaw where the best cup o' comfort is kept. cuddle down; cry it out on you'm own mother's bosom, me dearie." then the lil' maid slept. "i mind me" i mind me of the cottage where i used to bide just above the harbour on the steep hill-side; cobbled was the cause'y to the jasmined door that looked into the kitchen with the grey stone floor. i mind me of the dresser with the chainy white, an' the gurt big bible as was read asunday night; an' the old cloam tay-pot with the broken spout as wanted suant dealin' at the pourin' out. i mind the quiet mornin's an' the tickin' o' the clock, an' the brath upon the brandiss in the steamin' crock; an' the goin' of the shadows an' the comin' of the day, an' the startin' in the dimsey for the fishin' in the bay. i mind me of the night-times an' wind whisslin' drear, an' the scraitchin' o' the shingle when i couldn' slape for fear; an' the groanin' gropin' darkness with norra gleam nor star, an' the boom of the billows on the harbour bar. but the cosy chimley corner, i mind it best of all, with the smell of tatie pasties from the oven in the wall, an' the crackle of the fuzzen with the billies on the blow, an' the ring o' ruddy faces in the hearth-fire glow. the cottage still is lookin' from the hill across the bay; above the cobbled cause'y swings the jasmine spray; but the gleam o' ruddy faces an' the hearth-fire glow went out in the darkness long long ago. "sure 'nuff" sure 'nuff, 'twas good when i was a lad to be in a boat in the bay; to whiffle the mack'rel, hook the chad, and haul at the nets away; 'twas good to feel the wind in my face, an' scud through a tumble o' foam, an' see far off the twinklin' lights of the lil' grey port, an' home. an' 'twas good to climb in the craggy clifts where the guillemot raired her brood, an' go with a laugh in the heart all day; sure 'nuff, 'twas good! sure 'nuff, 'twas good when i wandered away, an' saw that the world was wide, in the wunnerful lands beyont the say, an' the ports where the big ships ride. 'twas good to meet men who could strive an' seek, an' didn' knaw nort o' fear, an' hail 'em a word in passin' by, an' answer 'em back with a cheer. 'twas good to be sailin' the way o' the world, an' standin' where strong men stood, an' counted awhile as a man among men; sure 'nuff, 'twas good! sure 'nuff, 'tis good, with voyagin' done, to be anchored in port at last, an' watch the boys go, one by one, as i did in days long past; 'tis good to set in the cottage door, an' gaze at the sky an' say, an' knaw that i fared on the flood tide once, now 'tis fallin' away; an' 'tis good to have time to make ready to sail on the voyage that leads to rest; an' i trust a pilot who will not fail. sure 'nuff, 'tis best! ii. the garment of time the giant image of eternal time sits throned amidst the infinite of space; and through the aeons, passing chime by chime, heeds not our race. meanwhile we weave upon his robes' array embroideries of doubts and hopes and fears, the golden threads of laughter by the way, grey threads of tears. careless sits time of garment grey or gold, although our passionate labours never cease till weaving hands are weary and we grow old. and pass to peace. and who that gazes on that garb of time shall in the far light of a distant day catch aught of colour of song or rune of rhyme? shall all be grey? yet till the end fall--and the day close, let me weave in the web of pain and the woof of tears the colour of sun-bright seas and the red of the rose, in my loom of years. in a garden a twilight peace droops tenderly, the discords of the day depart, and through the hush there comes to be a harmony within the heart; and waking to the quivering strings spirits are touched to finer things. sweet hand-fast silences of eve, when love's supremest note is heard in symphonies the spirits weave beyond the need of mortal word, o! may we keep your music when we pace the noisy haunts of men. give us the strength for daily stress of toil about the busy world; give us a balm to bitterness from wounds when cruel shafts are hurled; and give us courage in a sense of love's divine omnipotence. for life can never lonely be since love has broken all the bars that stayed the soul from unity with heaven and its ten thousand stars, whose music falls sublimely grand through silences of hand in hand. sorrow's courage i have loved beauty. i have seen the sun flash snowy mountain tops to shimmer of gold; i have heard songs where little waters run chiming with music that the stars have rolled. i have loved beauty. i have seen the sea fringe with its silver all the golden shore; have heard it crooning music ceaselessly to ancient tunes frayed from the tempest's roar. i have loved beauty. i have seen a smile shine from sweet eyes, fair as the sea's own blue, whose magic lashes seemed to lift awhile to send a kindly comrade spirit through. i have loved beauty. but nor sun nor sea nor stars have charactered god's chiefest grace; beyond all other things there beacons me the star-led pilgrim courage of your face. a choosing under the turf the blind mole creeps, and moulds the mounds of molehill kind. above, the skylark soars and sweeps, the song is swept upon the wind. to-morrow's eyes the mounds may see; to-morrow they will mark the plain. but none shall hear the ecstasy of song, that cannot be again. well built, old mole! a little heap to linger to a later day! something to show you once did creep in darkness through your earthy way. yet with the lark's glad song of love may mine on wandering winds be hurled, in happy regions far above the dull mad molehills of the world. still let my song be all in all, though earth-born discords soon destroy, and on no mortal ear may fall the music of immortal joy. break, spirit, break to boundless things beyond the molehill and the clod, and catch the glory of the strings that tune the harmonies of god. star signs primal swirl of the chaos, out of your nebulous night eddied the primal tides, as the mind of god decreed, and the word of the ultimate source spake forth "let there be light," and all the firmament blazed with the dust of the star-sown seed. strong and stately and splendid, thronging the limitless spaces. ye are the silver signs to a house not made with hands; ye are the mystic scroll, where the mighty maker traces thoughts that the passionate poet dimly understands. day, with its drouth and drosses, shrivels our fragile souls, and, witched with its transient gauds, to the perilous earth we cling, but ever the tender night its infinite page unrolls, and the star-led mind aspires to the throne of the star-robed king. the old knight's song my lady lives afar in the fair white tower hid, like a nest, high among branches swaying. "peaceful thoughts be her portion, dreams her dower," here am i on my knees, praying. to the winds of the world from the hills and the sea far blowing, that they carry their strength to her heart for sorrow's staying, that they bring clear hopes and the gladness of freedom flowing, here am i on my knees, praying. to the lamp of day, that the aureate beauty breaking find answering smiles in her eyes for the fair displaying of colour of gold on the way my lady is taking, here am i on my knees, praying. to the sentinel stars through the infinite spaces sweeping, guarding the night, and terrors of darkness slaying, that they bring sweet peace to the dreams of my lady sleeping, here am i, on my knees praying. but my casque is rusted with time, and my breastplate battered, my hauberk worn with ancient fighting and fraying; dull is my shield, my banner faded and tattered. here am i on my knees, praying. here at an outpost, here is my patrol duty: my lady's train is for knights of a fair arraying; only from far may i guard her, loving her beauty: here am i on my knees, praying. wandering lights have i followed, the one light questing, i have wearied through difficult paths and long delaying; perilous peaks have i scaled with feet unresting; here i am on my knees, praying. star-like my lady shines in her fair white tower. "let nothing come nigh her to lead to her joy's betraying, no cloud dull aught of the golden dreams, her dower." here am i on my knees, praying. fealty when my lady hath pleasure and friends to spare, and riot of roses strewed in her path of days, and laughter ringing carillons into the air, she needs not me; i travel the lonely ways. when my lady hath youth uplifting a song like the twitter of birds in a springtime hawthorn bough, and round her the notes of a merry-mad music throng, she needs not me; my music is sad and low. but when my lady hath sorrow to stress her heart, and pain brings up to her eyes the ghosts of fear, and the music of youth, and laughter and joy depart, then she will need me: and lo! am i not here? here i stand at the gateway and vigil keep, waiting the summoning sob or the calling sigh; swift to assuage her tears should my lady weep; happy if sorrow for ever may pass her by. treasure trove you did not know that, gazing on your face, i took its beauty to my heart for ever, where it illumines every day with grace, though time and tides may sever. you did not know that, looking in your eyes, i found their truth, beyond all need for speaking, and knew their gentleness a paradise worth all a wide world's seeking. you did not know that every word you spoke told me the courage in your heart abiding, and bade me watch, where through the cloud-rifts broke one steady star for guiding. you did not know. but in my heart i know, the beauty, truth, and courage that enfold you: and when we part i do not let you go: thus in my heart i hold you. roses and rue you gave me roses, you have given me rue. yet to the roses memoried fragrance clings, and in their faded petals i renew the first fresh grace of unforgotten things. god give you roses all along the way. so will i wear contentedly the rue; and when i greet you with a smile, i pray shade of my sorrow never fall on you. dogma reason's unreasoned castle of defence with turrets towering into far-off skies, whose superstructure, solid and immense, is built on shadows and on mysteries. creed not with light straws, swift swept upon the stream, not with light foam, blown up along the shore, in calm unmeasured deeps my jewels gleam, hid in my heart of hearts for evermore. religion the one cool joy of all life's broiling day; the one sweet star that gleams where saints have trod; the one clear stream beside the dusty way that leads to god. piety a quiet garment for eternal wear, designed above frail fashion's mortal dress, worked with a web of faith, a woof of prayer, coloured with love and fair with gentleness. blue sky (from the french of marcel doran). o! weary waste of shoreless blue where weary wing may never rest! o! awful brightness burning through the barrier of the gate of rest! my spirit longs to reach the strand of sorrow-soothing shadowland. but what can this poor spirit wear to hide the naked wounds, pain-kissed beneath the searching, ceaseless glare of cloudless burning amethyst? where can the sad grey spirit fly the unrelenting agony? o! for some shadow-haunted stream where tired eyes might fall asleep, and in the peace of darkling dream see sorrow's pageant homeward creep, feel angel hands with white caress soothe eyelids dark with heaviness! o! for some minster where the balm of cooling touch my wounds might heal; where always dwells a sabbath calm, made sweeter by the solemn peal of bells, that trembling fill the air with noble notes of perfect prayer! shadows shadows, the pale grey wings of night, sweep over the sky, and low in the west the lingering light wanes--like a sigh from the fervent heart of the day passing away: then afar shineth a star. shadows, the pale grey wings of death, sweep over my heart; and far in the dark a voice calleth, "come ye, depart." there lingers no light from the day passing away, but afar shineth a star! when i was a lad when i was a lad in petherick i often lay me down and built a beautiful city and called it london town. i filled its streets with heroes beautiful strong and wise, men who were kings and princes, women with kindly eyes. i spent the gold of the charlock for paving the city street; i saw bright flags awaving over the billowing wheat; and loud in the brown bee's buzzing i heard the far-off hum of the mart and the busy merchants, and the wharves where the big ships come. when i was a lad in petherick i often lay me down, and built this wonderful city, and called it london town. * * * * * now i'm a man in london- golden dreams i had of a golden city of london long since when i was a lad. here on the long grey pavement i seek that city still but there isn't much gold in fleet street, or glamour on ludgate hill. for the hurrying men look haggard, and the women have weary eyes, and the voices of pale-faced children mingle in fretful cries. there's gold in the field of charlock, there's gold on the billowing wheat, and the bee sucks golden honey in lanes where the flowers are sweet. and small ships sail in the distance to a golden bourne in the west, and the gentle peace of twilight is the purest gold of rest. * * * * * dreams of the man in london! useless dreams and sad, of the far-off village of petherick and the far-off cornish lad. a call let us go out to the garden of pan, and hear what the pipes are playing; let us go out where the ancient hills mother the rivers that run to the sea; let us go out where the wind wanders, tuning amid the trees swaying, let us go out to the wider world where the thoughts of men are free. there on the hills the eye may see the changeless beauty changing on sun-splashed grass and wavering corn, verdant valley and rolling down, clouds steal up from a far-off tryst, like titans into battalions ranging, and the splendid sun-god marching on to crown the world with a golden crown. here in the city the voices are hoarse. here is calling and crying, lust and longing for pride of place, vanity, pomp, and the strain of strife; here in the city sobs arise from the battered hosts of the falling and dying, who know not peace, nor the end of peace; who know not life, nor the end of life. let us away from the webbed town-tangle, where monstrous mammon is reigning over the small cheap souls of slaves, sudden to cringe and swift to serve; let us go out from the clanging gates, the squalour of strife and the sordid straining, let us go out by the open road with feet that falter not nor swerve. come! and away to the garden of pan, and hear what the pipes are playing! hark to the voice of a splendid peace calling from hill and river and sea! come! and away to the old earth mother, giver of gifts without the praying, there, in the hills her throne is set, and the thoughts of men are free. the return i must go down to the little grey port that watches the western sea, and wander again in the winding street that climbs the windy hill, there i shall find in a jasmined porch a door set wide for me, there i shall have my will. for a little window looks out by day on a blue unsleeping tide, where brown-sailed boats sweep up and down for the harvest of the deep; and nightly beacons a twinkling light to wanderers scattered wide, and guides them home to sleep. and the flowing tide comes flooding in and chants around the quay a roaring song from the ocean's heart of the lands that are fair and far; and the ebbing tide goes sobbing out, murmuring wistfully over the harbour bar. there i shall stand among men who are strong with the strength of the wind and the wave, and hold simple talk with men who are wise with the wisdom of sky and sea; there i shall find in a patient endurance the sure-set faith of the brave, there shall my heart be free. in the bay the schooner swells its sails for the far-off seas, the steamer pounds proudly far away, but i'd sooner be ascudding in a ten-knot breeze in my little lug and mizzen in the bay. the schooner sings the wind's song from bristol to brazil, the steamer knows the whole world's way, but i can see a cottage on a windy hill from my little lug and mizzen in the bay. the schooner's up to hatches with her pig-iron, coal, and mud, the steamer, plugged with cargo, heaves away, but i can whiffle mackerel as through the waves i scud in my little lug and mizzen in the bay. o! living in a schooner is like living in a tree, and a steamer's like a big hotel to-day, if i had my choice of sailing, i know i'd soonest be in my little lug and mizzen in the bay. sea-foam the once-flashed beauty borne on a breaking wave dies to a requiem sung on the sounding shore; beyond all reach of mortal power to save in spray-crowned glory it passes for evermore. would that the heart could capture and hold and keep the glory of beauty, sped in a moment's space! could fix for ever the splendour and strength and sweep of the wind-wild wave, in its riotous rapturous race! brave brief hopes, are you not sped as the wave- sped to a requiem sighed on a wreck-strewn shore? while memory murmurs in dreams that you once were brave, and sadness softly sighs that you are no more. echoes by the way of blowing roses, in the laughter-laden years, happy lads and lightsome lasses tripped the song-sweet lanes with me; gladness woke the hillside echoes in the sound of ringing cheers, rapture rippled on the breezes sweeping from the rippled sea. happy lads have left the hillside for a bourne beyond the bay, lightsome lasses know not laughter hid beneath enduring stone; echoes of a strangled sorrow in the sea mist far away, haunt the lanes where song is silent and the roses all are blown. a ballade of cornwall westward where the latest sunbeam lingers on the brow of night, lies a land of old romance enshrined in amethystine sea, where from cairn and cromlech come, to eyes illumed by subtle sight, fays and pixies, sprites and gnomes, in pomp of faery pageantry. shining forms of ghostly knights, and dream-like dames of chivalry gleam among the gorse and furze, and pace the reedy valleys low, moving through a magic mist amid the days of long ago- knights and ladies living still in trusted legendary lore lilt their lovelorn lays or speed their clamorous challenge to the foe in the land where ceaseless surges smite the crag-crowned rock-strewn shore. gauntly glooms tintagel castle from its frowning, dizzy height, where the fair iseult is crooning happy songs in thoughtless glee; softly falls the creeping footstep, sudden flash the sparks of spite, lifeless lies the love-led tristram lowly at his lady's knee, past the stress of wandering sorrow, past the philtred esctasy. then there breaks the sound of slaughter, clanging blow on clanging blow, clash of brand and crash of axe, while shrieks shrill up from deeps below, where the sea's majestic music mixes with the mortal roar. still the ghostly field engages, still the tides of battle flow in the land where ceaseless surges smite the crag-crowned rock-strewn shore. down the rugged slopes of rough tor ancient heroes armour dight, charge across the bridge of slaughter where the mist hangs heavily. there the brand excalibur goes flashing through the last dim fight wielded by the stainless king who fighting falls his wierd to dree. then across the mere there come a silent, shadowy, queenly, three, golden crowned, who bear him off with bitter tears of quenchless woe unto valleyed avilon, where falls not rain, nor hail, nor snow, nor the faith unfaithful brings a dolorous doom for ever-more. still across the dream lit waters moves the stately shadow show in the land where ceaseless surges smite the crag-crowned rock-strewn shore. _envoi_ friend, these smiling buds of fancy you may gather as you go. still the fairy bells are ringing in the evening's afterglow; still the questing knights adventure over mountain, stream, and moor; all the ancient splendid beauty understanding hearts may know in the land where ceaseless surges smite the crag-crowned rock-strewn shore. the fisherman's prayer pray god, hear our prayer; keep us in thy calm of care; lead us where the haul be good, so our fishing find us food; give us strength our nets to haul and safe to harbour bring us all. pray god, whose son did know fishermen and sea below, and who calmed the tempest when terror came to fishermen, hear us when for help we call, and safe to harbour bring us all. pray god, who made the sea, hear the fishers' prayer to thee. steer us clear of shoal and reef, so our boat may bear no grief; bear us up through storm and squall, and safe to harbour bring us all. pray god, who shines afar like a friendly pilot star, help us set our course aright by thy holy beacon light, for the port where live the blest, and in thy harbour give us rest. distinctive new poetry the notable nature of the erskine macdonald books may be gauged from the following current list: cor cordium a book of love poems. by alfred williams. large 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net. nature and other poems by alfred williams (author of "songs in wiltshire.") large 8vo, cloth, 5s. net. _the price of "songs in wiltshire," (published at 5s.) has been advanced to 7s. 6d. net. "poems in wiltshire" has gone out of print._ _the times._--"wonder and astonishment are great words with great associations. but there are few men living in england today of whom they can be more fairly used, in their most exact and literal sense, than of mr. alfred williams...." _the observer._--"those who love poetry look out for the work of alfred williams. his poems have the fragrance and simplicity that come from a strong, sincere mind that is in close touch with nature." enchantments by john gurdon (author of "erinna," "dramatic lyrics," etc.) large crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net. _the times._--"finely-coloured nature pictures or eloquent expressions of passionate emotion, with a recurrent note of melancholy." _manchester guardian._--"mr. gurdon's verses are always accomplished, their rhythm is extremely sensitive and well sustained, their imagery vivid and harmonious." _the outlook._--"there is no mistaking who are mr. gurdon's masters. he has spent his days and nights with swinburne and keats, and learnt from them the intoxication of fine rhythms and passionate phrases.... through all the verses in this little volume there is that thing which only the real poets have--a sense of freedom in verse and a great joy in writing it." erskine macdonald, london, w.c. transcriber's note: punctuation has been normalized. italics have been denoted using underscores, and small capitals have been replaced by capitals in this text version. this book contains dialect. dedication. to richard cherry, c. e., as a small token of the respect in which he is held by the author. yorkshire ditties; by john hartley; born 1839 died 1915 to which is added the cream of wit and humour, from his popular writings. second series wakefield: william nicholson and sons. london: s. d. ewins jr. and co., 22, paternoster row. manchester: john heywood, and a. heywood and son. [entered at stationers' hall.] preface. we offer no apology for presenting this little book to the public, feeling sure from our past experience, that it will be kindly welcomed by a great many lovers of their "native twang." the publishers. contents of second series. th' better part. done agean. latter wit. my gronfayther's days. heart brocken. to a daisy. a bad sooart. all we had. give it 'em hot. th' honest hard worker. niver heed. sing on. what aw want. what it is to be mother. what is it. come thi ways! advice to jenny. ther's mich expected. a strange stooary. take heart. did yo iver. an old man's christmas morning. billy bumble's bargain. moral. rejected. duffin johnie. lost love. th' traitle sop. to let. fault finders. disapointment. work away. new machinery &c. september month. a hawporth. buttermilk &c. it's a comfort. progress. try again. jealousy. winter. persevere. booith-taan election. election. none think alike. seaside. th' better part. a poor owd man wi' tott'ring gait, wi' body bent, and snowy pate, aw met one day;-an' daan o' th' rooad side grassy banks he sat to rest his weary shanks; an' aw, to wile away my time, o'th' neighbouring hillock did recline, an' bade "gooid day." said aw, "owd friend, pray tell me true, if in your heart yo niver rue the time 'ats past? does envy niver fill your breast when passin fowk wi' riches blest? an' do yo niver think it wrang at yo should have to trudge alang, soa poor to th' last?" "young man," he said "aw envy nooan; but ther are times aw pity some, wi' all mi heart; to see what troubled lives they spend, what cares upon their hands depend; then aw in thoughtfulness declare 'at 'little cattle little care' is th' better part. gold is a burden hard to carry, an' tho' dame fortune has been chary o' gifts to me; yet still aw strive to feel content, an' think what is, for th' best is meant; an' th' mooast ov all aw strive for here, is still to keep mi conscience clear, from dark spots free. an' while some tax ther brains to find what they'll be forced to leave behind, when th' time shall come; aw try bi honest word an' deed, to get what little here aw need, an' live i' hopes at last to say, when breath go as flickerin away, 'awm gooin hooam.'" aw gave his hand a hearty shake, it seem'd as tho' the words he spake sank i' mi heart: aw walk'd away a wiser man, detarmined aw wod try his plan i' hopes at last 'at aw might be as weel assured ov heaven as he; that's th' better part. done agean. aw've a rare lump o' beef on a dish, we've some bacon 'at's hung up o' th' thack, we've as mich gooid spike-cake as we wish, an' wi' currens its varry near black; we've a barrel o' gooid hooam brewed drink, we've a pack o' flaar reared agean th' clock, we've a load o' puttates under th' sink, so we're pretty weel off as to jock. aw'm soa fain aw can't tell whear to bide, but the cause aw dar hardly let aat; it suits me moor nor all else beside; aw've a paand 'at th' wife knows nowt abaat. aw can nah have a spree to misel? aw can treat mi old mates wi' a glass; an' aw sha'nt ha' to come home an' tell my old lass, ha' aw've shut all mi brass. some fowk say, when a chap's getten wed, he should nivver keep owt thro' his wife; if he does awve oft heard 'at it's sed, 'at it's sure to breed trouble an' strife; if it does aw'm net baan to throw up, tho' aw'd mich rayther get on withaat; but who wodn't risk a blow up, for a paand 'at th' wife knows nowt abaat. aw hid it i' th' coil hoil last neet, for fear it dropt aat o' mi fob, coss aw knew, if shoo happened to see 't, at mi frolic wod prove a done job. but aw'll gladden mi een wi' its face, to mak sure at its safe in its nick;-but aw'm blest if ther's owt left i' th' place! why, its hook'd it as sure as aw'm wick. whear its gooan to's a puzzle to me, an' who's taen it aw connot mak aat, for it connot be th' wife, coss you see it's a paand 'at shoo knew nowt abaat. but thear shoo is, peepin' off th' side, an' aw see'at shoo's all on a grin; to chait her aw've monny a time tried, but i think it's nah time to give in. a chap may be deep as a well, but a woman's his maister when done; he may chuckle and flatter hissel, but he'll wakken to find at shoo's won. it's a rayther unpleasant affair, yet it's better it's happened noa daat; aw'st be fain to come in for a share o' that paand at th' wife knows all abaat. latter wit. awm sittin o' that old stooan seeat, wheear last aw set wi' thee; it seems long years sin' last we met, awm sure it must be three. awm wond'rin what aw sed or did, or what aw left undone: 'at made thi hook it, an' get wed, to one tha used to shun. aw dooant say awm a handsom chap, becoss aw know awm net; but if aw wor 'ith' mind to change, he isn't th' chap, aw'll bet. awm net a scoller, but aw know a long chawk moor ner him; it couldn't be his knowledge box 'at made thi change thi whim. he doesn't haddle as mich brass as aw do ivery wick: an' if he gets a gradely shop, it's seldom he can stick. an' then agean,--he goes on th' rant; nah, that aw niver do;-aw allus mark misen content, wi' an odd pint or two. his brother is a lazy lout,- his sister's nooan too gooid,-ther's net a daycent 'en ith' bunch,- vice seems to run ith' blooid. an yet th'art happy,--soa they say, that caps me moor ner owt! tha taks a deal less suitin, lass, nor iver awst ha' thowt. aw saw yo walkin aat one neet, befoor yo'd getten wed; aw guess'd what he wor tawkin, tho aw dooant know what he sed. but he'd his arm araand thi waist, an tho' thi face wor hid, aw'll swear aw saw him kuss thi:- that's what aw niver did. aw thowt tha'd order him away, an' mak a fearful row, but tha niver tuk noa nooatice, just as if tha didn't know. awm hawf inclined to think sometimes, aw've been a trifle soft, aw happen should a' dun't misen? aw've lang'd to do it oft. thar't lost to me, but if a chonce should turn up by-an-by, if aw get seck'd aw'll bet me booits, that isn't t'reason why. my gronfayther's days. a'a, jonny! a'a johnny! aw'm sooary for thee! but come thi ways to me, an' sit o' mi knee, for it's shockin' to hearken to th' words 'at tha says:-ther wor nooan sich like things i' thi gronofayther's days. when aw wor a lad, lads wor lads, tha knows, then, but nahdays they owt to be 'shamed o' thersen; for they smook, an' they drink, an' get other bad ways; things wor different once i' thi gronfayther's days. aw remember th' furst day aw went a coortin' a bit, an' walked aght thi granny;--awst niver forget; for we blushed wol us faces wor all in a blaze;-it wor nooa sin to blush i' thi gronfayther's days. ther's nooa lasses nah, john, 'at's fit to be wed; they've false teeth i' ther maath, an false hair o' ther heead; they're a make up o' buckram, an' waddin', an' stays, but a lass wor a lass i' thi gronfayther's days. at that time a tradesman dealt fairly wi' th' poor, but nah a fair dealer can't keep oppen th' door; he's a fooil if he fails, he's a scamp if he pays; ther wor honest men lived i' thi gronfayther's days. ther's chimleys an' factrys i' ivery nook nah, but ther's varry few left 'at con fodder a caah; an' ther's telegraff poles all o'th edge o'th' highways, whear grew bonny green trees i' thi gronfayther's days. we're teld to be thankful for blessin's at's sent, an' aw hooap 'at tha'll allus be blessed wi' content; tha mun make th' best tha con o' this world wol tha stays, but aw wish tha'd been born i' thi gronfayther's days. heart brocken. he wor a poor hard workin lad, an' shoo a workin lass: an' hard they tew'd throo day to day, for varry little brass. an' oft they tawk'd o'th' weddin' day, an' lang'd for th' happy time, when poverty noa moor should part, two lovers i' ther prime. but wark wor scarce, an' wages low an' mait an' drink wor dear, they did ther best to struggle on, as year crept after year. but they wor little better off, nor what they'd been befoor; it tuk 'em all ther time to keep grim want aatside 'oth' door. soa things went on, wol hope at last, gave place to dark despair; they felt they'd nowt but lovin hearts, an' want an toil to share. at length he screw'd his courage up to leave his native shore; an' goa where wealth wor worshipped less, an' men wor valued moor. he towld his tale;--poor lass!--a tear just glistened in her e'e; then soft shoo whispered, "please thisen, but think sometimes o' me: an' whether tha's gooid luck or ill, tha knows aw shall be glad to see thee safe at hooam agean, an' welcome back mi lad." "awl labor on, an' do mi best; tho' lonely aw must feel, but awst be happy an content if tha be dooin weel. but ne'er forget tho' waves may roll, an' keep us far apart; thas left a poor, poor lass behind, an taen away her heart." "dost think 'at aw can e'er forget, wheariver aw may rooam, that bonny face an' lovin heart, awve prized soa dear at hoam? nay lass, nooan soa, be sure o' this, 'at till next time we meet tha'll be mi first thowt ivery morn, an' last thowt ivery neet." he went a way an' years flew by, but tidins seldom came; shoo couldn't help, at times, a sigh, but breathed noa word o' blame; when one fine day a letter came, 'twor browt to her at th' mill, shoo read it, an' her tremlin bands, an' beating heart stood still. her fellow workers gathered raand an caught her as shoo fell, an' as her heead droop'd o' ther arms, shoo sighed a sad "farewell. poor lass! her love had proved untrue, he'd play'd a traitor's part, he'd taen another for his bride, an' broke a trustin heart." her doleful story sooin wor known, an' monny a tear wor shed; they took her hooam an' had her laid, upon her humble bed; shoo'd nawther kith nor kin to come her burial fees to pay; but some poor comrade's undertuk, to see her put away. each gave what little helps they could, from aat ther scanty stoor; i' hopes 'at some at roll'd i' wealth wod give a trifle moor. but th' maisters ordered 'em away, abaat ther business, sharp! for shoo'd deed withaat a nooatice, an' shoo hadn't fell'd her warp. to a daisy, found blooming march 7th. a'a awm feeared tha's come too sooin, little daisy! pray, whativer wor ta doin? are ta crazy? winter winds are blowin' yet, tha'll be starved, mi little pet. did a gleam'o' sunshine warm thee, an deceive thee? niver let appearance charm thee, for believe me, smiles tha'll find are oft but snares, laid to catch thee unawares. still aw think it luks a shame, to tawk sich stuff; aw've lost faith, an tha'll do th' same, hi, sooin enuff: if tha'rt happy as tha art trustin' must be th' wisest part. come, aw'll pile some bits o' stooan, raand thi dwellin'; they may screen thee when aw've gooan ther's no tellin'; an' when gentle spring draws near aw'll release thee, niver fear. an' if then thi pratty face, greets me smilin'; aw may come an' sit bith' place, time beguilin'; glad to think aw'd paar to be, ov some use, if but to thee. a bad sooart. aw'd raythur face a redwut brick, sent flyin' at mi heead; aw'd raythur track a madman's steps, whearivei they may leead; aw'd raythur ventur in a den, an' stail a lion's cub: aw'd raythur risk the foamin wave in an old leaky tub; aw'd raythur stand i'th' midst o'th fray, whear bullets thickest shower; nor trust a mean, black hearted man, at's th' luck to be i' power. a redwut brick may miss its mark, a madman change his whim; a lion may forgive a theft; a leaky tub may swim; bullets may pass yo harmless by, an' leave all safe at last; a thaasand thunders shake the sky, an' spare yo when they've past; yo' may o'ercome mooast fell disease; make poverty yo'r friend; but wi' a mean, blackhearted man, noa mortal can contend. ther's malice in his kindest smile, his proffered hand's a snare; he's plannin deepest villany, when seemingly mooast fair; he leads yo' on wi' oily tongue, swears he's yo're fastest friend. he get's yo' once within his coils, an' crushes yo' ith' end. old nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin' aat, an' seeks whom to devour; but he's a saint, compared to some, 'at's th' luk to be i' power. all we had. it worn't for her winnin ways, nor for her bonny face but shoo wor th' only lass we had, an that quite alters th' case. we'd two fine lads as yo need see, an' weel we love 'em still; but shoo war th' only lass we had, an' we could spare her ill. we call'd her bi mi mother's name, it saanded sweet to me; we little thowt ha varry sooin awr pet wod have to dee. aw used to watch her ivery day, just like a oppenin bud; an' if aw couldn't see her change, aw fancied' at aw could. throo morn to neet her little tongue wor allus on a stir; awve heeard a deeal o' childer lisp, but nooan at lispt like her. sho used to play all sooarts o' tricks, 'at childer shouldn't play; but then, they wor soa nicely done, we let her have her way. but bit bi bit her spirits fell, her face grew pale an' thin; for all her little fav'rite toys shoo didn't care a pin. aw saw th' old wimmin shak ther heeads, wi monny a doleful nod; aw knew they thowt shoo'd goa, but still aw couldn't think shoo wod. day after day my wife an' me, bent o'er that suff'rin child, shoo luk'd at mammy, an' at me, then shut her een an' smiled. at last her spirit pass'd away; her once breet een wor dim; shoo'd heeard her maker whisper 'come,' an' hurried off to him. fowk tell'd us t'wor a sin to grieve, for god's will must be best; but when yo've lost a child yo've loved, it puts yor faith to th' test. we pick'd a little bit o' graand, whear grass and daisies grew, an' trees wi spreeadin boughs aboon ther solemn shadows threw. we saw her laid to rest, within that deep grave newly made; wol th' sexton let a tear drop fall, on th' handle ov his spade. it troubled us to walk away, an' leeav her bi hersen; th' full weight o' what we'd had to bide, we'd niver felt till then. but th' hardest task wor yet to come, that pang can ne'er be towld; 'twor when aw feszend th' door at nee't, an' locked her aat i'th' cowld. 'twor then hot tears roll'd daan mi cheek, 'twor then aw felt mooast sad; for shoo'd been sich a tender plant, an' th' only lass we had. but nah we're growin moor resign'd, although her face we miss; for he's blest us wi another, an we've hopes o' rearin this, give it 'em hot. give it 'em hot, an be hanged to ther feelins! souls may be lost wol yor choosin' yor words! out wi' them doctrines 'at taich o' fair dealins! daan wi' a vice tho' it may be a lord's! what does it matter if truth be unpleasant? are we to lie a man's pride to exalt! why should a prince be excused, when a peasant is bullied an' blamed for a mich smaller fault? o, ther's too mich o' that sneakin and bendin; an honest man still should be fearless and bold; but at this day fowk seem to be feeared ov offendin, an' they'll bow to a cauf if it's nobbut o' gold. give me a crust tho' it's dry, an' a hard 'en, if aw know it's my own aw can ait it wi' glee; aw'd rayther bith hauf work all th' day for a farden, nor haddle a fortun wi' bendin' mi knee. let ivery man by his merit be tested, net by his pocket or th' clooas on his back; let hypocrites all o' ther clooaks be divested, an' what they're entitled to, that let em tak. give it 'em hot! but remember when praichin, all yo 'at profess others failins to tell, 'at yo'll do far moor gooid wi' yor tawkin an' taichin, if yo set an example, an' improve yorsel. th' honest hard worker. it's hard what poor fowk mun put u'p wi'! what insults an' snubs they've to tak! what bowin an' scrapin's expected, if a chap's a black coit on his back. as if clooas made a chap ony better, or riches improved a man's heart, as if muck in a carriage smell'd sweeter nor th' same muck wod smell in a cart. give me one, hard workin, an' honest, tho' his clooas may be greasy and coorse; if it's muck 'ats been getten bi labor, it does'nt mak th' man ony worse. awm sick o' thease simpering dandies, 'at think coss they've getten some brass, they've a reight to luk daan at th' hard workers, an' curl up their nooas as they pass. it's a poor sooart o' life to be leadin, to be curlin an' partin ther hair; an' seekin one's own fun and pleasure, niver thinkin ha others mun fare. it's all varry weel to be spendin ther time at a hunt or a ball, but if th' workers war huntin an' doncin, whativer wad come on us all? ther's summat beside fun an' frolic to live for, aw think, if we try; th' world owes moor to a honest hard worker nor it does to a rich fly-bi-sky. tho' wealth aw acknowledge is useful, an' awve oft felt a want on't misen, yet th' world withaat brass could keep movin, but it wodn't do long withaat men. one truth they may put i' ther meersham, an' smoke it--that is if they can; a man may mak hooshuns o' riches, but riches can ne'er mak a man. then give me that honest hard worker, 'at labors throo marnin to neet, tho' his rest may be little an' seldom, yet th' little he gets he finds sweet. he may rank wi' his wealthier brother, an' rank heigher, aw fancy, nor some; for a hand 'at's weel hoofed wi' hard labor is a passport to th' world 'at's to come. for we know it's a sin to be idle, as man's days i' this world are but few; then let's all wi' awr lot 'be contented, an' continue to toil an' to tew. for ther's one thing we all may be sure on, if we each do awr best wol we're here, 'at when, th' time comes for reckonin, we're called on, we shall have varry little to fear. an' at last, when, we throw daan awr tackle, an' are biddin farewell to life's stage, may we hear a voice whisper at partin, "come on, lad! tha's haddled thi wage;" niver heed. let others boast ther bit o' brass, that's moor nor aw can do; aw'm nobbut one o'th' working class, 'at's strugglin to pool throo; an' if it's little 'at aw get, it's littie 'at aw need; an' if sometimes aw'm pinched a bit, aw try to niver heed. some fowk they tawk o' brokken hearts, an' mourn ther sorry fate, becoss they can't keep sarvent men, an' dine off silver plate; aw think they'd show more gradely wit to listen to my creed, an' things they find they cannot get, why, try to niver heed. ther's some 'at lang for parks an' halls, an' letters to ther name; but happiness despises walls, it's nooan a child o' fame. a robe may lap a woeful chap, whose heart wi grief may bleed, wol rags may rest on joyful breast, soa hang it! niver heed! th' sun shines as breet for me as them, an' th' meadows smell as sweet, th' larks sing as sweetly o'er mi heead, an' th' flaars smile at mi feet, an' when a hard day's wark is done, aw ait mi humble feed, mi appetite's a relish fun, soa hang it, niver heed. sing on. sing on, tha bonny burd, sing on, sing on; aw cannot sing; a claad hings ovver me, do what aw con fresh troubles spring. aw wish aw could, like thee, fly far away, aw'd leave mi cares an be a burd to-day. mi heart war once as full o' joy as thine, but nah it's sad; aw thowt all th' happiness i'th' world wor mine, sich faith aw had;-but he who promised aw should be his wife has robb'd me o' mi ivery joy i' life. sing on: tha cannot cheer me wi' thi song; yet, when aw hear thi warblin' voice, 'at rings soa sweet an' strong, aw feel a tear roll daan mi cheek, 'at gives mi heart relief, a gleam o' comfort, but it's varry brief. this little darlin', cuddled to mi breast, it little knows, when snoozlin' soa quietly at rest, 'at all mi woes are smothered thear, an' mi poor heart ud braik but just aw live for mi wee laddie's sake. sing on; an' if tha e'er should chonce to see that faithless swain, whose falsehood has caused all mi misery, strike up thy strain, an' if his heart yet answers to thy trill fly back to me, an' aw will love him still. but if he heeds thee not, then shall aw feel all hope is o'er, an' he that aw believed an' loved soa weel be loved noa more; for that hard heart, bird music cannot move, is far too cold a dwellin'-place for love. what aw want. gie me a little humble cot, a bit o' garden graand, set in some quiet an' sheltered spot, wi' hills an' trees all raand; an' if besides mi hooam ther flows a little mumuring rill, at sings sweet music as it gooas, awst like it better still. gie me a wife 'at loves me weel, an' childer two or three, wi' health to sweeten ivery meal, an' hearts brimful o' glee. gie me a chonce, wi' honest toil mi efforts to engage, gie me a maister who can smile when forkin aght mi wage. gie me a friend 'at aw can trust, 'an tell mi secrets to; one tender-hearted, firm an' just, who sticks to what is true. gie me a pipe to smook at neet, a pint o' hooam-brew'd ale, a faithful dog 'at runs to meet me wi a waggin tail. a cat to purr o'th' fender rims, to freeten th' mice away; a cosy bed to rest mi limbs throo neet to commin day. gie me all this, an' aw shall be content, withaat a daat, but if denied, then let me be content to live withaat. for 'tisn't th' wealth one may possess can purchase pleasures true; for he's th' best chonce o' happiness, whose wants are small an' few. what it is to be mother. a'a, dear! what a life has a mother! at leeast, if they're hamper'd like me, thro' mornin' to neet ther's some bother, an' ther will be, aw guess, wol aw dee. ther's mi chap, an misen, an' six childer, six o'th' roughest, aw think, under th' sun, aw'm sartin sometimes they'd bewilder old joab, wol his patience wor done. they're i' mischief i' ivery corner, an' ther tongues they seem niver at rest; ther's one shaatin' "little jack horner," an' another "the realms o' the blest." aw'm sure if a body's to watch 'em, they mun have een at th' back o' ther yed; for quiet yo niver can catch 'em unless they're asleep an' i' bed. for ther's somdy comes runnin to tell us 'at one on em's takken wi' fits; or ther's two on 'em feightin for th' bellus, an' rivin' ther clooas all i' bits. in a mornin' they're all weshed an' tidy'd, but bi nooin they're as black as mi shoe; to keep a lot cleean, if yo've tried it, yo know 'at ther's summat to do. when my felly comes hooam to his drinkin', aw try to be gradely, an' straight; for when all's nice an' cleean, to mi thinkin', he enjoys better what ther's to ait. if aw tell him aw'm varry near finished wi allus been kept in a fuss, he says, as he looks up astonished, "why, aw niver see owt 'at tha does." but aw wonder who does all ther mendin', weshes th' clooas, an cleans th' winders an' flags? but for me they'd have noa spot to stand in- they'd be lost i' ther filth an' ther rags. but it allus wor soa, an' it will be, a chap thinks' at a woman does nowt; but it ne'er bothers me what they tell me, for men havn't a morsel o' thowt. but just harken to me wol aw'm tellin' ha aw tew to keep ivery thing straight; an' aw'l have yo for th' judge if yor willin', for aw want nowt but what aw think's reight. ov a monday aw start o' my weshin', an' if th' day's fine aw get um all dried; ov a tuesday aw fettle mi kitchen, an' mangle, an' iron beside. ov a wednesday, then aw've mi bakin'; ov a thursday aw reckon to brew; ov a friday all th' carpets want shakin', an' aw've th' bedrooms to clean an' dust throo. then o'th' setterday, after mi markets, stitch on buttons, an' th' stockins' to mend, then aw've all th' sundy clooas to luk ovver, an' that brings a week's wark to its end. then o'th' sundy ther's cooking 'em th' dinner, it's ther only warm meal in a wick; tho' ther's some say aw must be a sinner, for it's paving mi way to old nick. but a chap mun be like to ha' summat, an' aw can't think it's varry far wrang, just to cook him an' th' childer a dinner, tho' it may mak me rayther too thrang. but if yor a wife an' a mother, yo've yor wark an' yor duties to mind; yo mun leearn to tak nowt as a bother, an' to yor own comforts be blind. but still, just to seer all ther places, when they're gethred raand th' harston at neet, fill'd wi six roosy-red, smilin' faces; it's nooan a despisable seet. an, aw connot help thinkin' an' sayin', (tho' yo may wonder what aw can mean), 'at if single, aw sooin should be playin' coortin tricks, an' be weddin' agean. what is it. what is it maks a crusty wife forget to scold, an' leeave off strife? what is it smoothes the rooad throo life? it's sooap. what is it maks a gaumless muff grow rich, an' roll i' lots o' stuff, woll better men can't get enough? it's sooap. what is it, if it worn't theear, wod mak some fowk feel varry queer, an' put 'em: i' ther proper sphere? it's sooap. what is' it maks fowk wade throo th' snow, to goa to th' church, becoss they know 'at th' squire's at hooam an' sure to goa? it's sooap. what is it gains fowk invitations, throo them 'at live i' lofty stations? what is it wins mooast situations? it's sooap. what is it men say they detest, yet alus like that chap the best 'at gives 'em twice as mich as th' rest? it's sooap. what is it, when the devil sends his agents raand to work his ends, what is it gains him lots o' friends? it's sooap. what is it we should mooast despise, an' by its help refuse to rise, tho' poverty's befoor awr eyes? it's sooap. what is it, when life's wastin' fast, when all this world's desires are past, will prove noa use to us at last? it's sooap. come thi ways! bonny lassie, come thi ways, an' let us goa together! tho' we've met wi stormy days, ther'll be some sunny weather: an' if joy should spring for me, tha shall freely share it; an' if trouble comes to thee, aw can help to bear it. tho thi mammy says us nay, an' thi dad's unwillin'; wod ta have me pine away wi' this love 'at's killin'? come thi ways, an' let me twine mi arms once moor abaght thee; weel tha knows mi heart is thine, aw couldn't live withaat thee. ivery day an' haar 'at slips, some pleasure we are missin', for those bonny rooasy lips aw'm niver stall'd o' kissin', if men wor wise to walk life's track withaat sith joys to glad 'em, he must ha' made a sad mistak 'at gave a eve to adam. advice to jenny. jenny, jenny, dry thi ee, an' dunnot luk soa sad; it grieves me varry mich to see tha freeats abaat yon lad; for weel tha knows, withaat a daat, wheariver he may be, tho fond o' rammellin' abaat, he's allus true to thee. tha'll learn mooar sense, lass, in a while, for wisdom comes wi' time, an' if tha lives tha'll leearn to smile at troubles sich as thine; a faithful chap is better far, altho' he likes to rooam, nor one 'at does what isn't reight, an' sits o'th' hearth at hooam. tha needn't think 'at wedded life noa disappointment brings; tha munnot think to keep a chap teed to thi appron strings: soa dry thi een, they're varry wet, an' let thi heart be glad, for tho' tha's wed a rooamer, yet, tha's wed a honest lad. ther's mony a lady, rich an' great, 'at's sarvents at her call, wod freely change her grand estate for thine tha thinks soa small: for riches cannot buy content, soa tho' thi joys be few, tha's one ther's nowt con stand anent,- a heart 'at's kind an' true. soa when he comes luk breet an' gay, an' meet him wi' a kiss, tha'll find him mooar inclined to stay wi treatment sich as this; but if thi een luk red like that, he'll see all's wrang at once, he'll leet his pipe, an' don his hat, an' bolt if he's a chonce. ther's mich expected. life's pathway is full o' deep ruts, an' we mun tak gooid heed lest we stumble; man is made up of "ifs" and of "buts," it'seems pairt ov his natur to grumble. but if we'd anxiously tak to makkin' things smooth as we're able, ther'd be monny a better clooath'd back, an' monny a better spread table. it's a sad state o' things when a man connot put ony faith in his brother, an' fancies he'll chait if he can, an' rejoice ovver th' fall ov another. an' it's sad when yo see some 'at stand high in social position an' power, to know at ther fortuns wor plann'd an' built, aght o'th' wrecks o' those lower. it's sad to see luxury rife, an' fortuns being thowtlessly wasted; while others are wearin' aat life, with the furst drops o' pleasure untasted. some in carriages rollin' away, to a ball, or a rout, or a revel; but their chariots may bear 'em some day varry near to the gates ov the devil. oh! charity surely is rare, or ther'd net be soa monny neglected; for ther's lots wi enuff an' to spare, an' from them varry mich is expected. an' tho' in this world they've ther fill of its pleasures, an' wilfully blinded, let deeath come--as surely it will- they'll be then ov ther duties reminded. an' when called on, they, tremblin' wi' fear, say "the hungry an' nak'd we ne'er knew," that sentence shall fall on their ear- "depart from me; i never knew you." then, oh! let us do what we can, nor with this world's goods play the miser; if it's wise to lend money to man, to lend to the lord must be wiser. a strange stooary. aw know some fowk will call it crime, to put sich stooaries into ryhme, but yet, contentedly aw chime mi simple ditty: an if it's all a waste o' time, the moor's the pity. ------o'er wibsey slack aw coom last neet, wi' reekin heead and weary feet, a strange, strange chap, aw chonced to meet; he made mi start; but pluckin up, aw did him greet wi beatin heart. his dress wor black as black could be, an th' latest fashion aw could see, but yet they hung soa dawderly, like suits i' shops; bith heart! yo mud ha putten three sich legs i'th' slops. says aw, "owd trump, it's rather late for one at's dress'd i' sich a state, across this slack to mak ther gate: is ther some pairty? or does ta allus dress that rate- black duds o'th' wairty?" he twisted raand as if to see what sooart o' covy aw cud be, an' grinned wi sich a maath at me, it threw me sick! "lor saves!" aw cried, "an' is it thee at's call'd ow'd nick!" but when aw luk'd up into th' place, whear yo'd expect to find a face; a awful craytur met mi gaze, it took mi puff: "gooid chap," aw sed, "please let me pass, aw've seen enough!" then bendin cloise daan to mi ear, he tell'd me 'at aw'd nowt to fear, an' soa aw stop't a bit to hear what things he'd ax; but as he spake his, teeth rang clear, like knick-a-nacks. "a'a, jack," he sed, "aw'm capt 'wi thee net knowin sich a chap as me; for oft when tha's been on a spree, aw've been thear too; but tho' aw've reckon'd safe o' thee, tha's just edged throo. mi name is deeath--tha needn't start, and put thi hand upon thi heart, for tha ma see 'at aw've noa dart wi which to strike; let's sit an' tawk afoor we part, o'th edge o'th dyke." "nay, nay, that tale weant do, owd lad, for bobby burns tells me tha had a scythe hung o'er thi' shoulder, gad! tha worn't dress'd i' fine black clooath; tha wore' a plad across thi breast!" "well, jack," he said, "thar't capt no daat to find me' wanderin abaght; but th' fact is, lad, 'at aw'm withaat a job to do; mi scythe aw've had to put up th' spaat, mi arrows too." "yo dunnot mean to tell to me, 'at fowk noa moor will ha' to dee?" "noa, hark a minit an' tha'll see when th' truth aw tell! fowk do withaat mi darts an me, thev kill thersel. they do it too at sich a rate wol mi owd system's aght o' date; what we call folly, they call fate; an' all ther pleasur is ha' to bring ther life's estate to th' shortest measur. they waste ther time, an' waste ther gains, o' stuff 'at's brew'd throo poisoned grains, thro' morn to neet they keep ther brains, for ever swimmin, an' if a bit o' sense remains, it's fun i'th wimmen. tha'll find noa doctors wi ther craft, nor yet mysen wi scythe or shaft, e'er made as monny deead or daft, as gin an' rum, an' if aw've warn'd fowk, then they've lafft at me, bi gum! but if they thus goa on to swill, they'll not want wilfrid lawson's bill, for give a druffen chap his fill, an sooin off pops he, an teetotal fowk moor surely still, will dee wi th' dropsy. it's a queer thing at sich a nation can't use a bit o' moderation; but one lot rush to ther damnation through love o'th bottle: wol others think to win salvation wi being teetotal." wi' booany neive he stroked mi heead, "tak my advice, young chap," he sed, "let liquors be, sup ale asteead, an' tha'll be better, an' dunnot treat th' advice tha's heard like a dead letter." "why deeath," aw sed, "fowk allus say, yo come to fotch us chaps away! but this seems strange, soa tell me pray, ha wor't yo coom? wor it to tell us keep away, yo hav'nt room?" "stop whear tha art, jack, if tha dar but tha'll find spirits worse bi far sarved aght i' monny a public bar, at's thowt quite lawful; nor what tha'll find i'th' places par sons call soa awful." "gooid bye!" he sed, an' off he shot, leavin behind him sich a lot o' smook, as blue as it wor hot! it set me stewin! soa hooam aw cut, an' gate a pot ov us own brewin. --------if when yo've read this stooary through, yo daat if it's exactly true, yo'll nobbut do as others do, yo may depend on't. blow me! aw ommost daat it too, so thear's an end on't take heart. roughest roads, we often find, lead us on to th' nicest places; kindest hearts oft hide behind some o'th' plainest-lukkin faces. flaars' whose colors breetest are, oft delight awr wond'ring seet; but thers others, humbler far, smell a thaasand times as sweet. burds o' monny color'd feather, please us as they skim along, but ther charms all put together, connot equal th' skylark's song. bonny women--angels seemin,- set awr hearts an' brains o' fire; but its net ther beauties; beamin, its ther gooidness we admire. th' bravest man 'at's in a battle, isn't allus th' furst i'th' fray; he best proves his might an' mettle, who remains to win the day. monkey's an' vain magpies chatter, but it doesn't prove em wise; an it's net wi noise an' clatter, men o' sense expect to rise. 'tisn't them 'at promise freely, are mooast ready to fulfill; an' 'tisn't them 'at trudge on dreely 'at are last at top o'th' hill. bad hauf-craans may pass as payment, gaudy flaars awr een beguile; women may be loved for raiment, show may blind us for a while; but we sooin grow discontented, an' for solid worth we sigh, an' we leearn to prize the jewel, tho it's hidden from the eye. him 'at thinks to gether diamonds as he walks along his rooad, niver need be tired wi' huggin, for he'll have a little looad. owt 'at's worth a body's winnin mun be toiled for long an' hard; an' tho' th' struggle may be pinnin, perseverance wins reward. earnest thowt, an' constant striving, ever wi' one aim i'th' seet; tho' we may be late arrivin, yet at last we'st come in reight. he who will succeed, he must, when he's bid false hopes farewell. if he firmly fix his trust in his god, and in hissel, did yo iver. gooid gracious! cried susy, one fine summer's morn, here's a bonny to do! aw declare! aw wor niver soa capt sin th' day aw wor born! aw near saw sich a seet at a fair. here, sally! come luk! ther's a maase made its nest reight ith' craan o' mi new sundy bonnet! haiver its fun its way into this chist, that caps me! aw'm fast what to mak on it! its cut! sithee thear! it's run reight under th' bed! an luk here! what's'theas little things stirrin? if they arn't some young uns at th' gooid-for-nowt's bred, may aw be as deead as a herrin! but what does ta say? "aw mun draand 'em?" nooan soa! just luk ha they're seekin ther mother; shoo must be a poor little softheead to goa; for awm nooan baan to cause her noa bother. but its rayther to bad, just to mak her hooam thear, for mi old en's net fit to be seen in an' this new en, awm thinkin, ul luk rayther queer, after sich a rum lot as thats been in. but shut up awr pussy, an heed what aw say; yo mun keep a sharp e'e or shoo'll chait us; ah if shoo sees th' mother shoo'll kill it! an pray what mun become o' thease poor helpless crayturs? a'a dear! fowk have mich to be thankful for, yet, 'at's a roof o' ther own to cawer under, for if we'd to seek ony nook we could get, whativer 'ud come on us aw wonder? we should nooan on us like to be turned aat o' door, wi a lot a young bairns to tak 'care on: ah' although awm baat bonnet, an think misen poor, what little aw have yo'st have t'share on. that poor little maase aw dooant think meant me harm, shoo ne'er knew what that bonnet had cost me; all shoo wanted wor some little nook snug an' warm, an' a gooid two o'-three shillin its lost me. aw should think as they've come into th' world born i' silk, they'll be aristocratical varmin; but awm wasting mi time! awl goa get 'em some milk, an' na daat but th' owd lass likes it warmin. bless mi life! a few drops 'll sarve them! if we try, awm weel sure we can easily spare 'em, but as sooin as they're able, awl mak 'em all fly! never mind' if aw dooant! harum scarum! an old man's christmas morning. its a long time sin' thee an' me have met befoor, owd lad,- soa pull up thi cheer, an' sit daan, for ther's noabdy moor welcome nor thee: thi toppin's grown whiter nor once,- yet mi heart feels glad, to see ther's a rooas o' thi cheek, an' a bit ov a leet i' thi e'e. thi limbs seem to totter an' shake, like a crazy owd fence, 'at th' wind maks to tremel an' creak; but tha still fills thi place; an' it shows 'at tha'rt bless'd wi' a bit o' gradely gooid sense, 'at i' spite o' thi years an' thi cares, tha still wears a smile o' thi face. come fill up thi pipe- for aw knaw tha'rt reight fond ov a rick,- an' tha'll find a drop o' hooarm-brew'd i' that pint up o'th' hob, aw dar say; an' nah, wol tha'rt toastin thi shins, just scale th' foir, an' aw'll side thi owd stick, then aw'll tell thi some things 'ats happen'd sin tha went away. an' first of all tha mun knaw 'at aw havn't been spar'd, for trials an' troubles have come, an' mi heart has felt well nigh to braik; an' mi wife, 'at tha knaws wor mi pride, an' mi fortuns has shared, shoo bent under her griefs, an' shoo's flown far, far away aat o' ther raik. my life's like an owd gate 'ats nobbut one hinge for support, an' sometimes aw wish--aw'm soa lonely- at tother 'ud drop off wi' rust; but it hasn't to be, for it seems life maks me his spooart, an' deeath cannot even spare time, to turn sich an owd man into dust. last neet as aw sat an' watched th' yule log awd put on to th' fire, as it cracked, an' sparkled, an' flared up wi' sich gusto an' spirit, an' when it wor touch'd it shone breeter, an' flared up still higher, till at last aw'd to shift th' cheer further back for aw couldn't bide near it. th' dull saand o' th' church bells coom to tell me one moor christmas mornin', had come, for its welcome- but ha could aw welcome it when all aloan? for th' snow wor fallin soa thickly, an' th' cold wind wor moanin, an' them 'at aw lov'd wor asleep i' that cold church yard, under a stoan: soa aw went to bed an' aw slept, an' then began dreamin, 'at mi wife stood by mi side, an' smiled, an' mi heart left off its beatin', an' aw put aat mi hand, an' awoke, an' mornin' wor gleamin'; an' its made me feel sorrowful, an aw cannot give ovver freatin. for aw think what a glorious christmas day 'twod ha' been, if awd goan to that place, where ther's noa moor cares, nor partin', nor sorrow, for aw know shoo's thear, or that dream aw sud nivver ha' seen, but aw'll try to be patient, an' maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow. it's forty' long summers an' winters, sin tha bade "gooid bye," an' as fine a young fella tha wor, as iver aw met i' mi life; when tha went to some far away land, thi fortune to try, an' aw stopt at hooam to toil on, becoss it wor th' wish o' my wife. an' shoo wor a bonny young wench, an' better nor bonny,- aw seem nah as if aw can see her, wi' th' first little bairn on her knee, an' we called it ann, for aw liked that name best ov ony, an' fowk said it wor th' pictur o' th' mother, wi' just a strinklin o' me. an' th' next wor a lad, an' th' next wor a lad! then a lass came,- that made us caant six,- an' six happier fowk niver sat to a meal, an' they grew like hop plants--full o' life- but waikly i' th' frame, an' at last one drooped, an' deeath coom an' marked her with his seal. a year or two moor an' another seemed longin to goa, an' all we could do wor to smooth his deeath bed, 'at he might sleep sweeter-then th' third seemed to sicken an' pine, an' we couldn't say "noa," for he said his sister had called, an' he wor most anxious to meet her-an' how we watched th' youngest, noa mortal can tell but misen, for we prized it moor, becoss it wor th' only one left us to cherish; at last her call came, an' shoo luked sich a luk at us then, which aw ne'er shall forget, tho mi mem'ry ov all other things perish. a few years moor, when awr griefs wor beginnin to lighten, mi friends began askin my wife, if shoo felt hersen hearty an' strong? an' aw niver saw at her face wor beginning to whiten, till sho grew like a shadow, an' aw couldn't even guess wrong. then aw stood beside th' grave when th' saxton wor shovin in th' gravel, an' he said "this last maks five, an' aw think ther's just room for another," an' aw went an' left him, lonely an' heartsick to travel, till th' time comes when aw may lig daan beside them four bairns an' ther mother. an' aw think what a glorious christmas day 'twod ha been if aw'd gooan to that place where ther's noa moor cares, nor partin, nor sorrow; an aw knaw they're thear, or that dream aw should niver ha seen, but aw'll try to be patient, an' maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow. billy bumble's bargain. young billy bumble bowt a pig, soa aw've heeard th' neighbors say; an' mony a mile he had to trig one sweltin' summer day; but billy didn't care a fig, he said he'd mak it pay; he _knew_ it wor a bargain, an' he cared net who said nay. he browt it hooam to ploo croft loin, but what wor his surprise to find all th' neighbors standing aat, we oppen maaths an' eyes; "by gow!" sed billy, to hissen, "this pig _must_ be a prize!" an' th' wimmen cried, "gooid gracious fowk! but isn't it a size?" then th' chaps sed, "billy, where's ta been? whativer has ta browt? that surely isn't crayture, lad, aw heeard 'em say tha'd bowt? it luks moor like a donkey, does ta think 'at it con rawt?" but billy crack'd his carter's whip. an' answered' em wi' nowt. an' reight enuff it war a pig, if all they say is true, its length war five foot eight or nine, its height wor four foot two; an' when it coom to th' pig hoil door, he couldn't get it through, unless it went daan ov its knees, an' that it wodn't do. then billy's mother coomed to help, an' hit it wi' a mop; but thear it wor, an' thear it seem'd detarmined it 'ud stop; but all at once it gave a grunt, an' oppen'd sich a shop; an' finding aat 'at it wor lick'd, it laup'd clean ovver th' top. his mother then shoo shook her heead, an' pool'd a woeful face; "william," shoo sed, "tha shouldn't bring sich things as theas to th' place. aw hooap tha art'nt gooin to sink thi mother i' disgrace; but if tha buys sich things as thease aw'm feared it will be th' case!" "nah, mother, niver freat." sed bill, "its one aw'm goin to feed, its rayther long i'th' legs, aw know, but that's becoss o'th' breed; if its a trifle long i'th' grooin, why hang it! niver heed! aw know its net a beauty, _but its cheap, it is, indeed!"_ "well time 'ul try," his mother sed,- an' time at last did try; for niver sich a hungry beeast had been fed in a sty. "what's th' weight o'th' long legged pig, billy!" wor th' neighbors' daily cry; "aw connot tell yo yet," sed bill, "aw'll weigh it bye an' bye." an' hard poor billy persevered, but all to noa avail, it swallow'd all th' mait it could get, an' wod ha' swallow'd th' pail; but billy took gooid care to stand o'th' tother side o'th' rail; but fat it didn't gain as mich as what 'ud greeas its tail. pack after pack o' mail he bowt, until he'd bought fourteen; but net a bit o' difference i'th' pig wor to be seen: its legs an' snowt wor just as long as iver they had been; poor billy caanted rib bi rib an' heaved a sigh between. one day he, mix'd a double feed, an' put it into th' troff; "tha greedy lukkin beeast," he sed, "aw'll awther stawl thee off, or else aw'll brust thi hide--that is unless 'at its to toff!" an' then he left it wol he went his mucky clooas to doff. it worn't long befoor he coom to see ha matters stood; he luk'd at th' troff, an' thear it wor, five simple bits o' wood, as cleean scraped aat as if it had ne'er held a bit o' food; "tha slotch!" sed bill, "aw do believe tha'd ait me if tha could." next day he browt a butcher, for his patience had been tried, an' wi a varry deeal to do, its legs wi rooap they tied; an' then his shinin knife he drew an' stuck it in its side-it mud ha been a crockadile, bi th' thickness ov its hide. but blooid began to flow, an' then its long legg'd race wor run; they scalded, scraped, an' hung it up, an' when it all wor done, fowk coom to guess what weight it wor, and mony a bit o' fun they had, for billy's mother said "it ought to weigh a ton." billy wor walkin up an' daan, dooin nowt but fume an' fidge! he luk'd at th' pig--then daan he set, i'th nook o'th' window ledge, he saw th' back booan wor sticken aght, like th' thin end ov a wedge; it luk'd like an' owd blanket hung ovver th' winterhedge. his mother rooar'd an' th' wimmen sigh'd, but th' chaps did nowt but laff; poor billy he could hardly bide, to sit an' hear ther chaff-then up he jumped, an' off he run, but whear fowk niver knew; an' what wor th' warst, when mornin' coom, th' deead pig had mizzled too. th' chaps wander'd th' country far an' near, until they stall'd thersen; but nawther billy nor his pig coom hooam agean sin then; but oft fowk say, i'th' deead o'th' neet, near shibden's ruined mill, the gooast o' billy an' his pig may be seen runnin still. moral. yo fowk 'ats tempted to goa buy be careful what yo do; dooant be persuaded coss "its _cheap_," for if yo do yo'll rue; dooant think its lowerin to yor sen to ax a friend's advice, else like poor billy's pig, 't may be bowt dear at ony price. rejected. gooid bye, lass, aw dunnot blame, tho' mi loss is hard to bide! for it wod ha' been a shame, had tha ivver been the bride of a workin chap like me; one 'ats nowt but love to gie. hard hoot'd neives like thease o' mine. surely ne'er wor made to press hands so lily-white as thine; nor should arms like thease caress one so slender, fair, an' pure, 'twor unlikely, lass, aw'm sure. but thease tears aw cannot stay, drops o' sorrow fallin fast, hopes once held aw've put away as a dream, an think its past; but mi poor heart loves thi still, an' wol life is mine it will. when aw'm seated, lone and sad, wi mi scanty, hard won meal, one thowt still shall mak me glad, thankful that alone aw feel what it is to tew an'strive just to keep a soul alive. th' whin-bush rears o'th' moor its form, an' wild winds rush madly raand, but it whistles to the storm, in the barren home it's faand; natur fits it to be poor, an 'twor vain to strive for moor. if it for a lily sighed, an' a lily chonced to grow, when it found the fair one died, powerless to brave the blow of the first rude gust o' wind, which had left its wreck behind. then 'twod own 'twor better fate niver to ha' held the prize; whins an' lilies connot mate, sich is not ther destinies; then 'twor wrang for one like me, one soa poor, to sigh for thee. then gooid bye, aw dunnot blame, tho' mi loss it's hard to bide, for it wod ha' been a shame had tha iver been mi bride; content aw'll wear mi lonely lot, tho' mi poor heart forgets thee not. duffin johnie. (a rifleman's adventure.) th' mooin shone breet wi silver leet, an' th' wind wor softly sighin, th' burds did sleep, an' th' snails did creep, an' th' buzzards wor a flying; th' daisies donned ther neet caps on, an' th buttercups wor weary, when jenny went to meet her john, her rifleman, her dearie. her johnny seemed as brave a lad as iver held a rifle, an' if ther wor owt in him bad, 'twor nobbut just a trifle he wore a suit o' sooity grey, to show 'at he wor willin to feight for th' queen and country when perfect in his drillin. his heead wor raand, his back wor straight, his legs wor long an' steady, his fist wor fully two pund weight, his heart wor true an' ready; his upper lip wor graced at th' top wi mustache strong and bristlin, it railly wor a spicy crop; yo'd think to catch him whistlin. his buzzum burned wi' thowt's o' war, he long'd for battles clatter. he grieved to think noa foeman dar to cross a sup o' watter; he owned one spot,--an' nobbut one, within his heart wor tender, an' as his darlin had it fun, he'd be her bold defender. at neet he donn'd his uniform, war trials to endure, an' helped his comrades brave, to storm a heap ov horse manure! they said it wor a citidel, fill'd wi' some hostile power, they boldly made a breach, and well they triumph'd in an hour. they did'nt wade to th' knees i' blooid, (that spoils one's breeches sadly), but th' pond o' sypins did as gooid, an' scented 'em as badly; ther wor noa slain to hug away, noa heeads, noa arms wor wantin, they lived to feight another day, an' spend ther neets i' rantin. brave johnny's rooad wor up a loin where all wor dark an' shaded, part grass, part stooans, part sludge an' slime but quickly on he waded; an' nah an' then he cast his e'e an luk'd behund his shoulder. he worn't timid, noa net he! he crack'd, "he knew few bolder." but once he jumped, an' said "oh dear!" becoss a beetle past him, but still he wor unknown to fear, he'd tell yo if yo asked him; he couldn't help for whispering once, this loin's a varry long un, a chap wod have but little chonce wi thieves, if here amang em. an' all at once he heeard a voice cry out, "stand and deliver! your money or your life, mak choice, before your brains i shiver;" he luk'd all raand, but failed to see a sign of livin craytur, then tremlin dropt upon his knee, fear stamp'd on ivery faytur. "gooid chap," he said, "mi rifle tak, mi belts, mi ammunition, aw've nowt but th' clooas at's o' mi back oh pity mi condition; aw wish aw'd had a lot o' brass, aw'd gie thi ivery fardin; aw'm nobbut goin to meet a lass, at tate's berry garden." "aw wish shoo wor, aw daoant care where, its her fault aw've to suffer;" just then a whisper in his ear said, "johnny, thar't a duffer," he luk'd, an' thear claise to him stuck wor jenny, burst wi' lafter; "a'a, john," shoo says, "aw've tried thi pluck, aw'st think o' this at after." "an when tha tells what thinga tha'll do, an' booasts o' manly courage, aw'st tell thi then, as nah aw do, go hooam an' get thi porrige." "why jenny wor it thee," he said "aw fancied aw could spy thi, aw nobbut reckoned to be flaid, aw did it but to trie thi." "just soa," shoo says, "but certain 'tis aw hear thi heart a beatin, an' tak this claat to wipe thi phiz gooid gracious, ha tha'rt sweeatin; thar't brave noa daat, an' tha can crow like booastin cock-a-doodle, but nooan sich men for me, aw vow, when wed, aw'll wed a 'noodle.' lost love. shoo wor a bonny, bonny lass her een as black as sloas, her hair a flying' thunner claad, her cheeks a blowing rooas; her smile coom like a sunny gleam her cherry lips to curl; her voice wor like a murm'ring stream at flowed through banks o' pearl. aw long'd to claim her for mi own, but nah mi love is crost; an aw mun wander on alooan, an' mourn for her aw've lost. aw couldn't ax her to be mine, wi' poverty at th' door: aw niver thowt breet een could shine wi' love for one so poor; but nah ther's summat i' mi breast, tells me aw miss'd mi way: an' lost that lass i loved th' best throo fear shoo'd say me nay. aw long'd to claim her for, &c, aw saunter'd raand her cot at morn, an' oft i'th' dark o'th' neet; aw've knelt mi daan i'th loin to find prints ov her tiny feet: an' under th' window, like a thief, aw've crept to hear her spaik, an' then aw've hurried home agean for fear mi heart ud braik. aw long'd to claim her for, &c, another bolder nor misen, has robb'd me o' mi dear, an' nah aw ne'er may share her joy an' ne'er may dry her tear; but though aw'm heartsick, lone, an' sad, an' though hope's star is set, to know she's lov'd as aw'd ha' lov'd wod mak me happy yet. aw long'd to claim her for, &c, th' traitle sop. once in a little country taan a grocer kept a shop, and sell'd amang his other things, prime traitle drink and pop, teah, coffee, currans, spenish juice, soft soap an' paader blue, presarves an' pickles, cinnamon, allspice an' pepper too; an' hoasts o' other sooarts o' stuff to sell to sich as came, as figs, an' raisens, salt an' spice, too numerous to name. one summer's day a waggon stood just opposite his door, an' th' childer all gaped raand as if they'd ne'er seen one afoor; an' in it wor a traitle cask, it wor a wopper too, to get it aat they all wor fast which iver way to do; but wol they stood an parley'd thear, th' horse gave a sudden chuck, an' aat it flew, an' bursting threw all th' traitle into th' muck. then th' childer laff'd an' clapp'd their hands, to them it seem'd rare fun, but th' grocer ommost lost his wits when he saw th' traitle run; he stamp'd an' raved, an' then declared he wodn't pay a meg, an'th' carter vow'd until he did he wodn't stir a peg. he said he'd done his business reight, he'd brought it up to th' door, an thear it wor, an' noa fair chap wad want him to do moor. but wol they stamped, an' raved, an' swore, an' vented aat ther spleen, th' childer wor thrang enough, you're sure, all plaisterd up to th' een, a neighbor chap saw th' state o' things, an' pitied ther distress, an' begg'd em not to be soa sour abaat soa sweet a mess; "an' tha'd be sour," th'owd grocer said, if th' job wor thine, owd lad, an' somdy wanted thee to pay for what tha'd niver had. "th' fault isn't mine," said th' cart driver "my duty's done i hope? i've brought him traitle, thear it is, an' he mun sam it up." soa th' neighbor left em to thersen, he'd nowt noa moor to say, but went to guard what ther wor left, and send th' young brood away: this didn't suit th' young lads a bit, they didn't mean to stop, they felt detarmin'd 'at they'd get another traitle sop. they tried all ways, but th' chap stood firm, they couldn't get a lick, an' some o' th' boldest gate a taste o'th neighbor's walkin sticks at last one said, i know a plan if we can scheam to do it, we'll knock one daan bang into th' dolt, an' let him roll reight throo it; agreed, agreed! they all replied, an here comes little jack, he's foorced to pass cloise up this side, we'll do it in a crack. poor jack war rather short, an' coom just like a suckin duck, he little dream'd at th' sweets o' life wod iver be his luck; but daan they shoved him, an' he roll'd heead first bang into th' mess, an' aat he coom a woeful sight, as yo may easy guess. they marched him off i' famous glee all stickified an' clammy, then licked him clean an' sent him hooam to get lick'd by his mammy. then th' cartdriver an th' grocer coom boath in a dreadful flutter, to save some, but they coom too lat, it all wor lost ith gutter: it towt a lesson to 'em boath before that job wor ended, to try (at stead o' falling aat) if ought went wrang to mend it. for wol fowk rave abaat ther loss, some sharper's sure to pop, an' aat o' ther misfortunes they'll contrive to get a sop.-to let. aw live in a snug little cot, an' tho' poor, yet aw keep aat o' debt, cloise by, in a big garden plot, stands a mansion, 'at long wor to let. twelve month sin' or somewhear abaat, a fine lukin' chap donned i' black, coom an' luk'd at it inside an' aat an' decided this mansion to tak. ther wor whiteweshers coom in a drove an' masons, an' joiners, an' sweeps, an' a blacksmith to fit up a cove, an' bricks, stooans an' mortar i' heaps. ther wor painters, an' glazzeners too, to mend up each bit ov a braik, an' a lot 'at had nowt else to do, but to help some o'th 'tothers to laik. ther wor fires i' ivery range, they niver let th' harston get cooiled, throo th' celler to th' thack they'd a change, an' iverything all in a mooild. th' same chap 'at is th' owner o'th' hall, is th' owner o'th' cot whear aw dwell, but if aw ax for th' leeast thing at all; he tells me to do it mysel. this hall lets for fifty a year, wol five paand is all 'at aw pay; when th' day come mi rent's allus thear, an' that's a gooid thing in its way, at th' last all th' repairers had done, an' th' hall wor as cleean as a pin, aw wor pleased when th' last lot wor gooan, for aw'd getten reight sick o' ther din. then th' furniture started to come, waggon looads on it, all spankin new, rich crimson an' gold covered some, wol some shone i' scarlet an' blue. ov sofas aw think hauf a scoor, an' picturs enuff for a show? they fill'd ivery corner awm sure, throo th' garret to th' kitchen below. one day when a cab drove to th' gate, th' new tenant stept aat, an' his wife, an' tawk abaat fashion an state! yo ne'er saw sich a spreead i' yor life. ther war sarvents to curtsey 'em in, an' aw could'nt help sayin', "bi'th mass;" as th' door shut when they'd booath getten in, "a'a its grand to ha' plenty o' brass." ther wor butchers, an' bakers, an' snobs, an' grocers, an' milkmen, an' snips, all seekin' for orders an' jobs, an' sweetenin th' sarvents wi' tips. aw sed to th' milk-chap tother day, "ha long does ta trust sich fowk, ike? each wick aw'm expected to pay," "fine fowk," he says, "pay when they like." things went on like this, day bi day, for somewhear cloise on for a year, wol aw ne'er thowt o' lukkin' that way; altho' aw wor livin soa near. but one neet when awd finished mi wark, an' wor tooastin mi shins anent th' fire, a chap rushes in aat 'o'th' dark throo heead to fooit plaistered wi' mire. says he, "does ta know whear they've gooan?" says aw, "lad, pray, who does ta meean?" "them 'at th' hall," he replied, wi a grooan, "they've bolted an' diddled us cleean." aw tell'd him 'aw'd ne'er heeard a word, he cursed as he put on his hat, an' he sed, "well, they've flown like a burd, an' paid nubdy owt, an' that's what." he left, an' aw crept off to bed, next day awd a visit throo ike, but aw shut up his maath when aw sed, "fine fowk tha knows pay when they like." ther's papers ith' winders, "to let," an' aw know varry weel ha 't 'll be; they'll do th' same for th' next tenant awl bet, tho they neer' do a hawpoth for me. but aw let 'em do just as they pleease, awm content tho' mi station is low, an' awm thankful sich hard times as thease if aw manage to pay what aw owe. this precept, friends, niver forget, for a wiser one has not been sed, be detamined to rise aat o' debt tho' yo go withaat supper to bed,--' fault finders. if ther's ony sooart o' fowk aw hate, it's them at's allus lukkin' aght for faults;--hang it up! they get soa used to it, wol they willn't see ony beauties if they are thear. they remind me ov a chap 'at aw knew at wed a woman 'at had a wart at th' end ov her nooas, but it war nobbut a little en, an' shoo wor a varry bonny lass for all that; but when they'd been wed a bit, an' th' newness had getten warn off, he began to fancy at this wart grew bigger ivery day, an' he stared at it, an' studied abaght it, wol when he luk'd at his wife he could see nowt else, an' he kept dinging her up wi' it wol shoo felt varry mich troubled. but one day, as they wor gettin' ther dinner, he said, "nay, lass, aw niver did see sich a thing as that wart o' thy nooas is growing into; if it gooas on tha'll be like a rhynockoroo or a newnicorn or summat!" "well," shoo says, "when tha wed me tha wed th' wart an' all, an' if tha doesn't like it tha con lump it." "aw've noa need to lump it," he says, "for it's lumpin' itsen or aw'll gie nowt for it." soa they went on, throo little to moor, till they'd a regular fratch, an' as sooin as' he'd getten his dinner, he off to his wark, an' shoo to her mother's. when jim coom back an' fan th' fire aght, an' noa wife, he felt rayther strange, but he wor detarmined to let her see 'at he could do baat her, soa he gate a bit o' summat to ait an' went to bed. this went on for two-o'-three days, an' he wor as miserable as iver he could be, but o'th' setterdy he happened to meet her i'th' shambles, an' they booath stopped an' grinned, for they'd nowt agean one another i'th' bothem. "nah, lass," he said, "aw think it's abaat time for thee to come hooam." "nay, aw'll come nooan," shoo says, "till aw've getten shut o' this wart." "oh, ne'er heed that, lass; it doesn't luk hauf as big as it did, an' if tha wor all wart, aw'd rayther have thi nor be as aw am." "soa shoo went back wi' him, an' throo that time to this he's allus luk'd for her beauties asteead ov her faults, an they get on swimmingly. one day shoo axed him if he thowt th' wart wor ony bigger?" "a'a lass," he sed, "thi een are soa breet, aw didn't know tha had one!" ----------------what aw want yo to do is to be charitable, an' if yo find ony faults, think--yo happen may have one or two yorsen. ther's net monny on us 'at's killed wi sense, but he hasn't th' leeast at's enuff to know he's a fooil. this world wad be a better spot, wi' joys moor thickly strown, if fowk cared less for others' faults an tried to mend ther own. there's plenty o' room for us all to mend, an' them 'at set abaat it sooinest are likely to be perfect furst; at ony rate, if we try it'll show willin'. disapointment. "blessed are they who expect nothing, for they shall net be disappointed." aw once knew a chap they called old sammy; he used ta gaa wi a donkey, an th' mooast remarkable things abaat him wor his clogs an' his rags. sammy had niver been wed, tho' he war fifty years old, but it wor allus believed he'd managed ta save a bit a' brass. one day he war gain up hepenstull bunk, jenny o' jooans a' th' long lover wor goin up befoor him, an' whether it wor at her clogs were made a' his favrite pattern, or her ancles had summat abaat 'em different to what he'd iver seen befoor, aw cannot tell, but it seems a feelin coom ovver him all at once, sich as he'd niver had befoor, an' when he'd managed ta overtak her, he sed, "it's loaning for heeat aw think, jenny." "eea, aw think its likely for bein wut," shoo sed. "awve just been thinkin," sed sammy, "at if i wornt na a single old chap, aw shouldn't have to trail up an' daan in a lot a' rags like thease, for awm sure this jacket has hardly strength to hing o' mi rig, an' mi britches are soa full o' hoils wol awm feeared sometimes when awm puttin em on, at awst tummel throo an braik my neck." "well, reight enuff, a woife's varry useful at times," shoo sed, "but as tha hasn't one if tha'll learn mi thi jacket, aw'll see if it cannot be mended far thi a bit." "aw allus thowt tha war a gooid sooart, jenny, an' awl tak thi at thi word," he sed: so he pool'd off his coit an gave it her an' it were arranged 'at he should call for it next neet. you may bet yor life he didn't forget, an when he saw it mended up, an' brushed wol it luk'd ommost as gooid as new, he luk'd first at it an then at her, an at last he sed, "aw think we should be able to get on varry weel together, what says ta?" aw dooant know what shoo sed, but it wornt long befoor they wor wed, for sammy thowt shoo'd be worth her mait if it wor nobbut for mendin up his old duds. they hadn't been wed long, when he axed her to mend his britches.-"a'a," shoo sed, "aw cannot mend em, aw niver could sew i' mi life!" "why that is a tale," he sed, "tha mended mi jacket all reight!" "nay, indeed aw nawther!--aw mended nooon on it! aw sent it to th' tailor an paid for it doin." "then awm dropt on," sed sammy, "for aw expected tha'd be able to do all sich like wark." "tha should niver expect owt an' then tha willnt get dropt on," shoo sed.--"that, wor a bit o' varry gooid advice. work away. bonny lads, and bonny lasses! work away! work away! think how swift each moment passes, time does never stay. then let's up and to our labours, they who _will_, must sure succeed, he does best who best endeavours,- _try again_ shall be our creed. new machinery &c. it shows varry little sense for fowk to object to a new machine till they've tried it, or to fancy it'll be th' means o' smashin th' trade. luk at th' paaer looms; when they i wor started all th' hand-loom weyvers struck wark, becoss they said it ud do 'em all up, an' ther'd be noa wark at all for weyvers in a bit; but it hasn't turn'd aat soa, for ther's moor weyvers i'th' country to-day, nor iver ther wor; and they addle moor brass, an' awm sure they've easier wark. for if this country doesn't get new machines, other countries will, an' when we're left behund hand an' connot meet 'em i'th' market, we'st be a deeal war off nor ony new invention can mak us. all at's been done soa far has helped to mak us better off. they connot mak a machine to think, they're forced to stop thear; an' aw dooant daat if we'd to live long enuff, ther'd be a time when chaps ud ha nowt to do but think-but it's to be hoaped 'at they'd have summat else to think abaat nor rattenin', or shooitin', or ruinin' fowk. aw've tawk'd to some abaat it, an' they say they're foorced to do sum way to keep wages up, but if aw can tell em ha to mak brass goa farther, they'll be content to give up th' union. but aw think it goas far enuff--what they want is to keep it nearer hooam, to let less on it goa to th' ale haase, to spend less o' dog feightin', pigeon flyin', an' rat worryin'; an' if they'd niver spend owt withaat think in' whether it wor for ther gooid or net, they'd find a deal moor brass i'th' drawer corner at th' month end, an' varry likely a nice little bit to fall back on i'th' savings bank at th' year end. an a chap stands hauf an inch heigher when he's a bankbook in his pocket; an' butchers and grocers varry sooin begin to nod at him, an' ax if they can do owt for him. but if he goas on th'strap, an' happens to be a month behund, he's foorced to stand o' one side till iverybody else gets sarved, an' then if he doesn't like what's left they tell him to goa leave it. it isn't what a chap addles, it's what a chap saves 'at makes him rich. sellin' drink has made mony a chap rich, an suppin it has made thaasands poor. but still aw must honestly say 'at aw cannot agree wi' teetotalism altogether. if noa men gate drunken, ther'd be noa need for anybody to sign th' pledge;--an' aw dooant think they goa th' reight way to get fowk to be sober. they publish papers, but what use is made on em? yo hardly iver see a midden emptied but what yo'll find two or three pieces o'th' "british workman," or th' "temperance advocate" flyin' abaat; an' they hold meetings an' spend a sight o' brass o' printin' an' praichin', an' still they doant mak one teetotaller 'at ov a thaasand. aw should advise em to try this way. let em offer a â£500 prize for him 'at can invent a drink as gooid takin' as ale--an' one, 'at willn't mak fowk drunk. chaps mun sup summat when they're away throo hooam, an it is'nt iverybody's stumach 'at's strong enuff to tak watter, unless it's let daan wi summat; an' ther is noa teetotal drink invented yet 'at's any better nor spenishjuice-watter. they're all like pap. coffee an' tea are all weel enuff, but if yo want that yo munnot goa to a temperance hotel for it. aw'ye tried it monny a scoor times, but aw niver gate owt fit to sup, an' if it hadn't been for th' drop o' rum aw gate 'em to put into it, aw couldn't ha swallowed it. tea an' coffee are things 'at dooant mend wi' warmin up, an' yo connot allus wait woll fowk mak it, an' soa if yo want to sup yo mun awther goa an' beg a drop o' watter, or pay fourpence for a glass o' belly vengeance, or yo mun get a glass o' drink--but yo've noa need to get a dozzen. teetotallers say it contains poison, an' noa daat it does--but it's of a varry slow mak, an' if yo niver goa to excess yo may live to be a varry owd man, an' dee befoor it begins to operate, ther wor once a chap killed hissel wi' aitin traitle parkin, but that's noa reason we shouldn't have a bit o' brandy-snap at our fair. aw allus think a teetotal lecturer is like a bottle o' pop. ther's a bit ov a crack to 'start wi', an' a gooid deal o' fooamin, an' frothin', an' fizzin', but when it's all ovver, an' settled daan, what's left is varry poor stuff. still aw think one teetotaller is worth moor nor a ship-load o' drunkards. september month. blackberries are ripe in september, an' we may consider th' year's ripe, for when this month gets turned, things 'll begin o' gooin' th' back way. its vany wonderful when we look reight at it. this world's a wonderful spot, an' ther's a deal o' wonderful things in it. ther's some things at it's varry wonderful to see, an' ther's some things' at it's wonderful net to see. aw thowt it wor varry wonderful, a week or two sin', when aw pass'd stanninley station, 'at ther worn't a chap wi' a dog under his arm; it's th' furst time aw iver pass'd an' didn't see one. but aw niver think it's wonderful for ther to be a fooil in a company; an' aw dooant think its wonderful when aw find 'at th' biggest fooil has allus th' mooast to say. nah, its a varry nice time o'th' year is this for fowk to have a bit of a pic-nic;--aw dooant know owt 'at's a better excuse for a chap to tighten his belly-band nor a pic-nic, becoss iverybody taks twice as mich stuff to ait as they know they'll want, for fear fowk might think they wor shabby. if yo get a invite to a doo o' that mak', be sure yo goa, if you've owt of a twist. but talkin' abaat invites maks me study a bit. when yo get an invitation, allus think it ovver befoor yo tak' it ax yorsen one or two questions abaat it. if yo think it's becoss yo can play th' peanner, or becoss yo can sing--tell 'em yorterms. if yo think it's becoss some owd uncle is likely to dee an' leeav yo a lot o' brass, an' they've a dowter or two 'at isn't wed-tell 'em yor engaged (to a lady). if yo think it's becoss they fancy yor a shinin' leet--tell 'em yo're gooan aat. i yo think it's becoss they want to borrow some brass, an' yor daatful whether yo'll iver get it back agean--tell 'em yo've soa monny calls made on yo, wall yo're feeard yo connot call o' them at present. but if yo think it's just becoss they want yo, an' they'll be glad to see yo,' put on yor hat an' off in a minit. aw once knew a chap 'at had getten a invite to a doo, an' he wor gooin' to tak his wife wi' him; an' he wor tellin' some mates what a shimmer shoo wor gooin' to cut. "mun," he says, "sho'll just luk like one o' them figures i'th' waxworks! aw've bowt her a goold cheen as thick as my thum; it's cost ornmost a paand. an' tawk abaat a dress! why, yo' niver saw sich a dress it's a real mary antique! th' chap 'at sell'd it me, said it had been made for th' princess o' wales, but it wor soa mich brass wol th' prince couldn't affoord to pay for't, so he let me have it cheap; an' it's just like buckram--it'll stand ov an end." "why," said one o'th' chaps, "the princess willn't be suited if shoo hears tell 'at thy wife's gettin' it." "noa," he said, "aw dooant think shoo wod, but awst noan tell her; an' if shoo gets to know, she mun try an' put up wi' a bit ov a trial nah an' then. ther's allus troubles for th' rich as weel as th' poor." well! all this gooas to prove what aw said at th' startin'--it's a wonderful world, an' ther's a deeal o' wonderful things in it;--an', to quote from the poet (milton aw think), aw may say- it's a varry' gooid world that we live in to lend, or to spend, or to give in;- but to beg, or to borrow, or get a man's own, it's th' varry worst world 'at iver wor known. hi, an' its th' best 'at iver wor known yet; an haiver mich fowk may say agean it, awve allus nooatised at' ther's varry few seem inclined to part wi' it. a hawporth. whear is thi' daddy doy? whear is thi' mam? what are ta cryin for, poor little lamb? dry up thi peepies, pet, wipe thi wet face; tears o' thy little cheeks seem aat 'o place. what do they call thi, lad? tell me thi name; have they been ooinion thi? why, its a shame. here, tak this hawpny, an' buy thi some spice, rocksticks or humbugs or summat 'at's nice. then run of hooam agean, fast as tha can; thear,--thart all reight agean; run like a man. he wiped up his tears wi his little white brat, an' he tried to say summat, aw couldn't tell what; but his little face breeten'd wi' pleasure all throo:-a'a!--its cappin, sometimes, what a hawpny can do. buttermilk &c. may is the month for buttermilk! a doctor once tell'd me it wor worth a guinea a pint; he sed it licked cod liver oil, castor oil; or paraffin oil. castor oil, he said, war varry gooid for ther bowels, cod liver oil for ther liver, an' paraffin oil for ther leets (whear they'd noa gas), but buttermilk wor better nor all three put together, an' he ad vised me to tak it. "why," aw sed; "what's th' use o'. me takkin it when aw dooant ail owt?" "ther's noa tellin' ha sooin yo may," he said, "an' an it's a varry simple remedy, yo'd better tak it whether yo do or net." "reight enuff," aw sed, "simple things sometimes do th' best. aw once knew a woman 'at had been confined to her bed for twelve year, an' her husband cured her in a minit, after all th' doctors at th' infirmary had gien her up." th' doctor pricked his ears when aw sed soa, an' wanted to know all abaat it, soa aw at it an' tell'd him. "sally an' her husband lived at th' arred well, but he oft used to goa as far as th' coit hill ova neet to have a pint an' enjoy an haar or two i' company, an' when he gate haoam he used to catch it, an' finely too, aw con assure yo, for altho shood ligg'd i' bed soa long, shoo had'nt lost th' use ov her tongue, an' her felly said 'at shoo hadn't lost th' use ov her teeth nawther, for shoo could ait as weel as iver shoo could. one neet as he wor gooin hooam, he bethowt him he'd try a bit ov a dodge on, for although he felt varry sooary for his wife, yet he could'nt help thinkin' it wor partly consait at shoo'd suffer'd throo; soa when he gate in, shoo began a blowin' into him i' fine style. 'th' owd time, lad! it shows what tha cares for me! aw hav'nt had a wick soul to spaik to sin tha went aat, but it's all one to thee! tha'll come hooam some time an' find me ligg'd deead, an' then tha can spree abaat throo morm to neet.' 'nay, lass, aw dooant think aw should spree abaat any moor nor aw do nah. but who does ta think aw met to neet?' he said. 'ah know nowt abaat it, nor care nawther.' 'why, but as aw war comin' up bith' brayvet gate, aw met betty earnshaw, an' soa aw went gaiterds wi her a bit, an' that's reason aw'm soa lat.' 'oh! tha mud weel be lat! shoo war an' owd sweetheart o' thine, wor betty.' 'eea, shoo war axin me ha tha wor gettin' on, shoo seems vany sooary for thi.' 'sooary be hanged! aw want nooan ov her sooarys! if shoo could nobbut get me aat o' th' gate, shoo'd be all reight. did shoo ax when tha thowt tha'd be at liberty?' 'nay shoo did'nt, but shoo did say at shoo thowt tha lasted long, but shoo pitied thee an' me.' 'pitied thee, did shoo! an' what did shoo pity thi for, aw should like to know? shoo happen thowt shoo could do better for thee nor what aw've done, but if shoo wor as badly as me shood know summat. 'eea, but shoo isn't, for aw nivver saw her luk better i' mi life, an' shoo talks abaat commin' i'th' morn in' to clean up for thi a bit; aw sed tha'd be fain to see her, an' tha sees if owt should happen thee, shadd be getten into th' way a bit, an' begin to feel moor used to th' haase.' 'niver! wol my heart's warm, tom. aw'll niver have sich a huzzy i'th' haase, wheal' aw am! aw'm nooan done wi yet! aw'll live a bit longer to plague yo wi', an' as for cleanin', aw'll crawl abaat o' mi hands an' knees afoor shoo shall do owt for me! yo think aw'm poorly an' soa aw'm to be trodden on, but aw'll let yo see awm worth a dozen deead uns yet; nasty owd ponse as shoo is!" an' as sure as yor thear, doctor, shoo gate up th' next morn in' an' kinneld th' fair, an' when tom coom hoam to his braikfast all wor ready, an' shoo wor set daan at th' table wi a clean cap on, an' lukkin as smart as smart could be. when th' chap saw this, he said, "lass, aw think aw'd better send betty backward," "eea, aw think tha had," shoo sed, "an' th'a can send her word throo me 'at aw may live to donee on her gravestooan yet." tom bafs in his sleeve a bit sometimes, an' if iver one ov her owd fits seems likely ta come on, he's nowt to do but say a word or two abaat betty, an' shoo's reight in a minnit. that licks buttermilk, doctor. it's a comfort. it's a comfort a chap can do withaat what he connot get. it feels hard to have to do wi' less nor what a body has at present, but if it has to be it will be, an' it's cappin' ha' fowk manage to pool throo haiver bad th' job is. it's naa use for a chap to keep longin' for sum mat better, unless he's willin' to buckle to, an' work for it; an' a chap wi' an independent mind ne'er freeats becoss he hasn't all he wants; he sets hissen to get it, an' if he's detarmined he oft succeeds, an' if net he doesn't sit daan an' mump, but up an' at it agean. havin' a lot o' brass doesn't mak a chap happy, but spend in' it may do, an' if a chap's wise he'll try to spend it in a way 'at'll bring happiness for a long time to come. ther's some fowk feeared 'at they con niver spend brass safely; they're allus freeten'd of loisin' it; but they've noa need, for if they spent it i' dooin' gooid, they'll allus be sure o' gooid interest, for they'll be pleased every time they think on it. nah, ther's some things i' this world 'at yo connot looise. it's a varry easy thing to loise a cork aat ov a bottle, but it's impossible to loise th' hoil aat ov a bottle neck. yo may braik th' bottle all to pieces, but th' hoil is somewhear; it nobbut wants another bit o' glass twistin' raand it, an' yo'll find it's as gooid as iver it wor, an' it's just soa wi' a gooid action; yo may loise th' seet on it, but it's somewhear abaat; it nobbut wants circumstances twistin' raand it, an' yo'll find it's thear--it's niver lost. if fowk 'ud get into this way o' thinkin', ther'd be a deal moor gooid done nor ther is. haiver mich brass a chap has, if he's moor wants nor he con satisfy, he's poor enuff; an' aw think if fowk 'ud spend a bit less time i' tryin' to get rich, an' a bit moor i' tryin' to lessen ther wants, they'd be moor comfortable bi th' hauf. but yo' may carry things too far even i' savin'. aw once knew a chap 'at wor a regular skinflint; he'd gie nowt--noa, net as mich as a crumb to a burd; an' if iver any wor seen abaat his haase they used to be sat daan to be young ens 'at hadn't le'nt wit. well, he once went to buy a seck o' coils, an' to be able to get 'em cheaper he fetched 'em throo th' pit; it wor th' depth o' winter, but as he had to hug 'em two mile it made th' sweeat roll off him.. when he gate hooam he put 'em daan an' shook his heead. "by gow," he sed, "awm ommost done, but aw'll mak' yo' pay for this, for aw willn't burn another coil this winter." an' he stuck, to his word, an' wheniver he wor starved, he used to get th' seck o' coils ov his back an' walk raand th' haase till he gat warm agean--an' he says they're likely to fit him his bit o' rime aat. "well," yo'n say, "that chap wor a fooil," an' aw think soa misen, an' varry likely if he'd seen us do some things he'd think we wor fooils. we dooant allus see things i'th' same leet--for instance, a pompus chap wor once tawkin' to me abaat his father. "my father," he said, "was a carver and gilder, an' he once carved a calf so naturally that you would fancy you could hear it bleat." "well, aw didn't know thi father," aw sed, "but aw know thi mother once cauved one, for aw've heeard it bleat." yo' should just ha' seen him when aw sed soa!--didn't he pull th' blinds daan, crickey! progress. this is the age of progress; and it is not slo progress nawther. the worst on it is, we're all forced to go on whether we like it or net, for if we stand still a minit, ther's somedy traidin' ov us heels, an' unless we move on they'll walk ovver us, an' then when we see them ommost at top o'th' hill, we shall find us sen grubbin' i'th' muck at th' bottom. a chap mun have his wits abaat him at this day or else he'll sooin' be left behund. ther's some absent minded fowk think they get on varry weel i'th' owd way an' they're quite content, but its nobbut becoss they're too absent minded to see ha mich better they mud ha done if they'd wakken'd up a bit sooiner. aw once knew a varry absent minded chap; he wur allus dooin' some sooart o' wrang heeaded tricks. aw' remember once we'd booath to sleep i' one bed, an aw gate in fust, an' when aw luk'd to see if he wor commin', aw'm blow'd! if he hadn't put his cloas into bed an hung hissen ovver th' cheer back. awm sure aw connot tell where all this marchin' is likely to lead us to at last, but aw hooap we shall be all reight, for aw do think ther's plenty o' room to mend even yet, but the deuce on it is,' ther's soa monny different notions abaat what is reight wol aw'm flamigaster'd amang it. some say drink is the besetting sin; another says 'bacca is man's ruination. one says we're all goin' to the devil becoss we goa to church, an' another says we'st niver goa to heaven if we goa to th' chapel, but aw dooant let ony o' them things bother me. 'at ther is a deeal o' sin i'th' world aw dooant deny, an', aw think ther is one 'at just bears th' same relation to other sins as a split ring bears to a bunch o' keys; it's one 'at all t'other things on: an' that's _selfishness_, an we've all sadly too mich o' that. we follow that "number one" doctrine sadly too mich,--iverybody seems bent o' gettin, but ther's varry few think o' givin'--(unless its advice, ther's any on 'em ready enuff to give that; but if advice wor stuff 'at they could buy potatoes wi', ther' wodn't be as mich o' that knockin' abaat for nowt as ther' is). we're all varry apt to know the messur o' ivrybody's heead but us own; we can tell when a cap fits them directly, but we con niver tell when ther's one 'at just fits us. miss parsnip said last sunday, when shoo'd been to th' chapel, "at shoo wondered ha mrs. cauliflaar could fashion to hold her heead up, for shoo niver heeard a praicher hit onybody harder in all her life," an' mrs. cauliflaar tell'd me "'at if shoo wor miss parsnip shoo'd niver put her heead i' that chapel ageean, for iverybody knew 'at he meant her' when he wor tawkin' abaat backbitin'." an'soa it is; we luk at other fowk's faults through th' thin end o' th' spy glass, but when we want to look at us own, we turn it raand. "o, wad some power the giftie gie us to see oursels as others see us, it wad fra many a blunder free us an' foolish notion. what airs in dress an' g'ait wad lea' us an' ev'n devotion." selfishness may do varry weel for this world, but we should remember it isn't th gooid one does to hissen 'at he gets rewarded for after-it's th' gooid he does to others, an' although we may be able to mak' a spreead here, wi' fine clooas, fine haases, an' sich like; unless we put selfishness o' one side an' practise charity it'll be noa use then. "for up above there's one 'at sees through th' heart o' every man; an' he'll just find thee as tha dees, soa dee as well as t' con." try again. look around and see the great men who have risen from the poor some are judges, some are statesmen, ther's a chance for you i'm sure. don't give in because you're weary, pleasure oft is bought by pain; if unlucky, still be cheery, up and at it! _try again_. jealousy. it wad be a poor shop, wad this world, if it worn't for love! but even love has its drawbacks. if it worn't for love ther'd be noa jaylussy--shakspere calls jaylussy a green-eyed monster, an' it may be for owt aw know, an' aw dooan't think 'at them 'at entertain it have mich white i' theirs. if ther's owt aw think fooilish, it is for a husband an' wife to be jaylus o' one another; for it spoils all ther spooart, an' maks a lot for other fowk; an' aw'm allus a bit suspicious abaat 'em, for aw've fun it to be th' case 'at them 'at do reight thersens are allus th' last to believe owt wrang abaat others. aw once knew a chap 'at wor jaylus, an' his wife had a sore time wi' him. if shoo spake to her next-door neighbor, it wor ommost as mich as her life war worth, an' shoo wor forced to give ovver gooin' to th' chapel, becos if shoo luk'd at th' parson he used to nudge her wi' a hymn book. th' neighbours pitied her, an' set him daan for a fooil; but he gate cured at last, an' aw'll tell ha.' once he had to set off, an' as shoo worn't varry weel he couldn't tak her wi' him, but he gave her a lot o' directions afoor he went, an' tell'd her 'at he might be back ony minit. well, if iver ther war a miserable chap it wor jim, wol he wor away; but he coom back as sooin as he could, an' what should he see but a leet up stairs. his face went as white as chalk, an' he wor just creepin' to th' winder to harken, when a chap 'at knew him happened to pass. he knew how jaylus jim war, soa he thowt he'd have a lark. "halla, jim!" he said, "coom here; aw've summat to tell thee. tha munnot goa in yor haase just nah, for tha ar'nt wanted." "what ammot aw wanted for, awst like to know?" said jim. "well, keep cooil, an' aw'll tell thi. tha knows tha's been away a day or two, an' aw think it's my duty to let thi know 'at last neet ther wor a young chap coom to yor haase to luk at thi mistress; an' shoo's niver been aat o; door sin', nor him nawther; an' my belief is they're in that room together just this minit." "aat o' my rooad!" sed jim, "let me goa in if aw dooant pitch him aat a' that winder, neck an' crop, my name isn't jim." up stairs he flew. "nah then, whear is he? whear is he?" he haw'led, an' seized hold o' th' pooaker. "aa, jim," shoo sed, "tha wodn't hurt th' child surelee?" an' shoo held up a bonny little lad abaat two days old, 'at stared at him as gaumless as gaumless could be, an' 'at had his father's nooas an' chin to nowt. "by gingo, aw'm done this time!" said jim, as he tuk it in his arms an' kust it. "aa, what a fooil aw've been! tha'll forgie me, lass, weant ta?" "sure aw will, jim," shoo sed. an' after that they lived happily together, as all dacent fowk should. winter. winter's comin'! top coits an' nickerbockers begin to be sowt up. a chap enjoys his bed a bit better, an' doesn't like gettin' up in a mornin' quite as weel. tawkin' abaat enjoyin' bed makes me think ova young chap aat o' midgley at' gate wed an' browt his wife to halifax to buy a bed, an' nowt wod suit her but a shut-up en, like her father an' mother had allus had: an' they wor't long befoor they fun a second-hand en, 'at they gate cheap, an' as they knew a chap 'at coam wi' a milk cart throo near whear they lived, they gate him to tak it hooam for 'em, an' it worn't long befoor th' beddin' an' all wor nicely arranged, an' they war snoozelin' under th' blankets. they hadn't been asleep long befoor he wakken'd wi a varry uncomfortabie feelin', but as his wife wor hard asleep he didn't like to disturb her. he roll'd o' one side an' then o'th' tother, an' rub'd his legs an' scratched his back, but he couldn't settle do what he wod. in a bit summat made him jump straight up ov an end, an' if he hadn't been dacently browt up, it's very likely he mud ha' sed some faal words, wi' him jumpin' up soa sudden, th' wife wakken'd, an' jumpt up as weel, but as th' bed heead war abaat six inch lower nor that shoo'd bin used to, shoo hit her neet cap agean th' top an' fell back wi a reglar sass. "whativer is ther to do, sammy," shoo sed, as sooin as shoo could spaik, "strike a leet' wi ta!" sammy gate a leet, an' blushed an ovver his face, for it wor th' fust time onybody had seen him dressed that way sin he wor a little lad. "aw dooant know what ther is to do," he sed, "but aw cannot bide i' that bed, an' that's a fact." "what!" shoo says, "are ta ruein' o' thi bargain bi nah? but tha's no need to freat, for aw con spare thee at ony time." "nay, jenny," he sed, it's nooan thee 'at maks me uneasy, but aw fancy ther's summat wick i' that bed besides thee an' me.' "is ther," shoo said, an' shoo flew off one side; "why whativer is it, thinks ta?" sammy turned daan th' clooas, an' it just luk'd as if sombdy had been aitin' spice cake an' letten all th' currans drop aat. tawk abaat fleas! they worn't fleas! they wor twice as big, an' they wor marchin' away like a rigiment o' sodgers. he stared wi' all th' een in his heead, an' shoo started a cryin'. "a'a, to think 'at aw should iver come to this, to be walked over wi' a lot o' pouse like that! what mun we do?" "do! we mun catch 'em, aw expect," he sed, an' he began wi pickin' 'em off one bi one, an' droppin' 'em into some water 'at wor cloise by. "well, mi mother tell'd me," he sed, "'at when fowk gate wed they began o' ther troubles; an' it's true an' all, but aw didn't expect owt like this, for if aw'd known, aw'd ha' seen th' weddin' far enough; aw did think 'at a chap wad be able to get a neet's rest anyway." "tha can goa back to thi mother," shoo sed, "an' stop wi' her for owt aw care, an' aw wish tha'd niver left her, for aw'st get mi deeath o' cold wi' paddlin' abaat wi' nowt on; but does ta think tha's catched 'em all?" "aw think soa, an' if tha's a mind we'll get to bed agean." "nay, tha can goa to thi mother as tha freats soa," shoo sed. "tak noa noatice o' what aw sed," sed sammy, "tha knows aw wor put abaat a bit, an' it war all for th' sake o' thee." "tha'll tell me owt," shoo sed, "put th' leet aat, an' let's see if we con get a bit o' gradely sleep." they gate into bed once more, an' shoo wor off to sleep in a minit, but sammy wor rubbin' an' scrattin' hissen. "wen, aw've heeard tell abaat things bein' ball proof and bomb proof, but aw niver knew 'at anybody wor bug proof befoor." wi' him knockin' abaat soa mich shoo wakken'd agean. "nay, sammy," shoo sed, "aw'm reight fair stawld, it's all consait, aw'm sure it is." "consait be hanged!" he bawled aat, "just feel at that blister an' then tell me if it's all consait." nowt could keep awther on 'em 'i bed after that, an' they paraded abaat all th' neet like two gooasts, wait in' for th' cock crow. mornin' did come at last, an' sammy worn't long befoor' he had th' bed aatside. "what are ta baan to do wi' it nah?" ax'd his wife. "aw'm baan to leave it wheal' it is wol neet," he sed, "an' if they havn't forgetten which road they coom, aw think ther's as monny as'll be able to tak it back to halifax." next neet they made a bed o'th' floor, an' slept like tops, an' next mornin' when they gate up, th' bed wor off. whether th' cumpny 'at wor in it had taen it or net, sammy couldn't tell, but he niver went to seek it. fowk 'at buy second-hand beds, _tak warnin._" persevere. if you fail don't be downhearted, better times come by-and-by; soon you'll find all fears departed, if you'll only boldly _try_. he who would climb up a mountain, must not sit him down and cry; at the top you'll find the fountain, and you'll reach it if you'll _try_. though your comrades call it folly, persevere, you'll win the day; never let dick, tom, or polly, stop you on your onward way, there is always joy in striving, though you fix your goal so high; nearer every day arriving, you may reach it if you _try_. booith-taan election. _this place 'is nearly a mile from the good old town of halifax._ aa! ther wor a flare-up at booith-taan hall that neet! it had been gein aat 'at they'd to be a meetin' held to elect a new lord-mayor, for new-taan, booith-taan, an' th' haley hill, on which particular occashun, ale ud be supplied at tuppence a pint upstairs. ther wor a rare muster an' a gooid deeal o' argyfyin' tuk place abaat who shud be th' chearman. but one on 'em--a sly old fox--had kept standin' o' th' floor sidlin' abaat woll ivery other chear wor full, an' then after takkin a pinch o' snuff, he said, "gentlemen, aw see noa reason aw shuddent tak this place mysen, as iverybody else has getten set daan." two or three 'at wor his friends said "hear, hear," an' two or three 'at worn't said "sensashun!" when iverybody's pint had getten fill'd, he blew his nooas, tuk another pinch o' snuff, an' stud ov his hind legs to oppen th' proceedins. "bergers and bergeresses," he began, "aw've a varry unpleasant duty to perform to-neet, which is, namely, to propooas 'at we have a fresh mayor," (cries ov "shame," "gammon," "th' mayor we have is ommost allus fresh!" (etsetra, etsetra etsetra.) "gentlemen," he began agean, "what aw have to say is this,"-"luk sharp an get it said, then," said stander, th' grocer. "if tha doesn't hold thy noise, stander, tha'll get noa moor snuff off me, aw con tell thi that; aw mayn't be as flaary a talker as thee, but what aw say is to'th' point, an' aw think 'at a constituency like booith-taan owt to be represented by somebody ov standin'." "better send th' chearman, he's stud den long enuft," said one. "prathi sit thi daan, if tha connot talk sense," said another. "its's time for sombdy to stand summat, for all th' pints is empty," said th' lanlord. "well, gentlemen," went on th' chearman, "th' question just dissolves itsel' into this: who has it to be? has it to be a doctor sombdy, or a professor sombdy, or a squire sombdy, or has it to be a plain maister?" "oh i let it be a squire," said one. "e'ea, squire broadbent ul do," said another. "nah, lads, yo' 'ie heeard th' chearman's resolushun, an' aw sit daan to call upon mr. stander, esquire, grocer, to address yo." th' chearman doubled hissel' into th' shape ov his chear, an' after they'd gein ovver pawsin' th' table legs, an' knockin' pint pots, stander gate up an' began. "fellow municipallers (hear, hear), aw agree wi' what awr chearman says, 'at we owt to have sombdy o' standin' i' society to represent us for this subsequent year 'at's forthcomin'." "tha happen want's to get one o' thi own relations in," said snittle. "it ud seem thee better to keep thi maath shut, snittle, till tha's paid me for yond garman yeast."--(shame, shame.) "gentlemen, aw propooas 'at this meetin' dissolves itsel' into a depitation to visit professor holloway, to ax him if he'll represent us for th' next year. aw dooant know him mysen, but we've all heeard tell on him, an' we've seen his pills an' ointment advertised, an' aw think he'd be a varry likely man to work awr business to th' best interest ov the whole communicants; an' noa daat he'd be able to heal up ony bits o' unpleasantness 'at's been caused wi' this election. aw believe him to be a varry pushin' man, an' one ov a spyring natur; for as elijah barrett says (i' his book on leeanin' to blacksmith), 'one inch the heighest,' seems to be the motto he works on, for goa where yo will yo'll allus see one o' his bills a bit heigher nor onybody's else, an for that reason aw beg to propooas 'at he should be acceptted as a fit an' proper person. the chearman stood up an' axed "ony chap to i say owt agean that 'at dar." up jumped billy bartle, an' said, "aw object to that in total; aw see noa reason to goa to lunnon to find a mayor, soa long as we've professors at hooam, an aw propoosas 'at we ax--" ("shut up! shut up!" "ta' hold, an' sup." "gooid lad, billy,") etsetra, etsetra. etsetra. just then th' lanlord coom in an' turn'd off th' gas, for he said "they hadn't spent aboon eighteen pence all th' neet." th' chearman said he thowt they couldn't do better nor all have a pinch o' snuff wi' him, an' have a pint i'th' kitchen woll they talked things ovver; soa they went daan th' stairs, an' somha they managed to re-elect th' owd en afoor they went hooam, an' six on em hugged him o' ther heeads to th' top o' ringby, an' niver heed if ther heeads didn't wark th' next mornin'. election. candidates at an election allus reminds me ov a lot o' bees turned aat, for they fly abaat th' country buzzin' an' hummin', wol yor fair capt what a din they con mak; but as sooin as they pop into th' hive o' st. stephen's yo niver hear a muff--they're as quite as waxwark. aw varrily believe 'at one hauf on 'em niver oppen the maath throo th' yaar end to year end, nobbut when they're sleepy, then they may gape a bit, but they do it as quiet as they can. as for them chaps 'at tawk soa mich befoor they goa, abaat passin' laws to give iverybody a paand a wick whether they work or laik, an' reducin' th' workin haars to three haars a day an' three days a wick: why, its just gammon! none think alike. what suits one body doesn't suit another. aw niver knew two fowk 'at allus thowt alike; an' if yo iver heard a poor chap talkin' abaat somebdy 'ats weel off, he's sure to say 'at if he'd his brass he'd do different throo what they do. aw once heeard a chap say 'at if he'd as mich brass as baron rothschild he'd niver do owt but ait beef-steaks an' ride i' cabs. well, lad, aw thowt, it's better tha hasn't it. we're all varry apt to find fault wi' things at we know varry little abaat, an' happen if we knew mooar we shud say less. aw once heeard two lasses talkin', an' one on 'em war tellin' tother 'at sin shoo saw her befoor, shoo'd getten wed, an' had a child, an' buried it. "why, whativer shall aw live to hear? aw didn't know 'at tha'd begun coortin'. whoiver has ta getten wed to?" "oh, awve getten wed to a forriner, at comes throo staffordshur." "well, aw hooap, tha's done weel, lass; awm sure aw do. and what does he do for a livin'?" "why, its rayther a queer trade; but he stails pots." "stails pots, betty! a'a aw wonder ha tha could bring thisen daan to wed a chap o' that sooart. aw'll keep single for iver, woll awm green maald, afoor aw'll wed ony chap unless he gets his livin' honestly." "aw should like to meet ony body 'at says he doesn't get his livin' honestly," says betty; "nah thee mark that." "well, betty, that maks noa difference to me; but aw say agean 'at noa chap gets his livin' honestly 'at stails--noa matter whether he stails pots or parkins." "why, nancy, aw thowt tha'd moor sense, aw did for sure;-aw mean, his trade is to put stails on to pots." "oh! a'a! e'e! tha mun forgi' mi this time, betty, aw see what tha meeans; he puts hanels on to pots: that's it, isn't it." "e'ea." "why, tha sees, aw didn't understond." "ther's monny a one has a deeal to say abaat things 'at they dunnot understond, an' monny a one gets awfully put aat wi' what sich like do say; but it isn't advisable to be soa varry touchus at this day, an' as aw've read somwhear- time to me this truth has towt, 'tis a truth 'at's worth revealin'; moor offend for want o' thowt nor for any want o' feelin'. an' aw believe that's true; but at th' same time it's as weel to be careful net to offend onybody if we con help it, for a chap's fingers luk a deeal nicer, an' moor agreeabler, when they're oppened aat to shake hands wi yo, nor what they do when doubled up i'th' front o' yor nooas. soa yo see, yo connot be to careful o' yor words an' deeds, if yo want to keep straight wi' fowk; an' it's a wise thing to be at peeace. and if this is a unsettled time o' th' year, that's noa reason 'at yo should be unsettled. but as it isn't iverybody's lot to know ha to get on smoothly, aw'll just give yo a bit o' advice; an' if yo learn that, an' act on it, yo'll niver rue th' brass yo've spent, especially if yo tak into consideration at th' profits are devoted to a charitable institution (that's awr haase). if wisdom's ways you'd wisely seek, five things observe with care; of whom you speak, to whom you speak, and how, and when, and where. seaside. iverybody 'at is owt is awther just settin' off or just gettin' back throo th' spaws. ther's nowt like th' sea breeze! but a chum o' mine says th' sea breeze is a fooil to saltaire, but he cannot mak me believe it. ther's nowt ever suits me as weel at blackpool as to see a lot o' cheap trippers 'at's just com'd for a day--they mean to enjoy thersen. yo can see that as sooin as iver th' train claps 'em daan, away they steer to have a luk at th' watter. ther's th' fayther comes th' furst, wi' th' youngest child in his arms, an' one or two rayther bigger poolin' 'at his coit laps, an' just behund is his owd lass, puffin' and blowin' like a steam engine, her face as red as a rising sun, an' a basket ov her arm big enuff for a oyster hawker. at one corner on it yo con see a black bottle neck peepin' aat. at th' side on her walks th' owdest lass; an' isn't shoo doin' it grand for owt shoo knows! luk what fine ribbons shoo has flyin' daan her back, an' a brass ring ov her finger, varry near big enuff to mak a dog's collar on, an' a cotton parasol 'at luks ivery bit as weel as a silk 'un; and yo con see as shoo tosses her heead first to one side an then to tother, 'at shoo defies awther yo or onybody else to tell 'at shoo's nobbut a calico wayver when shoo's at hooam. but they get aside o'th' watter at last. "ha! what a wopper!" says one o'th' lads, as a wave comes rollin' ovver. "a'a! but that's a gurter!" says another. then th' father an' th' mother puts th' young uns all in a row, an' tell 'em all to luk at th' sea--as if ther wor owt else to luk at i' blackpool. but yo may see at th' owd lass isn't comfortable, for shoo keeps peepin' into her basket, an' at last shoo says, "joa--aw believe sombdy's had ther fooit i'th' basket, for th' pasty's brusscn, an th' pot wi' th' mustard in is brockken all to bits." "neer heed, if that's all, its noa war for being mix'd a bit; it's all to goa into one shop." as sooin as owt to ait is mentioned, th' childer's hungry in a minit-even th' lass' at's been peraidin' abaat an' couldn't fashion to stand aside ov her brothers an' sisters coss they wor soa short o' manners--draws a bit nearer th' mother's elbow. daan they sit like a owd hen an' her chickens, an' dooant they put it aat o'th' seet? it means nowt if th' mustard an' th' pickled onions have getten on th' apple pasty or potted mait an' presarved tairts squeezed all into one--they're noan nasty nice; an' then th' bottle's passed raand: cold tea flavored wi rum, an sweetened, wol th' childer can hardly leave lawse when they've once getten hold. an' wol they're enjoyin' thersen this way, th' owd chap's blowin' his bacca, an' tak's a pool ivery nah and then at a little bottle, abaat th' size ov a prayer book, 'at he hugs in his side pocket. after this they mun have a sail i' one o'th' booats, an' in they get, tumellin' one over t'other, an' bargain wi' th' chap for a _gooid_ haar. th' owd chap pools his watch aat an mak's sure o'th' time when they start, an' away they goa like a burd. "isn't it grand?" says furst one an' then another. but in a bit th' owd chap puts his pipe aat an' tak's another pool at th' little bottle, an' his wife's face grows a deeal leeter coloured, an' shoo axes him ha' long they've to goa yet? aat comes th' watch, an' they're capt to find 'at they've nobbut been fifteen minutes, an' th' owdest lass lains ovver th' side, an' after coughin' a time or two begins to feed th' fish, an' th' little uns come to lig ther heeads o' ther mother's knees, but shoo tells 'em to sit o'th' seeat, for shoo connot bide to be bothered; then shoo tak's a fancy to luk ovver th' edge, an' ther's another meal for th' fish. th' owd chap's detarmined to stand it aat, soa he shuts his e'en, an screws up his maath wol it's hardly as big as a thripny bit--then his watch comes aat agean, an' he sighs to find they've nobbut been one hauf ther time. th' chaps i'th' boat see ha' matters stand, an' bring' em back as sooin as they con. aat they get, an' th' brass is paid withaat a word; but th' owd woman shakes her heead an' says, "niver noa moor! it's a dear doo! sixpence a piece, an' all th' potted mait an' th' apple pasty wasted." yorkshire ditties by john hartley born 1839 died 1915 to which is added the cream of wit and humour from his popular writings. first series london w. nicholson & sons, limited, 26, paternoster square, e.c and albion works, wakefield. [entered at stationers' hall] introduction as the first volume of the yorkshire ditties has been for some time out of print, and as there is a great demand for the very humorous productions of mr. hartley's pen, it has been decided to reprint that volume, and also a second one; both to be considerably enlarged and enriched by selections from mr. hartley's other humorous writings. the publishers would also intimate that for this purpose they have purchased of mr. hartley the copyright of the ditties, and other pieces appended to each volume. the publishers presume that both volumes will, on account of their great humour, be favourably received by the public. contents of first series. poetry. bite bigger to th' swallow plenty o' brass th' little stranger babby burds wayvin mewsic that's a fact stop at hooam the short timer th' first o'th' soart lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed uncle ben the new year's resolve the old bachelor's story aght o' wark another babby the little black hand lily's gooan my native twang shoo's thi' sister persevere to a roadside flower prose pieces. cream of wit and humour from his popular writings the new year valentine day march winds april fooils policeman's scrape information watterin' places flaar shows october ale force of example gunpaader plot th' last month meditated strike new year's parties smiles, tears, getting on mysterious disappearance sam it up fooils cleanin' daan month hay-making hollingworth lake plagues end o'th' year scientific valentine dream bite bigger as aw hurried throo th' taan to mi wark, (aw wur lat, for all th' whistles had gooan,) aw happen'd to hear a remark, 'at ud fotch tears throo th' heart ov a stooan-it wur raanin, an' snawin, and cowd, an' th' flagstoans wur covered wi' muck, an' th' east wind booath whistled an' howl'd, it saanded like nowt but ill luck; when two little lads, donn'd i' rags, baght stockins or shoes o' ther feet, coom trapesin away ower th' flags, booath on 'em sodden'd wi th' weet.-th' owdest mud happen be ten, th' young en be hauf on't,--noa moor; as aw luk'd on, aw sed to misen, god help fowk this weather 'at's poor! th' big en sam'd summat off th' graand, an' aw luk'd just to see what 't could be; 'twur a few wizend flaars he'd faand, an' they seem'd to ha fill'd him wi glee: an' he sed, "come on, billy, may be we shall find summat else by an by, an' if net, tha mun share thease wi me when we get to some spot where its dry." leet-hearted they trotted away, an' aw follow'd, coss 'twur i' mi rooad; but aw thowt awd nee'er seen sich a day- it worn't fit ta be aght for a tooad. sooin th' big en agean slipt away, an' sam'd summat else aght o'th' muck, an' he cried aght, "luk here, bill! to-day arn't we blest wi' a seet o' gooid luck? here's a apple! an' th' mooast on it's saand: what's rotten aw'll throw into th' street-worn't it gooid to ligg thear to be faand? nah booath on us con have a treat." soa he wiped it, an' rubb'd it, an' then sed, billy, "thee bite off a bit; if tha hasn't been lucky thisen tha shall share wi' me sich as aw get." soa th' little en bate off a touch, t'other's face beamed wi' pleasur all throo, an' he said, "nay, tha hasn't taen much, bite agean, an' bite bigger; nah do!" aw waited to hear nowt noa moor,- thinks aw, thear's a lesson for me! tha's a heart i' thi breast, if tha'rt poor: th' world wur richer wi' moor sich as thee! tuppince wur all th' brass aw had, an' awd ment it for ale when coom nooin, but aw thowt aw'll goa give it yond lad, he desarves it for what he's been dooin; soa aw sed, "lad, here's tuppince for thee, for thi sen,"--an' they stared like two geese, but he sed, woll th' tear stood in his e'e, "nah, it'll just be a penny a piece." "god bless thi! do just as tha will, an' may better days speedily come; tho' clam'd, an' hauf donn'd, mi lad, still tha'rt a deal nearer heaven nur some." to th' swallow bonny burd! aw'm fain to see thee, for tha tells ov breeter weather; but aw connot quite forgi thee, connot love thee altogether. 'tisn't thee aw fondly welcome- 'tis the cheerin news tha brings, tellin us fine weather will come, when we see thi dappled wings. but aw'd rayther have a sparrow, rayther hear a robin twitter; tho' they may net be thi marrow, may net fly wi' sich a glitter; but they niver leeav us, niver- storms may come, but still they stay; but th' first wind 'at ma's thee shiver, up tha mounts an' flies away. ther's too mony like thee, swallow, 'at when fortun's sun shines breet, like a silly buzzard follow, doncin raand a bit o' leet. but ther's few like robin redbreast, cling throo days o' gloom an' care; soa aw love mi old tried friends best- fickle hearts aw'll freely spare. plenty o' brass a'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass! it's grand to be able to spend a trifle sometimes on a glass for yorsen, or sometimes for a friend to be able to bury yor neive up to th' shackle i' silver an' gowd an', 'baght pinchin', be able to save a wee bit for th' time when yor owd. a'a! it's grand to ha', plenty o' brass! to be able to set daan yor fooit withaght ivver thinkin'--bith' mass! 'at yor wearin' soa mitch off yor booit; to be able to walk along th' street, an' stand at shop windows to stare, an' net ha' to beat a retreat if yo' scent a "bum bailey" i' th' air. a'a i it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass! to be able to goa hoam at neet, an' sit i'th' arm-cheer bith' owd lass, an' want nawther foir nor leet; to tak' th' childer a paper o' spice, or a pictur' to hing up o' th' wall; or a taste ov a summat 'at's nice for yor friends, if they happen to call. a'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass! then th' parsons'll know where yo' live: if yo'r' poor, it's mooast likely they'll pass, an' call where fowk's summat to give. yo' may have a trifle o' sense, an' yo' may be both upright an' true but that's nowt, if yo' can't stand th' expense ov a hoal or a pairt ov a pew. a'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass! an' to them fowk at's getten a hoard, this world seems as smooth as a glass, an' ther's flaars o' boath sides o'th' road; but him 'at's as poor as a maase, or, happen, a little i' debt, he mun point his noas up to th' big haase, an' be thankful for what he can get. a'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' chink! but doan't let it harden yor heart: yo' 'at's blessed wi' abundance should think an' try ta do gooid wi' a part! an' then, as yor totterin' daan, an' th' last grains o' sand are i'th glass, yo' may find 'at yo've purchased a craan wi' makkin gooid use o' yor brass. th' little stranger little bonny, bonny babby, how tha stares, an' weel tha may, for its but an haar, or hardly, sin' tha furst saw th' leet o' day. a'a! tha little knows, young moppet, ha aw'st have to tew for thee; may be when aw'm forced to drop it, 'at tha'll do a bit for me. are ta maddled, mun, amang it? does ta wonder what aw mean? aw should think tha does, but dang it! where's ta been to leearn to scream? that's noa sooart o' mewsic, bless thee! dunnot peawt thi lip like that! mun, aw hardly dar to nurse thee, feared awst hurt thee, little brat. come, aw'll tak thee to thi mother; shoo's moor used to sich nor me: hands like mine worn't made to bother wi sich ginger-breead as thee. innocent an' helpless craytur, all soa pure an' undefiled! if ther's ought belangs to heaven lives o'th' eearth, it is a child. an its hard to think, 'at some day, if tha'rt spared to weather throo, 'at tha'll be a man, an' someway have to feight life's battles too. kings an' queens, an' lords an' ladies, once wor nowt noa moor to see; an' th' warst wretch 'at hung o'th' gallows, once wor born as pure as thee. an' what tha at last may come to, god aboon us all can tell; but aw hope 'at tha'll be lucky, even tho aw fail mysel. do aw ooin thee? its a pity! hush! nah prathi dunnot freat! goa an' snoozle to thi titty tha'rt too young for trouble yet. babby burds aw wander'd aght one summer's morn, across a meadow newly shorn; th' sun wor shinin' breet and clear, an' fragrant scents rose up i'th' air, an' all wor still. when, as my steps wor idly rovin, aw coom upon a seet soa lovin! it fill'd mi heart wi' tender feelin, as daan aw sank beside it, kneelin o'th' edge o'th' hill. it wor a little skylark's nest, an' two young babby burds, undrest, wor gapin wi' ther beaks soa wide, callin' for mammy to provide ther mornin's meal; an' high aboon ther little hooam, th' saand o' daddy's warblin coom, ringin' soa sweetly o' mi ear, like breathins thro' a purer sphere, he sang soa weel. ther mammy, a few yards away, wor hoppin' on a bit o' hay, too feard to come, too bold to flee; an' watchin me wi' troubled e'e, shoo seem'd to say: "dooant touch my bonny babs, young man! ther daddy does the best he can to cheer yo with his sweetest song; an' thoase 'll sing as weel, ere long, soa let 'em stay." "tha needn't think aw'd do 'em harm-come shelter 'em and keep 'em warm! for aw've a little nest misel, an' two young babs, aw'm praad to tell, 'at's precious too; an' they've a mammy watching thear, 'at howds them little ens as dear, an' dearer still, if that can be, nor what thease youngens are to thee, soa come,--nah do! "a'a well!--tha'rt shy, tha hops away,-tha doesn't trust a word aw say; tha thinks aw'm here to rob an' plunder, an' aw confess aw dunnot wonder- but tha's noa need; aw'll leave yo to yorsels,--gooid bye! for nah aw see yor daddy's nigh; he's dropt that strain soa sweet and strong; he loves yo better nor his song- he does indeed." aw walk'd away, and sooin mi ear caught up the saand o' warblin clear; thinks aw, they're happy once agean; aw'm glad aw didn't prove so mean to rob that nest; for they're contented wi ther lot, nor envied me mi little cot; an' in this world, as we goa throo, it is'nt mich gooid we can do, an' do awr best. then let us do as little wrong to ony as we pass along, an' never seek a joy to gain at's purchased wi another's pain, it isn't reet. aw shall goa hooam wi' leeter heart, to mend awr johnny's little cart: (he allus finds me wark enough to piecen up his brocken stuff, for every neet.) an' sally--a'a! if yo could see her! when aw sit daan to get mi teah, shoo puts her dolly o' mi knee, an' maks me sing it "hush a bee," i'th' rocking chear; then begs some sugar for it too; what it can't ait shoo tries to do; an' turnin up her cunnin e'e,, shoo rubs th' doll maath, an says, "yo see, it gets its share.", sometimes aw'm rayther cross? aw fear! then starts a little tremblin tear, 'at, like a drop o' glitt'rin dew swimmin within a wild flaar blue, falls fro ther e'e; but as the sun in april shaars revives the little droopin flaars, a kind word brings ther sweet smile back: aw raylee think mi brain ud crack if they'd ta dee. then if aw love my bairns soa weel, may net a skylark's bosom feel as mich consarn for th' little things 'at snooze i'th' shelter which her wings soa weel affoards? if fowk wod nobbut bear i' mind how mich is gained by bein' kind, ther's fewer breasts wi' grief ud swell, an' fewer fowk ud thoughtless mell even o'th' burds. wayvin mewsic ther's mewsic i'th' shuttle, i'th' loom, an i'th frame, ther's melody mingled i'th' noise, for th' active ther's praises, for th' idle ther's blame, if they'd hearken to th' saand of its voice; an' when flaggin a bit, ha refreshin to feel as yo pause an luk raand on the throng, at the clank o' the tappet, the hum o' the wheel, sing this plain unmistakable song:- nick a ting, nock a ting; wages keep pocketing; workin for little is better nor laiking; twist an' twine, reel an' wind; keep a contented mind; troubles are oft ov a body's own making. to see workin fowk wi' a smile o' ther face as they labor thear day after day; an' hear 'th women's voices float sweetly throo 'th place, as they join i' some favorite lay; it saands amang th' din, as the violet seems 'at peeps aght th' green dockens among, an' spreading a charm over th' rest by its means, thus it blends i' that steady old song; nick a ting, nock a ting; wages keep pocketing; workin for little is better nor laiking; twist an' twine, reel an' wind; keep a contented mind; troubles are oft ov a body's own making. an' then see what lessons are laid out anent us, as pick after pick follows time after time, an' warns us tho' silent, to let nowt prevent us from strivin by little endeavours to climb; th' world's made o' trifles! its dust forms a mountain! then niver despair as you're trudgin along; if troubles will come an' yor spirits dishearten, yo'll find ther's relief i' that steady old song; nick a ting, nock a ting; wages keep pocketing; working for little is better nor laiking; twist an' twine, reel an' wind; keep a contented mind; troubles are oft ov a body's own making. life's warp comes throo heaven, th' weft's fun bi us sen; to finish a piece we're compell'd to ha booath. th' warp's reight, but if th' weft should be faulty--ha then? noa wayver i' th' world can produce a gooid clooath; then let us endeavour, bi working and striving, to finish awr piece soa's noa fault can be fun; an' then i' return for awr pains an contriving, th' takker in 'll reward us an' whisper' well done.' clink a clank, clink a clank, workin withaat a thank, may be awr fortun--if soa never mind it! striving to do awr best, we shall be reight at last, if we lack comfort nah, then shall we find it. that's a fact a'a mary aw'm glad 'at that's thee! aw need thy advice, lass, aw'm sure; aw'm all ov a mooild tha can see, aw wor never i' this way afoor, aw've net slept a wink all th' neet throo; aw've been twirling abaght like a worm, an' th' blankets gate felter'd, lass, too-tha niver saw cloas i' sich form. aw'll tell thee what 't all wor abaght-but promise tha'll keep it reight squat, for aw wodn't for th' world let it aght; but aw can't keep it in--tha knows that. we'd a meetin at the schooil yesterneet, an' jimmy wor thear,--tha's seen jim? an' he hutch'd cloise to me in a bit, to ax me for th' number o'th' hymn; aw thowt 't wor a gaumless trick, for he heeard it geen aght th' same as me; an' he just did th' same thing tother wick,-it made fowk tak noatice, dos't see. an' when aw wor gooin towards hooam aw heeard som'dy comin behund: 'twor pitch dark, an' aw thowt if they coom, aw should varry near sink into th' graund. aw knew it wor jim bi his traid, an' aw tried to get aght ov his gate; but a'a! tha minds, lass, aw wor flaid, aw wor niver i' sich en a state. then aw felt som'dy's arm raand my shawl, an' aw said, "nah, leave loise or aw'll screeam! can't ta let daycent lasses alooan, consarn thi up! what does ta mean?" but he stuck to mi arm like a leach, an' he whispered a word i' mi ear; it took booath my breeath an' my speech, for aw'm varry sooin thrown aght o' gear. then he squeezed me cloise up to his sel, an' he kussed me, i' spite o' mi teeth: aw says, "jimmy, forshame o' thisel!" as sooin as aw'd getten mi breeath: but he wodn't be quiet, for he said 'at he'd loved me soa true an' soa long-aw'd ha' geen a ear off my yed to get loise--but tha knows he's so a strong-then he tell'd me he wanted a wife, an' he begged 'at aw wodn't say nay;-aw'd ne'er heeard sich a tale i' mi life, aw wor fesen'd whativer to say; cos tha knows aw've a likin' for jim; but yo can't allus say what yo mean, for aw tremeld i' ivery limb, but at last aw began to give way, for, raylee, he made sich a fuss, an aw kussed him an' all--for they say, ther's nowt costs mich less nor a kuss. then he left me at th' end o' awr street, an' aw've felt like a fooil all th' neet throo; but if aw should see him to neet, what wod ta advise me to do? but dooant spaik a word--tha's noa need, for aw've made up mi mind ha to act, for he's th' grandest lad iver aw seed, an' aw like him th' best too--that's a fact! stop at hooam "tha wodn't goa an leave me, jim, all lonely by mysel? my een at th' varry thowts grow dim- aw connot say farewell. tha vow'd tha couldn't live unless tha saw me every day, an' said tha knew noa happiness when aw wor foorced a way. an th' tales tha towld, i know full weel, wor true as gospel then; what is it, lad, 'at ma's thee feel soa strange--unlike thisen? ther's raam enuff, aw think tha'll find, i'th taan whear tha wor born, to mak a livin, if tha'll mind to ha' faith i' to-morn. aw've mony a time goan to mi wark throo claads o' rain and sleet; all's seem'd soa dull, soa drear, an' dark, it ommust mud be neet. but then, when braikfast time's come raand, aw've seen th' sun's cheerin ray, an' th' heavy lukkin claads have slunk like skulkin lads away. an' then bi nooin it's shooan soa breet aw've sowt some shade to rest, an' as aw've paddled hooam at neet, glorious it's sunk i'th west. an' tho' a claad hangs ovver thee, (an' trouble's hard to bide), have patience, lad, an' wait an' see what's hid o'th' tother side. if aw wor free to please mi mind, aw'st niver mak this stur; but aw've a mother ommust blind, what mud become o' her? tha knows shoo cared for me, when waik an' helpless ivery limb, aw'm feeard her poor owd heart ud braik if aw'd to leave her, jim. aw like to hear thee talk o' th' trees 'at tower up to th' sky, an' th' burds 'at flutterin i'th' breeze, lie glitterin' jewels fly. woll th' music of a shepherd's reed may gently float along, lendin its tender notes to lead some fair maid's simple song; an' flaars 'at grow o' ivery side, such as we niver see; but here at hooam, at ivery stride, there's flaars for thee an' me. aw care net for ther suns soa breet, nor warblin melody; th' clink o' thi clogs o' th' flags at neet saands sweeter, lad, to me. an' tho' aw wear a gingham gaan, a claat is noa disgrace; tha'll niver find a heart moor warm beat under silk or lace. then settle daan, tak my advice, give up this wish to rooam! an' if tha luks, tha'll find lots nice worth stoppin' for at hooam." "god bless thee, jenny! dry that e'e, an' gi'e us howd thi hand! for words like thoase, throo sich as thee, what mortal could withstand! it isn't mich o'th' world aw know, but aw con truly say, a faithful heart's too rich to throw withaat a thowt away. so here aw'll stay, and should fate fraan, aw'll tew for thine and thee, an' seek for comfort when cast daan, i'th' sunleet o' thi e'e." the short-timer some poets sing o' gipsy queens, an' some o' ladies fine; aw'll sing a song o' other scenes, a humbler muse is mine: jewels, an' gold, an' silken frills, are things too heigh for me, but woll mi harp wi' vigour thrills, aw'll strike a chord for thee. poor lassie wan, do th' best tha can, although thi fate be hard; a time ther'll be when sich as thee shall have yor full reward. at hauf-past five tha leaves thi bed, an' off tha goes to wark; an' gropes thi way to mill or shed, six months o'th' year i'th' dark. tha gets but little for thi pains, but that's noa fault o' thine; thi maister reckons up his gains, an' ligs i' bed till nine. poor lassie wan, &c. he's little childer ov his own 'at's quite as old as thee; they ride i' cushioned carriages 'at's beautiful to see; they'd fear to spoil ther little hand, to touch thy greasy brat: it's wark like thine 'as maks 'em grand they niver think o' that. poor lassie wan, &c. i' summer time they romp an' play where flowers grow wild and sweet; ther bodies strong, ther spirits gay, they thrive throo morn to neet. but tha's a cough, aw hear tha has; an' oft aw've known thee sick; but tha mun work, poor little lass, for hauf-a-craan a wick. poor lassie wan, &c. aw envy net fowks' better lot- aw should'nt like to swap. aw'm quite contented wi'mi cot; aw'm but a warkin chap. but if aw had a lot o' brass aw'd think o' them 'at's poor; aw'd have yo' childer workin' less, an' mak yor wages moor. poor lassie wan, &c. "there is a land of pure delight, where saints immortal reign, infinite day excludes the night, and pleasures banish pain." noa fact'ry bell shall greet thi ear, i' that sweet home ov love; an' those 'at scorn thi sufferins here may envy thee above. poor lassie wan, &c. th' first o'th sooart aw heeard a funny tale last neet-aw could'nt howd fro' laffin-'twor at th' bull's heead we chonced to meet, an' spent an haar i' chaffin. some sang a song, some cracked a joak, an' all seem'd full o' larkin; an' th' raam war blue wi' bacca smook, an' ivery e'e'd a spark in. long joa 'at comes thro th' jumples cluff, wor gettin rayther mazy; an' warkus ned had supped enuff to turn they're betty crazy;-an bob at lives at th' bogeggs farm, wi' nan throo th' buttress bottom, wor treating her to summat wanm, (it's just his way,--"odd drot em!") an' jack o'th' slade wor theear as weel, an' joa o' abe's throo waerley; an' lijah off o'th' lavver hill, wor passing th' ale raand rarely.-throo raand and square they seem'd to meet, to hear or tell a stoory; but th' gem o' all aw heard last neet wor one bi dooad o'th' gloory. he bet his booits 'at it wor true, an' all seem'd to believe him; tho' if he'd lost he need'nt rue-but 't wodn't ha done to grieve him his uncle lived i' pudsey taan, an' practised local praichin; an' if he 're lucky, he wor baan to start a schooil for taichin. but he wor takken varry ill; he felt his time wor comin: (they say he brought it on hissel wi' studdyin his summin.) he call'd his wife an' neighbors in to hear his deein sarmon, an' tell'd 'em if they liv'd i' sin ther lot ud be a warm en. then turin raand unto his wife, said--"mal, tha knows, owd craytur, if awd been bless'd wi' longer life, aw might ha' left things straighter. joa sooitill owes me eighteen pence-aw lent it him last lovefeast." says mal--"he has'nt lost his sense-thank god for that at least!" "an ben o'th' top o'th' bank tha knows, we owe him one paand ten.".-"just hark!" says mally, "there he goas! he's ramellin agean! dooant tak a bit o' noatice, fowk! yo see, poor thing, he's ravin! it cuts me up to hear sich talk-he spent his life i' savin! "an, mally, lass," he said agean, "tak heed o' my direction: th' schooil owes us hauf a craan--aw mean my share o'th' last collection.-tha'll see to that, an have what's fair when my poor life is past."-says mally, "listen, aw declare, he's sensible to th' last." he shut his een an' sank to rest-deeath seldom claimed a better: they put him by,--but what wor th' best, he sent 'em back a letter, to tell 'em all ha he'd gooan on; an' ha he gate to enter; an' gave 'em rules to act upon if ever they should ventur. theear peter stood wi' keys i' hand: says he, "what do you want, sir? if to goa in--yo understand unknown to me yo can't sir.-pray what's your name? where are yo throo? just make your business clear." says he, "they call me parson drew, aw've come throo pudsey here." "you've come throo pudsey, do you say? doant try sich jokes o' me, sir; aw've kept thease doors too long a day, aw can't be fooiled bi thee, sir." says drew, "aw wodn't tell a lie, for th' sake o' all ther's in it: if yo've a map o' england by, aw'll show yo in a minit." soa peter gate a time-table-they gloored o'er th' map together: drew did all at he wor able, but could'nt find a stiver. at last says he, "thear's leeds taan hall, an thear stands braforth mission: it's just between them two--that's all: your map's an old edition. but thear it is, aw'll lay a craan, an' if yo've niver known it, yo've miss'd a bonny yorksher taan, tho mony be 'at scorn it." he oppen'd th' gate,--says he, "it's time some body coom--aw'll trust thee. tha'll find inside noa friends o' thine-tha'rt th' furst 'at's come throo pudsey." lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed. nay surelee tha's made a mistak; tha'rt aght o' thi element here; tha may weel goa an' peark up oth' thack, thi bonny wings shakin wi fear. aw should think 'at theease rattlin looms saand queer sooart o' music to thee; an' tha'll hardly quite relish th' perfumes o' miln-grease,--what th' quality be. maybe' tha'rt disgusted wi' us, an' thinks we're a low offald set but tha'rt sadly mistaen if tha does, for ther's hooap an' ther's pride in us yet. tha wor nobbut a worm once thisen, an' as humble as humble could be; an' tho we nah are like tha wor then, we may yet be as nobby as thee. tha'd to see thi own livin when young, an' when tha grew up tha'd to spin; an' if labor like that worn't wrong, tha con hardly call wayvin 'a sin.' but tha longs to be off aw con tell; for tha shows 'at tha ar'nt content: soa aw'll oppen thee th' window--farewell! off tha goas, bonny fly!--an' it went. uncle ben a gradely chap wor uncle ben as iver lived ith' fowd: he made a fortun for hissen, an' lived on't when he'r owd. his yed wor like a snow drift, an' his face wor red an' breet, an' his heart wor like a feather, for he did the thing 'at's reet. he wore th' same suit o' fustian clooas he'd worn sin aw wor bred; an' th' same owd booits, wi' cappel'd tooas, an' th' same hat for his yed; his cot wor lowly, yet he'd sing throo braik o' day till neet; his conscience niver felt a sting, for he did the thing 'at's reet. he wod'nt swap his humble state wi' th' grandest fowk i' th' land; he niver wanted silver plate, nor owt 'at's rich and grand; he did'nt sleep wi' curtained silk drawn raand him ov a neet, but he slept noa war for th' want o' that, for he'd done the thing 'at's reet. owd fowk called him "awr benny," young fowk, "mi uncle ben,"-an' th' childer, "gronfather," or "dad," or what best pleased thersen. a gleam o' joy coom o'er his face when he heeard ther patterin feet, for he loved to laik wi' th' little bairns an' he did the thing 'at's reet. he niver turned poor fowk away uncared for throo his door; he ne'er forgate ther wor a day when he hissen wor poor; an' mony a face has turned to heaven, all glistenin wi' weet, an' prayed for blessins on owd ben, for he did th' thing 'at's reet. he knew his lease wor ommost spent, he'd sooin be called away; yet he wor happy an' content, an' waited th' comin day; but one dark neet he shut his e'en, an' slept soa calm an' sweet, when mornin coom, th' world held one less, 'at did the thing 'at's reet. the new year's resolve says dick, "ther's a' notion sprung up i' mi yed, for th' furst time i' th' whole coorse o' mi life, an' aw've takken a fancy aw'st like to be wed, if aw knew who to get for a wife. aw dooant want a woman wi' beauty, nor brass, for aw've nawther to booast on misel; what aw want is a warm-hearted, hard-workin' lass, an' ther's lots to be fun, aw've heeard tell. to be single is all weel enuf nah an' then, but it's awk'ard when th' weshin' day comes; for aw nivver think sooapsuds agree weel wi' men; they turn all mi ten fingers to thumbs. an' awm sure it's a fact, long afoor aw get done, aw'm slopt throo mi waist to mi fit; an' th' floor's in' a pond, as if th' peggy-tub run, an' mi back warks as if it 'ud split. aw fancied aw'st manage at breead-bakin' best; soa one day aw bethowt me to try, but aw gate soa flustered, aw ne'er thowt o'th' yeast, soa aw mud as weel offered to fly. aw did mak a dumplin', but a'a! dear a me! abaght that lot aw hardly dar think; aw ne'er fan th' mistak' till aw missed th' sooap, yo see, an' saw th' suet i'th' sooap-box o'th' sink. but a new-year's just startin', an' soa aw declare aw'll be wed if a wife's to be had; for mi clooas is soa ragg'd woll aw'm ommost hauf bare, an' thease mullucks, they're drivin' me mad. soa, if yo should know, or should chonce to hear tell, ov a lass 'at to wed is inclined, talegraft me at once, an' aw'll see her misel afoor shoo can alter her mind." the old bachelor's story it was an humble cottage, snug in a rustic lane, geraniums and fuschias peep'd from every window-pane; the dark-leaved ivy dressed its walls, houseleek adorned the thatch; the door was standing open wide, they had no need of latch. and close besides the corner there stood an old stone well, which caught a mimic waterfall, that warbled as it fell. the cat, crouched on the well-worn steps, was blinking in the sun; the birds sang out a welcome to the morning just begun. an air of peace and happiness pervaded all the scene; the tall trees formed a back ground of rich and varied green; and all was steeped in quietness, save nature's music wild, when all at once, methought i heard the sobbing of a child.-i listened, and the sound again smote clearly on my ear: "can there,"--i wondering asked myself- "can there be sorrow here?"-i looked within, and on the floor was sat a little boy, striving to soothe his sister's grief by giving her a toy. "why weeps your sister thus?" i asked; "what is her cause of grief? come tell me, little man," i said, "come tell me, and be brief." clasping his sister closer still, he kissed her tear-stained face, and thus, in homely yorkshire phrase, he told their mournful case. -----"mi mammy, sir, shoos liggin thear, i' th' shut-up bed i' th' nook; an' tho aw've tried to wakken her, shoo'll nawther spaik nor look. mi sissy wants her poridge, an' its time shoo had em too, but th' foir's gooan aght an' th' mail's all done- aw dooant know what to do. an' o, my mammy's varry cold- just come an' touch her arm: aw've done mi best to hap her up, but connot mak her warm. mi daddy he once fell asleep, an' niver wakken'd moor: aw saw 'em put him in a box, an' tak him aght o' th' door. he niver comes to see us nah, as once he used to do, an' let'mi ride upon his back- me, an' mi sissy too. an' if they know mi mammy sleeps, soa cold, an' white, an' still, aw'm feeard they'll come an' fotch her, sir; o, sir, aw'm feard they will! aw happen could get on misen, for aw con work a bit, but little sissy, sir, yo see, shoo's' varra young as yet. oh! dunnot let fowk tak mi mam! help me to rouse her up! an' if shoo wants her physic, see,--it's in this little cup. aw know her heead war bad last neet, when putting us to bed; shoo said, 'god bless yo, little things!' an' that wor all shoo said. aw saw a tear wor in her e'e- in fact, it's seldom dry: sin daddy went shoo allus cries, but niver tells us why. aw think it's coss he isn't here, 'at maks her e'en soa dim; shoo says, he'll niver come to us, but we may goa to him. but if shoo's gooan an' left us here, what mun we do or say?-we cannot follow her unless, somebody 'll show us th' way." ---my heart was full to bursting, when i heard the woeful tale; i gazed a moment on the face which death had left so pale; then clasping to my heaving breast the little orphan pair, i sank upon my bended knees, and offered up a prayer, that god would give me power to aid those children in distress, that i might as a father be unto the fatherless. then coaxingly i led them forth; and as the road was long, i bore them in my arms by turns- their tears had made me strong. i took them to my humble home, where now they may be seen, the lad,--a noble-minded youth,- his "sissy,"--beauty's queen. and now if you should chance to see, far from the bustling throng, an old man, whom a youth and maid lead tenderly along;-and if you, wondering, long to know the history of the three,-they are the little orphan pair- the poor old man is me: and on the little grassy mound 'neath which their parents sleep, they bend the knee, and pray for me; i pray for them and weep. aght o' wark aw've been laikin for ommost eight wick, an' aw can't get a day's wark to do! aw've trailed abaght th' streets wol awm sick an' aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost through. aw've a wife an' three childer at hooam, an' aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock, for they think it's high time aw should come, an' bring 'em a morsel 'o jock. a'a dear! it's a pitiful case when th' cubbord is empty an' bare; when want's stamped o' ivery face, an' yo hav'nt a meal yo can share. today as aw walked into th' street, th' squire's carriage went rattlin past; an' aw thout 'at it hardly luk'd reet, for aw had'nt brokken mi fast. them horses, aw knew varry weel, wi' ther trappins all shinin i' gold, had nivver known th' want of a meal, or a shelter to keep 'em thro' th' cold. even th' dogs have enuff an' to spare, tho' they ne'er worked a day i' ther life; but ther maisters forget they should care for a chap 'at's three bairns an' a wife. they give dinners at th' hall ivery neet, an' ther's carriages stand in bi'th scoor, an' all th' windows are blazin wi leet, but they seldom give dinners to th' poor. i' mi pocket aw hav'nt a rap, nor a crust, nor a handful o' mail; an' unless we can get it o'th strap, we mun pine, or mun beg, or else stail. but hoamwards aw'll point mi owd clogs to them three little lambs an' ther dam;-aw wish they wor horses or dogs, for its nobbut poor fowk 'at's to clam. but they say ther is one 'at can see, an' has promised to guide us safe through; soa aw'll live on i'hopes, an' surelee, he'll find a chap summat to do. another babby another!--well, my bonny lad, a'w wodn't send thee back; altho' we thowt we hadn't raam, tha's fun some in a crack. it maks me feel as pleased as punch to see thi pratty face; ther's net another child i'th bunch moor welcome to a place aw'st ha' to fit a peark for thee, i' some nook o' mi cage; but if another comes, raylee! aw'st want a bigger wage. but aw'm noan feard tha'll ha' to want- we'll try to pool thee throo, for him who has mi laddie sent, he'll send his baggin too. he hears the little sparrows chirp, an' answers th' raven's call; he'll never see one want for owt, 'at's worth aboon 'em all. but if one on us mun goa short, (although it's hard to pine,) thy little belly shall be fill'd whativer comes o' mine. a chap con nobbut do his best, an' that aw'll do for thee, leavin to providence all th' rest, an' we'st get help'd, tha'll see. an' if thi lot's as bright an' fair as aw could wish it, lad, tha'll come in for a better share nor iver blessed thi dad. aw think aw'st net ha' lived for nowt, if, when deeath comes, aw find aw leave some virtuous lasses an' some honest lads behind. an' tho' noa coat ov arms may grace for me, a sculptor'd stooan, aw hope to leave a noble race, wi arms o' flesh an' booan. then cheer up, lad, tho' things luk black, wi' health, we'll persevere, an' try to find a brighter track- we'll conquer, niver fear! an may god shield thee wi' his wing, along life's stormy way, an' keep thi heart as free throo sin, as what it is to-day. th' little black hand ther's a spark just o'th tip o' mi pen, an' it may be poetical fire; an' suppoase 'at it is'nt--what then? wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire? aw'm detarmined to scribble away-soa's them 'at's a fancy con read; an' tho aw turn neet into day, if aw'm suitin an odd en, neer heed! aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life; but then ther's abundance o' care, an' them 'at's contented wi' strife may allus mak sure o' ther share. but aw'll laff woll mi galluses braik, tho mi bed's net as soft as spun silk; an' if butter be aght o' mi raik, aw'll ma' th' best ov a drop o' churn milk. it's nooan them 'at's getten all th' brass 'at's getten all th' pleasure, net it! when aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd lass, aw con thoil 'em whativer they get. but sometimes when aw'm walkin throo th' street, an' aw see fowk hauf-clam'd, an' i' rags, wi noa bed to lig daan on at neet but i'th' warkus, or th' cold-lukkin flags; then aw think, if rich fowk nobbut' knew what ther brothers i' poverty feel, they'd a trifle moor charity show, an' help 'em sometimes to a meal. but we're all far too fond of ussen, to bother wi' things aght o'th' seet; an' we leeav to ther fate sich as them 'at's noa bed nor noa supper' at neet. but ther's mony a honest heart throbs, tho' it throbs under rags an' i' pains, 'at wod'nt disgrace one o'th' nobs, 'at booasts better blooid in his veins. see that child thear! 'at's working away, an' sweepin that crossin i'th' street: he's been thear iver sin it coom day, an' yo'll find him thear far into th' neet. see what hundreds goa thowtlessly by, an' ne'er think o' that child wi' his broom! what care they tho' he smothered a sigh, or wiped off a tear as they coom. but luk! thear's a man wi' a heart! he's gien th' poor child summat at last: ha his een seem to twinkle an' start, as he watches th' kind gentleman past! an' thear in his little black hand he sees a gold sovereign shine! he thinks he ne'er saw owt soa grand, an' he says, "sure it connot be mine!" an' all th' lads cluther raand him i' glee, an' tell him to cut aght o'th seet; but he clutches it fast,--an' nah see ha he's threedin his way along th' street, till he comes to that varry same man, an' he touches him gently o'th' back, an' he tells him as weel as he can, 'at he fancies he's made a mistak. an' th' chap luks at that poor honest lad, with his little naked feet, as he stands, an' his heart oppens wide--he's soa glad woll he taks one o'th little black hands, an' he begs him to tell him his name: but th' child glances timidly raand-poor craytur! he connot forshame to lift up his een off o'th graand. but at last he finds courage to spaik, an' he tells him they call him poor joa; 'at his mother is sickly an' waik; an' his father went deead long ago; an' he's th' only one able to work aght o' four; an' he does what he can, thro' early at morn till it's dark: an' he hopes 'at he'll sooin be a man. an' he tells him his mother's last word, as he starts for his labour for th' day, is to put 'all his trust in the lord, an' he'll net send him empty away.-see that man! nah he's wipin his een, an' he gives him that bright piece o' gowd; an' th' lad sees i' that image o'th queen what 'll keep his poor mother thro' th' cowd. an' mony a time too, after then, did that gentleman tak up his stand at that crossing an' watch for hissen the work ov that little black hand. an' when-years had gone by, he expressed 'at i'th' spite ov all th' taichin he'd had, an' all th' lessons he'd leearn'd, that wor th' best 'at wor towt by that poor little lad. tho' the proud an' the wealthy may prate, an' booast o' ther riches and land, some o'th' laadest ul sink second-rate to that lad with his little black hand. lilly's gooan "well, robert! what's th' matter! nah mun, aw see 'at ther's summat nooan sweet; thi een luk as red as a sun-aw saw that across th' width of a street; aw hope 'at yor lily's noa war-surelee--th' little thing is'nt deead? tha wod roor, aw think, if tha dar-what means ta bi shakin thi heead? well, aw see bi thi sorrowful e'e at shoo's gooan, an' aw'm soory, but yet, when youngens like her hap ta dee, they miss troubles as some live to hit. tha mun try an' put up wi' thi loss, tha's been praad o' that child, aw mun say, but give over freatin, becoss it's for th' best if shoo's been taen away." "a'a! daniel, it's easy for thee to talk soa, becoss th' loss is'nt thine; but its ommost deeath-blow to me, shoo wor prized moor nor owt else 'at's mine; an' when aw bethink me shoo's gooan, mi feelins noa mortal can tell; mi heart sinks wi' th' weight ov a stooan, an' aw'm capped 'at aw'm livin mysel. aw shall think on it wor aw to live to be th' age o' methusla or moor; tho' shoo said 'at aw had'nt to grieve, we should booath meet agean, shoo wor sure: an' when shoo'd been dreamin one day, shoo said shoo could hear th' angels call; but shoo could'nt for th' life goa away till they call'd for her daddy an' all. an' as sooin as aw coom thro' my wark, shoo'd ha' me to sit bi her bed; an' thear aw've watched haars i'th' dark, an' listened to all 'at shoo's said; shoo's repeated all th' pieces shoo's learnt, when shoo's been ov a sundy to th' schooil, an ax'd me what dift'rent things meant, woll aw felt aw wor nobbut a fooill an' when aw've been gloomy an' sad, shoo's smiled an' taen hold o' mi hand, an whispered, 'yo munnot freat, dad; aw'm gooin to a happier land; an' aw'll tell jesus when aw get thear, 'at aw've left yo here waitin his call; an' he'll find yo a place, niver fear, for ther's room up i' heaven for all. an' this mornin, when watchin th' sun rise, shoo said, 'daddy, come nearer to me, thers a mist comin ovver mi eyes, an' aw find at aw hardly can see.-gooid bye!--kiss yor lily agean,-let me pillow mi heead o' yor breast! aw feel now aw'm freed thro' mi pain; then lily shoo went to her rest." my native twang they tell me aw'm a vulgar chap, an owt to goa to th' schooil to leearn to talk like other fowk, an' net be sich a fooil; but aw've a noashun, do yo see, although it may be wrang, the sweetest music is to me, mi own, mi native twang. an' when away throo all mi friends, i' other taans aw rooam, aw find ther's nowt con mak amends for what aw've left at hooam; but as aw hurry throo ther streets noa matter tho aw'm thrang, ha welcome if mi ear but greets mi own, mi native twang. why some despise it, aw can't tell, it's plain to understand; an' sure aw am it saands as weel, tho happen net soa grand. tell fowk they're courtin, they're enraged, they call that vulgar slang; but if aw tell 'em they're engaged, that's net mi native twang. mi father, tho' he may be poor, aw'm net ashamed o' him; aw love mi mother tho' shoo's deeaf, an tho' her een are dim; aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walk its crucken'd streets amang; for thear it is aw hear fooak tawk mi own, mi native twang. aw like to hear hard-workin' fowk say boldly what they meean; for tho' ther hands are smeared wi' muck, may be ther hearts are cleean, an' them 'at country fowk despise, aw say, "why, let' em hang;" they'll niver rob mi sympathies throo thee, mi native twang, aw like to see grand ladies, when they're donn'd i' silks soa fine; aw like to see ther dazzlin' e'en throo th' carriage winders shine: mi mother wor a woman, an' tho' it may be wrang, aw love 'em all, but mooastly them 'at tawk mi native twang. aw wish gooid luck to ivery one; gooid luck to them 'ats brass; gooid luck an' better times to come to them 'ats poor--alas! an' may health, wealth, an' sweet content for iver dwell amang true, honest-hearted, yorkshire fowk, at tawk mi native twang. shoo's thi sister (written on seeing a wealthy townsman rudely push a poor little girl off the pavement.) gently, gently, shoo's thi sister, tho' her clooas are nowt but rags; on her feet ther's monny a blister: see ha painfully shoo drags her tired limbs to some quiet corner: shoo's thi sister--dunnot scorn her. daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin, shoo's been shov'd aside befoor; used to scoffs, an' sneers, an'shunnin- shoo expects it, coss shoo's poor; schooil'd for years her grief to smother, still shoos human--tha'rt her brother. tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin, a kid glove o' awther hand, dunnot touch her roughly, loathin-shoo's thi sister, understand: th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters, poor lost pilgrim!--but what matters? lulk ha sharp her elbow's growin, an' ha pale her little face, an' her hair neglected, showin her's has been a sorry case; o, mi heart felt sad at th' seet, when tha shov'd her into th' street ther wor once a "man," mich greater nor thisen wi' all thi brass, him, awr blessed mediator,- wod he scorn that little lass? noa, he called 'em, an' he blessed 'em, an' his hands divine caress'd 'em. goa thi ways i an' if tha bears net some regret for what tha's done, if tha con pass on, an' cares net for that sufferin' little one; then ha'iver poor shoo be, yet shoos rich compared wi' thee. oh! 'at this breet gold should blind us, to awr duties here below! for we're forced to leave behind us all awr pomp, an' all awr show: why then should we slight another? shoo's thi sister, unkind brother. persevere. what tho' th' claads aboon luk dark, th' sun's just waitin to peep throo, let us buckle to awr wark, for ther's lots o' jobs to do: tho' all th' world luks dark an' drear, let's ha' faith, an' persevere. he's a fooil 'at sits an' mumps 'coss some troubles hem him raand! man mud allus be i'th dumps, if he sulk'd coss fortun fraand; th' time 'll come for th' sky to clear:- let's ha' faith, an' persevere. if we think awr lot is hard, niver let us mak a fuss; lukkin raand, at ivery yard, we'st find others war nor us; we have still noa cause to fear! let's ha' faith, an' persevere. a faint heart, aw've heeard 'em say, niver won a lady fair: have a will! yo'll find a way! honest men ne'er need despair. better days are drawin' near:-then ha' faith, an' persevere. workin men,--nah we've a voice, an' con help to mak new laws; let us iver show awr choice lains to strengthen virtue's cause, wrangs to reighten,--griefs to cheer; this awr motto--'persevere.' let us show to foreign empires loyalty's noa empty booast; we can scorn the thirsty vampires if they dar molest awr cooast: to awr queen an' country dear still we'll cling an' persevere. but as on throo life we hurry, by whativer path we rooam, let us ne'er forget i'th' worry, true reform begins at hooam: then, to prove yorsens sincere, start at once; an' persevere. hard wark, happen yo may find it, some dear folly to forsake, be detarmined ne'er to mind it! think, yor honor's nah at stake. th' gooid time's drawin varry near! then ha' faith, an' persevere. to a roadside flower tha bonny little pooasy! aw'm inclined to tak thee wi' me: but yet aw think if tha could spaik thi mind, tha'd ne'er forgie me; for i' mi jacket button-hoil tha'd quickly dee, an' life is short enough, boath for mi-sen an' thee. here, if aw leeave thee bi th' rooadside to flourish, whear scoors may pass thee, some heart 'at has few other joys to cherish may stop an' bless thee: then bloom, mi little pooasy! tha'rt a beauty, sent here to bless: smile on--tha does thi duty. aw wodn't rob another of a joy sich as tha's gien me; for aw felt varry sad, mi little doy until aw'd seen thee. an' may each passin', careworn, lowly brother, feel cheered like me, an' leave thee for another. prose. hartley's cream of wit and humour the new year what a charm ther is abaat owt new; whether it's a new year or a new waist-coit. aw sometimes try to fancy what sooart ov a world ther'd be if ther wor nowt new. solomon sed ther wor nowt new under th' sun; an' he owt to know if onybody did. maybe he wor reight if we luk at it i' some ways, but aw think it's possible to see it in another leet. if ther wor nowt new, ther'd be nowt to hooap for--nowt to live for but to dee; an' we should lang for that time to come just for th' sake ov a change. ha anxiously a little child looks forrard to th' time when he's to have a new toy, an' ha he prizes it at furst when he's getten it: but in a while he throws it o' one side an' cries fur summat new. ha he langs to be as big as his brother, soa's he can have a new bat an' ball; an' his brother langs for th' time when he can leeave schooil an' goa work for his livin'; an' varry likely his fayther's langin' for th' time when he can live withaat workin'--all on 'em langin for summat new. langill' for things new doesn't prevent us lovin' things at's owd. who isn't praad ov ther owd fayther, as he sits i' tharm-cheer an' tells long tales abaat what he can remember bein' new? an' who doesn't feel a soothin' kind ov a feelin' come ovver him when his mother's kindly warnin' falls on his ear, as shoo tells him "what-iver he does, net to be soa fond ov ivery thing new?" what a love fowk get for "th' owd haase;" but ther's moor o'th' past nor o'th' futur' i' these feelin's, they're not hopeful, an' its hopeful feelin's at keeps th' world a goin', its hooap at maks us keep o'th' look aat for summat fresh. aw've heeard fowk wish for things to keep just as they are, they say they dooant want owt new. what a mistak' they mak! they're wishin' for what ud be th' mooast of a novelty. things willn't stop as they are, an' it wodn't be reight if they did. it's all weel enuff for them at's feathered ther nest to feel moderate contented, but them at's sufferin' for want ov a meal's mait are all hopin' for a change for th' better. owd hats an' owd slippers are generally more comfortable nor new ens, an' fowk "wish they'd niver be done,"--"they hate owt new"--as if it wodn't be summat new if they could wear 'em withaat 'em bein' done. young fowk are allus moor anxious for changes nor owd fowk, its likely enuff; like a child wi' a pictur book, watch him turn ovver two or three leaves at th' beginnin', see ha delighted he is; but in a while he turns ovver moor carelessly, an' befoor he gets to th' end he leaves it, wearied with its variety, or falls hard asleep opposite one at wod have fascinated him when he began. life's nobbut a pictur' book ov another sooart, at th' beginnin' we're delighted wi' ivery fresh leeaf, an' we keep turnin' ovver till at last we get wearied, an' had rayther sit quietly looking at one. but we cannot stop, we ha' to goo throo th' book whether we like it or net, until at last we shut us een an' fall asleep over summat new. valentine day ha monny young folk are langin for th' fourteenth o' february! an ha mony old pooastmen wish it ud niver come? sawr owd maids an' crusty owd bachelors wonder 'at fowk should have noa moor sense nor to waste ther brass on sich like nonsense. but it's noa use them talkin', for young fowk have done it befoor time, an' as long as it's i'th' natur on 'em to love one another an' get wed, soa long will valentine makers have plenty to do at this time o'th' year. ther's monny a daycent sooart of a young chap at thinks he could like to mak up to a young lass at he's met at th' chapel or some other place, but as sooin as he gets at th' side on her, he caant screw his courage up to th' stickin' place, an' he axes her some sooart ov a gaumless question, sich as "ha's your mother," or summat he cares noa moor abaat. an' as sooin as he gets to hissell he's fit to pail his heead agean th' jaumstooan for bien sich a fooil. well, nah, what can sich a chap do? why, send her a valentine ov coorse. soa he gooas an' buys her one wi' a grand piece ov poetry like this:- "the rose is red, the violet's blue, the pink is sweet, and so are you." it isn't to be expected 'at shoo can tell whear it's come throo; but shoo could guess at twice, an guess puddin' once, that's the beauty on it. then th' way's oppen'd aat at once, he's gein her to understand what ten to one shoo understood long afoor he did. next time they meet shoo's sure to ax him if he gate ony valentines, an' then he'll smile an' say, "what for, did yo?" an' shoo'll show him th' direction, an' ax him if he knows who's writing that is? an' he'll luk at it as sackless as if he didn't know it wor his own-ther heeads get cloise together, an' shoo sighs an' he sighs, an' then, if ther's noabody abaat he'll give hur a smack with his lips an' lawp back as if he'd burned th' skin off 'em, an' shooo axes him ha he con fashion to goa on like that, he owt to be ashamed ov his face? an' all th' time shoo's wonderin' why he niver did it afoor. then, if ther's owt abaat him, it isn't long befoor ther's a weddin', an' then he's begun life. he's settled into his nook i'th' world, an' he feels he's a man. troubles come, but then ther's a pleasure i' bein able to maister 'em. he's summat to wark for besides his own belly an' back. he's a heart-expandin' responsibility put on him. his country benefits by him, for a man does moor for his country 'at leaves ten weel-trained sons an' dowters nor him 'at leaves ten thaasand paand. then if sich a little simple thing as a valentine can help a chap on his rooad in lite, aw say. be hanged to th' grumblers, goa a head valentine makkers!!! march winds these winds blow rayther strong--stronger sometimes nor what feels pleasant. ther's monny a chap has a race wi' his hat, an' it luks a sheepish sooart ov a trick, an' iverybody can affooard to laff at him just becoss it isn't them. but for all that aw alus think at th' year's niver getten a reight start till after march. it's like as if it comes blusterin' an' rooarin', just o' purpose to put things into reight trim. it fotches daan th' owd watter spaats, an' lets fowk know whear ther's a slate at's shakey. it gives th' trees a bit ov a whisk raand an' wuthers abaat as if it wor detarmined to clear all th' maase nooks aat, an' give us a fair start for th' fine weather. but that isn't all it does; it finds aat if yo've ony owd teeth 'at's rayther tender, (an' if ther's owt i'th' world at 'll wear aat a chap's patience its th' tooith wark. its bad enuff, but what maks it war to bide is, iverybody can tell yo ha to cure it, an' for all that they wor as fast what to do wi' it when they had it as onybody else.) but what does it matter if it does find aat bits o' waik spots, there's nowt like knowin whear they are, for then yo do stand a chonce o' bein' able to tak care on 'em. but it does summat else beside--it brings a fine day or two--an' th' grass begins to luk a trifle greener, an' here an' thear i' bits o' shady nooks an' corners sometimes yo can find a daisy or two; an' what is ther luks bonnier nor th' first daisy yo find peepin up? it may be a bit ov a pindered lookin thing, but its a daisy; an' aw dooant think at th' grandest yo'll find all th' year 'll please yo hauf as weel as this. little children clap ther hands when they see it, becoss it tells 'em ther's some fine weather comin' bye an' bye; an' they pluck it to tak hooam wi' em' to show ther mother; an' ther grandfayther smiles when he sees it, for it whispers a bit o' comfort to him, an' tells him to cheer up! for th' time o'th' year's comin' when he'll be able to goa aat o'th' door an' sit o'th green grass, an' hear th' burds sing, an' let th' sun shine on his face, an' he willn't be feeard o' bringin' th' rhumatic back wi' him; an' takkin it altogether it's one o' th' mooast pleasin' things i' th' year is findin' a daisy i' march. it's strange ha folk alter in a few years time. luk at a child when its abaat five or six years owd--see ha delighted it is wi' a gurt bunch ov innocent lukkin' buttercups an' daisies. noatice th' same child when he's getten fourteen or fifteen years owd. he couldn't fashion to be seen carryin' a bunch. see him agean when he's a man. he's noa time for daisies then. what's th' reason? daisies are as bonny nah as iver they wor. ther is a difference somewhear, but it isn't i'th' daisies. april fooils niver try to mak a fooil ov onybody this month; ther's fooils enuff i'th world already. it's oft struck me what a varry slight difference ther is between a wise man and a fooil; one aims at summat an' hits it--tother aims at summat an' misses it; an' aw have known th' time when th' chap 'at's missed has been worth a dozen sich like as him 'at's hit. but th' world generally sets 'em daan to be wise men 'at happen to be lucky men, an' get hold o' lots o' brass. an' ha monny brains a chap has, if he can't spooart a pair o' kid gloves an' a daycent hat, he mun niver hope for owt better nor to tak his place amang th' fooils. aw've monny a time thowt when aw've heared fowk settin a chap daan as a fooil;--talk prattley--may be if he wor weighed up he's a better man nor yo this minit; yo connot tell all 'at he may have had to struggle wi'- circumstances alter cases, th' same as nooases alter faces. an' it's as weel to exercise a bit ov charity towards them 'at's set daan to be fooils. "young fowk think old fowk fooils, an' old fowk's sure young uns is." an aw believe th' old fowk are oft varry near th' mark,--for th' experience of a life time is little moor nor livin to know what fooils we've been; an' if iver aw meet wi' a chap 'at can't remember iver makkin a fooil ov hissen, aw shall expect to hear tell on' him bein ta'en to th' blue slates directly. poor richard says, "experience is a dear schooil, but fooils will leearn i' noa other;" an' who is ther 'at hasn't had to leearn i' that schooil? its a hard maister, an' we're apt to think, when we're under him, 'at he's war wi' us nor onybody else; but when we've getten th' lessen off by heart we find th' advantage on it. but ov all th' fooils it has been my luck to meet wi,' them chaps 'at knows all are th' biggest. there's some fowk think they're born wi' all th' wit i'th world, an' noabody can taich 'em owt; whativer yo tell' em, they've allus "known that long enuff sin'," or else they've "just been think in soa." aw once knew one o' that sooart--one 'at had allus been thinkin soa. one day some mates o' mine an' me thowt we cud like a marlock wi' him, an soa we gooas up to him an says, "a'a jooanas! whativer does ta think?" "nay," he says, "whativer will yo say? what's up?" "why," aw says, "jim hyn's dunkey's swallow'd th' grinelstooan." "well, if aw hadn't just been thinkin soa," says jooanas. "well, but tha thowt wrang, owd boy, this time," aw says, "for it hasn't." "why," he said, "aw hardly thowt it had." soa he had us at booath ends. they say it taks a wise man to mak a fooil, but aw think ther's enuff withaat makkin ony moor, an aw niver knew a fooil i' my life at didn't think ivery body else a little bit war cracked nor hissen. policeman's scrape tawkin abaat policemen reminds me ov a mess one on 'em gate into a while sin. aw shalln't tell awther his name or his number, becoss it's net my wish to get ony body into trouble. it's enuff for me to say he's a gooid-lukkin chap, an' if he isn't wed his wife is. he wor on neet duty, an' at one o' th' haases he had to pass, lived a fine buxom sarvent. policemen have allus been nooated for havin a fancy for sarvents, an' this wor like th' rest, an' befoor long they grew soa friendly 'at shoo used to invite him in after th' maister an' th' mistress had gooan to bed. one neet he'd crept in, an' they wor whisperin varry lovinly together, when shoo tell'd him ther wor noa cold mait o' ony sooart. "awm glad on it," he sed, "for awm stoled o' cold stuff. that luks a bit o' nice bacon at's hung up, does ta think tha could do me a bit anent th' fire, aw think ther's as mich heeat as'll cook it?" "well, robert," shoo sed, "if yo'll sit daan an' wait awl try." soa he put his lantern onto th' table an' sat daan wol shoo gate a little dutch oven an hooked two nice collops in; but shoo fancied shoo could enjoy one hersen, soa shoo stept up into a cheer to cut off another, an' as shoo'd th' knife i' one hand an' cannel i' th' tother shoo ovverbalanced hersen, and fell onto th' floor, settin up sich a skrike as yo niver heeard. th' 'cannel went aat when it fell an all wor as dark as pitch, and robert hearin th' maister skutterin daan th' stairs thowt his best plan wor to hook it; soa he grab'd up his lantern for owt he knew an buckled it on as he wor hurryin up th' steps. he'd hardly left when th' maister runs aat in his shirt, callin aat, "police! police!" robert comes fussin on as if he knew nowt abaat it, an' went back wi' th' maister, who wor soa freetened wol he darn't spaik. when they went in th' sarvent had sam'd hersen up, an lit th' cannel agean; but th' lass forgate her fall an' th' maister his fright, when they lukd at th' policeman an' saw he'd getten th' dutch oven i' th' front on him astead ov his lantern, an' two bacon collops swingin in it. they settled th' matter amang thersens, but it towt that policeman niver to tak off his lantern until he'd done wi' it. information divine service was held in the temperance hall, when the celebrated dr. foaming drinkwater preached from the text exodus 16 ch. 33 v., "and moses said unto aaron, take a pot," and in an eloquent sermon of 1h. 55m. the revd. lecturer clearly showed that a pot of beer was not alluded to in the text. collections were made at the close of the service. watterin places july is th' month to gooa a spawin'; an' fowk luk forrard to it just th' same as if they conldn't do withaat it. th' fact is aw hardly dar say owt agean it, for awm fond ov a bit ov a off mysen; but then ther's different ways o' dooin it. a chap at gethers horsemuck at hooam needn't want to mak' fowk believe he's th' lord mayor o' london abrooad. aw remember once when aw wur at a watterin' place, aw followed some fine young ladies an' wished 'em "gooid day;" aw wornt exactly sure whether one on 'em mightn't be th' princess o' wales or net, but haasumiver, they curled up ther nooas th' same as if they'd passed a fooamet. but in abaat a wick at after, aw met one on 'em gooin ovver th' north brigg wi' a slice o' traitle cake in her hand, varry near like th' door ov a mahogany shut-up-bed, an' up to th' elbows i' miln greease too. aw thowt if ony body wanted to pick a lass for a wife they shouldn't goa to a spawin' spot. for all that, awve nowt to say agean it--one body's as mich reight to goa an get sunburnt as another; but they mud as weel spaik truth, an' not allus say it's for th' gooid o' ther health, when all th' time it's just for a bit ov a spree. aw could give some gooid advice to ony body at thinks o' gooin. tak varry little brass, an' let it be i' your pocket, net i' yor face. th' less yo have an' th' less yo'll spend. dooant buy patent booits to walk o' th' sand in. if you're anxious to ride in a cock booat, dooant be particler to wear white trowsers. if yo want a horse to ride, tak one wi yo--it 'll save yo a deeal o' disappointment; if yo want a donkey, settle ha mony legs yo could like it to have, an' yo'll find plenty. be careful noabody taks a fancy to yo th' same way. ther's as mony donkeys wi' two legs as four, an' a bonny seet mooar. talkin' abaat th' number o' legs maks me think ov a chap at considered hissen rayther a sharp en; he'd a bit ov a garden an' some cherry trees in it, an' one mornin' when he gate aat o' bed he fan somdy had saved him th' trouble o' getherin' th' fruit; they'd done it for him woll he wor asleep. he coom an' tell'd th' tale to me. "a'a," he said, "if he could nobbut find aat who'd done it, he'd stransport 'em over th' seah' that he wod!" "why," aw says, "tha knows burds is varry fond o' cherries, an' its happen th' burds." "burds!" he said, an' he winked at me varry knowingly. "burds! happen they wor burds--but they wor two-legged ens aw'll bet." aw niver thowt him quite so sharp after that. nah just a word bi way of a caution. a chap 'at's two paand i' debt an' goas an' spends three paand at a watterin' place, maks hiss en five paand behund; whereas if he'd paid what he owed he'd still ha had one paand to spend, an' that ud goa as far o' th' top o' blackstonedge as three paand at blackpool. it's worth a thowt. flaar shows when ther's a flaar show, clooas show at th' same time. aw hear fowk tawk abaat "floral gems," and sich like stuff, but aw understand varry little abaat it. but aw've a few gems ov another sooart at sich times--aw call 'em gems o' thowt. aw'm allus wonderin. aw wonder a deal aw've noa business to wonder. when aw see a lot o' nice young lasses i' muslin dresses, all spankin clean, an ommost makkin a chap wish he worn't wed--aw wonder if ther petticoits an' stockins is as cleean. an when aw see a lot o' white faced lads, 'a'ts hardly getten ther hippins off, smokin cigars, an' spittin o'th' floor ivery two or three yards,--aw wonder if they dooant wish they wor finished, an' aw wonder what ther mothers is dooin to let 'em aat by thersen. an' when aw hear tell ha mich brass they get at th' doors, aw wonder ha mich on it wor borrow'd to goa wi'--an' sometimes aw wonder what they do wi' it after they've getten it--but that's noa business o' mine;--its a hungary job, aw know. aw mony a time wonder, when aw hear th' bands o' music strike up, what lord byron ment when he said, "when music arose with its voluptuous swell;" for aw've booath seen an' heeard monny a voluptuous swell at a flaar show. an' aw wonder sometimes ha it is 'at fowk 'at goa wi a shawl o' ther heead to pick aat a sheep heead i'th' market, can't be content unless they're donned i' silks an' satins to goa see a twoathree marrygolds an' fushias. an' sometimes aw wonder 'what i'th' name o' fortun aw'm dooin thear mysen, an' if anybody axes me, aw wonder what business it is o' their's;--an' its just a case o' wonderin throo beginnin to th' endin', an' aw wonder when fowk 'll leearn a bit o' wit. aw wonder if fowk think th' same abaat me. aw wonder if they do. aw shouldn't wonder if they did. october ale they reckon to brew a gooid sup o' ale in october, an' they call it "prime owd october." ther's monny a war thing i'th' world nor a sup o' gooid drink. landlords an' teetotal-lecturers manage to get a livin' aat on it some way;--but it's th' same wi' ale as wi' iverything else nah days,--it's nowt made on unless it's sharp. it's a sharp age we live in;--hand-loom waivin' an' stage coaches are all too slow; iverybody an' iverything keeps growin' sharper. but we arn't as sharp as what they are i' 'merica yet--they're too sharp. they tell me they ha' to lapp thersen up i' haybands afoor they goa to bed, for fear o' cuttin' th' sheets. aw heeard tell o' one chap runnin' a race wi' a flash o' leetnin', an' they say he'd ha' won but for one ov his gallus buttons comin' off. an' another 'at used to mak leather garters an' throw 'em ovver his heead, an' he could mak 'em soa sharp 'at he allus kept one pair flyin'. he worn't a bad hand at his job, he worn't that. one day aw axed a chap 'at had been, "if they wor raylee as sharp as what fowk gave 'em credit for?" "why," he says, "they wor sharper nor aw liked on, or else aw shouldn't ha' come back; but aw couldn't get on noa rooad: aw tried two or three different trades, but aw made nowt aat, an' at last aw set up as tubthumper; but that wodn't do. they niver wanted ought makkin'-they wor too sharp for that; they allus brought yo summat to mend;-becoss they knew a chap couldn't charge as mich for mendin' an owd tub as for makkin' a new en; soa if they'd ony sooart ov a owd tub lagg, or a piece of a barrel bottom, they browt it to get mended into a new tub. aw did as weel as aw could amang it; but one day a chap comes in an' says, 'aw want yo to do a bit o' repairin' for me.' 'varry gooid, sur,' says aw, 'an' what might yo be wantin?' 'well,' he says, 'aw've an owd bung hoil here, do yo think yo could fit me a fresh barrel to it?' aw niver spake for a minit, then aw says, 'wod yo be gooid enuff to lend me a hand to put theas shuts up?' 'wi' pleasure, sur,' he said, an' he did, an' aw left th' job an' coom hooam, for aw thowt they wor rayther too sharp." mun, a chap can be too sharp sometimes. my advice is, be as sharp as yo like, if yo're sharp in a reight way, but thers some things it's as weel to be slow abaat. be slow to do a shabby trick, an' be sharp to help a poor body 'at needs it. be slow to see other fowk's faults, an' be sharp to improve yor own. be slow to scandalise yor neighbors, an' keep a sharp luk aat to steer clear ov iverybody else's business; yo'll find it 'll give yo moor time to luk after yor own. force of example last may mr. goosequill, attorney-at-law, liberally forgave a poor widow the expenses of a trial in which he had been engaged. it is a singular fact that a tom-cat, which had been for years in the gentleman's family, having caught a mouse, let it go for pity's sake the following day. gunpaader plot squibs an' crackers! starleets an' catterin wheels! bunfires an' traikle parkin! this is th' time for a bit ov a jollification. guy fawkes did a gooid turn, after all, when he tried to blow th' parliament haase up; for we should ha' had one spree less i' the' year but for him. ax twenty fowk this question o' th' fourth o' november, "are yo gooin to buy ony fireworks this year?" an aw dar be bun to say yo willn't find one i'th' lot but what'll say "aw've summat else to do wi' my brass nor to waste it o' sich like fooilery as that." an' still, aw'll wager at nineteen on 'em buy some after all. ther's a deal o' difference i'th way they spend it. i' th' country they all sit raand th' fire wi' their parkin an' milk' or else rooasted puttaties, an' they tell tales, an' they laf an' talk till they've varry near burned ther shoo toas off, an' getten soa starved o' ther back 'at they willn't be shut ov a cold for a month; but i'th' taan there's allus th' mooast to do i'th' public haases. aw think aw shall niver forget a marlock we had th' last plot. it wor in a public haase somewhere between "spice cake-loin" an' whiskum dandy; ther wor a raam full o' fowk, an' aw nooatised 'at iverybody's pockets wor swelled aat, an' thinks aw, aw shouldn't be capp'd if ther wor a dust here in a while. they just wanted somdy to start. in a bit one on 'em gate up to goa aat, an' th' landlord (he'd a cork leg) drop'd a cracker into his pocket. he hadn't gooan far when bang it went; he turns back an' leets abaat two dozzen an' sends 'em in to th' middle o'th' raam. "nah, lads! for god's sake show a bit o' sense," says th' landlord, "dooant begin sich like wark as that i' this raam, nah dooant." he mud as weel ha' just whistled jigs to a mile-stoop; aat coom iverybody's stock, an' i' less nor hauf a minit ther wor sich a hullabaloo i' that shop as aw niver heeared afoor. to mak matters war, somdy had shut th' door an' fesened it, an' th' place wor full o' rick, an iverybody ommost chooak'd. aw gate under th' seat, an' in a bit somdy smashes th' window an' bawls aat "fire! fire!" i' two or three minits ther coom a stream o' watter into th' raam as thick as my shackle, an' smash went th' chandilleer. th' landlord wor mad ommost--lukkin glasses an' picters went one after tother, an' aw faand aat 'as aw couldn't swim, aw should ha' to shift, or else aw should be draaned. some kind soul managed to braik th' door daan an' we gate aat, but aw could hear th' landlord yelling aat 'at sombdy had stown his cork leg. ha' they went on aw dooant know, for aw steered straight hooam. at abaat six o'clock th' next morning, as aw went to my wark, aw saw a cork leg with a varry good booit on it, hangin' to a gas lamp, an aw wonder'd whose it wor. th' last month th' last month o' th' year; an' ther's summat rayther sorrowful abaat th' last o' owt, exceptin' trouble; an' still to me ther's allus summat varry interestin' abaat owt at's "th' last." aw've watched men when they've been buildin' a long chimley, but aw've niver felt mich interest till it's come th' time for 'em to put on th' last stooan; they've labored day by day, riskin boath life an' limb, an' still aw've felt varry little anxiety; but it's just th' fact on it bein' th' last stooan; an' aw've hardly been able to tak my een off it till it's been finished an' th' last man's come safe daan. but still it's a sorrowful saandin' word is "last." th' last farewell--th' last look--th' last breath--an' th' last restin, place; it sets fowk thinkin what there'll be after "th' last." th' last month i'th' year isn't a bad time to luk back an' see ha we've spent th' past eleven, an' aw think ther's few but what'll be able to see monny a place where they've missed it. an' if soa we'd better mak th' best o'th' few days left to mak what amends we can. owd christmas comes in smilin', with his holly an' his mistletoe, an' his gooid tempered face surraanded wi' steam of plum puddin' an' roast beef--tables get tested what weight they can bear--owd fowk an' young ens exchange greetin's, punch bowls steam up; an' lemons an' nutmegs suffer theresen to be rubbed, scrubbed, sliced, an' stewed; an' iverybody at can, seems to be jolly at christmas. some fowk luk forrard to christmas just for th' sake of a gooid feed, an' aw've seen odd ens, nah an' then, 'at can tuck it in i' fine style. aw recollect one christmas when jooan o' jenny's (we used to call him jooan long stummack) went to london (he'd one o'th' best twists aw iver met wi'), an' he wor takken varry wamley for want ov a bit ov a bitin on, soa he went into a cook's shop an' ax'd 'em ha mich they'd mak him a dinner for? "eighteenpence, sur," said th' maister, "come, sit daan an' help thisen." soa he sat daan just at th' front ov a lump o' rooast beef, an' cut a piece off as big as a brick, an' he worn't lang i' polishin' that an' cutting another. th' landlord wor rayther capped when he saw it goa like that, an' he says "tha'rt hungary, lad, aw think! will ta have, summat to sup?" "noa thank yo, sur," says jooan, "not just yet." he varry sooin put th' second lot where it could keep th' furst company, an' began cuttin' a third; this made th' maister seem varry uneasy, an' he says, "tha'd better have summat to sup, lad! mun aw fotch thi a pint o' drink?" "noa, thank yo," said jooan, "aw mak a practice niver to sup till aw've hauf, done." "why, lad," says th' landlord, "haitch will ta tak' to drop it?" "well" said jooan, "if yo dooant like my company aw'm sooary aw've come, but aw shouldn't like to leave this table for less nor hauf a craan, if aw do aw shall be a loiser." th' old chap pooled awt hauf a craan an' banged it on to th' table, an' says, "tak' it, an' tak' thisen away, an' niver put thi fooit i' my haase agean as long as tha's a day to live; tha'd ruin me in a wick." "why, maister," he says, "yo cap me sayin' soa, for aw can't ait as mich bi a caah head as once aw cud. aw'll tak' th' hauf crawn; gooid day, maister; you've made a shillin 'at me." mediated strike at a meeting of the tax-collectors of the w--r---g of ---shire, held in one of the cells beneath the town hall it was proposed, "that we, the tax gatherers and rate collectors of the w--r---g of ---shire do intend to throw up our offices, unless our wages are reduced or our labours increased, for being like unto other men, possessed of consciences, we are frequently tormented with the thought, that we are receiving more than what is our due, and by that means wronging the public." mr. christopher delphian moved as an amendment, "that they should dispose of their consciences, that being a readier way of getting over the difficulty." the chairman put the amendment which was carried, and the consciences were sold in one lot, for 7 3/4 d., which was carried to the fund for the entertainment of mr. calcraft, the president, whenever he should visit the district on a professional tour. new year's parties its net oft at aw have mich to do wi' parties. th' fact is aw'm wed, an' young fowk dooant want me, becoss they say aw've made my markets, an' wed fowk dooant oft ax me becoss aw suppose aw dooant oft ax them. but this month last year aw did get a invite to a doo, an' aw went. aw'st net forget in a hurry what a fidget my owd woman gate into. shoo brushed me daan aboon a duzzen times, an' turned me raand like a rooastin jack to see ha aw luk'd, woll aw wor as mazy as a wheel heead, an' th' childer luk'd up i' my face two or three times afoor they could believe it wor me. aw heeard awr abram telling betty 'at "he believed his fayther wor gooin to get kursen'd or summat." "ho eeah! why what are they baan to call him?" shoo says. "nay, aw dooant know, but my mother's been callin' him 'gaumless,' happen that's it." gaumless enuff aw thowt, an' after rubbin' my hat raand wi' a weet sponge (woll th' wife declared it wor as hansum as a japan tea caddy), aw set off. aw seized howd o'th' nob when aw gate to th' door, an' aw gave a gooid pawse, same as aw do at hooam, a fine young gentleman oppen'd it, an' after starin' at me for two or three minits, he said, "walk in, sur." aw doff'd my hat an' did soa; an' he! what a smell! "by gow, lad," aw said, "its enuff to mak my maath watter is this, ther's nowt awm fonder on nor onions, an' aw con smell ther's some cookin'--they'll be frying some liver, aw dar say. are ta th' maister's lad?" aw axed. "noa, sur," he said; "a'wm th' waiter." "why tha needn't wait o' me," aw said, "aw'll luk after mysel." "come this way, sur." he said, "aw'll introduce yo'. what name shall aw say, sur?" "does ta think aw am not known?" aw says; "nah aw'll tell thi what it is: if tha keeps diddlin after me like tha has done sin' aw come in, as if tha thowt aw wanted to stail summat, awst just twist thi neck raand." th' maister heeard me tawkin, an' coom to shake hands wi' me, smilin' all ovver his face delightedly. he hook'd his arm i' mine, an' walked me into a grand raam full o' ladies an' waiters (aw made 'em aat to be waiters coss they wor dressed like him 'at stood at th' door.) "this is my old friend, the almenack maker," he said, an' they all gate up an' sat daan agean. when aw luk'd raand aw thowt, "aw'm in for it this time," for aw could mak it aat to be nowt but a meetin' to kursen a lot o' childer', an' varry likely they wanted me to stand godfayther for 'em. aw saw noa babbies ony-where, but then aw'd heeard fowk tell abaat th' quality havin' weet nurses for ther bairns, an' aw made it aat 'at thease must be um, on accaant o'th' way they wor dressed, for they wor all i' white, an' ther's nowt easier weshed, an' aw thowt to mysen, "aw'll tell my owd woman to have her gaon made i' th' same pattern when shoo's ony more to suckle, for it must save a deal o' trouble, an' be for ivver better nor havin' a lot o' hooks an' eyes botherin' abaat th' child's face." but thear aw sat, an' as noabody said owt to me, aw said nowt to noabody. in a bit ivery body began pairin' off, an' th' maister says, "come, my friend, you must take a lady to dinner," an' a reight grand young woman coom an' tuk howd o' mi arm, an' we follow'd aat i' prussesshun, like they do at a burrin. when we gate into th' next raam aw fan aat mi mistak abaat all th' chaps being waiters, for they sat daan to th' table same as th' maister an' me, soa aw thowt varry likely they wor locals, or summat i'th' missionary line. aw niver saw as mich stuff to ait i' all my life, except in a cook shop. "shall i pass you a little soup," said th' maister? "noa, thank yo," aw said, "aw weshed me afoor aw coom." "not soap, my good friend, i mean soup," he said. "oh! broth, is it? aw did'nt know what yo ment. eeah, aw'll tak a soop o' broth, if yo please, an' a bit o' suet dumplin,' if yo have a bit." when aw said soa, a lot began a cough in', the same as if they'd a boan i' ther throit, an' th' maister oppened sich a shop 'at aw thowt th' top ov his heead had come off, but aw reckoned to tak noa noatice an' aw worked away wi my gapin' stick woll th' maister axed me ha aw liked my ox tail soup. "dun yo call this ox tail soup," aw said, an' aw beld up a caah tooith ommust big enuff to mak a knife heft. aw thowt it war a gooid joak, but noabody else seem'd to see it, an' th' mistress ordered th' waiter to tak it away instantum. when we'd all etten woll we' wor om most brussen they browt a lot o' black bottles wi' silver necks in, an' we'd all a glass o' some sooart o' pop. by th' heart an' it wor pop too. "dun yo mak this yoursen, mistress?" aw axed. "by gingo, this licks awr traitle drink into fits, yo mun give me th' resait, if yo have it." "this is shampane, sur," shoo said. "aw dooant care whether it's sham or not, it's as gooid as owt o'th' sooart aw've tasted, aw'll thank you for another drop," "help yourself, my friend," said th' maister, an aw did, aboon a bit, but ha long aw wor at it or ha monny bottles aw emptied aw niver knew, for some ha aw fell asleep, an' when aw wakken'd aw wor at hooam, an' my owd wornan wor callin aat, "are ta baan'ta get up, yond's th' last whew." smiles, tears, getting on. smiles are things aw like to see, an'. they're noa less acceptable becoss sometimes ther's a tear or two. a chap at's a heart ov a reight sooart under his waistcoit cannot allus be smilin'. awve met a deal o' sooarts o' fowk i' my bit o' time, an' th' best aw iver met had a tear i' ther ee nah an' then. if ther's owt aw hate to see, its a chap at's allus smilin'; an' if iver yo meet sich a one set him daan to be awther a haufthick or a hypocrite--yo'll be sure to be reight. it'll be time enuff to be allus grinnin' when all th' warkhaases an' th' prisons are to let--when lawyers have to turn farmers, an' bumbaileys have to emigrate--when yo connot find a soldier's or a policeman's suit ov clooas, except in a museum--when ther's noa chllder fun frozen to th' deeath o' london brig--an' when poor fowk get more beef an' less bullyin'. if iver sich a time comes woll aw live, aw'll laff wi' th' best on em, but till then a claad sometimes will settle on mi here,--an awm glad 'at it is soa. aw niver see a chap 'at's tryin to get on but what he reminds me ov once gooin to a baptist chapel to see a lot o' fowk kursened. everybody wor feightin' for th' front pews, an' them 'at gate 'em had to haddle e'm an' net be perticular abaat ther shirt collar--an' when a chap starts aat for a front place i' this life he has to rough it, an' if he succeeds aw wonder sometimes if he's ony better off nor them 'at gate th' front seeats i'th' chapel, for all 'at wor behund 'em seem'd to be tryin' to shove 'em ovver into th' bottom, an' nah an' then aw noaticed odd uns 'at could bide noa longer, an' gave up th' spot they'd fowt soa hard to get, an' sombdy behund, 'at had hardly tewd a bit dropt into th' seat. and sich is life: it isn't allus th' workers 'at succeed, net it marry! its th' skeeamers! it's them 'at keeps ther een oppen. but aw con allus thoil 'em owt they get, if, when they're climbin' up th' stee, they niver put ther heel on another chap's neck, by traidin' on his fingers, to mak him lawse his hold. it's a wrang nooation 'at some fowk have getten, to "get brass honestly if yo can, an' if yo cannot, try to keep a easy conscience, an' do baat it." some chaps 'll niver get on; they're allus gooin' to mend, but they niver start. sich like should tak a pattern throo th' almenack makkers--they've lost eighteen haars this last three years, an' if they didn't mind they'd loise six mooar this time, but they tak care net to do soa,--they shove a day extra into february to mak it up, and they call it "leap year," and it ud be a rare gooid job if fowk wod tak a few laups this year;--laup aat o'th' alehouse on to th' hearthstun at home--laup aat o' bed i' time for th' church ov a sunday momin'--laup aat o' th' clutches o' th' strap shop--laup aat o' th' gate o' bad company--laup up to yo're wark wi' a smile, an' laup back hooam wi' it, an' yo'll find th' wife's heart ul laup wi joy to see yo comin' back cheerful, an' th' childer ul laup on to yo'r knee, an' yo'll be capt ha easy it'll be to laup over ony bits o' trouble 'at yo' meet wi'. but alus laup forrard if it's possible; for if yo try to laup backards yo'll run th' risk o' braikin yo'r neck, an' noabody pities them 'at laups aat o' th' fryin' pan into th' fire, an' it's a easy matter to miss it.--aa dear o' me! aw think it is!--and yo'd think soa if yo'd seen what aw saw once. a mate o' mine courted a lass, an' he'd monny a miss afore he gat throo wi it. he used to go an' tawk to her throo a brokken window 'at ther wor i' th' weshhaase, an' one neet shoo'd promised to meet him thear, an' he wanted to kuss her as usual, but he started back. "nay, lucy," he said, "aw'm sure thar't nooan reight. has ta been growin' a mustash?" mew! mew! it went; an' he fan aat he'd kuss'd th' owd tom cat. when th' neighbours gate to know, they kursened him "kusscat," an' they call him soa yet. but that worn't all; for when he went to get wed he wor soa flustered woll he stood i' th' wrang place, an' when th' time coom for him to put th' ring on, he put it on th' woman next to him--he thowt it didn't mean, for he cud get it swap'd after, but when it wor ovver they all began to find aat ther'd been a mistak. "why, kusscat," said one, "what's ta been doin'? tha' s getten wed to thi mother." th' parson look'd glum, but he said, "it's noa use botherin' nah, its too lat, you should ha' spokken afoor--an' aw think he's fittest to be wi' his mother." but he roar'd like a bull, an' begged th' parson to do it ovver, an' do it reight; but lucy said, "he'd noa cashion, for shoo'd live an' dee an owd maid for iver afoor shoo'd have ony chap second hand." but her heart worn't as hard as shoo thowt, soa, shoo gave in, an' th' next time they managed better. mysterious disapperance. a short time ago mr. fitzivitz, of rank end, was seen to be swimming at a great rate and making a most extensive spread in the river plate. several friends cautioned him not to go so far out of his depth, but he was utterly heedless of advice, he dived still deeper, and was observed to sink over head and ears in debt, leaving a large circle of friends to bewail his loss. his body has since been recovered, but all that could have comforted his anxious friends had fled, alas for ever. sam it up. ther's a deal o' things scattered raand, at if fowk ud tak th' trouble to pick up might do 'em a paar o' gooid, an' my advice is, if yo meet wi' owt i' yor way 'at's likely to mak life better or happier, sam it up, but first mak sure yo've a reight to it. nah, aw once knew a chap at fan a topcoit, an' he came to me, an' says--"a'a lad! awve fun one o' th' grandest topcoits to-day at iver tha clapt thi' een on." "why, where did ta find it?" aw says. "reight o' th' top o' skurcoit moor." "well, tha'rt a lucky chap," aw says, "what has ta done wi' it?" "aw niver touched it; 'aw left it just whear it wor." "well, tha art a faoil; tha should ha' brout it hooam." "e'ea! an' aw should ha' done, but does ta see ther wor a chap in it." aw tell'd him he'd made a fooil on me, an' aw consider'd mysen dropt on, but noa moor nor he wor wi' havin' to leave th' coit. "neer heed," he said "fowk can allus do baat what they can't get," an' aw thowt ther wor a bit o' wisdom i' what he said. but what caps me th' mooast is at fowk tug an' tew for a thing as if ther life depended on it, an' as sooin as they find they cannot get it, they turn raand an' say they care nowt abaat it. we've all heeard tell abaat th' "fox an' grapes," an' ther's a deal o' that sooart o' thing. this world's full o' disappointments, an' we've all a share. th' bradford exchange wor oppened this month, 1867, an' aw luk on it, that wor a sad disappointment to some. "exchange is noa robbery," they say, but if some fowk knew what it had cost, they might think it had been a dear swap. ther are fowk at call it "a grand success"--but then awve heeard some call th' halifax taan hall "a grand success," but they haven't made me believe it. it may do a deal o' gooid, aw'll not deny that; it may taich fowk to let things alooan at they dooan't understand--let's hooap soa. ovver th' door-hoil they've put "act wisely," an' it's time they did. its summat like telling a chap to be honest, at the same time yo'r picking his pocket. but we've noa business to grummel, its awr duty to "submit to th' powers that be" (if they're little ens); but a chap cannot help langin' for th' time when brains an' net brass shall fit a man for a taan caancillor. but fowk mun get consolation aat o' summat, soa they try to fancy th' taan hall luks handsome. its like th' chap 'at saw his horse fall into th' beck;--he tugg'd an' pool'd, and shaated an' bawl'd, but th' horse went flooatin' on, plungin' its legs abaat, makkin' th' watter fly i' all direckshuns but it wur noa use, for it wur draanded at th' last. when he went hooam he tell'd th' wife abaat it "what does ta say?" shoo says; "is it draanded?" "e'es, it's draanded, lass; but it ud ha' done thi e'en gooid to ha' seen it, aw wor capt,--mun it wur a topper to swim, an' that's a comfort; tha knows we could niver ha' known that if it had niver been tried." lets hooap 'at when they've another to build they'll do better. its niver too late to mend, an' we're niver too owd to learn; but its hard wark to taich some. aw remember once a chap tellin' me hah they made sooap, an' he said "three-thirds o' sooap wor tollow, an' tother summat else." aw tried to show him 'at it couldn't be soa, for if three-thirds wor tollow it must be all tollow; but he said, aw "needn't start o' taichin' him; when he'd been a sooap boiler twenty year he owt to know." aw saw it wor noa use me talkin', for as wordsworth says (or else he doesn't) "twor throwing words away, for still, the soap-boiler wod have his will, and said, "three-thirds wor tollow.' but who is ther 'at niver does wrang? net th' odd en! them 'at live i' glass haases shouldn't throw stooans; soa we'll drop it. we're all fooils at times. fooils ther's some born fooils, an' ther's some mak thersen fooils, an'. ther's some get made fooils on. when we hear fowk tell tales abaat sein' boggards, an gettin' ther planets ruled, we think it saands fooilish. nah an' then one turns up rayther simple, an' a body con hardly help laffin'. it's net long sin' aw heeard tell of a owd woman goin' to th' pooast office i' bolton, an' axin to see th' maister, an, when he coom shoo said shoo wanted to know hah monny stamps it 'ud tak' to send a mangle to yeaworth. he couldn't tell her, an' shoo went away thinkin' what a fooil he wor net to know his business better nor that, an' he thowt what a fooil shoo wor for ax in sich a question. an' soa it is;--we're apt to think iverybody fooils but ussen, an' them 'at belangs to us. yo doant oft find a mother or fayther 'at thinks ther lad's a fooil (unless he gets wed, an then they allus say soa.) iverybody's'child is th' grandest an' th' cliverest i'th world. but aw couldn't help laffin' one day when i heeard a chap braggin' abaat his lad. "aa," he said, "he's cliverest lad of his age aw iver met; he's nobbut thirteen year owd an' he con do owt." just as he wor sayin' soa th' lad coom into th' raam, aitin' a raw turnip, an' his fayther thowt he'd show him off a bit, soa he said, "jack a want thee to go an' messur th' length o' that piece o' timber 'at's i'th yard, an come tell me." soa he gave him his two-fooit rule, an' th' lad went. aw thowt he wor a long time abaat it, but in a bit he coom back. "well jack," said his fayther, "ha long is it? spaik up, that's a fine lad." "why," he says, "it's th' length o' yo'r rule, an' my pocket comb, an' this piece o' band." "that's reight," said his fayther, "tha con goa hoam," put aw nooaticed 'at be did'nt brag abaat him quite so mitch at after. if a chap doesn't want to be thowt a fooil he should niver start o' showin' off befoor fowk till he knows what he's abaat, an' ther's noan on us knows iverything. aw remember once go in' to th' sale ov a horse, an' th' auctioneer knew varry little abaat cattle, an' he began praisin' it up as he thowt. "gentlemen," he said, "will you be kind enough to look at this splendid animal! examine him, gentlemen; look at his head; why, gentlemen, it's as big as a churn! an' talk about points--why, it's all points; you can hang yo'r hat on any part of him!" he'd just getten soa far, when th' chap 'at belang'd th' horse could bide it noa longer, soa be laup'd up an' pooled th' auctioneer daan bith' hair o'th' heead. "tha may be an auctioneer," he said, "but tha'rt noa ostler." but it isn't long sin' aw wor at a sale o' picturs, i'th' teetotal hall at halifax, an' th' chap 'at wor sellin' put up one lot an' made this speech:--"ladies and gentlemen,--the next lot i have the pleasure to offer you are three picturs of 'joan of arch' a french lady of distinction, who fought at the battle of waterloo against the duke of wellington, and was afterwards burnt at the siege of moscow. how much shall i say for this lot?" aw walk'd aat when awd heeard that, for aw thowt he might happen be a ostler, but blow me if he wor fit for an auctioneer. but we con forgi' a chap lukkin fooilish sometimes, if he doesn't mak' other fowk luk soa; but when that chap at saathawarm put bills up to call a meeting o'th' committee to consider what color to whitewash th' schooil, they all felt fooilish. a young chap 'at's just popp'd th' question to a young woman feels rayther fooilish if shoo says "noa." an' if shoo says "yes," he may live to think he wor fooilish. a chap feels fooilish when he's been runnin aboon a mile to catch th' train, an' just gets thear i' time to see it move off an' leave him. a chap feels fooilish when he goas to th' chapel when ther's a collection, an' finds he's left th' hawpenny at hooam he thowt o' givin', an's nowt noa less nor hauf a craan. a chap feels fooilish if he's been rakein' aat all th' neet, an' when he gets hooam his wife finds a woman's neet-cap hung to his coit button. a chap luks fooilish when he's tellin' a tale an' forgets hah it finishes. a woman luks fooilish when shoo's lost her hair pins, an' her false bob's hingin' daan her back. an' ther are times when we're all fooilish, an' awm feeard if aw doant stop yo may begin to think me fooilish, soa aw'll drop it. cleenin' daan month may is abaat th' warst pairt o'th' year for a wed chap, for he connot walk aat, an' he cannot be comfortable at hooam, becoss it's th' cleeanin' daan time. talk abaat weshin' days! they're fooils to cleeanin' days. buckstun lime an' whitewesh, bees-wax an' turpitine-black-leead an' idleback, stare a chap i' th' face ivery where. pots an' pans--weshin' bowls an' peggy tubs, winteredges an' clooas lines-brooms an' besoms--dish claots an' map claots, block up ivery nook an' corner; an' if iver ther is a time when a chap darn't spaik it's then. if he thinks th' haase is cleean enuff, an' doesn't want owt dooin' at, his wife's sure to call him a mucky haand, an' say 'at he wodn't care if he wor up to th' shoo tops i' filth; an' if he says he thinks it wants a cleean, shoo'll varry sooin ax him if he can tell her whear ther's another haase as cleean, for shoo doesn't know one, an' if he does, he's welcome to goa. but it all ends i' th' same thing--its th' time o' th' year for a reight upset, an' it 'll ha to have it, whether it wants it or net. ther's noa way to suit a woman at sich times, but to be as quiet as yo can. if yo say, "come, lass, con aw help thi a bit," shoo's sure to snap at yo, as if shoo'd bite yor heead off, an' tell yo to get aat ov her gate, for yor allus under her nooas, woll shoo can do nowt. an' if yo goa aat o'th' gate, shoo'll ax yo as sooin as yo come in, ha yo can fashion to spend' yor time gaddin abaat when yo know ha things is at hooam, an' you dooant care th' toss ov a button for her, but just mak her into a slave, an' niver think o' sich a thing as liggin' on a helpin' hand. ther's noa way to do but to bide it as weel as yo can, an' say little, for it doesn't last long. but even when its ovver, yo mun be careful what yo say, for if yo tell her yo think it luks better for th' labor, shoo's sure to say at "shoo sees varry little difference, an' shoo wor fare capt, for ivery thing wor as cleean as a pin." an' if yo say yo can see noa difference, shoo'll say, "tha can see nowtt,"--but shoo knows whether its different or net, for shoo's taen aboon a barra' looad o' muck aat o' that haase that wick. soa my advice is, to say nowt at sich times till yo're axed, an then say as they say. aw once heeard ov a young couple at wor baan to get wed, an' they made it up allus to say an' think alike, an' then they'd be sure net to fall aat; soa they went to th' church an' gate made man an wife, an' as they wor walkin' hooam he said, "aw think this is th' happiest day o' awr lives." "e'ea," shoo says, "aw think it is." "aw think we shall have some rain afoor long," he said. "e'ea," shoo says, "aw think it luks likely for weet." "a'a did ta iver see a faaler bonnet nor that lass has on," shoo said? "noa lass, aw think aw niver did," he replied; "but what a bonny lass shoo is, isn't shoo?" "nay, nobbut middlin'," shoo says. "well aw think her a beauty." "aw wonder where tha luks," shoo said, "but if tha'rt soa taen wi' her, tha con have her astead o' me." "nay, lass," he said, "tha knows we've agreed allus to think an' say alike, an' awm sure shoo's a varry bonny lass." "well an' awm sure shoo's as plain a stick as iver aw saw i' all my life, an' if aw agree to say an' think what tha does, it wor cos aw thowt tha wor reight i' thi heead." soa they walk'd hooam lukkin varry glum, an' differ'd for th' futer same as other fowk. when a chap gets wed he should be ready for th' warst. aw once knew a chap at fell i' love wi a woman 'at he met in a railway train, an' as they lived a long way apart, they did ther coortin i' writin' an' at last th' day wor fixed for 'em to get wed. joa went to fotch her an' walk her to th' church, an' as they wor gooin' he thowt shoo walked rayther queer, soa he says, "susy, does ta limp?" "limp!" shoo says, "net aw, aw limp noan." soa they went on, an' just as they wor gooin' into th' church, he said, "susy, awm sure tha seems to limp." "a'a, joa," shoo says, "aw wonder what tha'll say next." soa joa an' susy gate wed. when they wor gooin hooam he said, "susy, awm sure tha limps." "aw know aw limp," shoo says, "aw allus limp'd; is a woman ony war for limpin'?" hay-making i hope my readers will regard that varry gooid advice, when they see th' grass cut--"mak hay woll th 'sun shines." there's nowt aw like better nor to spend a day or two in a hay field. tawk abaat "ho de colong!" it doesn't smell hauf as weel to me as a wisp o' new made hay. an' them 'at niver knew th' luxury a' gooin' to bed wi' tired booans, should work i'th' hay-field for a wick. it'll do onnybody gooid; an' if some o' them idle laewts 'at stand bi a duzzen together at th' loin ends _laikin_ at pitch an' toss, wod goa an' _work_ at pitch an' toss, they'd be better booath i' mind an' body an' pocket. tossin' th' hay is booath healthful an' lawfur but tossin' hawpneys (especially them wi' heeads o' booath sides) is nawther. hay makkin' is a honest callin', an' when a chap is gettin' his livin' honestly (noa matter what he does), he feels independent,--an' when a chap feels soa, he can affooard to spaik what he thinks. aw remember once callin' at th' "calder an' hebble" public haase, an' sittin' in a raam wi' a lot o' young swells 'at coom throo sowerby brigg; an' in a bit, a trampified lukkin' chap coom in, an' called for a glass o' ale. this didn't suit th' young gentlemen, soa one on 'em says to him, "fellow, you are an intruder." "tha'rt a liar," th' chap says, "awm nowt at sooart, awm a cheer-bottom mender an' aw've sarved mi time to it." "you don't understand me, sir; what i mean is that you have no business here." "noa, lad; aw niver come to theeas shops when aw've ony business, aw allus do that furst." this rayther puzzled th' young swell an' his face went as red as a hep, cos aw laff'd at him; an' he struck his naive o'th' table; "sir," said he, "will you take your departure?" "noa," he said, "aw'll tak nowt 'at doesn't belang to me if aw know on it." "you're an insolent scoundrel, and i leave you with contempt." "yo can leeav me wi' who yo like," he said, "awst mislest noabody if they behave therlsen". they all went an' left him, an' as sooin as they'd getten aat o'th' seet he set up a gurt laff, an' called for another glass; an' aw nooatised at he gave th' landlord a sovereign to tak pay aat on, an' when he brout him his change back, he said, "thank you, sir," an' bow'd to him as if he'd been one o'th' gentry. this happened o'th' same day as aw'd been at briggus, an' awst net forget that in a hurry:--aw'll tell yo abaat it. it wor a varry hot day, an' aw'd walked throo halifax, an' wor beginin' to get rayther dry, an' when aw'd getten ommost thear, aw saw a booard shoved aat ov a chamer winder, wi' th' words painted on, "prime ginger beer sold here," soa aw went into th' haase an' ax'd for a bottle. he browt me a old hair oil bottle filled wi' summat, an a varry mucky-lukkin glass to sup aat on. "cannot yo let me have a cleean glass, maister?" aw axed. "that's clean," he says, "for aw bowt it aboon twelve months sin, an'it's niver been used for owt but pop." aw emptied th' bottle into it, an it lukk'd ommost like milk sops. "what do yo call all thease things at's swimmin' abaat?" aw says. "o, that's yeast, young man; it's a varry gooid thing for ther inside; aw'd a doctor once call'd for a bottle, an' he wodn't let me tak a bit aat: it does fowk gooid." "well but wodn't he let yo tak some o' theas pieces o' cork aat?" aw axed. "net a bit! for he said they acted tother rooad, an' it wor th' best to sup th' lot." "do yo sell a gooid deal o' this, maister?" "a'a bless yo! aw do that. ther wor a real lady coom here o' sunday afternooin, an' shoo supp'd seven bottles, an' shoo said shoo'd ha supped seventeen but her stumack wor varry kittle, an' shoo wor feear'd e' upsettin it." "an' wor ther as mich yeast in 'em as ther is i' this?" aw said. "e'ea! an' moor i' some." "why, then," aw said, "aw should think shoo'd rise early i'th mornin'." "ther's nowt noa better for gooin' to bed on, nor for gettin' up on, nor that pop." just then somdy coom in for a hawporth o' mustard, an' woll he turn'd raand aw emptied it daan th' sink, paid mi penny, an' hook'd it. soa mich for briggus, aw thowt. aw've oft heeard it spokken on as a risin' place, an noa wonder if they swallow yeast at that rate. but aw dooant see what all this has to do wi' haymakkin', soa aw'll rake up noa moar sich like things, for fear yo pitch into me. holinworth lake th' mooast remarkable thing 'at aw' con recollect abaat this time last year, wor a trip to hollinworth lake. ther'd been a collection made at the longloin sunday schooil for a new gas meeter; an after they'd getten th' brass, they bethought 'em 'at th' old en could be made do, an' soa th' taichers agreed to have a trip wi' th' funds. they argued a gooid deeal abaat ha to spend it, an' at last it wor decided they should walk all th' rooad, an' spend it as they went on. they started aat at four o'clock one setterday mornin' i' furst rate fettle. ther wor six men an' seven women; but as th' superintendent wor as big as two, they considered thersen weel paired. they trudged nicely on till they gate to bolton brow, an' then two or three began to feel faint, an' swallow (that's th' superintendent's name) propooased 'at they should have a drop o' drink to revive 'em. noabdy had owt to say agean that, soa as th' public haase wor just oppened, one on 'em went in an' browt aat a quart pitcher full an' handed it to swallow to sup th' furst. an' he did sup--for when he left lause ther wor nowt left but th' froth on his upper lip to tell at ther'd iver bin ony. "well" said lijah, "aw've heeared swallows called burds of passage, but if they'd all a passage like thee, they'd sup th' sea dry." "tha sees, lijah," he said, "awm unfortunate, for aw've a thirst on me 'at aw cannot quench, an' aw darn't sup watter for fear o' havin' th' dropsy." all th' women agreed' at he wor reight, an' soa after another quart amang em they went on. what wi' laffin, an' talkin,' an' smookin, they gate to blackstone edge moor, an' some of the women thowt it time for a rest, soa swallow stop'd all at once an' said, "do yo all see that stooan post 'at's standin' thear? that's the stooan at devides yorksher an' lankysher, an' aw think this a 'varry fit time to say a few words woll yo ease yor legs a bit." soa up he climb'd onto th' pooast, an' began praichin away, an' kept at it woll they wor all hauf pined to deeath. at last lijah said, "hang it up, ha long are ta baan to talk? aw wonder thi conscience doesn't prick thee!" "prick me!" he said, "aw defy owt to prick me when awm laborin' for a gooid cause." just then he ovver balanced hissel an' fell slap into th' middle ov a whin bush; but he wor up in a crack, an' one o' th' lasses said, "if his conscience hadn't getten prick'd summat else had," an' they went forrard, but swallow kept his hand under his coit lap for a mile or two. they gate to th' lake at last, an' after enjayin' what they call th' seea breeze, they started off to see some o' th' places ov interest. one o' th' furst they steer'd to wor th' birthplace o' tim bobbin. "an' who wor tim bobbin?" said one o' th' lasses. this puzzled 'em, for ther worn't one i'th' lot 'at knew; but one o' th' chaps said he thowt, if he worn't mistakken, he war th' inventor o' th' spinnin' mule. th' superintendent said that wor varry likely, for he'd oft nooatised when readin' history books, 'at chaps gate ther names throo summat they'd done, an' soa varry likely he gate called tim bobbin for that reason. after that they went back an' had a ride in a booat, an' as nooan on em knew ha to row, th' watter were varry sooin ankle deep inside; some on 'em began to grummel at this. "oh, niver heed," said swallow, "yo'll niver catch cold wi' salt watter." it worn't long afoor they wanted ther tea, soa they went into th' haase an' ordered a gooid feed. aw've heeard cunjurors say, "quick, jack, fly," when they've been puttin' summat aat o'th' seet; but ther worn't time to say that wi' them, for th' breead and butter went like leetnin'. one plate full after another kept comin' in, till at last th' mistress said, "aw think yo must ha' been hungry?" "e'ea, it's change o' climate 'at does it," they said. soa shoo browt in a fresh lot, but it made noa difference; away it went after tother. "do yo' know,". shoo says, when shoo coom in agean, "at yo've etten two pund o' breead apiece?" "why what's two pund when its cut thin," they said? an' at it they went agean. when they couldn't find room for ony moor, they paid ther shot an' started off hooam, whear they landed safely. th' next sunday neet, when th' gas wor lit at schooil iverybody wor capt to see what an' improvement th' new meter wor. soa after passin' a vote o' thanks to th' superintendent an' th' taichers for th' trouble they' been put to, th' matter dropt. plagues a lecture on this subject was delivered on tuesday evening, to the members of the ladies' needle and thimble association, by the rev. james sleek, curate of st. enock's-in-the-mist. after adverting to the plagues of egypt, the learned lecturer dwelt at length upon the plagues of the present day, which he classed under the following heads: --servants, poor relations, borrowers, teetotallars, tobacco-smokers, and children in arms. to counteract these evils were such associations as the one he had the honor to address, select tea meetings, fancy bazaars, and perambulators. the lecture gave great satisfaction. end o' th' year it's a long loin 'at's niver a turn, an' th' longest loin ends somewhear. ther's a end to mooast things, an' this is th' end o' the year. when a chap gets turned o' forty, years dooant seem as long as once they did--he begins to be feeared o' time rolling on--but it's fooilish, for it nawther gooas faster nor slower nor iver it did. but he's a happy chap 'at, when th' year ends, can luk back an' think ha mich gooid he's done, for it isn't what a chap will do for th' futer, its what he has done i'th' past 'at fowk mun judge by. its net wise for onybody to booast o' what they mean to do in a month's time, becoss we cannot tell what a month's time may do for us. we can hardly help havin' a gloomy thowt or two at this part o'th' year, but kursmiss comes to cheer us up a bit, an' he's nooan ov a gooid sooart 'at can't be jolly once i'th' year. as an owd friend o' mine has cliverly said:- come let us choose the better part, and sing whilst life is given; a cheerful and contented heart gives no offence to heaven. 'tis christmas time, then fill the horn, away with melancholy, if there's no leaves upon the thorn, there is upon the holly. hi! varry true! when ther's no leaves upon th' thorn, they're green upon the holly. ther's allus summat to be thankful for if we seek it aat--ther's sure to be a bit o' sunshine somewhere--an' its a varry bad case if a chap can't find consolation aat o' summat. aw remember a case ov a woman deein' 'at aw knew, an' aw met th' husband lukkin' varry glum a bit at after. "well joa," aw said, "tha's had a heavy loss, lad." "eea, aw have," an' then after studdyin' a bit, he said, "but aw should ha had to ha bowt a new suit afoor long, an' aw mud as weel buy black as any other color; it wod ha been awkerd if aw'd just getten a white hat, as aw thowt on--but providence! orders all things for th' best." ther's noa daat a gooid lot on us find consolation aat o'th' kursmiss jollification--its just a bit ov a sweetener afoor all th' nooats begin o' commin' in; aw dooant mean five paand nooats, ther's nooan monny o' them stirrin'. it's th' coil nooats, an' gas nooats, an' tax papers, them's th' sooart at's stirrin abaat this time. wheniver ther's a knock at th' door, yo may ventur to put yor hand i' yor pocket; an' happy he must feel 'at can allus find as mich thear as'll do. but its time enuff to think abaat that sooart o' thing when it comes; we've plenty to do nah to think abaat plum pudding an' rooast beef--an' aw hooap at iverybody 'at reads this may have enuff an' to spare. if aw could do owt to help yo to enjoy yorsen, awm sure aw wod, but as that's aat o' mi paar, just afoor aw leave for another twelve months aw'll gie yo a tooast, an' aw hooap yo'll all drink a bumper to it. here gooas! fill up to th' brim! are yo ready? here's off! god bless ivery one raand yor table wi' plenty to ait an' to spare; god bless yo an' mak yo all able to enjoy what may fall to yor share. god bless yo wi health an' wi riches, god bless yo wi hearts 'at can feel for the poor, when cold poverty twitches. god bless them sometimes wi' a meal. god bless them 'at's climbin' life's mountain, full ov hooaps 'at they niver may craan, an' refresh from thy cool soothin' fountain, those who paddle resignedly daan. an' tho' in death's mist-shrouded valley our friends we may lose for a while, god grant that at last all may rally where sunleet shall fade in his smile. gooid-bye! scientific after the annual excursion of the lowly dale scientific society, the members were addressed by mr. evertrot gagthorp. new specimens, the product of their recent journey, now enrich the museum: viz. in geology--limestone, pumice stone, soft stone, white stone, plum stone, and cherry stone. conchology--egg shell tortoise shell nut shell and satchel. botany--corn flour, grog blossom, and many leaves from the book of nature. entomology--a swallow tail had been obtained, but the president going to a dress party, had got the loan of it. valentine dream "on valentine's day, will a gooid gooise lay," is a varry old sayin', an' aw dare say a varry gooid en; an' if all th' geese wod nobbut lay o' that day ther'd be moor chonce o' eggs bein' cheap. but it isn't th' geese we think on at th' fourteenth o' this month i'ts th' little ducks, an' th' billy dux. a'a aw wish aw'd all th' brass 'at's spent o' valentines for one year; aw wodn't thank th' queen to be mi aunt. ther's nobdy sends me valentines nah. aw've known th' time when they did, but aw'm like a old stage cooach, aw'm aat o' date. aw'st niver forget th' furst valentine aw had sent. th' pooastman browt it afoor aw'd getten aat o' bed, an' it happen'd to be sunday mornin'. aw read it ovver an' ovver agean, an' aw luk'd at th' directions an' th' pooast mark, but aw cudn't make aat for mi life who'd sent it; but whoiver it war aw wor detarmined to fall i' love wi' her as soain as aw gate to know. then aw shov'd it under th' piller an' shut mi een an' tried to fancy what sooart ov a lass shoo must be, an' someha aw fell asleep, an' aw dremt, but aw willn't tell yo what aw dremt for fear yo'll laff. but when aw wakken'd, aw sowt up an' daan, but nowhere could aw find th' valentine. aw wor ommost heartbrokken, an' aw pool'd all th' cloas off th' bed, an' aw luk'd under it, an' ovver it, but net a bit on it could aw see, an' at last aw began to fancy 'at aw must ha dremt all th' lot, an' 'at aw'd niver had one sent at all; but when aw wor gettin' mi breeches on, blow me! if it worn' t stuck fast wi a wafer to mi shirt lap. what her 'at sent it ud a sed if shoo'd seen it, aw can't tell an' aw wodn't if aw could; but aw know one thing, aw wor niver i' sich a muck sweeat afoor sin aw wor born, an' when aw went to mi braikfast aw 'wor soa maddled, wol aw couldn't tell which wor th' reight end o'th' porridge spooin, but aw comforted misen at last wi' thinkin' 'at aw worn't th' furst 'at had turned ther back ov a valentine. yorkshire dialect poems by f.w. moorman (1673-1915) and traditional poems compiled with an historical introduction by f. w. moorman (professor of english language, university of leeds) london published for the yorkshire dialect society by sidgwick and jackson, ltd., 1916, 1917 to the yorkshiremen serving their country in trench or on battleship i respectfully dedicate this collection of songs from the homeland contents: preface to etext edition preface preface (to the second edition) introduction poems a yorkshire dialogue between an awd wife a lass and a butcher . anonymous an honest yorkshireman. henry carey from "snaith marsh" anonymous when at hame wi' dad anonymous i'm yorkshire too anonymous the wensleydale lad anonymous a song 1. thomas browne a song 2. thomas browne the invasion: an ecologue thomas browne elegy on the death of a frog david lewis sheffield cutler's song abel bywater address to poverty anonymous the collingham ghost anonymous the yorkshire horse dealers anonymous the lucky dream john castillo the milkin'-time j. h. dixon i niver can call her my wife ben preston come to thy gronny, doy ben preston owd moxy ben preston dean't mak gam o' me florence tweddell coom, stop at yam to-neet bob florence tweddell ode to t' mooin j. h. eccles aunt nancy j. h. eccles coom, don on thy bonnet an' shawl thomas blackah my awd hat thomas blackah reeth bartle fair john harland the christmas party tom twistleton nelly o' bob's john hartley bite bigger john hartley rollickin' jack john hartley jim's letter james burnley a yorkshire farmer's address to a schoolmaster george lancaster the window on the cliff top w. h. oxley aar maggie edmund hatton t' first o' t' sooart john hartley pateley reaces anonymous play cricket ben turner the file-cutter's lament to liberty e. downing a kuss john malham-dembleby huntin' song richard blakeborough spring f. j. newboult heam, sweet heam a. c. watson then an' nae e. a. lodge owd england walter hampson. love and pie j. a. carill i's gotten t' bliss george h. cowling a natterin' wife george h. cowling o! what do ye wesh i' the beck george h. cowling traditional poems cleveland lyke-wake dirge 1 cleveland lyke-wake dirge 2 sir walter scott's version a dree neet the bridal bands the bridal garter nance and tom the witch's curse ridin' t' stang elphi bandy-legs singing games stepping up the green grass sally made a pudden sally water, sally water diller a dollar hagmana song round the year new year's day lucky-bird, lucky-bird, chuck, chuck, chuck! candlemas on can'lemas, a february day a can'lemas crack if can'lemas be lound an' fair, february fill-dike february fill-dyke palm sunday palm sunday, palm away; good friday on good friday rist thy pleaf royal oak day it's royal oak day, harvest home and the mell-sheaf we have her, we have her, here we coom at oor toon-end, weel bun' an' better shorn blest be t' day that christ was born, guy fawkes day a stick and a stake, awd grimey sits upon yon hill, christmas i wish you a merry kessenmas an' a happy new year, cleveland christmas song a christmas wassail sheffield mumming song charms, "nominies," and popular rhymes wilful weaste maks weasome want a rollin' stone gethers no moss than awn a crawin' hen nowt bud ill-luck 'll fester where meeat maks the miller's thumb miller, miller, mooter-poke down i' yon lum we have a mill, hob-trush hob "hob-trush hob, wheer is thoo?" gin hob mun hae nowt but a hardin' hamp, nanny button-cap the new moon a setterday's mean i see t' mean an' t' mean sees me, new mean, new mean, i hail thee, eevein' red an' mornin' gray souther, wind, souther! friday unlucky dean't o' friday buy your ring an omen blest is t' bride at t' sun shines on a charm tak twea at's red an' yan at's blake a gift o' my finger sunday clipt, sunday shorn a monday's bairn 'll grow up fair a cobweb i' t' kitchen, snaw, snaw, coom faster julius caesar made a law a weddin', a woo, a clog an' a shoe chimley-sweeper, blackymoor the lady-bird cow-lady, cow-lady, hie thy way wum, the magpie i cross'd pynot,(1) an' t' pynot cross'd me tell-pie-tit the bat black-black-bearaway the snail sneel, sneel, put oot your horn, hallamshire when all the world shall be aloft, harrogate when lords an' ladies stinking water soss, the river don the shelvin', slimy river don original transcriber's note: this is a mixture of the first and second editions as noted. the name of the author has been inserted after every title, so that it will be included when poems are copied individually. the footnotes have been renumbered and placed at the bottom of each individual poem. the sequence of the poems in the second edition has generally been adhered to, and the contents list has been built on this basis. the indexes have been omitted because of the lack of pagination in etext. computer searches also make them redundant, dave fawthrop preface several anthologies of poems by yorkshiremen, or about yorkshiremen, have passed through the press since joseph ritson published his yorkshire garland in 1786. most of these have included a number of dialect poems, but i believe that the volume which the reader now holds in his hand is the first which is made up entirely of poems written in "broad yorkshire." in my choice of poems i have been governed entirely by the literary quality and popular appeal of the material which lay at my disposal. this anthology has not been compiled for the philologist, but for those who have learnt to speak "broad yorkshire" at their mother's knee, and have not wholly unlearnt it at their schoolmaster's desk. to such the variety and interest of these poems, no less than the considerable range of time over which their composition extends, will, i believe, come as a surprise. it is in some ways a misfortune that there is no such thing as a standard yorkshire dialect. the speech of the north and east ridings is far removed from that of the industrial south-west. the difference consists, not so much in idiom or vocabulary, as in pronunciation--especially in the pronunciation of the long vowels and diphthongs.(1) as a consequence of this, i have found it impossible, in bringing together dialect poems from all parts of the county, to reduce their forms to what might be called standard yorkshire. had i attempted to do this, i should have destroyed what was most characteristic. my purpose throughout has been to preserve the distinguishing marks of dialect possessed by the poems, but to normalise the spelling of those writers who belong to one and the same dialect area. the spelling of "broad yorkshire" will always be one of the problems which the dialect-writer has to face. at best he can only hope for a broadly accurate representation of his mode of speech, but he can take comfort in the thought that most of those who read his verses know by habit how the words should be pronounced far better than he can teach them by adopting strange phonetic devices. a recognition of this fact has guided me in fixing the text of this anthology, and every spelling device which seemed to me unnecessary, or clumsy, or pedantic, i have ruthlessly discarded. on the other hand, where the dialect-writer has chosen the standard english spelling of any word, i have as a rule not thought fit to alter its form and spell it as it would be pronounced in his dialect. i am afraid i may have given offence to those whom i should most of all like to please--the living contributors to this anthology--by tampering in this way with the text of their poems. in defence of what i have done, i must put forward the plea of consistency. if i had preserved every poet's text as i found it, i should have reduced my readers to despair. in conclusion, i should--like to thank the contributors to this volume, and also their publishers, for the permission to reproduce copyright work. special thanks are due to mr. richard blakeborough, who has placed yorkshiremen under a debt, by the great service which he has rendered in recovering much of the traditional poetry of yorkshire and in giving it the permanence of the printed page. in compiling the so-called traditional poems at the end of this volume, i have largely drawn upon his wit, character, folklore, and customs of the north riding. f. w. moorman 1. thus in the south-west fool and soon are pronounced fooil and sooin, in the north-east feeal and seean. both the south-west and the north-east have a word praad--with a vowel--sound like the a in father--but whereas in the south west it stands for proud, in the north-east it stands for pride, preface (to the second edition) the demand for a second edition of this anthology of yorkshire dialect verse gives me an opportunity of correcting two rather serious error's which crept into the first edition. the poem entitled "hunting song" on page 86, which i attributed to mr. richard blakeborough, is the work of mr. malham-dembleby", whose poem, "a kuss," immediately precedes it in the volume. the poem on page 75, which in the first edition was marked anonymous and entitled "parson drew thro' pudsey," is the work of the late john hartley; its proper' title is "t' first o' t' sooar't," and it includes eight introductory stanzas which are now added as appendix ii. through the kindness of: fr w. a. craigie, dr. m. denby, and mr. e. g. bayford, i have also been able to make a few changes in the glossarial footnotes, the most important of these is the change from "ember's" to "floor" as the meaning of the word, "fleet" in the second line of "a lyke-wake dirge." the note which dr. craigie sen't me on this word is so interesting that i reproduce it here verbatim: "the word fleet in the 'lyke-wake dirge' has been much misunderstood, but it is certain1y the same thing as flet-floor; see the o.e.d. and e.d.d. under. flet. the form is not necessarily 'erroneous,' as is said in the o.e.d., for it might represent ,the o.n. dative fleti, which must have been common in the phrase a fleti (cf. the first verse of 'havamal'). the collocation with 'fire' occurs in 'sir gawayne' (l. 1653): 'aboute the fyre upon flet.' 'fire and fleet and candle-light' are a summary of the comforts of the house, which the dead person still enjoys for 'this ae night,' and then goes out into the dark and cold." f. w. moorman introduction the publication of an anthology of yorkshire dialect poetry seems to demand a brief introduction in which something shall be said of the history and general character of that poetry. it is hardly necessary to state that yorkshire has produced neither a robert burns, a william barnes, nor even an edwin waugh. its singers are as yet known only among their own folk; the names of john castillo and florence tweddell are household words among the peasants of the cleveland dales, as are those of ben preston and john hartley among the artisans of the aire and calder valleys; but, outside of the county, they are almost unknown, except to those who are of yorkshire descent and who cherish the dialect because of its association with the homes of their childhood. at the same time there is no body of dialect verse which better deserves the honour of an anthology. in volume and variety the dialect poetry of yorkshire surpasses that of all other english counties. moreover, when the rise of the standard english idiom crushed out our dialect literature, it was the yorkshire dialect which first reasserted its claims upon the muse of poetry; hence, whereas the dialect literature of most of the english counties dates only from the beginning of the nineteenth century, that of yorkshire reaches back to the second half of the seventeenth. in one sense it may be said that yorkshire dialect poetry dates, not from the seventeenth, but from the seventh century, and that the first yorkshire dialect poet was caedmon, the neat-herd of whitby abbey. but to the ordinary person the reference to a dialect implies the existence of a standard mode of speech almost as certainly as odd implies even. accordingly, this is not the place to speak of that great heritage of song which yorkshire bequeathed to the nation between the seventh century and the fifteenth. after the caedmonic poems, its chief glories are the religious lyrics of richard rolle, the mystic, and the great cycles of scriptural plays which are associated with the trade-guilds of york and wakefield. but in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries the all-conquering standard english spread like a mighty spring-tide over england and found no check to its progress till the cheviots were reached. the new "king's english" was of little avail in silencing dialect as a means of intercourse between man and man, but it checked for centuries the development of dialect literature. the old traditional ballads and songs, which were handed down orally from generation to generation in the speech of the district to which they belonged, escaped to some extent this movement towards uniformity; but the deliberate artificers of verse showed themselves eager above all things to get rid of their provincialisms and use only the language of the court. shakespeare may introduce a few warwickshire words into his plays, but his english is none the less the standard english of his day, while spenser is sharply brought to task by ben jonson for using archaisms and provincialisms in his poems. a notable song of the elizabethan age is that entitled "york, york, for my monie," which was first published in 1584; only a yorkshireman could have written it, and it was plainly intended for the gratification of yorkshire pride; yet its language is without trace of local colour, either in spelling or vocabulary. again, there appeared in the year 1615 a poem by richard brathwaite, entitled, "the yorkshire cottoneers," and addressed to "all true-bred northerne sparks, of the generous society of the cottoneers, who hold their high-roade by the pinder of wakefield, the shoo-maker of bradford, and the white coate of kendall"; but brathwaite, though a kendal man by birth, makes no attempt to win the hearts of his "true-bred northern sparks" by addressing them in the dialect that was their daily wear. in a word, the use of the yorkshire dialect for literary purposes died out early in the tudor period. as already stated, its rebirth dates from the second half of the seventeenth century. that was an age of scientific investigation and antiquarian research. john ray, the father of natural history, not content with his achievements in the classification of plants, took up also the collection of outlandish words, and in the year 1674 he published a work entitled, a collection of english words, not generally used, with their significations and original, in two alphabetical catalogues, the one of such as are proper to the northern, the other to the southern counties. later he entered into correspondence with the leeds antiquary, ralph thoresby, who, in a letter dated april 27, 1703, sends him a list of dialect words current in and about leeds.(1) side by side with this new interest in the dialect vocabulary comes also the dialect poem. one year before the appearance of ray's collection of english words the york printer, stephen bulkby, had issued, as a humble broadside without author's name, a poem which bore the following title: a yorkshire dialogue in yorkshire dialect; between an awd wife, a lass, and a butcher. this dialogue occupies the first place in our anthology, and it is, from several points of view, a significant work. it marks the beginning, not only of modern yorkshire, but also of modern english, dialect poetry. it appeared just a thousand years after caedmon had sung the creator's praise in whitby abbey, and its dialect is that of northeast yorkshire--in other words, the lineal descendant of that speech which was used by caedmon in the seventh century, by richard rolle in the fourteenth, and which may be heard to this day in the streets of whitby and among the hamlets of the cleveland hills. the dialogue is a piece of boldest realism. written in an age when classic restraint and classic elegance were in the ascendant, and when english poets were taking only too readily to heart the warning of boileau against allowing shepherds to speak "comme on parle au village," the author of this rustic dialogue flings to the winds every convention of poetic elegance. his lines "baisent la terre" in a way that would have inexpressibly shocked boileau and the parisian salons. the poem reeks of the byre and the shambles; its theme is the misadventure which befalls an ox in its stall and its final despatch by the butcher's mallet! one might perhaps find something comparable to it in theme and treatment in the paintings of the contemporary school of dutch realists, but in poetry it is unique. yet, gross as is its realism, it cannot be called crude as a work of poetic art. in rhyme and rhythm it is quite regular, and the impression which it leaves upon the mind is that it was the work of an educated man, keenly interested in the unvarnished life of a yorkshire farm, keenly interested in the vocabulary and idioms of his district, and determined to produce a poem which should bid defiance to all the proprieties of the poetic art. eleven years later--in 1684--appeared two more poems, in a dialect akin to but not identical with that of the above and very similar in theme and treatment. these are a yorkshire dialogue in its pure natural dialect as it is now commonly spoken in the north parts of yorkeshire, and a scould between bess and nell, two yorkshire women. these two poems were also published at york, though by a different printer, and in the following year a second edition appeared, followed by a third in 1697. to the poems is appended francis brokesby's "observations on the dialect and pronunciation of words in the east riding of yorkshire," which he had previously sent to ray,(1) together with a collection of yorkshire proverbs and a "clavis," or glossary, also by brokesby. the author of these two poems, who signs himself" g. m. gent" on the title-page, is generally supposed to be a certain george meriton, an attorney by profession, though francis douce, the antiquary, claims george morrinton of northallerton as the author. "g. m." is a deliberate imitator of the man who wrote the dialogue between an awd wife, a lass, and a butcher. all that has been said about the trenchant realism of farmlife in the dialogue of 1673 applies with equal force to the dialogues of 1684. the later poet, having a larger canvas at his disposal, is able to introduce more characters and more incident; but in all that pertains to style and atmosphere he keeps closely to his model. what is still more apparent is that the author is consciously employing dialect words and idioms with the set purpose of illustrating what he calls the "pure natural dialect" of yorkshire; above all, he delights in the proverbial lore of his native county and never misses an opportunity of tagging his conversations with one or other of these homespun proverbs. the poem is too long for our anthology,(2) but i cannot forbear quoting some of these proverbs: "there's neay carrion can kill a craw." "it's a good horse that duz never stumble, and a good wife that duz never grumble." "neare is my sarke, but nearer is my skin." "it's an ill-made bargain whore beath parties rue." "a curst cow hes short horns." "wilfull fowkes duz never want weay." "for change of pastures macks fat cawves, it's said, but change of women macks lean knaves, i'se flaid the excellent example set by the authors of the yorkshire dialogues was not followed all at once. early in the eighteenth century, however, allan ramsay rendered conspicuous service to dialect poetry generally by the publication of his pastoral drama, the gentle shepherd (1725), as well as by his collections of scottish songs, known as the evergreen and tea table miscellanies. scotland awoke to song, and the charm of lowland scots was recognised even by pope and the wits of the coffee-houses. one can well believe that lovers of dialect south of the tweed were thereby moved to emulation, and in the year 1736 henry carey, the reputed son of the marquis of halifax, produced a ballad-opera bearing the equivocal title, a wonder, or an honest yorkshireman.(3) popular in its day, this opera is now forgotten, but its song, "an honest yorkshireman" has found a place in many collections of yorkshire songs. it lacks the charm of the same author's famous "sally in our alley," but there is a fine manly ring about its sentiments, and it deserves wider recognition. the dialect is that of north-east yorkshire. in 1754 appeared the anonymous dialect poem, snaith marsh.(4) this is a much more conventional piece of work than the seventeenthcentury dialogues, and the use which is made of the local idiom is more restricted. yet it is not without historic interest. composed at a time when the enclosure acts were robbing the peasant farmer of his rights of common, the poem is an elegiac lament on the part of the snaith farmer who sees himself suddenly brought to the brink of ruin by the enclosure of snaith marsh. to add to his misery, his bride, susan, has deserted him for the more prosperous rival, roger. as much of the poem is in standard english, it would be out of place to reprint it in its entirety in this collection, but, inasmuch as the author grows bolder in his use of dialect as the poem proceeds, i have chosen the concluding section to illustrate the quality of the work and the use which is made of dialect. from the date of the publication of snaith marsh to the close of the eighteenth century it is difficult to trace chronologically the progress of yorkshire dialect poetry. the songs which follow in our anthology-"when at hame wi' dad" and "i'm yorkshire, too "--appear to have an eighteenth-century flavour, though they may be a little later. their theme is somewhat similar to that of carey's song. the inexperienced but canny yorkshire lad finds himself exposed to the snares and temptations of " lunnon city." he is dazzled by the spectacular glories of the capital, but his native stock of cannyness renders him proof against seduction. the songs are what we should now call music-hall songs, and may possibly have been written for the delights of the visitors to ranelagh or vauxhall gardens. "the wensleydale lad" seems to be of about the same period, for we learn from the song that the reigning monarch was one of the georges. its opening line is a clear repetition--or anticipation--of the opening line of "when at hame wi' dad"; but whereas the hero of the latter poem, on leaving home, seeks out the glories of piccadilly and hyde park, the wensleydale lad is content with the lesser splendours; of leeds. the broad humour of this song has made it exceedingly popular; i first heard it on the lips of a runswick fisherman, and since then have met with it in different parts of the county. in the year 1786 joseph ritson, the antiquary, published a slender collection of short poems which he entitled the yorkshire garland. this is the first attempt at an anthology of yorkshire poetry, and the forerunner of many other anthologies. all the poems have a connection with yorkshire, but none of them can, in the strict sense of the word, be called a dialect poem. in the year 1800 the composition of yorkshire dialect poetry received an important stimulus through the appearance of a volume entitled, poems on several occasions. this was the posthumous work of the rev. thomas browne, the son of the vicar of lastingham. the author, born at lastingham in 1771, started life as a school-master, first of all at yeddingham, and later at bridlington; in the year 1797 he removed to hull in order to engage in journalistic work as editor of the recently established newspaper, the hull advertiser. about the same time he took orders and married, but in the following year he died. most of the poems in the little volume which his friends put through the press in the year 1800 are written in standard english. they display a mind of considerable refinement, but little originality. in the form of ode, elegy, eclogue, or sonnet, we have verses which show tender feeling and a genuine appreciation of nature. but the human interest is slight, and the author is unable to escape from the conventional poetic diction of the eighteenth century. phrases like "vocal groves," "pomona's rich bounties," or "the sylvan choir's responsive notes" meet the reader at every turn; direct observation and concrete imagery are sacrificed to trite abstractions, until we feel that the poet becomes a mere echo of other and greater poets who had gone before him. but at the end of the volume appear the "specimens of the yorkshire dialect," consisting of three songs and two eclogues. here convention is swept aside; the author comes face to face with life as he saw it around him in yorkshire town and village. we have the song of the peasant girl impatiently awaiting the country fair at which she is to shine in all the glory of "new cauf leather shoon" and white stockings, or declaring her intention of escaping from a mother who "scaulds and flytes" by marrying the sweetheart who comes courting her on "setterday neets." what is interesting to notice in these songs'is the influence of burns. browne has caught something of the scottish poet's racy vigour, and in his use of a broken line of refrain in the song, "ye loit'ring minutes faster flee," he is employing a metrical device which burns had used with great success in his "holy fair" and "halloween." the eclogue, "awd daisy," the theme of which is a yorkshire farmer's lament for his dead mare, exhibits that affection for faithful animals which we meet with in cowper, burns, and other poets of the romantic revival. in the sincerity of its emotion it is poles apart from the studied sentimentality of the famous lament over the dead ass in sterne's sentimental journey; indeed, in spirit it is much nearer to burns's "death of poor mailie," though browne is wholly lacking in that delicate humour which burns possesses, and which overtakes the tenderness of the poem as the lights and shadows overtake one another among the hills. the other eclogue, " the invasion," has something of a topical interest at a time like the present, when england is once more engaged in war with a continental power; for it was written when the fear of a french invasion of our shores weighed heavily upon the people's minds. in the eclogue this danger is earnestly discussed by the two yorkshire farmers, roger and willie. if the french effect a landing, willy has decided to send mally and the bairns away from the farm, while he will sharpen his old "lea" (scythe) and remain behind to defend his homestead. as long as wife and children are safe, he is prepared to lay down his life for his country. the importance of browne's dialect poems consists not only in their intrinsic worth, but also in the interest which they aroused in dialect poetry in yorkshire, and the stimulus which they gave to poets in succeeding generations. there is no evidence that the dialogues of george meriton, or snaith marsh, had any wide circulation among the yorkshire peasantry, but there is abundant evidence that such was the case with these five poems of thomas browne. early in the nineteenth century enterprising booksellers at york, northallerton, bedale, otley, and ,knaresborough were turning out little chap-books, generally bearing the title, specimens of the yorkshire dialect, and consisting largely of the dialect poems of browne. these circulated widely in the country districts of yorkshire, and to this day one meets with peasants who take a delight in reciting browne's songs and eclogues. down to the close of the eighteenth century the authors of yorkshire dialect poetry had been men of education, and even writers by profession. with the coming, of the nineteenth century the composition of such poetry extends to men in a humbler social position. the working-man poet appears on the scene and makes his presence felt in many ways. early in the century, david lewis, a knaresborough gardener, published, in one of the chap-books to which reference has just been made, two dialect poems, "the sweeper and thieves" and "an elegy on the death of a frog"; they were afterwards republished, together with some non-dialect verses, in a volume entitled the landscape and other poems (york, 1815) by the same author. a dialogue poem by lewis, entitled the pocket books," appears in later chap-books. it cannot be claimed for him that his poetic power is of a high standard, but as the first yorkshire peasant poet to write dialect verse he calls for notice here. his "elegy on the death of a frog" is perhaps chiefly interesting as showing the influence of burns upon yorkshire poets at the beginning of the nineteenth century. in idea, and in the choice of verse, it is directly modelled on the famous "to a mouse." the reader will doubtless have noticed that in this historic review of yorkshire dialect poetry it has always been the life of rural yorkshire which is depicted, and that the great bulk of the poetry has belonged to the north riding. what we have now to trace is the extension of this revival of vernacular poetry to the densely populated west riding, where a dialect differing radically from that of the, north and east is spoken, and where, an astonishing variety of industries has created an equally varied outlook upon life and habit of thought. was the sheffield cutler, the barnsley miner, the bradford handloom-weaver, and the leeds forge-man to find no outlet in dialect verse for his thoughts and emotions, his hopes and his fears? or, if dialect poetry must be concerned only with rustic life, was the craven dalesman to have no voice in the matter? questions such as these may well have passed through the minds of west riding men as they saw the steady growth of north riding poetry in the first forty years of the nineteenth century, and passed from hand to hand the well-thumbed chap-books wherein were included poems like "awd daisy," "the sweeper and thieves," and the dialect-songs. the desire to have a share in the movement became more and more urgent, and when the west riding joined in, it was inevitable that it should widen the scope of dialect poetry both in spirit and in form. a west riding dialect literature seems to have arisen first of all in barnsley and sheffield in the fourth decade of the nineteenth century. between 1830 and 1834 a number of prose "conversations" entitled, the sheffield dialect.' be a shevvild chap, passed through the press. the author of these also published in 1832 the wheelswarf chronicle, and in 1836 appeared the first number of the shevvild chap's annual in which the writer throws aside his nom-de-plume and signs himself abel bywater. this annual, which lived for about twenty years, is the first of the many "annuals" or "almanacs" which are the most characteristic product of the west riding dialect movement. their history is a subject to itself, and inasmuch as the contributions to them are largely in prose, they can only be referred to very lightly here. their popularity and ever-increasing circulation is a sure proof of their wide appeal, and there can be no doubt that they have done an immense service in endearing the local idiom in which they are written to those who speak it, and also in interpreting the life and thought of the, great industrial communities for whom they are written. the literary quality of these almanacs varies greatly, but among their pages will be found many poems, and many prose tales and sketches, which vividly portray the west riding artisan. abundant justice is done to his sense of humour, which, if broad and at times even crude, is always good-natured and healthy, as well as to his intense love of the sentimental, which to the stranger lurks hidden beneath a mask of indifference. incidentally, these almanacs also present a faithful picture of the social history of the west riding during the greater part of a century. as we study their pages, we realise what impression events such as the introduction of the railroad, the chartist movement, the repeal of the corn laws, mid-victorian factory legislation, tradeunionism, the co-operative movement and temperance reform made upon the minds of nineteenth-century yorkshiremen; in other words, these almanacs furnish us with just such a mirror of nineteenth-century industrial yorkshire as the bound volumes of punch furnish of the nation as a whole. among the most famous of these annual productions is the bairnsla foak's annual, an pogmoor olmenack, started by charles rogers (tom, treddlehoyle) in 1838, and the halifax original illuminated clock almanac begun by john hartley in 1867. the number of these almanacs is very large; most of them are published and circulated chiefly in the industrial districts of the riding, but not the least interesting among them is the nidderdill olminac, edited by "nattie nidds" at pateley bridge; it began in 1864 and ran until 1880. wherever published, all of these almanacs conform more or less to the same pattern, as it was first laid down by the founder of the dialect almanac, abel bywater of sheffield, in the year 1836. widely popular in the west riding, the almanac has never obtained foothold in the other ridings, and is little known outside of the county. the "bibliographical list" of dialect literature, published by the english dialect society' in 1877, mentions only two annuals or almanacs, in addition to those published in the west riding, and both of these belong to tyneside. abel bywater finds a place in our anthology by virtue of his "sheffield cutler's song." in its rollicking swing and boisterous humour it serves admirably to illustrate the new note which is heard when we pass from rural yorkshire to the noisy manufacturing cities. we exchange the farm, or the country fair, for the gallery of the city music-hall, where the cutler sits armed with stones, red herrings, "flat-backs," and other missiles ready to be hurled at the performers "if they don't play' nancy's fancy' or onay tune we fix." we are not concerned here with the linguistic side of yorkshire dialect literature, but the reader will notice how different is the phonology, and to a less extent the vocabulary and idiom, of this song from that of the north riding specimens. returning once more to the north riding, we must first of all draw attention to the poet, john castillo. in the country round whitby and pickering, and throughout the hambledon hills, his name is very familiar. born near dublin, in 1792, of roman catholic parents, he was brought up at lealholm bridge, in the cleveland country, and learnt the trade of a journeyman stone-mason. having abjured the faith of his childhood, he joined, in 1818, the wesleyan methodist society and acquired great popularity in the north riding as a local preacher. his well-known poem, "awd isaac," seems to have been first printed at northallerton in 1831. twelve years later it occupies the first place in a volume of poems published by the author at whitby under the title, awd isaac, the steeplechase, and other poems. like most of his other poems, "awd isaac" is strongly didactic and religious; its homely piety and directness of speach have won for it a warm welcome among the north yorkshire peasantry, and many a farmer and farm-labourer still living knows much of the poem by heart. as "awd isaac " is too long for an anthology, i have chosen "the lucky dream" as an illustration of castillo's workmanship. apart from its narrative interest, this poem calls for attention as a yorkshire variant of an ancient and widely dispersed folk-tale, the earliest known version of which is to be found in the works of the thirteenth-century persian poet jalalu'd-din. castillo died at pickering in 1845, and five years later a complete edition of his poems was published at kirkby moorside. less popular than "awd isaac," but often met with in collections of dialect verse, is the poem entitled "the york minster screen." this was the work of george newton brown, a lawyer by profession, who lived at nunnington in ryedale. the poem, which is in the form of a dialogue between two yorkshire farmers, was first published at malton in 1833. the conversation, which is of the raciest description, is supposed to take place in york minster and turns on the repairs which were made in 1832 to the famous organ-screen which separates the nave and transepts from the chancel. the question of altering the position of the screen is debated with much humour and vivacity. before leaving the north riding, reference must be made to elizabeth tweddell, the gifted poetess of the cleveland hills. born at stokesley in 1833, the daughter of thomas cole, the parish-clerk of that town, she married george markham tweddell, the author of the people's history of cleveland, and in 1875 she published a slender volume of dialect verse and prose entitled rhymes and sketches to illustrate the cleveland dialect. in her modest preface mrs. tweddell declares that the only merit of her work lies in "the stringing together of a good many cleveland words and expressions that are fast becoming obsolete"; but the volume has far deeper claims on our gratitude than this. there is much homely charm in her rhymes and sketches, and the two extracts which find a place in this collection are models of what simple dialect-poems should be. above all, mrs. tweddell has the gift of humour; this is well illustrated by the song, "dean't mak gam o' me," and also by her well-known prose story, "awd gab o' steers." her most sustained effort in verse is the poem entitled " t' awd cleveland customs," in which she gives us a delightful picture of the festive seasons of the cleveland year from " newery day," with its "lucky bod," to "kessamus," with its "sooard dancers." the western portion of the north riding, including swale and wensleydale, has been less fruitful in dialect poetry than the eastern. apart from the anonymous "wensleydale lad" already noticed, it is represented in this anthology only by the spirited poem, "reeth bartle fair," the work of a true lover of dialect speech, captain john harland, who published for the english dialect society a valuable glossary of swaledale words (1873). the craven country, the dialect of which differs materially from that spoken in the manufacturing districts of the west, riding, is not without its bards. these include james henry dixon (1803-1876),--a local historian and antiquary of scholarly tastes, who edited for the percy society the delightful collection of folk-poetry entitled, ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england (1846). mr. dixon wrote comparatively little poetry himself, but his song, "the milkin'-time," has the lilt of the best scottish folk-songs and well deserves its inclusion here. in a longer poem, "slaadburn faar" (1871), he gives a humorous and racy description of the adventures of a farmer and his wife on their journey from grassington to slaidburn to attend the local fair. in general idea it resembles harland's "reeth bartle fair," which appeared in the preceding year. but the typical poet of the craven country was tom twistleton, a farmer near settle, whose poems in the craven, dialect first appeared in 1869, and soon ran through several editions. he was a disciple of burns, and his poem "the christmas-party" (see below) daringly challenges comparison with the immortal "halloween." his description of the dancing in the farm-house kitchen, and of the adventures of the pair of lovers who escape from the merry throng, is singularly vivid, and illustrates the author's ready humour and keen observation of rustic life and character. reference has already been made to the nidderdill olminac which ,vas produced by "nattie nidds" between 1864 and 1880 and published at pateley bridge. among the contributors to it was thomas blackah, a working miner of greenhow hill, who in 1867 published a volume of dialect verse entitled songs and poems in the nidderdale dialect. in their truth to life, homely charm and freedom from pretentiousness, these dialect poems resemble those of mrs. tweddell, and deserve a wider recognition than they have so far won. after this excursion into the dales of the north and west riding, where, apart from mining, the life of the people is largely spent on the farm, we must turn once again to the industrial yorkshire of the south-west, and see to what extent dialect poetry has flourished in the smoke-laden air of chimney-stacks and blast-furnaces, and with what success the yorkshire dialect poets of the towns and cities have interpreted the life and thoughts of those who work in the mill or at the forge. as we have already seen, the first attempts to interpret in dialect poetry the life of industrial yorkshire were made at sheffield early in the nineteenth century by abel bywater. as the century advanced, the movement spread northwards, and the great artisan communities of bradford, leeds, and halifax produced their poets. among these pre-eminence belongs to ben preston, the bradford poet, who stepped swiftly into local fame by the publication of his well-known poem, "natterin' nan," which first appeared in a bradford journal in 1856. this is a vigorous piece of dramatic realism, setting forth the character of a yorkshire scold and grumbler with infinite zest and humour. but it is in pathos that the genius of preston chiefly consists. in poems like "owd moxy," "t' lancashire famine," and "i niver can call her my wife," he gives us pictures of the struggle that went on in the cottage-homes of the west riding during the "hungry forties." in "owd moxy" his subject is the old waller who has to face the pitiless winter wind and rain as he plies his dreary task on the moors; but in most of his poems it is the life of the handloom-weaver that he interprets. the kindliness of his nature is everywhere apparent and gives a sincerity to the poems in which he portrays with rare discernment and sympathy the sufferings of the artisan, toiling from morning to night on eight shillings a week. his pathos has dignity and restraint, and in the poem "i niver can call her my wife" it rises to the heights of great tragedy. this is ben preston's masterpiece, and, though scarcely known outside of the county, it deserves to take a place side by side with hood's " song of the shirt" by reason of the poignancy with which it interprets the tragedy of penury.(5) the example set by ben preston has been followed by other dialect poets living in the district round bradford. mention may be made of james burnley, whose poem, "jim's letter," is a telling illustration of the fine use which can be made of dialect in the service of the dramatic lyric; and of abraham holroyd, who not only wrote original verse, but also made a valuable collection of old yorkshire songs and ballads.(6) the rivalry between bradford and leeds is proverbial, and, though the latter city has lagged behing bradford in the production of dialect literature, the yorkshire songs of j. h. eccles, published in 1862, is a notable contribution to the movement whose history is here being recorded. in john hartley, halifax possessed the most versatile dialect-writer that yorkshire has so far produced. for fifty years this writer, who died in 1915, poured forth lyric song and prose tale in unstinted measure. most of his dialect work found a place in the original illuminated clock almanac, which he edited from 1867 until his death; but from time to time he gathered the best of his work into book form, and his yorkshire lyrics, published in 1898, occupy a place of honour in many a yorkshire home. the examples from his works here given will serve to illustrate his fine ear for metrical harmony, his imaginative power, and his sympathetic interpretation of yorkshire character. of the younger generation of yorkshire poets, most of them still alive, i must speak more briefly. but it must not be overlooked that, so far from there being any falling off in the volume or quality of dialect-verse, it is safe to say that it has never been in so flourishing a condition as at the present day. dialect poems are now being written in all parts of the county. editors of weekly papers welcome them gladly in their columns; the yorkshire dialect society has recently opened the pages of its annual transactions to original contributions in verse and prose, and every year the printing presses of london and yorkshire publish volumes of dialect verse. of individual writers, whose work finds illustration in this anthology, mention may be made of the rev. w. h. oxley, whose t' fisher folk o' riley brig (1888) marks, i believe, the first attempt to interpret in verse the hazardous life of the east-coast fisherman. farther north, mr. g. h. cowling has given us in his a yorkshire tyke (1914) a number of spirited and winsome studies of the life and thought of the hackness peasant. the wold country of the east riding has found its interpreter in mr. j. a. carill, whose woz'ls (1913) is full of delightful humour, as readers of "love and pie" will readily discover for themselves. "the file-cutter's l'ament " (see below), which i have selected from mr. downing's volume, smook thru' a shevvield chimla, will show that the sheffield "blade" is doing his best to carry on the tradition set by abel bywater eighty years ago. airedale still has its poets, among the most ambitious of whom is mr. malham-dembleby, who published in 1912 a volume of verse entitled, original tales and ballads in the yorkshire dialect. mr. f. j. newboult has deservedly won fame as a prosewriter in dialect; his dialect sketches which have for some years appeared in the yorkshire observer are full of broad humour and dramatic power, and his dainty little lyric "spring" (p. 87) is a sufficient indication that he has also the dower of the poet. in alderman ben turner of batley yorkshire possesses a courageous advocate of the social betterment of the working man and woman, and in the midst of a busy life he has, found' time to give utterance to his indignation and his faith in dialect-poems which appeal from the heart to the heart. mr. walter hampson, of normanton, writes in a lighter vein in his tykes abrooad (1911); he is our yorkshire mark twain, and his narrative of the adventures of a little party of yorkshiremen in normandy and brittany is full of humour. songs are scattered through the story, and one of these, "owd england," finds a place in this collection. the colne valley and the country round huddersfield has been somewhat slow in responding to the call of the homely muse of dialect but mr. e. a. lodge's little volume of verse and prose. entitled odds an' ends, marks a successful beginning. in our account of the history of dialect poetry in yorkshire it will have been noticed that the chief forms of verse to which local poets have had recourse have been the song, personal or dramatic, the ballad, and the dialogue. among the most hopeful signs of the times has been the recent extension of dialect to poems of a more sustained character. within the last twenty years two writers, associated with the far north and the far south of the county respectively, have made the bold attempt to use dialect in narrative poems of larger compass than the simple ballad. these are mr. richard blakeborough, the author of t' hunt o' yatton brigg (1896), and mr. j. s. fletcher, who, as recently as 1915, published in the dialect of osgoldcross his leet livvy. these two poems are in general character poles apart: that of mr. blakeborough is pure romance, whereas mr. fletcher never steps aside from the strait path of realism. t' hunt o' yatton brigg is steeped in all the eerie witch-lore of the cleveland moors. the plot is laid in the district round the famous roseberry topping, and deals with the adventures which befall a certain johnny simpson, who, when crossed in love, seeks the aid of the witches to aid him in his work of vengeance on the woman who has cast him off. the story is told with great vividness, and the author has made an effective use of all the malevolent powers of witchcraft, seconded by the elemental forces of thunder and lightning, to aid him in telling a story of great dramatic power. leet livvy, on the other hand, is as sober and restrained as one of the verse-tales of crabbe, and the only resemblance which it bears to mr. blakeborough's witch-story lies in the fact that its hero, like johnny simpson, belongs to the peasantry and has suffered at the hands of a woman. the tragic story of "owd mattha o' marlby moor" is recorded by the sexton whose duty it is to toll the passing bell, and mr. fletcher, whose reputation as a novelist is deservedly high, has rendered the narrative with consummate art. the use of dialect enhances the directness and dramatic realism of the story at every turn; the characters stand out sharp and clear, and we are brought face to face with the passion that makes for tragedy. the poem is purged clean of all sentiment and moralising: it is narrative pure and simple, but aglow with the lurid flame of a passion that burns to the very roots of life. it is no exaggeration to say that leet livvy is the greatest achievement in yorkshire dialect poetry up to the present time; let us hope that it is an earnest of even greater things yet to come. the duty still remains of offering a few words of explanation concerning the poems which find a place in the second part of this anthology, and which i have classified as "traditional poems." it is not contended that all of these are folk-poems in the strict sense of the term, but all of them are of unknown authorship, and for most of them a considerable antiquity may be claimed; moreover, like the folk-song, they owe their preservation rather to oral tradition than to the labours of the scribe. many of these poems enshrine some of the customs and superstitions of the country-side and carry our thoughts back to a time when the yorkshireman's habit of mind was far more primitive and childlike than it is to-day. moreover, though many of the old popular beliefs and rites have vanished before the advance of education and industrialism, the yorkshireman still clings to the past with a tenacity which exceeds that of the people farther to the south. for example, nowhere in england does the old folk-play which enacts the combats of st. george with his saracen adversaries enjoy such popularity as in the upper waters of the calder valley and in busy rochdale over the border. this play, known locally as "the peace [or pasque, i.e. easter] egg," was once acted all over england. driven from the country-side, where old traditions usually live the longest, it survives amid the smoke-laden atmosphere of cotton-mills and in towns which pride themselves, not without reason, on their love of progress and their readiness to receive new ideas. it is, for our purpose, unfortunate that this fine old play preserves little of the local dialect and is therefore excluded from this anthology.(7) apart from "the peace egg," it is the remote cleveland country in the north riding in which the old traditional poetry of yorkshire has been best preserved. this is the land of the sword-dance, the bridal-garter, and the "mellsupper," the land in which primitive faiths and traditions survive with strange tenacity. the late canon atkinson has made this land familiar to us by his fascinating forty years in a moorland parish, and, to the lover of traditional dialect songs, an even greater service has been rendered by a later gleaner in this harvest-field, mr. richard blakeborough of norton-on-tees, whose t' hunt o' yatton brigg has already been considered. in his supplement to the little volume which contains that poem, and again in his highly instructive and entertaining wit, character, folklore, and customs of the north riding of yorkshire, mr. blakeborough has brought together a number of traditional songs and proverbial rhymes of great interest, and, to some extent at least, of high antiquity. many of these have been collected by him among the peasantry, others are taken from a manuscript collection of notes on north riding folklore made by a certain george calvert early in the nineteenth century, and now in mr. blakeborough's possession. of the first importance in this anthology of traditional song are the "cleveland lyke-wake dirge" and "a dree neet." the former has been well known to lovers of poetry since sir walter scott included it in his border minstrelsy; the latter, i believe, was never published until the appearance of t' hunt o' yatton brigg in 1896. the tragic power and suggestiveness of these two poems is very remarkable. it is, i think, fairly certain that they stand in intimate association with one another and point back to a time when the prevailing creed of yorkshire was roman catholicism. both depict with deep solemnity the terrors of death and of the judgment which lies beyond. whinny moor appears in either poem as the desolate moorland tract, beset with prickly whin-bushes and flinty stones, which the dead man must traverse on "shoonless feet" on his journey from life. and beyond this moor lies the still more mysterious "brig o' dreead," or "' brig o' deead," as "a dree neet" renders it. it would be tempting to conjecture the precise significance of this allusion, and to connect it with other primitive myths and legends of a similar character; but space fails us, and it may well be that the very vagueness of the allusion is of more haunting tragic power than precise knowledge. it is also interesting to notice the effective use which is made in "a dree neet" of all the superstitions which gather about the great pageant of death. the flight of the gabriel ratchets, or gabriel hounds, through the sky, the fluttering of bats at the casement and of moths at the candle flame, and the shroud of soot which falls from the chimney of the room where the dying man lies, are introduced with fine effect; while the curious reference to the folk that draw nigh from the other side of the grave has an homeric ring about it, and recalls the great scene in the odyssey where the ghosts of elpenor, teiresias, and other dead heroes gather about the trench that odysseus has digged on the other side of the great stream of oceanus, hard by the dank house of hades. it is unnecessary to speak at any length of the other songs, proverbial rhymes, and "nominies" which find a place among the traditional poems in this collection. the mumming-songs, the boisterous "ridin' t' stang" verses, and all the snatches of folk-song which are, associated with the festive ritual of the circling year either carry their own explanation with them or have been elucidated by those who have written on the subject of yorkshire customs and folklore. i heartily commend to the reader's notice the three songs entitled "the bridal bands," "the bridal garter," and "nance and tom," which we owe to mr. blakeborough, and which present to us in so delightful a manner the picture of the bride tying her garter of wheaten and oaten straws about her left leg and the bride-groom unloosing it after the wedding. it is hoped, too, that the reader may find much that is interesting in the singing-games, verses and the rhymes which throw light upon the vanishing customs, folklore, and faiths of the county. they serve to lift the veil which hides the past from the present, and to give us visions of a world which is fast passing out of sight and out of memory. it is a world where one may still faintly hear the horns of elfland blowing, and where hob-trush hob and little nanny button-cap wander on printless feet through the star-lit glades; where charms are still recited when the moon is new, and where on st. agnes' eve the milkmaid lets the twelve sage-leaves fall from her casement-window and, like keats's madeline, peers through "the honey'd middle of the night "for a glimpse of the porphyro to whom she must pledge her troth. 1. some years before thoresby's letter was written, another yorkshireman, francis brokesby, rector of rowley in the east riding, communicated with ray about dialect words in use in his district. see ray's collection of english words, second edition, pp. 170-73 (1691). 2. it has been republished by the late professor skeat in the english dialect society's volume, nine specimens of english dialects. 3. two editions of this ballad-opera were published in 1736. the title of the first (? pirated) edition runs as follows: a wonder; or, an honest yorkshire-man. a ballad opera; as it is performed at the theatres with universal applause. in the second edition the words, "a wonder," disappear from the title. 4. edited by j. o. halliwell in his yorkshire anthology, 1851. 5. the first edition of ben preston's poems appeared in 1860 with the title, poems and songs in the dialect of bradford dale. 6. a. holroyd: a collection of yorkshire ballads, ed. by c. f. forshaw. (g. bell, 1892.) 7. the reader will find a reprint of the west riding version of the peace egg, with an attempt by the editor of this anthology to throw light upon its inner meaning, in the second volume of essays and studies of the english association (clarendon press, 1911). poems. a yorkshire dialogue between an awd wife a lass and a butcher. (1673) anonymous printed at york as a broadside by stephen bulkley in 1673. the original broadside is lost, but a manuscript transcript of it was purchased by the late professor skeat at the sale of sir f. madden's books and papers, and published by him in volume xxxii. of the dialect society's transactions, 1896. awd wife. pretha now, lass, gang into t' hurn(1) an' fetch me heame a skeel o' burn(2); na, pretha, barn, mak heaste an' gang, i's mar my deagh,(3) thou stays sae lang. lass. why, gom,(4) i's gea, bud, for my pains, you's gie me a frundel(5) o' your grains. awd wife. my grains, my barn! marry! not i; my draugh's(6) for t' gilts an' galts(7) i' t' sty. than, pretha, look i t' garth and see what owsen(8) i' the stand-hecks(9) be. lass. blukrins! they'll put,(10) i dare not gang oute'en(11) you'll len' me t' great leap-stang.(12) awd wife. tak t' frugan,(13) or t' awd maulin-shaft,(14) coom tite(15) agean an' be not daft. lass. gom, t' great bull-segg(16) he's brokken lowse, an' he, he's hiked(17) your broad-horned owse; an' t' owse is fall'n into t' swine-trough, i think he's brokken his cameril-hough.(18) awd wife. whaw! whaw! lass, mak heaste to t' smedy,(19) he's noo dead, for he rowts(20) already; he's boun; oh! how it bauks an' stangs!(21) his lisk(22) e'en bumps an' bobs wi' pangs. his weazen-pipe's(23) as dry as dust, his dew-lap's swelled, he cannot hoast.(24) he beals(25); tak t' barghams(26) off o' t' beams an' fetch some breckons(27) frae the clames.(28) frae t' banks go fetch me a weam-tow(29) my nowt's(30) e'en wrecken'd, he'll not dow.(31) e'en wellanerin!(32) for my nowt, for syke a musan(33) ne'er was wrowt. put t' wyes(34) amell(35) yon stirks an' steers i' t' owmer,(36) an' sneck the lear-deers.(37) see if goff hyldroth be gain-hand (38) thou helterful,(39) how dares ta stand! lass. he'll coom belive,(40) or aibles titter,(41) for when he hard i' what a twitter(42) your poor owse lay, he took his flail an' hang'd 't by t' swipple(43) on a nail; an' teuk a mell(44) fra t' top o' t' wharns(45) an' sware he'd ding your owse i' t' harns.(46) he stack his shak-fork up i' t' esins(47) an' teuk his jerkin off o' t' gresins.(48) then teuk his mittens, reached his bill, an' off o' t' yune-head(49) teuk a swill(50) to kep t' owse blude in. leuk, he's coom. awd wife. than reach a thivel(51) or a strum(52) to stir his blude; stand not to tauk. hing t' reckans(53) up o' t' rannel-bauk.(54) god ye good-morn, goff; i's e'en fain you'll put my owse out o' his pain. butcher. hough-band him, tak thir(55) weevils hine(56) f'rae t' rape's end; this is not a swine we kill, where ilkane hauds a fooit. i's ready now, ilkane leuk to it. then "beef!" i' god's name i now cry. stretch out his legs an' let him lie till i coom stick him. where's my swill?(57) coom hither, lass; haud, haud, haud still. lass. what mun i do wi' t' blude? butcher. thou fool, teem(58) 't down i' t' garth, i' t' midden-pool. good beef, by t' mass! an' when 'tis hung i's roll it down wi' tooth an' tongue, an' gobble 't down e'en till i worry. an' whan neist mell(59) we mak a lurry(60) a piece o' this frae t' kimlin(61) browt by t' rood! 't will be as good as owt. awd wife. maut-hearted(62) fool, i e'en could greet(63) to see my owse dead at my feet. i thank you, goff; i's wipe my een an', please, you too. butcher. why, gom green? 1. corner. 2. bucket of water. 3. dough. 4. grand-mother. 5. handful. 6. draff. 7. sows and boars. 8. oxen. 9. stalls. 10. gore. 11. unless. 12. pole. 13. oven-fork. 14. handle of oven-mop. 15. quickly. 16. bullock. 17. gored. 18. bend of hind.leg. 19. smithy. 20. snorts. 21. swells and stings. 22. flank. 23. windpipe. 24. cough. 25. bellows. 26. horse-collars. 27. bracken. 28. heaps. 29. belly-band. 30. ox. 31. recover. 32. alas! 33. wonder. 34. heifers. 35. among. 36. shade. 37. barn-doors. 38. near at hand. 39. halter-full. 40. soon. 41. perhaps sooner. 42. perilous state. 43. flap-end. 44. mallet. 45. hand-mill. 46. brains. 47. eaves. 48. stairs. 49. oven-top. 50. bucket. 51. porridge-stick. 52. stick. 53. iron chains for pot-hooks. 54. chimney cross-beam. 55. those. 56. away. 57. bucket. 58. pour. 59. next harvest-supper. 60. merry feast. 61. tub. 62. maggot-hearted. 63. weep. an honest yorkshireman henry carey (died 1748) i is i' truth a coontry youth, nean used to lunnon fashions; yet vartue guides, an' still presides ower all my steps an' passions. nea coortly leer, bud all sincere, nea bribe shall iver blinnd me ; if thoo can like a yorkshire tike, a rogue thoo'll niver finnd me. thof envy's tongue, so slimly hung, would lee aboot oor coonty, nea men o' t' earth boast greater worth, or mair extend their boonty. oor northern breeze wi' us agrees, an' does for wark weel fit us ; i' public cares, an' love affairs, wi' honour we acquit us. sea great a maand(1) is ne'er confaand(2) 'tiv onny shire or nation, they gie un meast praise whea weel displays a larned eddication; whaal rancour rolls i' laatle souls, by shallow views dissarnin', they're nobbut wise at awlus prize good manners, sense, an' larnin'. 1. mind 2. confined from "snaith marsh" (1754) anonymous this was written at the time of the enclosure acts which robbed the peasent farmer of his rights to use commons. alas! will roger e'er his sleep forgo, afore larks sing, or early cocks 'gin crow, as i've for thee, ungrateful maiden, done, to help thee milking, e'er day wark begun? and when thy well-stripp'd kye(1) would yield no more, still on my head the reeking kit(2) i bore. and, oh! bethink thee, then, what lovesome talk we've held together, ganging down the balk, maund'ring(3) at time which would na for us stay, but now, i ween, maes(4) no such hast away. yet, o! return eftsoon and ease my woe, and to some distant parish let us go, and there again them leetsome days restore, where, unassail'd by meety(5) folk in power, our cattle yet may feed, tho' snaith marsh be no more. but wae is me! i wot i fand(6) am grown, forgetting susan is already gone, and roger aims e'er lady day to wed; the banns last sunday in the church were bid. but let me, let me first i' t' churchyard lig, for soon i there must gang, my grief's so big. all others in their loss some comfort find; though ned's like me reduc'd, yet jenny's kind, and though his fleece no more our parson taks, and roast goose, dainty food, our table lacks, yet he, for tithes ill paid, gets better land, while i am ev'ry o' t' losing hand. my adlings wared,(7) and yet my rent to pay, my geese, like susan's faith, flown far away; my cattle, like their master, lank and poor, my heart with hopeless love to pieces tore, and all these sorrows came syne(8) snaith marsh was no more 1. well-milked kine (cattle) 2. pail 3. finding fault 4. makes 5. mighty 6. fond, foolish 7. earnings spent 8. since when at hame wi' dad anonymous when at hame wi' dad, we niver had nae fun, sir, which meade me sae mad, i swore away i'd run, sir. i pack'd up clease(1) sae smart, ribbed stockings, weastcoats pretty; wi' money an' leet heart, tripp'd off to lunnon city, fal de ral de ra. when i did git there i geap'd about quite silly, at all the shows to stare i' a spot call'd piccadilly. lord! sike charmin' seights: bods(2) i' cages thrive, sir', coaches, fiddles, feights, an' crocodiles alive, sir, fal de ral de ra. then i did gan to see the gentry in hyde park, sir, when a lass push'd readely(1) by, to whom i did remark, sir: "tho' your feace be e'en sae fair, i've seen a bear mair civil." then, the laatle clease they wear! god! lunnon is the divil, fal de ral de ra. to t' play-house then i goes, whar i seed merry feaces, an' i' the lower rows were sarvants keepin' pleaces. the players i saw sean, they managed things quite funny; by gock! they'd honey-mean afore they'd matrimony. fal de ral de ra. now havin' seen all i could an' pass'd away my time, sir, if you think fit an' good, i'll e'en give up my rhyme, sir. an', sud my ditty please, the poppies in this garden to me would be heart's-ease; if not, i axe your pardon. fal de ral de ra. 1. clothes 2. birds 3. rudely i'm yorkshire too anonymous from a garland of new songs, published by w. appleton, darlington, 1811. by t' side of a brig, that stands over a brook, i was sent betimes to school; i went wi' the stream, as i studied my book, an' was thought to be no small fool. i never yet bought a pig in a poke, for, to give awd nick his due, tho' oft i've dealt wi' yorkshire folk, yet i was yorkshire too. i was pretty well lik'd by each village maid, at races, wake or fair, for my father had addled a vast(1) in trade, and i were his son and heir. and seeing that i didn't want for brass, poor girls came first to woo, but tho' i delight in a yorkshrre lass, yet i was yorkshire too! to lunnon by father i was sent, genteeler manners to see; but fashion's so dear, i came back as i went, and so they made nothing o' me my kind relations would soon have found out what was best wi' my money to do: says i, "my dear cousins, i thank ye for nowt, but i'm not to be cozen'd by you! for i'm yorkshire too." 1. earned a lot. the wensleydale lad anonymous when i were at home wi' my fayther an' mother, i niver had na fun; they kept me goin' frae morn to neet, so i thowt frae them i'd run. leeds fair were coomin' on, an' i thowt i'd have a spree, so i put on my sunday cooat an' went right merrily. first thing i saw were t' factory, i niver seed one afore; there were threads an' tapes, an' tapes an' silks, to sell by monny a score. owd ned turn'd iv'ry wheel, an' iv'ry wheel a strap; "begor!" says i to t' maister-man, "owd ned's a rare strong chap." next i went to leeds owd church- i were niver i' one i' my days, an' i were maistly ashamed o' misel, for i didn't knaw their ways; there were thirty or forty folk, i' tubs an' boxes sat, when up cooms a saucy owd fellow. says he, "noo, lad, tak off thy hat." then in there cooms a great lord mayor, an' over his shooders a club, an' he gat into a white sack-poke,(1) an gat into t' topmost tub. an' then there cooms anither chap, i thinks they call'd him ned, an' he gat into t' bottommost tub, an' mock'd all t' other chap said. so they began to preach an' pray, they prayed for george, oor king; when up jumps t' chap i' t' bottommost tub. says he, "good folks, let's sing." i thowt some sang varra weel, while others did grunt an' groan, ivery man sang what he wad, so i sang " darby an' joan."(2) when preachin' an' prayin' were over, an' folks were gangin' away, i went to t' chap i' t' topmost tub. says i, "lad, what's to pay?" "why, nowt," says he, "my lad." begor! i were right fain, so i click'd hod(3) o' my gret club stick an' went whistlin' oot again. 1. corn-sack 2. another reading is "bobbing joan." 3. took hold a song 1. thomas browne (1771-1798) ye loit'ring minutes faster flee, y' are all ower slow by hauf for me, that wait impatient for the mornin'; to-morn's the lang, lang-wish'd-for fair, i'll try to shine the fooremost there, misen in finest claes adornin', to grace the day. i'll put my best white stockings on, an' pair o' new cauf-leather shoon, my clane wash'd gown o' printed cotton; aboot my neck a muslin shawl, a new silk handkerchee ower all, wi' sike a careless air i'll put on, i'll shine this day. my partner ned, i know, thinks he, he'll mak hiss en secure o' me, he's often said he'd treat me rarely; but i's think o' some other fun, i'll aim for some rich farmer's son, and cheat oor simple neddy fairly, sae sly this day. why mud not i succeed as weel, an' get a man full oot genteel, as awd john darby's daughter nelly? i think misen as good as she, she can't mak cheese or spin like me, that's mair 'an(1) beauty, let me tell ye, on onny day. then hey! for sports and puppy shows, an' temptin' spice-stalls rang'd i' rows, an' danglin' dolls by t' necks all hangin'; an' thousand other pratty seets, an' lasses traul'd(2) alang the streets, wi' lads to t' yal-hoose gangin' to drink this day. let's leuk at t' winder, i can see 't, it seems as tho' 't was growin' leet, the cloods wi' early rays adornin'; ye loit'ring minutes faster flee, y' are all ower slow be hauf for me, at(3) wait impatient for the mornin' o' sike a day. 1. than 2. trailed 3. that a song 2. thomas browne (1771--1798) when i was a wee laatle totterin' bairn, an' had nobbud just gitten short frocks, when to gang i at first was beginnin' to lairn, on my brow i gat monny hard knocks. for sae waik, an' sae silly an' helpless was i i was always a tumblin' doon then, while my mother would twattle me(1) gently an' cry, "honey jenny, tak care o' thisen." when i grew bigger, an' got to be strang, at i cannily ran all about by misen, whor i liked, then i always mud gang bithout(2) bein' tell'd about ought; when, however, i com to be sixteen year awd, an' rattled an' ramp'd amang men, my mother would call o' me in an' would scaud, an' cry--" huzzy, tak care o' thisen." i've a sweetheart cooms noo upo' setterday nights, an' he swears at he'll mak me his wife; my mam grows sae stingy, she scauds an' she flytes,(3) an' twitters(4) me oot o' my life. bud she may leuk sour, an' consait hersen wise, an' preach agean likin' young men; sen i's grown a woman her clack(5) i'll despise, an' i's--marry!--tak care o' misen. 1. prattle to me. 2. without. 3. argues, 4. worries. 5. talk the invasion: an ecologue thomas browne (1771--1798) impius haec tam culta novalia miles habebit?--virgil. a wanton wether had disdain'd the bounds that kept him close confin'd to willy's grounds; broke through the hedge, he wander'd far astray, he knew not whither on the public way. as willy strives, with all attentive care, the fence to strengthen and the gap repair, his neighbour, roger, from the fair return'd, appears in sight in riding-graith adorn'd; whom, soon as willy, fast approaching, spies, thus to his friend, behind the hedge, he cries. willy how dea ye, roger? hae ye been at t' fair? how gangs things? made ye onny bargains there? roger i knaw not, willy, things deant look ower weel, coorn sattles fast, thof beas'(1) 'll fetch a deal. to sell t' awd intak(2) barley i desaagn'd, bud couldn't git a price to suit my maand. what wi' rack-rents an' sike a want a' trade, i knawn't how yan's to git yan's landloords paid. mair-ower(3) all that, they say, i' spring o' t' year franch is intarmin'd on 't to 'tack us here. willy yea, mon! what are they coomin' hither for? depend upon 't, they'd better niver stor.(4) roger true, willy, nobbud englishmen 'll stand by yan another o' their awwn good land. they'll niver suffer--i's be bun' to say â­ the franch to tak a single sheep away. fightin' for heame, upo' their awn fair field, all power i' france could niver mak 'em yield. willy whaw! seer(5) you cannot think, when put to t' pinch, at onny englishmen 'll iver flinch! if franch dea coom here, roger, i'll be hang'd an' they deant git theirsens reet soondly bang'd. i can't bud think--thof i may be mistean â­ not monny on 'em 'll git back agean. roger i think nut, willy, bud some fowk 'll say, oor english fleet let t' franch ships git away, when they were laid, thou knaws, i' bantry bay; at(6) they could niver all have gien 'em t' slip, bud t' english wanted nut to tak a ship. willy eh! that's all lees! roger i dinnot say it's true, it's all unknawn to sike as me an' you. how do we knaw when fleets do reet or wrang? i whope it's all on't fause, bud sea talks gang. howsiver this i knaw, at when they please, oor sailors always beat 'em upo' t' seas. an' if they nobbut sharply look aboot, t'hey needn't let a single ship coom oat. at least they'll drub 'em weel, i dinnot fear, an' keep 'em fairly off frae landin' here. willy i whope sea, roger, bud, an' if they dea coom owerr, i then shall sharpen my awd lea.(7) what thof(8) i can bud of a laatle boast, you knaw van wadn't hae that laatle lost. i's send our mally an' all t' bairns away, an' i misen 'll by the yamstead(9) stay. i'll fight, if need; an' if i fall, why, then i's suffer all the warst mishap misen. was i bud seer my wife an' bairns were seafe, i then sud be to dee content eneaf. roger reet, willy, mon, what an' they put us tea 't i will misen put forrad my best feat.(10) what thof i's awd, i's nut sae easily scar'd; on his awn midden an awd cock fights hard. they say a franchman's torn'd a different man, a braver, better soldier, ten to yan. bud let the franch be torn'd to what they will, they'll finnd at englishmen are english still. o' their awn grund they'll nowther flinch nor flee, they'll owther conquer, or they'll bravely dee. 1. beasts, cattle. 2 enclosure. 3. besides. 4. stir. 5. surely. 6. that. 7. scythe. 8. though. 9. homestead. 10 foot. elegy on the death of a frog (1815) david lewis ya summer day when i were mowin', when flooers of monny soorts were growin', which fast befoor my scythe fell bowin', as i advance, a frog i cut widout my knowin'- a sad mischance. poor luckless frog, why com thoo here? thoo sure were destitute o' fear; some other way could thoo nut steer to shun the grass? for noo that life, which all hod dear, is gean, alas! hadst thoo been freeten'd by the soond with which the mowers strip the groond, then fled away wi' nimble boond, thoo'd kept thy state: but i, unknawin', gav a wound, which browt thy fate. sin thoo com frae thy parent spawn, wi' painted cooat mair fine than lawn, and golden rings round baith ees drawn, all gay an' blithe, thoo lowpt(1) the fields like onny fawn, but met the scythe. frae dikes where winter watters steead(2) thoo com unto the dewy mead, regardless of the cattle's treead, wi' pantin' breeath, for to restore thy freezin' bleead, but met wi' deeath. a frenchman early seekin' prog,(3) will oftentimes ransack the bog, to finnd a sneel, or weel-fed frog, to give relief; but i prefer a leg of hog, or roond o' beef. but liker far to the poor frog, i's wanderin' through the world for prog, where deeath gies monny a yan a jog, an' cuts them doon; an' though i think misen incog, that way i's boun. time whets his scythe and shakes his glass, and though i know all flesh be grass, like monny mair i play the ass, don't seem to know; but here wad sometime langer pass, befoor i go. ye bonnie lasses, livin' flooers, of cottage mean, or gilded booers, possessed of attractive pooers, ye all mun gang like frogs in meadows fed by shooers, ere owt be lang. though we to stately plants be grown, he easily can mow us doon; it may be late, or may be soon, his scythe we feel; or is it fittin' to be known? therefore fareweel. 1. leaped. 2. stood. 3. food. sheffield cutler's song (1887) abel bywater coom all you cutlin' heroes, where'ersome'er you be, all you what works at flat-backs,(1) coom listen unto me; a basketful for a shillin', to mak 'em we are willin', or swap 'em for red herrin's, aar bellies to be fillin', or swap 'em for red herrin's, aar bellies to be fillin'. a baskitful o' flat-backs, i'm sure we'll mak, or more, to ger(2) reight into t' gallery, wheer we can rant an' roar, throw flat-backs, stones an' sticks, red herrin's, bones an' bricks, if they don't play "nancy's fancy," or onny tune we fix, we'll do the best at e'er we can to break some o' their necks. hey! jont, lad, where art ta waddlin' to? does ta work at flat-backs yit, as tha's been used to do? ha! coom, an' tha' s go wi' me, an' a sample i will gie thee, it's one at i've just forged upon geoffry's bran-new stiddy.(3) look at it well, it does excel all t' flat-backs i' aar smithy. let's send for a pitcher o' ale, lad, for i'm gerrin' varry droy, i'm ommost chok'd wi' smithy sleck,(4) the wind it is so hoigh. gie rafe an' jer a drop, they sen(5) they cannot stop, they're i' sich a moighty hurry to get to t' penny hop, they're i' sich a moighty hurry to get to t' penny hop. here's steem at lives at heeley, he'll soon be here, i knaw, he's larnt a new maccaroni step, the best you iver saw; he has it so complete, he troies up ivery street, an' ommost breaks all t' pavors(6) wi' swattin'(7) daan his feet. an' anak troies to beat him, wheniver they doon(8) meet. we'll raise a tail by sunda, steem; i knaw who's one to sell, we'll tee a hammer heead at t' end to mak it balance well. it's a reight new lunnon tail, we'll wear it kale for kale,(9) aar anak browt it wi' him, that neet he coom by t' mail. we'll drink success unto it--hey! tout, lad, teem(10) aat t' ale. 1 knives. 2 get. 3. anvil. 4. dust. 5. say. 6. paving stones. 7. hammering. 8. do. 9. turn and about. 10. pour. address to poverty anonymous scoolin' maid o' iron broo, thy sarvant will address thee noo, for thoo invites the freedom by drivin' off my former friends, to leak to their awn private ends, just when i chanc'd to need 'em. i've had thy company ower lang, ill-lookin' wean,(1) thoo must be wrang, thus to cut short my jerkin. i ken thee weel, i knaw thy ways, thoo's awlus kept back cash an' claes, an' foorc'd me to hard workin'. to gain o' thee a yal(2) day's march i straave; bud thoo's sae varra arch. for all i still straave faster, thoo's tripp'd my heels an' meade me stop, by some slain corn, or failin' crop, or ivery foul disaster. if i my maand may freely speak, i really dunnot like thy leak, whativer shap thoo's slipp'd on; thoo's awd an' ugly, deeaf an' blinnd, a fiend afoore, a freight behinnd, an' foul as mother shipton. folks say, an' it is nowt bud truth, thoo has been wi' me frae my youth, an' gien me monny a thumper; bud noo thoo cooms wi' all thy weight, fast fallin' frae a fearful height, a doonreet milton plumper. sud plenty frae her copious horn, teem(1) oot to me good crops o' corn, an' prosper weel my cattle, an' send a single thoosand pund, 't wad bring all things completely roond, an' i wad gie thee battle. noo, poverty, ya thing i beg, like a poor man withoot a leg, sea, prethee, don't deceive me; i knaw it's i' thy power to grant the laatle favour at i want â­ at thoo wad gang an' leave me. 1. child. 2. whole. the collingham ghost anonymous i'll tell ye aboot the collingham ghost, an' a rare awd ghost was he; for he could laugh, an' he could talk, an' run, an' jump, an' flee. he went aboot hither an' thither, an' freeten'd some out o' their wits, he freeten'd the parson as weel as the clerk, an' lots beside them into fits. the poor awd man wha teak the toll at collingham bar for monny a year, he dursn't coom out to oppen his yat(2) for fear the ghost sud be near. he teak to his bed an' there he laid, for monny a neet an' day; his yat was awlus wide oppen thrown, an' nean iver stopp'd to pay. awd jerry wha kept the public hoose, an' sell'd good yal to all, curs'd the ghost wi' hearty good will, for neabody stopp'd to call. it made sike a noise all roond aboot, that folks com far to see; some said it was a dreadful thing, an' sum said 't was a lee. gamkeepers com wi' dogs an' guns, thinkin' 't was some comical beast; an' they wad eyther kill him or catch him, or drive him awa at least. sea into lady wood right they went ya beautiful meenleet neet; a lot o' great men an' a lot o' rough dogs, enew(3) a poor ghost to eat. they waited lang, the ghost didn't come, they began to laugh an' rail, "if he coom oat of his den," says yan, "we'll clap a bit o' saut of his tail." "nay, he knows better than turn oot, when we are here to watch him, he'd git a bullet through his lug, or mungo there wad catch him." when close to their heads wi' a terrible clatter the ghost went whirrin' up, an' owerr the woods he laughed an' shouted, "bobo, bobo! who whoop, who whoop!" the gamkeepers all tummled doon, their hair thrast off their hat, they gaped an' grean'd(4) an' roll'd aboot, an' their hearts went pit-a-pat. their feaces were white as onny clout, an' they said niver a word, t'hey couldn't tell what the ghost was like, whether 'twas a beast or a bird. they stay'd nea langer i' t' wood that neet, poor men were niver dafter, they ran awa hame as fast as they could, an' their dogs ran yelping after. the parson then, a larned man, said he wad conjure the ghost; he was sure it was nea wandrin' beast, but a spirit that was lost. all languages this parson knew that onny man can chat in, the ebrew, greek, an' irish too, as weel as dutch an' latin. o! he could talk an' read an' preach, few men knew mair or better, an' nearly all the bukes he read were printed in black letter. he read a neet, he read a day, fo mak him fit for his wark, an' when he thowt he was quite up, he sent for the awd clerk. the clerk was quickly by his side, he took but little fettlin', an' awa they went wi' right good will to gie the ghost a settlin'. aye off they set wi' all their might, nor stopp'd at thin or thick, the parson wi' his sark(5) an' buke, the clerk wi' a thick stick. at last by t' side o' t' bank they stopp'd, where wharfe runs murmurin' clear, a beautiful river breet an' fine, as onny in wide yorkshire. the parson then began to read, an' read full loud an' lang, the rabbits they ran in an' oot, an' wonder'd what was wrang. the ghost was listnin' in a hole, an' oat he bang'd at last, the fluttrin' o' his mighty wings, was like a whirlwind blast. he laughed 'an shooted as he flew, until the wild woods rang; his who-who-whoop was niver heard sea load an' clear an' strang. the parson he fell backwards ower into a bush o' whins, an' lost his buke, an' rave(6) his sark,(7) an' prick'd his hands an' shins. the clerk he tried to run awa, but tumml'd ower his stick, an' there he made a nasty smell while he did yell an' fick.(8) an' lots o' pranks this ghost he play'd that here i darn't tell, for if i did, folks wad declare i was as ill as hissel. for eighteen months an' mair he stay'd, an' just did as he thowt ; for lord nor duke, parson nor clerk, he fear'd, nor cared nowt. efter that time he went awa, just when it pleas'd hissel; but what he was, or whar he com fra, nea mortal man can tell. 1. pour. 2. gate. 3. enough. 4. groaned. 5. surplice. 6. tore. 7. surplice. 8. kick. the yorkshire horse dealers anonymous bain(1) to clapham town-end lived an owd yorkshire tike, who i' dealing i' horseflesh had ne'er met his like; 't were his pride that i' all the hard bargains he'd hit, he'd bit a girt monny, but niver bin bit. this owd tommy towers (by that name he were known) had an owd carrion tit(2) that were sheer skin an' bone; to have killed him for t' curs wad have bin quite as well, but 't were tommy's opinion he'd dee on himsel! well! yan abey muggins, a neighborin cheat, thowt to diddle owd tommy wad be a girt treat; he'd a horse, too, 't were war(3) than owd tommy's, ye see, for t' neet afore that he'd thowt proper to dee ! thinks abey, t' owd codger 'll niver smoke t' trick, i'll swop wi' him my poor deead horse for his wick,(4) an' if tommy i nobbut can happen to trap, 't will be a fine feather i' abraham cap! so to tommy he goes, an' the question he pops: "betwin thy horse and mine, prithee, tommy, what swops? what wilt gie me to boot? for mine's t' better horse still?" "nowt," says tommy, "i'll swop even hands, an' ye will!" abey preached a lang time about summat to boot, insistin' that his were the liveliest brute; but tommy stuck fast where he first had begun, till abey shook hands, an' said, well, tommy i done! "o! tommy," said abey, "i's sorry for thee, i thowt thou'd hae hadden mair white i' thy ee; good luck's wi' thy bargain, for my horse is deead." "hey!" says tommy, "my lad, so is mine, an' it's fleead(5)!" so tommy got t' better o' t' bargain a vast, an' cam' off wi' a yorkshireman's triumph at last; for thof 'twixt deead horses there's not mich to choose, yet tommy were richer by t' hide an' fower shooes. 1 near. 2 nag. 3 worse. 4. quick, living 5. flayed. the lucky dream john castillo (1792-1845) ya kessmas neet, or then aboot, when measons all were frozzen oot, i went to see a country friend, an hospitable hoor to spend. for gains, i cut across o' t' moor, whoor t' snaw sea furiously did stoor.(1) the hoose i gain'd an' enter'd in, an' were as welcome as a king. the storm agean t' windey patter'd, an' hail-steans doon t' chimley clatter'd. all hands were in, an' seem'd content, an' nean did frost or snaw lament. t' lasses all were at their sewing, their cheeks wiv health an' beauty glowing. aroond the hearth, in cheerful chat, twea or three friendly neighbours sat, their travels telling, whoor they'd been, an' what they had beath heeard an' seen. till yan did us all mich amuse, an' thus a story introduce. "i recollect lang saan,"(2) says he, "a story that were tell'd to me, at seems sea strange i' this oor day that true or false i cannot say. a man liv'd i' this neighbourhood, nea doot of reputation good, an' lang taame strave wi' stiddy care, to keep his hoosehod i' repair. at length he had a curious dream, for three neets runnin' 't were the seame, at(3) if on lunnon brig he stood, he'd hear some news would dea him good, he labour'd hard, beath neet an' day, tryin' to draave those thowts away; yet daily grew mair discontent till he at last to lunnon went. being quite a stranger to that toon, lang taame he wander'd up an' doon, till, led by some mysterious hand, on lunnon brig he teak his stand. an' there he waited day by day, an' just were boun(4) to coom away, sea mich he thowt he were to bleame to gang sea far aboot a dream, when thus a man, as he drew near, did say, "good friend, what seek you here, where i have seen you soon and late?" his dream tiv him he did relate. "dreams," says the man, " are empty things, mere thoughts that flit on silver'd wings; unheeded we should let them pass. i've had a dream, and thus it was, that somewhere round this peopled ball, there's such a place as lealholm hall(5); yet whether such a place there be, or not, is all unknown to me. there in a cellar, dark and deep, where slimy creatures nightly creep, and human footsteps never tread, there is a store of treasure hid. if it be so, i have no doubt, some lucky wight will find it out. yet so or not is nought to me, for i shall ne'er go there to see." the man did slyly twice or thrice the cockney thenk for his advice; then heame agean withoot delay he cherfully did tak his way. an' set aboot the wark, an' sped, fun' ivvery thing as t' man had said; were iver efter seen to flourish t' fanest gentleman iv all t' parish. folks wonder'd sair, an' ,weel they might, whoor he gat all his guineas bright. if it were true, i' spite o' fame, tiv him it were a lucky dream." 1. drive. 2. long ago. 3. that. 4. ready. 5. in the neighbourhood of whitby. the milkin'-time j. h. dixon (1803-1876) meet me at the fowd at the milkin'-time, whan the dusky sky is gowd at the milkin'-time; whan the fog(1) is slant(2) wi' dew, an' the clocks(3) go hummin' thro' the wick-sets(4) an' the branches of the owmerin'(5) yew. weel ye knaw the hour of the milkin'-time, the girt bell sounds frev t' tower at the milkin'-time; bud as gowd sooin turns to gray, an' i cannot have delay, dunnot linger by the way at the milkin'-time. ye'll find a lass at's true at the milkin'-time, shoo thinks of nane bud you at the milkin'-time; bud my fadder's gittin' owd, an' he's gien a bit to scowd, whan i's ower lang at the fowd at the milkin'-time. happen ye're afeard at the milkin'-time; mebbe loike ye've heerd at the milkin'-time the green fowk shak their feet, whan t' moon on heeside's breet, an' it chances so to-neet, at the milkin'-time. there's yan, an' he knaws weel whan it's milkin'-time; he'd feace the varra de'il at the milkin'-time. he'd nut be yan to wait tho' a barguest(6) war i' t' gate,(7) if the word i'd nobbud say 't at the milkin'-time. 1. aftermath. 2. wet. 3. beetles 4. quick-sets. 5. overshadowing 6. the barguest is an apparition, taking usually the form of a big black dog with saucer eyes. 7. way, road. i niver can call her my wife ben preston (1819-1902) i'm a weyver, ye knaw, an' awf deead, so i do all at iver i can to put away aat o' my heead the thowts an' the aims of a man. eight shillin' i' t'wick's what i arn, when i've varry gooid wark an' full time, an' i think it's a sorry consarn for a fella at's just in his prime. bud aar maister says things is as weel as they have been or iver can be, an' i happen sud think so misel if he'd nobbud swop places wi' me. bud he's welcome ta all he can get, i begrudge him o' noan of his brass, an' i'm nowt bud a madlin(1) to fret, or to think o' yon beautiful lass. i niver can call her my wife, my love i sal niver mak knawn, yit the sarra that darkens her life thraws its shadda across o' my awn. when i knaw at her heart is at eease, theer is sunshine an' singin' i' mine; an' misfortunes may come as they pleease, yit they seldom can mak me repine. bud that chartist wor nowt bud a slope(2)- i were fooild by his speeches an' rhymes, for his promises wattered my hope, an' i leng'd for his sunshiny times; bud i feel at my dearest desire within me 'll wither away; like an ivy-stem trailin' i' t' mire, it's deein for t' want of a stay. when i laid i' my bed day an' neet, an' were geen up by t' doctors for deead, god bless her! shoo'd coom wi' a leet an' a basin o' grewil an' breead. an' i once thowt i'd aat wi' it all, bud so kindly shoo chatted an' smiled, i were fain to turn ovver to t' wall, an' to bluther an' roar like a child. an' i said, as i thowt of her een, each breeter for t' tear at were in 't, it's a sin to be niver forgeen, to yoke her to famine an' stint; so i'll e'en travel forrad throo life, like a man throo a desert unknawn; i mun ne'er have a home nor a wife, bud my sorras 'll all be my awn. so i trudge on alone as i owt, an' whativer my troubles may be, they'll be sweetened, poor lass, wi' the thowt at i've niver browt trouble to thee. yit a bird has its young uns to guard, a wild beast a mate in his den, an' i cannot bud think at it's hardâ­ nay, deng it, i'm roarin' agen! 1. fool 2. impostor. come to thy gronny, doy(1) ben preston come to thy gronny, doy, come to thy gronny, bless thee, to me tha'rt as pratty as onny; mutherlass barn of a dowter unwed, little tha knaws, doy, the tears at i've shed; trials i've knawn both for t' heart an' for t' heead, shortness o' wark, ay, an' shortness o' breead. these i could bide, bud tho' tha'rt noan to blame, bless thee, tha browt me both sorra an' shame; gronny, poor sowl, for a two month or more hardly could feshion to lewk aat. o' t' door; t' neighbours called aat to me, "dunnot stand that, aat wi' that hussy an' aat wi' her brat." deary me, deary me! what could i say? t' furst thing of all, i thowt, let me go pray; t' next time i slept i'd a dream, do ye see, ay, an' i knew at that dream were for me. tears of christ jesus, i saw 'em that neet, fall drop by drop on to one at his feet. after that, saw him wi' barns raand his knee, some on 'em, happen, poor crayturs like thee; says i at last, though i sorely were tried, surely a sinner a sinner sud bide; neighbours may think or may say what they will, t' muther an' t' dowter sal stop wi' me still. come on 't what will, i' my cot they sal caar,(2) woe be to them at maks bad into waar(3); some fowk may call thee a name at i hate, wishin' fra t' heart tha were weel aat o' t' gate; oft this hard world into t' gutter 'll shove thee, poor little lamb, wi' no daddy to love thee. dunnot thee freeat, doy, whol granny hods up, niver sal tha want a bite or a sup; what if i work these owd fingers to t' boan, happen tha'll love me long after i'm goan; t' last bite i' t' cupboard wi' thee i could share't, hay! bud tha's stown(4) a rare slice o' my heart. spite of all t' sorra, all t' shame at i've seen, sunshine comes back to my heart throo thy een; cuddle thy gronny, doy, bless thee, tha'rt bonny, doy, rosy an' sweet fra thy braa to thy feet, kingdoms an' craans wodn't buy thee to-neet. 1 darling. 2. cower, take shelter. 3. worse. 4. stolen. owd moxy ben preston owd moxy wrowt hard for his morsil o' breead, an' to keep up his courage he'd sing, tho' time wi' his scythe hed mawn t' crop on his heead an' then puffed it away wi' his wing. reight slavish his labour an' little his wage, his path tuv his grave were bud rough, poor livin' an' hardships, a deal more nor age, hed swealed(1) daan his can'le to t' snuff. one cowd winter morn, as he crept aat o' bed, t' owd waller felt dizzy an' sore: "come, frame(2) us some breykfast, owd duckfooit, he said, "an' i'll finish yond fence up at t' moor; "i'll tew(3) like a brick wi' my hammer an' mall,(4) an' i'll bring home my honey to t' hive, an' i'll pay t' bit o' rent an' wer(5) shop-score an' all, an' i'll dee aat o' debt if i live." so peg made his pobs(6) an' then futtered(7) abaat, an' temm'd(8) him his tea into 't can, then teed up some bacon an' breead in a claat, for dearly shoo liked her owd man. then moxy set aat on his wearisome way, wadin' bravely throo t' snaw-broth i' t' dark; it's a pity when fellas at's wakely an' grey hes to walk for a mile to their wark. bud summat that mornin' made moxy turn back, tho' he hardly knew what it could meean, so, cudlin' owd peggy, he gave her a smack, an' then started for t' common ageean. all t' day a wild hurricane wuther'd(9) throo t' glen, an' then rush'd like a fiend up to t' heeath; an' as peggy sat knittin' shoo said tuv hersen, "aw dear! he'll be starruv'd to t' deeath." an' shoo felt all that day as shoo'd ne'er felt afore, an' shoo dreeaded yit hunger'd for neet ; when harknin' an' tremlin' shoo heeard abaat t' door a mutterin, an' shufflin o' feet. five minutes at after,(10) owd peg, on her knees, were kussin' a forehead like stone; an' to t' men at stood by her wi' tears i' their ees, shoo said, "go, lads, an' leave me alone." when they straightened his body, all ready for t' kist,(11) it were seen at he'd thowt of his plan; for t' shop-score an' t' rent war safe locked in his fist, so he deed aat o' debt, like a man. 1. melted. 2. prepare. 3. toil. 4. mallet. 5. our. 6. porridge. 7. bustled. 8. poured. 9. roared. 10. afterwards, 11. coffin. dean't mak gam o' me (1875) florence tweddell i went last week to stowslay(1) fair, my sweetheart for to see; she promis'd she would meet me there bud dean't mak gam o' me: oh, dean't mak gam o' me! i rigg'd misel' all i' my best, as fine as fine could be; an' little thowt how things would to'n(2); bud dean't mak gam o' me: oh, dean't mak gam o' me! i walk'd to t' toon, an' bowt a cane, to cut a dash, ye see; an' how i swagger'd up an' doon! bud dean't mak gam o' me: oh, dean't mak gam o' me! i thowt, if nobbut poll would come, how happy we sud be! i'd treat her into t' penny show, bud dean't mak gam o' me : oh, dean't mak gam o' me! at last i saw her coomin' in; bud what else did i see? jack hodge was walkin' biv her saade! bud dean't mak gam o' me: oh, dean't mak gam o' me! stright up i went, an' "poll!" says i, "i's waiting, lass, for thee!" "then thoo mun wait!" was all she said, bud dean't mak gam o' me: oh, dean't mak gam o' me! she teak jack's airm, an' there i stead quite flabbergash'd, ye see: i thowt i sud hav dropt to t' grund, bud dean't mak gam o' me: oh, dean't mak gam o' me! poor nancy green com seaglin'(3) up, "what's matter, dick?" says she: "jack hodge is off wi' poll!" says i, bud dean't mak gam o' me: oh, dean't mak gam o' me! "why, niver maand her; let her gan ; she's better gean!" said she: bud i thowt nut; an' then i cried, bud dean't mak gam o' me : oh, dean't mak gam o' me! i's nobbut a poor country lad at's lost my heart, ye see: i'll gan nea mair to t' pomesun fair,(4) sea dean't mak gam o' me : oh, dean't mak gam o' me! 1. stokesley. 2. turn out. 3. sauntering. 4. the fair held at stokesley on the saturday before palm sunday coom, stop at yam to-neet bob florence tweddell "coom, stop at yam(1) to-neet, bob, dean't gan oot onnywhere: thoo gets thisel t' leeast vex'd, lad, when thou sits i' t' awd airm-chair. "there's keat an' dick beath want thee to stop an' tell a teale: tak little keatie o' thy knee, an' dick 'll sit on t' steal. "let's have a happy neet, bob, tell all t' teales thoo can tell; for givin' pleeasure to the bairns will dea thee good thisel. "i knaw it's sea wi' me, bob, for oft when i've been sad, i've laik'd an' laugh'd wi' them, mon, untel my heart's felt glad. "an' sing that laatle sang, bob, thoo used to sing to me, when oft we sat at t' river saade, under t' awd willow tree. "what happy taames them was, bob, thoo niver left me then to gan to t' yal-hoose neet be neet amang all t' drunken men. "i does my best for thoo, bob, an' thoo sud dea t' seame for me: just think what things thoo promised me asaade t' awd willow tree!" "i prithee say nea mair, lass, i see i ain't dean reet; i'll think of all thoo's said to me, an' stop at yam to-neet." "i'll try to lead a better life i will, an' that thoo'll see! fra this taame fo'th i'll spend my neets at yam, wi' t' bairns an' thee!" 1. home. ode to t' mooin j. h. eccles (1824-1883) i like to see thy quaint owd face lewk softly daan on me, e'en though i ne'er could find thy nose nor catch thy watchful ee. full monny times i've seen thee rise, when busy day were done, when daan behint t' owd maantain tops had passed t' breet evenin' sun. i like to see thee when sweet spring cooms back to hill an' vale; when odours rise through t' hawthorn bush, an' float on t' evenin' gale. when lovers walk on t' primrose benks, an' whisper soft an' low; dreamin' just same as me an' t' wife did monny years ago. i like to see thee when t' june rose is wet wi' fallin' dew, when t' nightingale maks t' owd woods ring wi' music fresh an' new when fairies dance on t' top o' t' flaars an' roam through t' pleasant dells, like monarchs i' their marble halls, i' t' lilies' virgin bells. i like to see thee when t' ripe corn is wavin' to an' fro; when t' squirril goes a-seekin' nuts an' jumps thro' bough to bough. when t' purple heather covers t' hills, an' t' hunters, tired and worn, back through the fairy-haunted glens unto their homes return. i like to see thee when all raand is white wi' drivven snow, when t' streams are stopp'd by owd jack frost an' foaks slip as they go. i like to see thee all t' year raand, when t' sky is fair an' breet, an' allus hail wi' fond delight the noble queen o' t' neet. i used to think at i could reach up to thy face wi' ease, if i had but a big long stick; for tha were but green cheese. but naa i've got far different thowts, an' learnt to understand at tha art one o' t' wondrous works formed by t' gert maker's hand. aunt nancy j. h. eccles aunt nancy's one o' t' savin' sort, at niver lets t' chonce pass; yet wouldn't do owt mean or low for t' sake o' gettin' t' brass. her home's as clean as need be seen, whoiver may go in; an' as for nancy, dear-a-me! shoo's like a new-made pin. shoo's full o' thrift an' full o' sense, an' full o' love beside; shoo rubs an' scrubs thro' morn to neet an' maks t' owd haase her pride. her husband, when his wark is doon, sits daan i' t' owd arm chair ; forgets his troubles as he owt, an' loises all his care. wi' pipe an' book i' t' chimley nook time flies on noiseless wing; shoo sits an' knits wi' pleasant face, he's happy as a king. wi' tattlin' folks shoo's niver seen i' alley, loin(1) or street, but goes her way wi' modest step, exact an' clean an' neat. her neighbours soomtimes watch her aat, an' say shoo's praad an' stiff; but all their gossip cooms to nowt, aunt nancy's reight enif. wi' basket oft shoo walks abroad to some poor lonely elf; to ivery one shoo knaws t' reight way at's poorer nor(2) herself. shoo niverr speyks o' what shoo gives, kind, gentle-hearted sowl; i' charity her hands find wark, shoo's good alike to all. he niver tells her what he thinks, nor flatters nor reproves; his life is baand wi' gowlden bands to t' woman at he loves. god bless her, shoo's a dimond breet, both good i' mind an' heart; an angel spreeadin' light an' love, that plays a noble part. shoo's worthy of a monarch's choice, her worth can ne'er be towld ; shoo cam to mak folks' hearts feel glad, shoo's worth her weight i' gowld. 1 lane. 2 than. coom, don on thy bonnet an' shawl (1867) thomas blackah coom, don on thy bonnet an' shawl, an' straighten thy cap an' thy hair; i's really beginnin' to stall(1) to see thee sit dazzin'(2) i' t' chair. sea coom, let us tak a walk oot, for t' air is as warm as a bee; i hennot(3) a morsel o' doot it'll help beath lile willy an' thee. we'll gan reet throo t' middle toon, as far as to reavensgill heead(4); when thar, we can sit wersens doon on t' crags close at side o' t' becksteead. an' then, oh! hoo grand it'll be to pass a few minutes away, an' listen t' birds sing on each tree their carols for closin' the day. an' all aboot t' green nobby hills, t' lile daisies their beauties will show; an' t' perfume at flora distils like breath o' the mornin' will blow. then don on thy bonnet an' shawl, an' coom let's be walkin' away; i's fairly beginnin' to stall to see thee sit dazzin' all t' day. 1 grow tired. 2. dozing. 3. have not. 4. near pateley bridge. my awd hat thomas blackah i'll wear thee yet awhile, awd hat, i'll wear thee yet awhile; though time an' tempest, beath combined, have changed thy shap an' style. for sin we two togither met, when thoo were nice an' new, what ups an' doons i' t' world we've had, bud awlus braved 'em through. that glossy shade o' thine, awd hat, that glossy shade o' thine, at graced thy youthful days is gean, which maks me noo repine. fra monny a gleam an' monny a shoor thoo's sheltered my awd heead; bud sean a smarter, tider hat will shelter 't i' thy steead. though friends have proved untrue, awd hat, though friends have proved untrue, an' vanished in adversity, like mist or mornin' dew; yet when fierce storms or trials com i fand a friend i' thee; sea noo, when thoo's far on, awwd hat, thoo 'st finnd a friend i' me. some nail or crook 'll be thy heame o' t' joists, or back o' t' door; or, mebbe, thoo'l be bunched(1) aboot wi' t' barns across o' t' floor. when t' rain an' t' wind coom peltin' through thy crumpled, battered croon, i'll cut thee up for soles to wear i' my awd slender shoon. 1. kicked reeth bartle fair(1) (1870) john harland this mworning as i went to wark, i met curly just coomin' heame; he had on a new flannin sark(2) an' he saw at i'd just gitten t' seame. "whar's te been?" said awd curly to me. "i've been down to reeth bartle fair." "swat(3) te down, mun, sex needles,"(4) said he, an' tell us what seets te saw there." "why, t' lads their best shoon had put on, an' t' lasses donn'd all their best cwoats; i saw five pund of scotch wether mutton sell'd by ward and tish tom for five grwoats. rowlaway had fine cottons to sell, butteroy lace an' handkerchers browt; young tom cwoats had a stall tuv hissel, an' had ribbins for varra near nowt. "thar was enos had good brandy-snaps, bill brown as good spice as could be; potter robin an' mair sike-like chaps had t' bonniest pots te could see. john ridley, an' awd willy walls, an' naylor, an' twea or three mar, had apples an' pears at their stalls, an' gardener joe tea was thar. "thar was scissors an' knives an' read(5) purses, an' plenty of awd cleathes on t' nogs,(6) an' twea or three awd spavin'd horses, an' plenty o' shoon an' new clogs. thar was plenty o' good iron pans, an' pigs at wad fill all t' deale's hulls(7); thar was baskets, an skeps, an' tin cans, an' bowls, an' wood thivles for gulls.(8) "thar was plenty of all maks(9) o' meat, an' plenty of all sworts o' drink, an' t' lasses gat monny a treat, for t' gruvers(10) war all full o' chink. i cowp'd(11) my black hat for a white un, lile jonas had varra cheap cleath; jem peacock an' tom talk'd o' feightin', but gudgeon jem puke lick'd 'em beath. "thar was dancin' an' feightin' for ever, will wade said at he was quite griev'd; an' pedlety tell'd 'em he'd never forgit 'em as lang as he leev'd. they knock'd yan another about, just warse than a sham to be seen, charlie will look'd as white as a clout, kit puke gat a pair o' black een. "i spied our awd lass in a newk, drinkin' shrub wi' grim freesteane, fond lad; i gav her a varra grow(12) leuk; o, connies,(13) but i was just mad. sea i went to john whaites's to drink, whar i war'd(14) twea an' seempence i' gin; i knaw not what follow'd, but think i paddl'd through t' muck thick an' thin. "for to-day, when i gat out o' bed, my cleathes were all sullied sea sar, our peggy and all our fwoak said to reeth fair i sud never gang mar. but it's rake-time,(15) sea i mun away, for my partners are all gain' to wark." sea i lowp'd up an bade him good day, an' wrowt at t' awd gang(16) tell 't was dark." 1. the fair held at reeth in swaledale on st. bartholomew's day, august 24. 2. shirt. 3. sit. 4. "sex needles" is literally the interval of time during which a knitter would work the loops off six needles. 5. red. 6. pegs. 7. sties. 8. sticks for stirring hasty puddings. 9. sorts. 10. miners. 11. bartered. 12. ugly. 13. mates. 14. spent. 15. time for the next shift. 16. a lead mine the christmas party (1876) tom twistleton when cowd december's sturdy breeze in chimley-tops did grumble, or, tearing throug'h the leafless trees, on lang dark neets did rumble, a lot o' young folks, smart an' gay, an' owds uns, free an' hearty, agreed amang thersels at they would have a christmas party at hame some neet they kicked up sich a fuss an' spreead, an' made sich preparations; they baked grand tarts an' mixed their breead wi' spices frae all nations. to drive away baith want an' cowd it seem'd their inclination; an' t' neebours round, baith young an' owd, all gat an invitation to gang that neet. smart sprigs o' spruce an' ivy green were frae the ceiling hinging, an' in their midst, conspicuous seen, the mistletoe was swinging. the lamp shone forth as clear as day, an' nowt was there neglected; an' t' happy, smiling faces say, some company is expected to coom this neet. an' first com moll wi' girt lang jack, a strapping, good-like fella; an' following closely at their back com bob and isabella. with "how's yoursel?" an' "how d'ye do?" they sit down i' their places, till t' room sae big, all through an' through, wi' happy smiling faces was filled that neet. a merrier lot than this i name ne'er met at onny party; all girt grand balls they put to shame, they were sae gay an' hearty. here yan had made hersel quite fine, wi' lace an' braid's assistance; an' there a girt grand crinoline, to keep t' lads at a distance, stood out that neet. the lads draw up to t' fire their chairs, an' merrily pass their jokes off; the lasses all slip off upstairs, to pu' their hats an' cloaks off. befoor a glass that hings at t' side they all tak up their station, an' think within theirsels wi' pride they'll cause a girt sensation 'mang t' lads that neet. an' now the lusty christmas cheer is browt out for t' occasion; to pies an' tarts, an' beef an' beer, they git an invitation. an' some, i' tune to put it by, play havoc on each dainty, whal some there is, sae varra shy, scarce let theirsels have plenty to eat that neet. against the host o' good things there they wage an awful battle; they're crying out, "a lile bit mair!" an' plates an' glasses rattle. here, yan's nae time a word to pass, thrang(1) supping an' thrang biting; there, simpering sits a girt soft lass that waits for mich inviting an' fuss that neet. an' when this good substantial fare has gien 'em satisfaction, they side(2) all t' chairs, an' stand i' pairs, wi' heels i' tune for action. see-sawing, t' fiddler now begins the best that he is able; he rosins t' stick an' screws up t' pins an' jumps up on to t' table, to play that neet. there, back an' forrad, in an' out, his elbow it gaas silting,(3) an' to an' fro, an' round about, the dancers they are lilting. some dance wi' ease i' splendid style, wi' tightly-fitting togs on, whal others bump about all t' while, like drainers wit their clogs on, sae numb'd that neet. an' when they've reel'd an' danc'd their fling, their chairs all round are ranged; they tell droll tales, they laugh, they sing, an' jokes are interchanged. a merry tune t' girt kettle sings, an' t' fire is blazing breetly ; wi' cheerful din t' owd farmhouse rings, an' hours fly ower them sweetly an' swift that neet. t' owd women preach an' talk about their claes being owd an' rotten, an' still being forc'd to speck an' clout,(4) it's sich a price is cotton. t' owd men sit round, wi' pipe an' glass, in earnest conversation; on t' ways an' means o' saving brass, an' t' rules an' t' laws o' t' nation, they talk that neet. now girt lang jack, that lives on t' moor, wi' cunning an' wi' caution, is beckoning moll to gang to t' door wi' sly mischievous motion. moll taks the hint, nor thinks it wrang, her heart that way inclining; she says to t' rest she thinks she'll gang to see if t' stars are shining out clear that neet. then down a field they tak a walk, an' then they wend their way back; to have a bit o' pleasant talk they shelter under t' haystack. she did not say "for shame!" not she, though oft-times johnny kiss'd her; she said she just would run an' see if t' other folks had missed her frae t' room that neet. a chap that had two watchful een, of which they waren't thinking, when peeping round that neet, had seen long jack at molly winking. says he, "now's t' time to have a stir, let's just gang out an' watch her; we's have some famous fun wi' her, if we can nobbut catch her wi' him this neet. then two or three, bent on a spree, out to the door gang thungein',(5) but hauf a yard they scarce could see, it was as dark as dungeon. jack hears their footsteps coming slow, an' frae her side he slinks off; runs round t' house-end, jumps ower a wa', an' up ower t' knee i' t' sink-trough he splash'd that neet. now, ye young men, be who ye may, that's bent on fun an' sportin', whare'er ye be, by neet or day, remember jack's misfortin. though things unlook'd for on ye creep, don't do owt in a splutter; but learn to look befoor ye leap, lest ye in some deep gutter stick fast some neet. 1. busily. 2. clear away. 3. rising up. 4. mend and patch. 5. thumping. nelly o' bob's john hartley (1839-1915) who is it at lives i' that cot on the lea, joy o' my heart an' leet o' my ee? who is that lass at's so dear unto me? nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. who is it goes trippin' ower dew-spangled grass, singin' so sweetly? shoo smiles as i pass, bonniest, rosy-cheek'd, gay-hearted lass! nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. who is it i see i' my dreams of a neet ? who lovingly whispers words tender an' sweet, till i wakken to find shoo's nowheer i' t' seet? nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. who is it at leads me so lively a donce, yet to tawk serious ne'er gies me a chonce, an' niver replied when i begged on her once? nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. who is it at ivery chap's hankerin' to get, yet tosses her heead an' flies off in a pet, as mich as to say, "you've not getten me yet"? nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. who is it could mak life a long summer's day, whose smile would drive sorrow an' trouble away, an' mak t' hardest wark, if for her, seem like play? nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. who is it i'll have if i've iver a wife, an' love her, her only, to th' end o' my life, an' nurse her i' sickness, an' guard her from strife? nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. who is it at's promised, to-neet if it's fine, to meet me at t' corner o' t' mistal(1) at nine? why, it's her at i've langed for so long to mak mine nelly o' bob's o' t' crowtrees. 1. cow-shed bite bigger john hartley as i hurried through t' taan to my wark, -i were lat,(1) for all t' buzzers had gooan i happen'd to hear a remark at 'ud fotch tears thro' th' heart of a stooan. it were rainin', an' snawin', an' cowd, an' th' flagstones were cover'd wi' muck, an' th' east wind both whistled an' howl'd, it saanded like nowt bud ill luck. when two little lads, donn'd(2) i' rags, baat(3) stockin's or shoes o' their feet, com trapsin' away ower t' flags, boath on 'em sodden'd wi' t' weet. th' owdest mud happen be ten, t' young un be haulf on't, no more; as i look'd on, i said to misen, "god help fowk this weather at's poor!" t' big un samm'd(4) summat off t' graand, an' i look'd just to see what 't could be, 't were a few wizen'd flaars he'd faand, an' they seem'd to hae fill'd him wi' glee. an' he said, "coom on, billy, may be we sal find summat else by an' by; an' if not, tha mun share these wi' me, when we get to some spot wheer it's dry." leet-hearted, they trotted away, an' i follow'd, 'cause t' were i' my rooad; but i thowt i'd ne'er seen sich a day, it wern't fit to be aat for a tooad. sooin t' big un agean slipp'd away, an' samm'd summat else aat o' t' muck; an' he cried aat, "look here, bill, to-day arn't we blest wi' a seet o' gooid luck? "here's a apple, an' t' mooast on it's saand, what's rotten i'll throw into t' street. wern't it gooid to lig theer to be faand? naa boath on us can have a treat." so he wip'd it an' rubb'd it, an' then said, "billy, thee bite off a bit; if tha hasn't been lucky thisen, tha sal share wi' me sich as i get." so t' little un bate off a touch,(5) t' other's face beam'd wi' pleasure all through, an' he said, "nay, tha hasn't taen mich, bite agean, an' bite bigger, naa do." i waited to hear nowt no more; thinks i, there's a lesson for me; tha's a heart i' thy breast, if tha'rt poor; t' world were richer wi' more sich as thee. two pence were all t' brass at i had, an' i meant it for ale when com nooin ; bud i thowt, i'll go give it yond lad, he desarves it for what he's been doin'. so i said, "lad, here's twopence for thee, for thisen." an' they star'd like two geese; bud he said, whol t' tear stood in his ee, "naa, it'll just be a penny apiece." "god bless thee! do just as tha will, an' may better days speedily come; though clamm'd(6) an' hauf donn'd,(7) my lad, still tha'rt a deal nearer heaven nor(8) some." 1. late. 2. dressed. 3. without. 4. picked. 5. small piece. 6. starved 7. dressed 8. than rollickin' jack john hartley i know a workin' lad, his hands are hard an' rough, his cheeks are red an' braan, but i like him weel enough. his ee's as breet 's a bell, an' his curly hair is black, an' he stands six foot in his stockin' feet, an' his name is rollickin' jack. at morn, if we should meet, he awlus has a smile, an' his heart is gay an' leet, when trudgin' to his toil. he whistles, or he sings, or he stops a joke to crack; an' monny a lass at he happens to pass looks shyly at rollickin' jack. his mother's old an' gray; his father's deead an' gooan; he'll niver move away an' leave her all alooan. choose who(1) should be his wife, shoo'll mak a sad mistak, for he's ivery inch a mother's lad, is this rough an' rollickin' jack. an' still i think sometimes th' old woman wants a nurse; an' as for weddin' jack, why, there's monny a lass done worse. of coorse it's not for me to tell him who to tak, but there's one i could name, if i could but for shame, just the lass to suit rollickin' jack. 1. whoever. jim's letter james burnley (born 1842) whats this? a letter thro'(1) jim? god bless him! what has he to say? here, lizzie, my een's gettin' dim, just read it, lass, reight straight away. tha trem'les, liz. what is there up? abaat thy awn cousin tha surely can read; his ways varry oft has made bitter my cup, but theer--i forgive him--read on, niver heed that's it--"as it leaves me at present "- his father's expression to nowt! go on, lass, t' beginnin's so pleasant it couldn't be mended wi' owt. what's that? he has "sent a surprise"? what is 't, lass? go on! a new gaan, i'll be bun', or happen a nugget o' famous girt size; whativer it is it's t' best thing under t' sun. ay, lad, i dare say, "life is rough," for t' best on 't is nut varry smooth; i' england it's hilly enough, niver name wi' them diggers uncouth. but theer, liz, be sharp an' let's have his surprise. i'm capt(2) wheer tha's gotten that stammerin' cough, tha reads a deal better nor that when tha tries. good gracious! what's t' matter? shoo's fainted reight off! hey! lizzie, tha flays(3) me; coom here, an' sit wheer tha'll get some fresh air: tha'rt lookin' so bad at i fear tha's much war(4) nor i were aware. that's reight, lass, get tul it once more, just read reight to t' end on 't, an' then we'll just tak a walk for a bit aat o' t' door, whol tha feels rayther more like thisen. what! bless us! aar jim gotten wed! it is a surprise, on my word. who is she? that's all at he's said? i wish then i niver had heard. at one time i thowt happen thee he'd admire, an' that's haa we all sud have liked it to be. bud, sithee! what's that, liz, at's burnin' on t' fire? it's t' ribbin jim bowt thee! ay, ay, lass, i see. 1. from. 2. puzzled. 3. frightenest. 4. worse. a yorkshire farmer's address to a schoolmaster george lancaster (born 1846) good day to you, misther skealmaisther, the evenin' is desperate fine, i thowt i wad gie ye a call aboot that young sonnie o' mine. i couldn't persuade him to come, sea i left him behont(1) me at yam,(2) bud somehoo it's waintly(3) possess'd me to mak a skealmaisther o' sam. he's a kind of a slack-back, ye knaw, i niver could get him to work, he scarcelins wad addle(4) his saut wiv a ploo, or a shovel, or fork. i've tried him agean an' agean, bud i finnd that he's nea use at yam, sea me an' my missus agreed to mak a skealmaisther o' sam. if i sends him to wark, why, he'll chunther(5) an' gie me the a awfullest leaks, he'd a deal rayther lig upo' d' sofy wi' novels an' them soort o' beaks. sea i thowt a skealmaisther wad suit him, a lowse soort o' job, do ye see, just to keep a few bairns oot o' mischief, as easy as easy can be. of coorse you've to larn 'em to coont, an' to figure a bit, an' to read, an' to sharpen 'em up if they're numskulls, wiv a lalldabber(6) ower their heead, bud it's as easy as easy, ye knaw, an' i think it wad just suit oor sam, an' my missus, she's just o' my mind, for she says that he's nea use at yam. it was nobbut this mornin' i sent him to gan an' to harrow some land, he was boamin'(7) asleep upo' d' fauf,(8) wiva rubbishly beak iv his hand; i gav him a bunch(9) wi' my feat, an' rattled him yarmin'(10) off yam. sea i think that i'll send him to you, you mun mak a skealmaisther o' sam. he's a stiff an' a runty(1) young fellow, i think that' he'll grow up a whopper, he'd wallop the best lad you've got, an' i think he wad wallop him proper; bud still he's a slack-back, ye knaw, an' seein' he's nea use at yam, i think i shall send him to you, you mun mak a skealmaisther o' sam. 1. behind. 2. home. 3 strangely. 4.earn. 5. grumble. 6. cuff. 7. trailing along. 8. fallow. 9. kick. 10. whining. the window on the cliff top (1888) w. h. oxley "what! margery, still at your window in this blinding storm and sleet! why, you can't see your hand before you, and i scarce could keep my feet. "why, even the coast-guards tell me that they cannot see the sand; and we know, thank god, that the cobles and yawls have got to land. "there's five are safe at scarbro', and one has reach'd the tyne, and two are in the humber, and one at quay,(2) makes nine." "aye, aye, i'd needs be watchful, there's niver a soul can tell, an' happen 'twixt yan o' t' snaw-blints(3) yan mud catch a glimpse o' t' bell. "i reckon nowt o' t' coast-guards! what's folks like them to say? there's neer a yan amang 'em knaws owt aboot oor bay. "i's niver leave my winder whiles there's folks as has to droon; an' it wadna be the first time as i've help'd ta wakken t' toon. "i isn't good for mich noo, for my fourscore years is past; but i's niver quit my winder, as long as life sal last. "'twas us as seed them frenchmen as wreck'd on speeton sands; 'twas me as seed that schooner as founder'd wi' all hands. "'twas me first spied oor cobles reight ower t' end o' t' brig, that time when all was droonded; i tell'd 'em by there rig.(4) "aye, man, i's neen sae drowsy, don't talk o' bed to me; i's niver quit my winder, whiles there's a moon to see. "don't talk to me o' coast-guards! what's them to sike as me? they hasn't got no husbands, no childer, lost i' t' sea. "it's nobbut them at's felt it, as sees as i can see; it's them as is deead already knaws what it is to dee. "ye'd niver understan' me; god knaws, as dwells above, there's hearts doon here, lives, broken, what's niver lost their love. "but better noo ye'd leave me, i's mebbe not misen; we fisher-folks has troubles no quality can ken." 1. thick-set. 2. bridlington. 3. snow-storms. 4. dress. aar maggie edmund hatton i believe aar maggie's coortin', for shoo dresses hersen so smart, an' shoo's allus runnin' to t' window when there's ony o' t' chaps abaat: shoo willent wear her owd shawl, bud dons a bonnet atstead,(1) an' laps her can in her gaan as shoo goes to t' weyvin' ,shed. of a neet wi' snoddened(2) hair, an' cheeks like a summers cherry, an' lips fair assin'(3) for kisses, an' een so black an' so merry, shoo taks her knittin' to t' meadows, an' sits in a shady newk, an' knits while shoo sighs an' watches wi' a dreamy, lingerin' lewk. thus knittin', sighin' an' watchin', shoo caars(4) aat on t' soft meadow grass, listenin' to t' murmurin' brooklet, an' waitin' for t' sweethear't to pass; shoo drops her wark i' her appron, an' glints aat on t' settin' sun, an' wonders if he goes a-courtin' when his long day's wark is done. when shoo hears t' chap's fooitsteps comin', shoo rises wi' modest grace; ay, mag, thou sly, lovin' lassie, for shame o' thy bashful face! shoo frames(5) to be goin' home'ards, as he lilts ower t' stile, bud when he comes anent(6) herr, shoo gies him sich a smile. then he places his arm araand her, an' shoo creeps cloise to his side, an' leyns her heead on his waiscoit, an' walks wi' an air o' pride. bud oh! you sud see her glances, an' oh! you sud hear 'em kiss, when they pairt thro' one another! if shoo isn't coortin', who is? 1. instead. 2. smoothed out. 3. asking. 4. cowers, lies. 5. makes pretence. 6. beside. parson drew thro' pudsey (1st ed) or t' first o' t' sooart (2nd ed) john hartley from pp 135, 136, 75, 76 and 77 of second edition. i heeard a funny tale last neet, i couldn't howd frae laughin' ; 'twere at t' bull's head we chonced to meet, an' spent an haar i' chaffin'. some sang a song, some cracked a joke, an' all seemed full o' larkin' ; an' t' raam were blue wi' bacca smoke, an' ivery ee 'd a spark in. long joe at comes thro' t' jumples clough were gettin' rayther mazy, an' warkus ned had supped enough to turn their betty crazy, an' bob at lives at t' bogeggs farm, wi' nan thro' t' buttress bottom, were treatin' her to summat warm it's just his way. odd drot 'em! an' jack o' t' slade were theer as weel, an' joe o' abe's thro' waerley, an' lijah off o' t' lavver hill were passin' th' ale raand rarely. thro' raand an' square they seemed to meet to hear or tell a story, but t' gem o' all i heeard last neet were one by doad o' t' glory. he bet his booits at it were true, an' all seemed to believe him; though if he lost he needn't rue, but 't wodn't done to grieve him. his uncle lived it pudsey taan, an' practised local praichin'; an' if he 're lucky, he were baan to start a schooil for taichin'. but he were takken vary ill, he felt his time were comin'; they say he browt it on hissel wi' studyin' his summin. he called his wife an' neighbours in to hear his deein' sarmon, an' telled 'em if they lived i' sin their lot 'd be a warm 'un. then, turnin' raand unto his wife, said, "mal, tha knaws, owd craytur, if i'd been blest wi' longer life i might hae left things straighter. joe sooithill owes me eighteen pence; i lent it him last love-feast." says mall, "he hasn't lost his sense, thank god for that at least." "an' ben o' t' top o' t' bank, tha knows, we owe him one paand ten." "just hark," says mally, "theer he goes, he's ramellin' agean." "don't tak a bit o' notice, folk; you see, poor thing, he's ravin'. it cuts me up to hear sich talk; he's spent his life i' savin'." "an', mally lass," he said agean, "tak heed o' my direction, t' schooil owes me hauf a craan, i mean my share o' t' last collection. tha'll see to that an' have what's fair, when my poor life is past." says mally, "listen, i declare, he's sensible at last." he shut his een and sank to rest, death seldom claimed a better; they put him by, bud what were t' best, he sent 'em back a letter, to tell' em all haa he'd goan on, an' haa he gate to enter, an' gav 'em rules to act upon if iver they sud ventur. saint peter stood wi' keys i' hand, says he, "what do ye want, sir, if to go in, you understand, unknown to me, you can't, sir. pray what's your name? where are ye thro'(3)? just make your business clear?", says he, "they call me 'parson drew,' i've come thro' pudsey here." "ye've come thro' pudsey, do ye say? don't try sich jokes on me, sir; i've kept these doors too long a day, i can't be fooled by thee, sir." says drew; "i wodn't tell a lie for t' sake o' all there's in it, if ye've a map o' england by, i'll show you in a minute." so peter gate a time-table, they gloor'd(4) ower t' map together, an' drew did all at he were able, but couldn't find it either. at last says he, "there's leeds taan hall, an' there stands bradford's mission; it's just between them two--that's all, your map's an old edition. "bud theer it is--i'll lay a craan;- an' if ye've niver knawn it, ye've miss'd a bonny yorkshire taan, though monny be at scorn it." he oppen'd t' gate; says he, "it's time somebody coom--i'll trust thee;- tha'll find inside no friends o' thine, tha'rt first at's coom thro' pudsey." 1. makes pretence. 2. beside. 3. from. 4. stared. pateley reaces 1874 anonymous from the nidderdill olminao, 1875, edited by "nattie nidds" (pateley bridge). attention all, baith great an' small, an' doan't screw up your feaces; while i rehearse i' simple verse, a count o' pateley reaces. fra all ower moors they com by scores girt skelpin'(1) lads an' lasses; an' cats an' dogs, an' coos an' hogs, an' horses, mules an' asses. awd foaks were thar, fra near an' far, at couldn't fairly hopple; an' laffin' brats, as wild as cats, ower heeads an' heels did topple. the darley lads arrived i' squads, wi' smiles all ower their feaces; an' hartwith youths, wi' screwed-up mooths, in wonder watched the reaces. fra menwith hill, and folly gill, thorngat, an' deacon paster, fra thruscross green, an' t' heets were seen croods coomin' thick an' faster. 'tween bardin brigg and threshfield rig awd wharfedeale gat a thinnin'; an' ger'ston plods(2) laid heavy odds on creaven lass for winnin'. sich lots were seen o' hebdin green, ready sean on i' t' mornin', while aptrick chaps, i' carts and traps, were off to pateley spornin'.(3) all greenho hill, past coddstone's kill,(4) com toltherin'(5) an' singin', harcastle coves, like sheep i' droves, awd palmer simp were bringin'. baith short an' tall, past gowthit hall, tup dealers kept on steerin', for ne'er before, roond middles moor, had there been sich a clearin'. all kinds and sorts o' games an' sports, had pateley chaps provided, an' weel did t' few their business do at ower 'em all persided. 't'wad tak a swell a munth to tell all t' ins an' t' oots o' t' reaces, hoo far they ran, which horses wan, an' which were back'd for pleaces. awd billy broon lost hauf a croon wi' taty-hawker backin', for green crag flew, ower t' hurdles true, an' wan t' match like a stockin'. an' creaven lass won lots o' brass, besides delightin' t' brockils, an' eva danc'd, an' rear'd and pranc'd; an gif(6) she stood o' cockles. but t' donkey reace were star o' t' pleace, for awd an' young observers; 'twad meade a nun fra t' convent run an' ne'er again be nervous. tom hemp fra t' stean cried oot, "weel dean," an' t' wife began o' chaffin'; whal kirby jack stack up his back, an' nearly brast wi' laffin'. sly wilsill bin, fra een to chin, were plaister'd up wi' toffy, an' lang-leg jane, he browt frae t' plain, full bent on winnin' t' coffee. young pronsy(7) flirts, i' drabbl'd skirts, like painted peeacocks stritches(8); while girt chignons like milkin'-cans on their top-garrits perches. fat sal fra' t' knott scarce gat to t' spot, afore she lost her bustle, which sad mishap quite spoil'd her shap, an' meade her itch an' hustle. lile pug-nosed nell, fra kettlewell, com in her dolly vardin, all frill'd an' starch'd she proodly march'd wi' squintin' joe fra bardin. tha're cuffs an' falls, tunics an' shawls, an' fancy pollaneeses, all sham displays, ower tatter'd stays, an' hard-worn ragg'd chemises. tha're mushroom fops, fra' fields an' shops, fine cigarettes were sookin', an' lots o' youths, wi' beardless mooths, all kinds o' pipes were smookin'. an' when at last the sports were past, all heamward turn'd their feaces; to ne'er relent at e'er they spent a day wi' pateley reaces. 1. huge 2. grassington labourers. 3. spurring. 4. kiln. 5. hobbling. 6. if 7. over-dressed. 8. strut about. play cricket (1909) ben turner whativer task you tackle, lads, whativer job you do, i' all your ways, i' all your days, be honest through an' through: play cricket. if claads oppress you wi' their gloom, an' t' sun seems lost to view, don't fret an' whine, ask t' sun to shine, an' don't o' livin' rue: play cricket. if you're i' debt, don't growl an' grunt, an' wish' at others had t' same want o' luck; but show more pluck, an' ne'er mak others sad: play cricket. if in your days there's chonce to do good deeds, then reight an' fair, don't hesitate, an' wait too late, an' say you'n(1) done your share: play cricket. we've all a row to hoe, that's true, let's do it best we can; it's nobbut once we have the chonce to play on earth the man: play cricket. 1. you have. the file-cutter's lament to liberty (1910) e. downing nay, i'm moithered,(1) fairly maddled,(2) what's a "nicker-peck"(3) to do? my owd brain's a egg that's addled, tryin' to see this matter through. here's a strappin' young inspector- dacent lad he is, an' all- says all things mun be correct, or i shall have to climb the pole. says as all my bonny pigeons as i keep wi' me i' t' shop, mun be ta'en to other regions; here the law wain't ler 'em stop. says as how my little terrier mun foind kennellin' elsewheer. i expect awst(4) have to bury 'er; shoo'll rest nowheer else bur(5) here. says as i mun wear a appron throo my shoulder to my knee; an' (naa, listen! this puts t' capper on) says how cleanly it mun be. each ten men mun have a basin, fastened, mark you, fixed and sure, for to wesh ther hands and face in; not to throw it aat o' door. there's to be two ventilators, in good order and repair; us at's short o' beef an' taters, has to fatten on fresh air. each shop floor mun be substantial concrete, pavement, wood, or brick so that water from the branch'll keep the dust from lyin' thick. an' for iv'ry bloomin' stiddie(6) there's so many cubic feet, we'st(7) ha' room to play at hiddie(8) us at isn't aat i' t' street. eh, i can't tell hauf o' t' tottle(9) of these regulations steep; i expect a suckin'-bottle will be t' next we have to keep. eh! i know, mun! who knows better? it's for t' good of all, is this. iv'rybody's teed to t' letter, 'cause o' t' few at's done amiss. eytin' leead-dust brings leead-colic, sure as mornin' brings the day. does te think at iver i'll lick thumb and fingers' dirt away? well, good-bye, my good owd beauty- liberty, naa left to few! since the common-weal's my duty, dear owd liberty--adieu! 1. perplexed. 2. bewildered. 3. file-cutter. 4. i shall. 5. but. 6. stithy 7. we shall. 8. hide and seek. 9. total. a kuss (1912) john malham-dembleby ye may bring me gowd bi t' bowlful, gie me lands bi t' mile, fling me dewy roses, stoor(1) set on my smile. ye may caar(2) ye daan afoor me, castles for me build, twine me laurel garlands, let sweet song be trilled. ye may let my meyt be honey, let my sup be wine, gie me haands an' hosses, gie me sheep an' kine. yit one flaid(3) kuss fra her would gie sweeter bliss to me nor owt at ye could finnd to name, late(4) ye through sea tul sea. i've seen her hair gleam gowden in t' kersmas yollow sun, an' ivery inch o' graand she treeads belang her sure it mun. her smile is sweet as roses, an' sweeter far to me, an' praad she hods her heead up, as lass o' heigh degree. bonnie are green laurel leaves, i'd sooiner my braa feel t' laughin' lips o' t' lass i love, though bays be varry weel. i'm varry fond o' singin', what bonnier could be nor my fair lass hersen agate(5) a-singin' love to me? it's reight to live on spice an' sich, an' sup a warmin' glass, but sweet-stuff's walsh,(6) an' wine is cowd, aside my lovely lass. tak ye your haands an' hosses, tak ye your sheep an' kine; to finnd my lass ower t' hills i'll ride, she sal be iver mine. 1. value. 2. cower. 3. trembling. 4. search. 5. busy. 6. insipid. huntin' song richard blakeborough it's neet an' naa we're here, lads, we're in for gooid cheer, lads; yorkshiremen we all on us are, yorkshiremen for better or war(1); we're tykes an' we're ghast(2) uns, we're paid uns an' fast uns, awther for better or awther for war! all t' lot then shaat till ye've gor hooast,(3) lads, sing, yorkshiremen, wer tooast, lads, wer king, wer heeath, wer haands, lads, wer hooam, wer hearth, wer baans,(4) lads." there's some at nooan are here, lads, forger em we sal ne'er, lads; yorkshiremen they all on 'em war, yorkshiremen yit all on 'em are. there's thrang(5) uns an' looan(6) uns, there's wick uns an' gooan uns, they're all reight somewheer, an' we 'st be no war! all t' lot then shaat till ye've gor hooast, lads, sing, "yorkshiremen, wer tooast, lads, wer king, wer heeath, wer haands, lads, wer hooam, wer hearth, wer baans, lads." 1. worse. 2. spirited. 3. got hoarse. 4. children. 5. busy. 6. lonely spring (1914) f. j. newboult owd winter gat notice to quit, 'cause he'd made sich a pigsty o' t' place, an' summer leuked raand when he'd flit, an' she says, i"t's a daanreyt disgrace! sich-like ways! i niver did see sich a haase to come intul i' all my born days! but spring says, "it's my job, is this, i'll sooin put things streyt, niver fear. ye go off to t' spaws a bit, miss, an' leave me to fettle up here!" an' sitha! shoo's donned a owd appron, an' tucked up her sleaves, an' set to, with a witha! tha can tell, when t' hail pelts tha like mad, at them floors bides a bit of a scrub; tha knaws t' flegstuns mun ha' been bad, when she teems(1) aat all t' wotter i' t' tub. mind thy eyes! when shoo gets hod o' t' long brush an' sweeps aat them chamers, i'll tell tha, t' dust flies! whol shoo's threng(2) tha'll be best aat o' t' gate(3): shoo'll care nowt for soft tawk an' kisses. to tell her thy mind, tha mun wait whol shoo's getten things ready for t' missis. when shoo's done, shoo'll doff her owd appron, an' slip aat i' t' garden, an' call tha to come. aye, summer is t' roses' awn queen, an' shoo sits i' her state, grandly dressed; but spring's twice as bonny agean, when shoo's donned hersen up i' her best gaan o' green, an' stands all i' a glow,wi' a smile on her lips an' a leet i' her een. to t' tips of her fingers shoo's wick.(4) tha can see t' pulses beat i' her braa. tha can feel her soft breath comin' quick, an' it thrills tha-tha duzn't knaw haa. when ye part, them daffydaandillies shoo's kissed an' then gi'en tha--they'll bloom i' thy heart! 1. pours. 2. busy. 3 way. 4. alive. heam, sweet heam (1914) a. c. watson when oft at neet i wanders heame to cosy cot an' busy deame, my hardest day's wark seems but leet, when i can get back heame at neet, my wife an' bairns to sit besaade, aroond my awn bit firesaade. what comfort there's i' steep(1) for me, a laatle prattler on my knee! what tales i have to listen tea! but just at fost there's sike to-dea as niver was. each laatle dot can fain agree for t' fav'rite spot. sike problems they can set for me 't wad puzzle waaser heeads mebbe. an' questions hawf a scoor they ask, to answer' em wad prove a task; for laatle thowts stray far away to things mysterious, oot o' t' way. an' then sike toffer(2) they torn oot, an' pratty lips begin to poot, if iverything's nut stowed away to cumulate frae day to day. sike treasures they could niver spare, but gether mair an' mair an' mair in ivery pocket. i've nea doot they've things they think the wo'ld aboot. an' when their bed-taame's drawin' nigh, wi' heavy heead an' sleepy eye, it's vary laatle din they mak, but slyly try a nap to tak. an' when on t' lats(3) they've gone aboon, i fills my pipe an' sattles do on to have a comfortable smewk. an' then at t' news i has a lewk; or hods a bit o' talk wi' t' wife, the praade an' comfort o' my life. cawd winds may blaw, an' snaw-flakes flee, an' neets may be beath lang an' dree, or it may rain an' rain agean, sea lang as i've my day's wark dean, i wadn't swap my humble heame for bigger hoose or finer neame. if all could as contented be, there'd be mair joy an' less mis'ry. 1. in store. 2. odds and ends. 3. laths. then an' nae e. a. lodge privately printed by mr. e. a. lodge in a volume entitled odds an' ends (n. d.). when i were but a striplin' an' bare a scoor year owd, i thowt i'd gotten brains enew to fill all t' yeds(1) i' t' fowd. i used to roor wi' laffin' at t' sharpness o' my wit, an' a joke i made one kersmiss threw my nuncle in a fit. i used to think my mother were a hundred year behund; an' my father--well, my father nobbut fourteen aence to t' pund. an' i often turned it ovver, but i ne'er could fairly see yaeiver(2) sich owd cronies could hae bred a chap like me. an' whene'er they went to t' market, i put my fillin's in; whol my father used to stop me wi' "prithee, hold thy din. "does ta think we're nobbut childer, wi' as little sense as thee? when thy advice is wanted, we'st axe thee, does ta see." but they gate it, wilta, shalta, an' i did my levil best to change their flee-blown notions, whol their yeds were laid to t' west. this happened thirty year sin; nae i've childer o' my own, at's gotten t' cheek to tell me at i'm a bit flee-blown. 1. heads. 2. however. owd england from tykes abrooad (w. nicholson, wakefield, 1911). walter hampson. tha'rt welcome, thrice welcome, owd england; it maks my een sparkle wi' glee, an' does mi heart gooid to behold thee, for i know tha's a welcome for me. let others recaant all thi failin's, let traitors upbraid as they will, i know at thy virtues are many, an' my heart's beeatin' true to thee still. there's a gladness i' t' sky at bends ower thee, there's a sweetness i' t' green o' thy grass, there's a glory i' t' waves at embrace thee, an' thy beauty there's naan can surpass. thy childer enrich iv'ry valley, an' add beauty to iv'ry glen, for tha's mothered a race o' fair women, an' true-hearted, practical men. there's one little spot up i' yorkshire, it's net mich to crack on at t' best, but to me it's a kingdom most lovely, an' it holds t' warmest place i' my breast. compared wi' that kingdom, all others are worthless as bubbles o' fooam, for one thing my rovin' has towt me, an' that is, there's no place like hooam. i know there'll be one theer to greet me at's proved faithful through many dark days, an' little feet runnin' to meet me, an' een at(1) howd love i' their gaze. an' there's neighbours both hooamly an' kindly, an' mates at are wor'thy to trust, an' friends my adversity's tested, at proved to be generous an' just. an' net far away there's green valleys, an' greeat craggy, towerin' hills, an' breezes at mingle their sweetness wi' t' music o' sparklin' rills; an' meadows all decked wi' wild-flaars, an' hedges wi' blossom all white, an' a blue sky wheer t' skylark is singin', just to mak known his joy an' delight. aye, england, owd england! i love thee wi' a love at each day grows more strong; in my heart tha sinks deeper an' deeper, as year after year rolls along; an' spite o' thy faults an' thy follies, whativer thy fortune may be, i' storm or i' sunshine, i' weal or i' woe, tha'll allus be lovely to me. may thy sons an' thy dowters live happy, an' niver know t' woes o' distress; may thy friends be for iver increeasin', an' thy enemies each day grow less. may tha niver let selfish ambition dishonour or tarnish thy swoord, but use it alooan agean despots whether reignin' at hooam or abrooad. 1. that. love and pie j. a. carill from woz'ls humorous sketches and rhymes in the east yorkshire dialect (n. d.). whin i gor hoired et beacon farm a year last martinmas, i fund we'd gor a vory bonny soort o' kitchen lass; and so i tell'd her plooin' made me hungry--thot was why i awlus was a laatle sthrong on pudden and on pie. and efther thot i thowt the pie was, mebbe, middlin' large, and so i ate it for her sake--theer wasn't onny charge; until it seems t' missus asked her rayther sharply why she awlus used t' biggest dish for pudden and for pie. i wasn't mich of use, ye knaw, et this here fancy talkin', she had no chance o' goin' oot for armin' it and walkin'. but thin i knawed i gor her love whin i could see t' pies; i knawed her thowts o' me were big by bigness o' their size. the pies and gell i thowt thot geed,(1) they hardlins could be beaten, she knawed i'd awlus thowts on her by way t' pies were eaten; until it seems t' missus asked her rayther sharply why she awlus used t' biggest dish for pudden and for pie. noo just thoo wait a bit and see; i'm only thod-lad(2) noo, i moight be wagoner or hoind within a year or two; and thin thoo'll see, or i'm a cauf, i'll mak 'em ring choch bell, and carry off et martinmas yon prize-pie-makkin' gell. and whin thoo's buyin' coats and beats(3) wi' wages thot ye take, it's i'll be buyin' boxes for t' laatle bits o' cake; and whin i've gar a missus ther'll be no more askin' why she awlus gers oor biggest dish for pudden and for pie. 1. good. 2. third lad on the farm. 3. boots. i's gotten t' bliss (1914) george h. cowling i's gotten t' bliss o' moonten-tops to-neet, thof i's i' bondage noo, an' blinnd an' deeaf. brethren, i's stoun(1)! an' fand it varry sweet, sea strike my neame off, if't be your belief i's slidin' back. last neet, as i were shoggin'(2) on up t' street, i acted t' thief. ye think i's hardened. ay! i see ye lewvk. i stell't,(3) it's true; bud, brethren, i'll repay. i'll pay back ten-foad iverything i tewk, an' folks may say whate'er they like to say. it were a kiss, an' t' lass has promised iv oar ingle-newk to neame t' day. 1. stolen. 2. jogging 3. stole. a natterin' wife george h. cowling the parson, the squire an' the divil are troubles at trouble this life, bud each on em's dacent an' civil compared wi' a natterin'(1) wife. a wife at mun argie an' natter, she maks a man's mortal life hell. an' that's t' gospel-truth o' t' matter, i knaws, 'cause i's got yan misel. 1. nagging. o! what do ye wesh i' the beck george h. cowling "o! what do ye wesh i' the beck, awd wench? is it watter ye lack at heame?" it's nobbut a murderer's shrood, young man, a shrood for to cover his weam.(1) "o! what do ye cut i' the slack, awd hag? is it fencin' ye lack for your beas'(2)?" it's nobbut a murderer's coffin, sir, a coffin to felt(3) his feace." "o! what do ye greaye(4) at the crossroads, witch? is it roots ye lack for your swine?" "it's nobbut a murderer's grave, fair sir, a grave for to bury him fine." "an' whea be-owes(5) coffin an' shrood, foul witch? an' wheas is the grave i' the grass?" "this spell i hae woven for thee, dear hairt, coom, kill me, an' bring it to pass." 1. belly. 2. beasts, cattle.. 3. hide. 4. dig 5. owns, part ii traditional poems cleveland lyke-wake dirge(1) this ya neet, this ya neet, ivvery neet an' all; fire an' fleet(2) an' can'le leet, an' christ tak up thy saul. when thoo frae hence away art passed(3) ivvery neet an' all; to whinny-moor thoo cooms at last, an' christ tak up thy saul. if ivver thoo gav owther hosen or shoon, ivvery neet an' all; clap thee doon an' put 'em on, an' christ tak up thy saul. bud if hosen or shoon thoo nivver gav nean,(4) ivvery neet an' all; t' whinnies 'll prick thee sair to t' bean,(5) an' christ tak up thy saul. frae whinny-moor when(6) thoo mayst pass, ivvery neet an' all; to t' brig o' dreead thoo'll coom at last, an' christ tak up thy saul. if ivver thoo gav o' thy siller an' gowd, ivvery neet an' all; at t' brig o' dreead thoo'll finnd foothod, an' christ tak up thy saul. bud if siller an' gowd thoo nivver gav nean, ivvery neet an' all; thoo'll doan, doon tum'le towards hell fleames, an' christ tak up thy saul. frae t' brig o' dreead when thoo mayst pass, ivvery neet an' all; to t' fleames o' hell thoo'll coom at last, an' christ tak up thy saul. if ivver thoo gav owther bite or sup, ivvery neet an' all; t' fleames 'll nivver catch thee up, an' christ tak up thy saul. bud if bite or sup thoo nivver gav nean, ivvery neet an' all; t' fleames 'll bon(7) thee sair to t' bean, an' christ tak up thy saul. 1. the text of this version of the "lyke-wake dirge" follows, with slight variations, that found in mr. richard blakeborough's wit, character, folklore, and customs of the north riding (p. 123), where the following account is given: "i cannot say when or where the lyke walke dirge was sung for the last time in the north riding, but i remember once talking to an old chap who remembered it being sung over the corpse of a distant relation of his, a native of kildale. this would be about 1800, and he told me that lyke-wakes were of rare occurrence then, and only heard of in out-of-the-way places. ... there are other versions of the song; the one here given is as it was dictated to me. there is another version in the north riding which seems to have been written according to the tenets of rome; at least i imagine so, as purgatory takes the place of hellish flames, as given above." in the appendix to this volume will be found the other version with the introduction of purgatory to which mr. blakeborough refers. i have taken it from sir walter scott's border minstrelsy (ed. henderson, vol. ii. pp. 170-2), but it also finds a place in john aubrey's remains of gentilisme and judaisme (1686-7), preserved among the lansdowne mss. in the british museum. aubrey prefixes the following note to his version of the dirge: the beliefe in yorkeshire was amongst the vulgar (perhaps is in part still) that after the person's death the soule went over whinny-moore, and till about 1616-24 at the funerale a woman came (like a praefica) and sang the following song." further information about this interesting dirge and its parallels in other literatures will be found in henderson's edition of the border minstrelsy, p. 163) and in j. c. atkinson's glosary of the cleveland dialect, p. 595. cleveland lyke-wake dirge traditional sir walter scott's version from appendix i of 1st edition. this ae nighte, this ae nighte, every nighte and alle; fire and sleete and candle lighte, and christe receive thye saule. when thou from hence away are paste, every nighte and alle; to whinny-muir thou comest at laste; and christe receive thye saule. if ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, every nighte and alle; sit thee down, and put them on; and christe receive thye saule. if hosen and shoon thou ne'er gavest nane, every nighte and alle; the whinnes shall pricke thee to the bare bane, and christe receive thye saule. from whinny-muir when thou mayst passe, every nighte and alle ; to brigg o' dread thou comest at laste, and christe receive thye saul (a stanza wanting) from brigg o' dread when thou mayst passe, every nighte and alle; to purgatory fire thou comest at laste; and christ receive thye saule. if ever thou gavest meat or drinke, every nighte and alle; the fire shall never make thee shrinke; and christ receive thye saule. if meate or drinke thou never gavest nane, every nighte and alle; the fire will burn thee to the bare bane; and christe receive thye saule. this ae nighte, this ae nighte, every nighte and alle; fire and sleete, and candle lighte, and christe receive thye saule. a dree neet(1) traditional 't were a dree(2) neet, a dree neet, as t' squire's end drew nigh, a dree neet, a dree neet, to watch, an pray, an' sigh. when t' streeam runs dry, an' t' deead leaves fall, an' t' ripe ear bends its heead, an' t' blood wi' lithin'(3), seems fair clogg'd, yan kens yan's neam'd wi' t' deead. when t' een grows dim, an' folk draw nigh frae t' other saade o' t' grave, it's late to square up awd accoonts a gannin' sowl to save. t' priest may coom, an' t' priest may gan, his weel-worn tale to chant, when t' deeath-smear clems a wrinkled broo, sike disn't fet yan's want.(4) nea book, nea can'le, bell, nor mass, nea priest iv onny lan', when t' dree neet cooms, can patch a sowl, or t' totterin' mak to stan'. . . . . . 't were a dree neet, a dree neet, for a sowl to gan away, a dree neet, a dree neet, bud a gannin' sowl can't stay. an' t' winner shuts(5) they rattled sair, an' t' mad wild wind did shill, an' t' gabriel ratchets(6) yelp'd aboon, a gannin' sowl to chill. 't were a dree neet, a dree neet, for deeath to don his cowl, to staup(7) abroad wi' whimly(8) treead, to claim a gannin' sowl. bud laal(9) deeath recks hoo dree t' neet be, or hoo a sowl may pray, when t' sand runs oot, his sickle reaps; a gannin' sowl can't stay. 't were a dree neet, a dree neet, ower whinny-moor to trake,(10) wi' shoonless feet, ower flinty steanes, thruf monny a thorny brake. a dree neet, a dree neet, wi' nowt neaways to mark t' gainest trod(11) to t' brig o' deead; a lane lost sowl i' t' dark. a dree neet, a dree neet, at t' brig foot theer to meet laal sowls at(12) he were t' father on, wi' nea good-deame i' seet. at t' altar steps he niver steead, thof monny a voo he made, noo t' debt he awes to monny a lass at t' brig foot mun be paid. they face him noo wiv other deeds, like black spots on a sheet, they noo unscape,(13) they egg him on, on t' brig his doom to meet. nea doves has sattled on his sill, bud a flittermoose(14) that neet cam thrice taames thruf his casement, an' flacker'd roond his feet. an' thrice taames did a raven croak, an' t' seame-like thrice cam t' hoot frae t' ullets' tree; doon chimleys three there cam a shrood o' soot. an' roond t' can'le twea taames there cam a dark-wing'd moth to t' leet, bud t' thod(15), it swirl'd reet into t' fleame, wheer gans his sowl this neet. 't were a dree neet, a dree neet, for yan to late(16) to pray, a dree neet, a dree neet, bud a gannin' sowl can't stay. . . . . . 1, from r. blakeborough's "old songs of the dales," appended to his t' hunt o' yatton brigg, p. 37, second edition. 2. gloomy. 3. thickening. 4. the literal meaning of this line is, when the death-salve bedaubs a wrinkled brow, rites such as these do not fetch (i.e. supply) one's want. the reference is to extreme unction. 5. window shutters. 6. the hounds of death. 7. stalk. 8. stealthy. 9. little. 10. wander. 11. shortest path. 12. that. 13. stir up memories. 14. bat. 15. third. 16. attempt. the bridal bands traditional from r. blakeborough's wit, character, folklore, and customs of the north riding, p. 97. blushing, theer oor peggy sits, stitchin', faane stitchin', love-knots roond her braadal bands, witchin', bewitchin'. t' braade's maids all mun dea a stitch, stitchin', faane stitchin', an' they mun binnd it roond her leg, witchin', bewitchin'. bud some bauf(1) swain at's soond o' puff, stitchin', faane stitchin', will claim his reet to tak it off, witchin', bewitchin'. an' he aroond his awn love's leg, stitchin', faane stitchin', will lap(2) it roond to binnd his love, witchin', bewitchin'. whal she, sweet maid, 'll wear his troth, stitchin', faane stitchin', maanding each taame she taks it off, witchin', bewitchin', that day when she will hae to wear, stitchin', faane stitchin', nut yan, bud twea, a braadal pair, witchin', bewitchin'. oh! happy day, when she sal stitch, stitchin', faane stitchin', her braadal bands, the wearin' which maks maids bewitchin'. 1 sturdy. 2. wrap. the bridal garter(1) a catch traditional here's health to t' lass whea donn'd this band to grace her leg, an' ivvery garter'd braade i' t' land: sea sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it doon your wizan.(2) aroond her leg it has been bun', i wish i'd bun' it. a trimmer limb could nut be fun': sea sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it doon your wizan. may ivvery yan at lifts his glass to this faane band uphod(3) he gans wi' t' best-like lass: sae sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it doon your wizan. frae wrist to wrist this band we pass, as han' clasps han'; i' turn we through it draw each glass: sea sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it doon your wizan. an' here's tiv her at fast(4) did weer a braadal band bun' roond her leg; gie her a cheer: sea sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it doon your wizan. an' here's to venus; let us beg a boon at she will gie each braade a pattern leg: sea sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it do on your wizan. 1 from mr. richard blakeborough's "old songs of the dales," appended to his t' hunt o' yatton brigg, p. 57, 2nd edition.. 2 throat. 3 uphold, maintain. 4 first. nance and tom traditional from mr. r. blakeborough's "old songs of the dales," appended to his t' hunt o' yatton brigg, p. 44, 2nd edition. i' t' merry taame o' harvestin' lang sen,(1) aye well a day! oar nancy, t' bonniest lass i' t' field had varra laal to say. an' tom whea follow'd, follow'd her, an' neigh as dumb were he, an' thof he wark'd some wiv his hands he harder wark'd his ee. for nan were buxom, nan were fair, her lilt were leet an' free; an' tom could hardlins hod(2) his wits, he couldn't hod his ee frae nancy's face; an' her breet smaale made tom's heart lowp(3) an' thump; whal nancy awn'd t' fost kiss he gav, her stays mun git a bump bud o' ya neet, tom set her yam, " noo, nance,"tell'd he," i've gitten a cauvin' coo, an' twea fat pigs; wi' thy fair charms i'm smitten. thoo knaws i have a theak,(4) my lass, an' gear, baith gert an' small, i've fotty pund ligg'd by at yam, tak me, lass, tak it all." nance hing'd her heead an' dropp'd her een, an' then she sighed, "ah, dear! noo hod thy whisht,(5) thoo's tell'd t' same tale to monny a maid, i fear." bud tom just bowdly sleev'd(6) her waist an chuck'd her unner t' chin. "o' sunday neet," said he, " i'll wait to hug(7) thy milk-skeel(8) in. (a verse is missing) she bun' aboot her matchless cauf four cletchin' streas,(9) did nan, twea wheaten an' twea oaten streas, bud niver tell'd her man. she platted 'em when t' harvest mean her colour'd cheek made pale, for nea lass plats her band for bairns and then blirts(10) out her tale. an' t' mean for sham' ahint a clood her smaalin' feace did hide; sea nea hedge-skulker gat a peep at nan's leg when 't were tied. an' nean i' t' village would have knawn, at roond her leg, like thack,(11) she'd bun' a band to gie her bairns, bud she tummel'd offen(12) t' stack, an' deaz'd she ligg'd, her shapely limb laid oot for all to see; an' roond her leg a platted band were bun' belaw her knee. then up she sprang, an' laughin' said, "noo, tom warn't here to see; an' nean can say i's scrawmy(13) cauf'd, an' t' band still guards my knee." 1. long ago. 2 .hold. 3, leap. 4. thatched roof. 5. hold thy tongue. 6. encircled. 7. carry. 8. milk-pail. 9. thatching straws. 10. blurts. 11. thatch. 12. off. 13. unshapely. the witch's curse(1) traditional fire coom, fire gan, curlin' smeak keep oot o' t' pan. ther's a tead(2) i' t' fire, a frog on t' hob, here's t' heart frev a crimson ask(3); here's a teath fra t' heead o' yan at's deead, at niver gat thruf his task. here's prick'd i' blood a maiden's prayer, at t' ee o' man maunt(4) see; it's prick'd upon a yet warm mask,(5) an' lapp'd(6) aboot a breet green ask, an' it's all fer him an' thee. it boils, thoo'll drink; he'll speak, thoo'll think: it boils, thoo'll see; he'll speak, thoo'll dee. 1 from r. blakeborough's t' hunt o' yatton brigg, p. 12; see also the same author's yorkshire wit, character, folklore, and customs, p. 169. 2. toad. 3. newt. 4. may not. 5, brew. 6. wrapped. ridin' t' stang(1) (grassington version) traditional hey dilly, how dilly, hey dilly, dang! it's nayther for thy part, nor my part, that i ride the stang. but it's for jack solomon, his wife he did bang. he bang'd her, he bang'd her, he bang'd her indeed, he bang'd t' poor woman tho' shoo stood him no need. he nayther took stick, stain, wire, nor stower,(2) but he up wi' a besom an' knock'd her ower. so all ye good neighbours who live i' this raw, i pray ye tak warnin', for this is our law. an' all ye cross husbands who do your wives bang, we'll blow for ye t' horn , an' ride for ye t' stang. hip, hip, hip, hurrah! 1 from b. j. harker's rambles in upper wharfedale. other versions, more or less similar to the above, are to be found in r. blakeborough's wit, folklore, and customs of the north riding, and j. nicholson's folk speech of the east riding. in the yorkshire dialect society's transactions, vol. iii., part xvi., will be found a racy account, in the beverley dialect, of the custom of "ridin' t' stang." 2. pole. elphi bandy-legs(1) traditional elphi bandy-legs, bent, an' wide apart, nea yan i' this deale awns a kinder heart. elphi, great-heead, greatest iver seen, nea yan i' this deale awns a breeter een. elphi, little chap, thof he war so small, war big wi' deeds o' kindness, drink tiv him yan an' all. him at fails to drain dry, be it mug or glass, binnot woth a pescod, nor a buss(3) frae onny lass. 1. written in an old cook-book and signed "j. l. 1699"; from gordon home's 'the evolution of an english town, p208. 2. is not worth. 3. kiss singing games traditional i stepping up the green grass thus and thus and thus; will you let one of your fair maids come and play with us. we will give you pots and pans, we will give you brass; we will give you anything for a pretty lass. we won't take your pots and pans, we won't take your brass, we won't take your "anything for a pretty lass." we will give you gold and silver, we will give you pearl; we will give you anything for a pretty girl. come, my dearest mary, come and play with us; you shall have a young man born for your sake. and the bells shall ring, and the cats shall sing, and we'll all clap hands together. ii sally made a pudden, shoo made it ower sweet; shoo dursn't stick a knife in 't, till jack cam home at neet. john, wilta have a bit like? don't say nay, for last monday mornin' was aar weddin'-day. iii sally water, sally water, come sprinkle your can, why do you lie mournin' all for a young man? come, choose o' the wisest, come, choose o' the best, come, choose o' the young men the one you love best. iv diller a dollar, a ten o' clock scholar, what maks you coom sae soon? you used to coom at ten o'clock, bud noo you coom at noon. 1. from s. o. addy, a sheffield glossary, p. 239; current in other parts of england. hagmana song(1) fragment of the hagmana song! (as sung at richmond, yorkshire, on the eve of the new year, by the' corporation pinder.) to-night it is the new-year's night, to-morrow is the day," and we are come for our right, and for our ray,(2) as we used to do in old king henry's day. sing', fellows, sing, hagman-heigh. if you go to the bacon-flick, cut me a good bit; cut, cut and low, beware of your maw; cut, cut and round, beware of your thumb, that me and my merry men may have some. sing, fellows, sing, hagman-heigh. if you go to the black-ark, bring me ten mark; ten mark, ten pound, throw it down upon the ground, that me and my merry men may have some. sing, fellows, sing, hagman-heigh. 1. hagmena, or hogmanay, is a north-country name for new year's eve; the name is also applied to the offering for which children go round and beg on that evening. 2. a portuguese coin of emall value. round the year new year's day lucky-bird, lucky-bird, chuck, chuck, chuck! maister an' mistress, it's time to git up. if you don't git up, you'll have nea luck; luckybird, lucky-bird, chuck, chuck, chuck! candlemas on can'lemas, a february day, throw can'le an' can'lestick away. a can'lemas crack lays mony a sailor on his back. if can'lemas be lound(1) an' fair, ya hauf o' t' winter's to coom an' mair. if can'lemas day be murk an' foul, ya hauf o' t' winter's gean at yule. 1. calm. february fill-dike february fill-dyke, fill it wi' eyther black or white. march muck it oot, wi' a besom an' a cloot. palm sunday palm sunday, palm away; next sunday's easter-day. good friday on good friday rist thy pleaf,(1) start nowt, end nowt, that's eneaf. lang friday's niver dean, sea lig i' bed whal setterday nean. 1. rest thy plough. royal oak day it's royal oak day, t' twenty-naanth o' may. an' if ye dean't gie us holiday, we'll all run away. harvest home and the mell-sheaf(1) 1. the " mell " is the last sheaf of corn left in the field when the harvest is gathered in. we have her, we have her, a coo iv a tether. at oor toon-end. a yowe(1) an' a lamb, a pot an' a pan. may we git seafe in wiv oor harvest-yam, wiv a sup o' good yal, an' some ha'pence to spend. 3. ewe. here we coom at oor toon-end, a pint o' yal an' a croon to spend. here we coom as tite as nip(1) an' niver flang ower(2) but yance iv a grip.(3) 1. very quickly. 2. tumbled. 3. ditch. weel bun' an' better shorn is mr. readheead's corn. we have her, we have her, as fast as a feather. hip, hip, hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! john metcalfe has gitten all shorn an' mawn, all but a few standards an' a bit o' lowse corn. we have her, we have her, fast i' a tether coom help us to hod her. hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! blest be t' day that christ was born, for we've getten t' mell o' t' farmer's corn. it's weel bun', but better shorn. mell! shout, lads, mell! guy fawkes day a stick and a stake, for king james's sake. please give us a coil,(1) a coil. 1. coal. awd grimey sits upon yon hill, as black as onny awd craw. he's gitten on his lang grey coat wi' buttons doon afoor. he's gitten on his lang grey coat wi' buttons doon afoor. christmas i wish you a merry kessenmas an' a happy new year, a pokeful o' money an' a cellar-full o' beer. a good fat pig an' a new-cauven coo; good maisther an' misthress, hoo do you do? cleveland christmas song(1) god rist you merry, gentlemen, let nothin' you dismay, remember christ oor saviour was born o' kessmas day, to seave wer sowls fra sattan's power; lang taam we've gean astray. this brings tidin's o' comfort an' joy. noo stright they went to bethlehem, wheer oor sweet saviour lay; they fan' him iv a manger, wheer oxen fed on hay, to seave wer sowls fra sattan's power; lang taam we've gean astray. this brings tidin's o' comfort an' joy. god bliss t' maister o' this hoose, an' t' mistress also, an' all your laatle childeren that roond your teable go; an' all your kith an' kindered, that dwell beath far an' near; an' i wish you a merry kessamas an' a happy new year. 1. from mrs. tweddell's rhymes and sketches, p. 14. a christmas wassail(1) here we coom a-wessellin(2) among the leaves so green, an' here we coom a-wanderin' so fair as to be seen. chorus an' to your' wessel an' to jolly wessel, love an' joy be to you an' to your wessel-tree. the wessel-bob(3) is made o' rosemary tree, an' so is your beer o' the best barley. an' to your wessel, etc. weare not beggars' childeren that begs from door to door, but we are neighbours' childeren that has been here before. an' to your wessel, etc. we have got a little purse made i' ratchin(4) leather skin, an' we want a little money to line it well within. an' to your wessel, etc. bring us out your table an' spread it wi' a cloth; bring us out your mouldy cheese likewise your christmas loaf. an' to your wessel, etc. god bless the master o' this house, likewise the mistress too; an' all the little childeren that round the table go. an' to your wessel, etc. good master an' good' misteress, while you're sittin' by the fire pray, think of us poor childeren that's wanderin' i' the mire. an' to your wessel, etc. 1. from easther and lees, almondbury and huddersfield glossary (english dialect society publications, vol. 39, pp. xvii.-xviii). 2. wassailing. 3. wassail-bough. 4. urchin, hedgehog. sheffield mumming song(1) come all ye jolly mummers that mum in christmas time. come join with us in chorus come join with us in rhyme. chorus and a-mumming we will go, we'll go, and a-mumming we will go ; with a white cockade in all our hats, we'll go to t' gallant show. it's of st. george's valour so loudly let us sing; an honour to his country and a credit to his king. chorus and a-mumming we will go, we'll go, and a-mumming we will go ; we'll face all sorts of weather both rain, cold, wet, and snow. it's of the king of egypt, that came to seek his son; it's of the king of egypt, that made his sword so wan. chorus and a-mumming, etc. it's of the black morocco dog that fought the fiery battle; it's of the black morocco dog that made his sword to rattle. chorus and a-mumming, etc. 1 from s. o. addy, sheffield glossary (english dialect society publications, vol. xxii. p. 153). the song is sung at christmas time in the villages about sheffield at the conclusion of the folkplay, "the peace egg." see s. o. addy, sheffield glossary (english dialect society), p. 153. charms, "nominies," and popular rhymes traditional wilful weaste maks weasome want, an' you may live to say: i wish i had that sharve(1) o' breead that yance i flang away. 1. crust a rollin' stone gethers no moss, a ram'lin' lad saves no brass; a whistlin' lass an' a crowin' hen will fotch t' devil oot o' his den. than awn a crawin' hen, i seaner wad t' awd divil meet, hickity o, pickity o, pompolorum jig! or breed a whistlin' lass, i seaner wad t' awd divil treat, hickity o, pickity o, pompolorum jig! nowt bud ill-luck 'll fester where there craws an' whistles sike(1) a pair; may hens an' women breed nea mair. pompolorum jig. 1. such. meeat maks, an' clease shaps, but that is nut t' man; for bonnie is that bonnie diz, deny it if you can. the miller's thumb miller, miller, mooter-poke, teak a laid an' stale a stroke.(2) 2. took a load of corn and stole a half-bushel; mooter, or multure, is the toll of meal taken by the miller for grinding the corn: mooter-poke, or multure-pocket, is accordingly a nickname for a miller. down i' yon lum(1) we have a mill, if they send more grist we'll grind more still. with her broad arm an' mighty fist shoo rams it into t' mooter-chist.(2) 1. wood. 2. the chest in which the toll of meal was kept. hob-trush hob "hob-trush hob, wheer is thoo?" "i's tryin' on my left-foot shoe, an' i'll be wi' thee--noo!" gin hob mun hae nowt but a hardin' hamp, he'll co om nae mair nowther to berry nor stamp.(1) 1. the meaning seems to be, if hob is allowed nothing more than a smock-frock of coarse hemp, he will not come again either to thresh corn or to beat flax. nanny button-cap t' moon shines breet, t' stars give leet, an' little nanny button-cap will coom to-morra neet. the new moon a setterday's mean cooms yance i' seven year ower sean. i see t' mean an' t' mean sees me, god bless t' sailors oot on t' sea. new mean, new mean, i hail thee, this neet my true love for to see. not iv his best or worst array, bud iv his apparel for ivery day. that i to-morrow may him ken frev amang all other men. eevein' red an' mornin' gray: certain signs o' a bonnie day. evenin' gray an' mornin' red will send t' shepherd weet to bed. souther, wind, souther!(1) an' blaw my father heame to my moother.(2) 1. veer to the south. 2. this is the lilt of the children of the east-coast fishermen when the boats are at sea. friday unlucky dean't o' friday buy your ring, o' friday dean't put t' spurrins(1) in; dean't wed o' friday. think on o' this, nowther blue nor green mun match her driss. 1. banns an omen blest is t' bride at t' sun shines on, an' blest is t' deead at t' rain rains on. a charm tak twea at's red an' yan at's blake,(1) o' poison berries three, three fresh-cull'd blooms o' devil's glut,(2) an' a sprig o' rosemary. tak henbane, bullace, bummlekite,(3) an' t' fluff frev a deead bulrush, naan berries shak frae t' rowan-tree, an' naan frae t' botterey-bush.(4) 1. yellow. 2. bindweed. 3. blackberries. 4. elder tree a gift(1) o' my finger is seer to linger; a gift o' my thumb is seer to coom. 1. white speck. sunday clipt, sunday shorn, better t' bairn had niver been born. a monday's bairn 'll grow up fair, a tuesday's yan i' grace thruf prayer; a wednesday's bairn has monny a pain, a tho'sday's bairn wean't baade at heame. a friday's bairn is good an' sweet, a settherday's warks frae morn to neet. bud a sunday's bairn thruf leyfe is blist,. an' seer i' t' end wi' t' saints to rist. a cobweb i' t' kitchen, an' feat-marks on t' step, finnd nea wood i' t' yune(1) an' nea coals i' t' skep.(2) 1. oven. 2. scuttle. snaw, snaw, coom faster, white as allyblaster, poor owd women, pickin' geese, sendin' t' feathers daan to leeds. julius caesar made a law, augustus caesar sign'd it, that ivery one that made a sneeze should run away an' find it. a weddin', a woo, a clog an' a shoe, a pot-ful o' porridge, away they go! chimley-sweeper, blackymoor, set o' t' top o' t' chapel door. tak a stick an' knock him daan, that's the way to chapeltaan. the lady-bird cow-lady, cow-lady, hie thy way wum,(1) thy haase is afire, thy childer all gone; all but poor nancy, set under a pan, weyvin' gold lace as fast as shoo can. 1. home. the magpie i cross'd pynot,(1) an' t' pynot cross'd me. t' devil tak t' pynot an' god save me. . 1. magpie. tell-pie-tit, thy tongue's slit, an ivery dog i' t' toon 'll get a bit. the bat black-black-bearaway coom doon by hereaway. the snail sneel, sneel, put oot your horn, your fayther an' muthel'll gie ye some corn. hallamshire when all the world shall be aloft, then hallamshire shall be god's croft. winkabank and templebrough will buy all england through an' through. harrogate(1) when lords an' ladies stinking water soss,(2) high brigs o' stean the nidd sal cross. an' a toon be built on harrogate moss. 1. attributed to mother shipton. 2. gulp. the river don the shelvin', slimy river don each year a daughter or a son.(1) 1. compare the dartmoor rhyme: river of dart, oh! river of dart, every year thou claimest a heart. yorkshire lyrics. poems written in the dialect as spoken in the west riding of yorkshire. to which are added a selection of fugitive verses not in the dialect. by john hartley, author of "clock almanack," "yorkshire puddin," "yorkshire tales" &c, &c, "it has not been my lot to pore o'er ancient tomes of classic lore, or quaff castalia's springs; yet sometimes the observant eye may germs of poetry descry in plain and common things." london: w. nicholson & sons, limited, 26, paternoster square, e. c. and albion works, wakefield. dedication. to my dear daughter, annie sophie, this collection of dialect verses is dedicated, as a token of sincere love. john hartley. christmas, 1898. contents. mi darling muse. to a daisy, found blooming march 7th. mi bonny yorksher lass. give it 'em hot. a tale for th' childer, on christmas eve. words ov kindness. a brussen bubble. th' little stranger. th' traitle sop. once agean welcome. still true to nell. bide thi time. a cold dooas. a jolly beggar. aw wodn't for all aw could see. come thi ways! what is it? awst nivver be jaylus. lamentin' an repentin'. bite bigger. second thowts. a neet when aw've nowt to do. ther's much expected. coortin days. sweet mistress moore. waivin mewsic. jimmy's choice. old moorcock. th' short-timer. sol an' doll. their fred. love an' labor. nooan so bad. th' honest hard worker. peevish poll. the old bachelor's story. did yo ivver! a quiet tawk. lines, on startling a rabbit. nivver heed. gronfayther's days. awr dooad. whear natur missed it. that's all. mary hanner's peanner. grondad's lullaby. sixty, turned, to-day. that lad next door. a summer shaar. awr lad. bonny mary ann. that christmas puddin. a bad sooart. fairly weel-off. a warnin. to w. f. wallett. the queen's jester. lads an lasses. a new year's gift. matty's reason. uncle ben. a hawporth. th' better part. th' lesser evil. take heart! they all do it. to let. lost love. (appeared twice in the paper book) drink. duffin johnny. (a rifleman's adventure.) plenty o' brass. the new year's resolve. a strange stooary. what wor it? billy bumble's bargain. aght o' wark. that's a fact. babby burds. queen ov skircoit green. th' little black hand. my native twang. sing on. shoo's thi sister. another babby. to a roadside flower. an old man's christmas morning. settin off. to th' swallow. a wife. heart brokken. lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed. rejected. persevere. a pointer. an acrostic. help thisen. bless 'em! act square. his dowter gate wed. all we had. th' first o'th sooart. poor old hat. done agean. what it is to be a mother. what they say. young jockey. missed his mark. when lost. mak a gooid start. stop at hooam. advice to jenny. jockey an dolly. dooant forget the old fowks. soa bonny. the linnet. mary jane. aw dooant care. my lass. a gooid kursmiss day. mi love's come back. a wife. all tawk. aw can't tell. happen thine. contrasts. to mally. th' state o' th' poll. a nop tickle illusion. try a smile. growin old. gooid bye, old lad. that drabbled brat. song for th' hard times, (1879.) stir thi lass! tother day. happy sam's song. gradely weel off. is it reight? a yorksher bite. lily's gooan. what aw want. latter wit. a millionaire. mi fayther's pipe. let th' lasses alooan! a breet prospect. missin yor way. heather bells. a lucky dog. my doctrine. that lass. mi old umberel what it comes to. hold up yer heeads. a quiet day. lass o'th haley hill. ditherum dump. my polly. love one another. dick an me. briggate at setterdy neet. awr annie. peter prime's principles. cuckoo! fowk next door. dad's lad. willie's weddin. somdy's chonce. to a true friend. warmin pan. it may be soa. a safe investment. red stockin. plain jane. cash v. cupid. mary's bonnet. prime october. old dave to th' new parson. tom grit. th' demon o' debt. th' lad 'at loves his mother. matilda jane. modest jack o' wibsey slack. work lads! bonny yorksher. sixty an sixteen. come thi ways in. horton tide. mi old slippers. a friend to me. a pair o' black een. a screw lawse. a sad mishap. if. a true tale. peter's prayer. mak th' best ont. on strike. be happy. its true. natty nancy. fugitive poems. angels of sunderland. in memoriam, june 16th, 1893. trusting still. shiver the goblet. little sunshine. passing events. those days have gone. i'd a dream. to my harp. backward turn, oh! recollection. alice. looking back. i know i love thee bachelors quest. waiting at the gate. love. do your best and leave the rest. to my daughter on her birthday. remorse. my queen now and then. the open gates. blue bells. a song of the snow hide not thy face. in my garden of roses. the match girl. de profundis. nettie. the dean's brother. i would not live alway. too late. on the banks of the calder. lines on receiving a bunch of wild hyacinths by post. november's here. mary. when cora died. the violet. repentant. sunset. poetry and prose. years ago. somebody's. claude. all on a christmas morning. once upon a time. nearing home. those tiny fingers. lilly-white hand. shut out. charming may. who cares? mi darling muse. mi darlin' muse, aw coax and pet her, to pleeas yo, for aw like nowt better; an' if aw find aw connot get her to lend her aid, into foorced measure then aw set her, the stupid jade! an' if mi lines dooant run as spreetly, nor beam wi gems o' wit soa breetly, place all the blame,--yo'll place it reightly, upon her back; to win her smile aw follow neetly, along her track. maybe shoo thinks to stop mi folly, an let me taste o' melancholy; but just to spite her awl be jolly, an say mi say; awl fire away another volley tho' shoo says "nay." we've had some happy times together, for monny years we've stretched our tether, an as aw dunnot care a feather for fowk 'at grummel, we'll have another try. aye! whether we stand or tummel. sometimes th' reward for all us trubble, has been a crop o' scrunty stubble, but th' harvest someday may be double, at least we'll trust it; an them 'at say it's but a bubble, we'll leeav to brust it. to a daisy, found blooming march 7th. a'a awm feeared tha's come too sooin, little daisy! pray, whativer wor ta doin? are ta crazy? winter winds are blowin' yet,-tha'll be starved, mi little pet. did a gleam o' sunshine warm thee, an' deceive thee? niver let appearance charm thee, for believe me, smiles tha'll find are oft but snares, laid to catch thee unawares. still aw think it luks a shame, to tawk sich stuff; aw've lost faith, an' tha'll do th' same, hi, sooin enuff. if tha'rt happy as tha art trustin' must be th' wisest part. come, aw'll pile some bits o' stooan, raand thi dwellin'; they may screen thee when aw've gooanm, ther's no tellin'; an' when gentle spring draws near aw'll release thee, niver fear. an' if then thi pretty face, greets me smilin'; aw may come an' sit bith' place, time beguilin'; glad to think aw'd paar to be, of some use, if but to thee. mi bonny yorksher lass. aw've travelled east, west, north, an south, an led a rooamin' life; aw've met wi things ov stirlin' worth, aw've shared wi joy an strife; aw've kept a gooid stiff upper lip, whativver's come to pass: but th' captain of mi fortun's ship, has been mi yorksher lass. storm-tossed, sails rent, an reckonin' lost, a toy for wind an wave; mid blindin' fog an snow an frost, aw've thowt noa power could save; but ivver in the darkest day, wi muscles strong as brass, to some safe port shoo's led the way,- mi honest yorksher lass. shoo's fair,--all yorksher lasses are,- shoo's bonny as the rest, her brow ne'er shows a line o' care, shoo thinks what is, is best. shoo's lovin', true, an full o' pluck, an it seems as clear as glass, 'at th' lad is sewer to meet gooid luck 'at weds a yorksher lass. ther's oriental beauties, an' grand fowk ov ivvery grade, but when it comes to honest worth, shoo puts 'em all ith' shade, for wi her charms an virtues, shoo stands at top o'th' class; ther's nooan soa rare as can compare, wi a bonny yorksher lass, then here's to th' yorksher lasses! whearivver they may be; ther worth ther's nooan surpasses, an ther's nooan as brave an free! if awd to live life o'er ageean, awd think misen an ass, if aw didn't tak for company, a bonny yorksher lass. give it 'em hot. give it 'em hot, an be hanged to ther feelins! souls may be lost wol yor choosin' yor words! out wi' them doctrines 'at taich o' fair dealins! daan wi' a vice tho' it may be a lord's! what does it matter if truth be unpleasant? are we to lie a man's pride to exalt! why should a prince be excused, when a peasant is bullied an' blamed for a mich smaller fault? o, ther's too mich o' that sneakin and bendin; an honest man still should be fearless and bold; but at this day fowk seem to be feeared ov offendin, an' they'll bow to a cauf if it's nobbut o' gold. give me a crust tho' it's dry, an' a hard 'en, if aw know it's my own aw can ait it wi' glee; aw'd rayther bith hauf work all th' day for a farden, nor haddle a fortun wi' bendin' mi knee. let ivery man by his merit be tested, net by his pocket or th' clooas on his back; let hypocrites all o' ther clooaks be divested, an' what they're entitled to, that let em tak. give it 'em hot! but remember when praichin, all yo 'at profess others failins to tell, 'at yo'll do far moor gooid wi' yor tawkin an' taichin, if yo set an example, an' improve yorsel. a tale for th' childer, on christmas eve. little childer,--little childer; harken to an old man's ditty; tho yo live ith' country village,- tho yo live ith' busy city. aw've a little tale to tell yo,- one 'at ne'er grows stale wi' tellin,-it's abaat one who to save yo, here amang men made his dwellin. riches moor nor yo can fancy,- moor nor all this world has in it,-he gave up becoss he loved yo, an he's lovin yo this minnit. all his power, pomp and glory, which to think on must bewilder,-all he left,--an what for think yo? just for love ov little childer. in a common, lowly stable he wor laid, an th' stars wor twinklin, as if angel's 'een wor peepin on his face 'at th' dew wor sprinklin. an one star, like a big lantern, shepherds who ther flocks wor keepin, saw, an foller'd till it rested just aboon whear he wor sleepin. then strange music an sweet voices seem'd to sing reight aght o' heaven, "unto us a child is born! unto us a son is given!" then coom wise men thro strange nations,- young men an men old an hoary,-an they all knelt daan befoor him, an araand him shone a glory. then a king thowt he wod kill him, tho he reckoned net to mind him, but they went to a strange country, whear this bad king couldn't find him. an he grew up strong and sturdy, an he sooin began his praichin, an big craads stood raand to listen, an they wondered at his taichin. then some sed bad things abaat him, called him names, laft at an jeered him;-sed he wor a base imposter, for they hated, yet they feeard him. some believed in his glad tidins,- saw him cure men ov ther blindness,-saw him make once-deead fowk livin, saw him full o' love an kindness. wicked men at last waylaid him, drag'd him off to jail and tried him, tho noa fault they could find in him, yet they cursed an crucified him. nubdy knows ha mich he suffered; but his work on earth wor ended:-from the grave whear they had laid him, into heaven he ascended. love like his may well bewilder,- sinners weel may bow befoor him;-nah he waits for th' little childer, up in heaven whear saints adore him. think when sittin raand yor hearthstun, an the kursmiss bells are ringing, ha he lived an died at yo may join those angels in ther singin. words ov kindness. 'tis strange 'at fowk will be sich fooils to mak life net worth livin', fermentin' rows, creatin' mooils, detractin' an' deceivin'. to fratch an' worry day an' neet, is sewerly wilful blindness, when weel we know ther's nowt as sweet, as a few words spoke i' kindness. ther is noa heart withaat its grief, the gayest have some sadness; but oft a kind word brings relief, an' sheds a ray ov gladness. we ought to think of others moor, nor ov ther pains be mindless; we may bring joy to monny a door wi' a few words spoke i' kindness. a peevish spaik, a bitin' jest, 'at may be thowtless spokken, may be like keen edged dagger prest throo some heart nearly brokken. then let love be awr rule o' life, this world's cares we shall find less; for nowt can put an end to strife, like a few words spoke i' kindness. a brussen bubble. bet wor a stirrin, strappin lass, shoo lived near woodus moor;-an varry keen shoo wor for brass, tho little wor her stoor. shoo'd wed for love--and as luck let, it proved a lucky hit; a finer chap yo've seldom met, or one wi better wit. his name awm net inclined to tell, but he'd been kursend john; an he wor rayther praad hissel, an anxious to get on. at neet they'd sit an tawk, an plan, some way to mend ther state; "what one chap's done another can," sed bet, "let's get agate." "this morn wol darnin socks for thee this thowt coom i' mi nop, an do't we will if tha'll agree;- let's start a little shop. we'll sell all sooarts o' useful things 'at ivverybody needs; like scaarin-stooan, an tape an pins, an buttons, sooap, an threeds. an spice for th' childer,--castor oil, an traitle drink, an pies, an kinlin wood, an maybe coil, fresh yeast an hooks an eyes. corn plaisters, bristol brick, an clay, puttates, rewbub an salt; an if that can't be made to pay, it willn't be my fault." "th' idea's a gooid en," john replied, "we should ha done 't befoor; aw raillee think at if its tried, we'st neer luk back noa moor. but whear's th' stock commin throo, mi lass? that's moor nor aw can tell; fowk willn't come an spend ther brass, unless yo've stuff to sell." "why, wodn't th' maister lend a hand? tha knows he's fond o' me; a five paand nooat wod do it grand- awd ax if aw wor thee." an john did ax, an strange to say he gat it thear an then; an bet wor ne'er i' sich a way- fairly besides hersen. soa th' haase wor turned into a shop, an praad they wor,--an bet sed to hersen--"it luks tip top, aw'st be a lady yet." an th' naybors coom throo far an near, to buy a thing or two, what they'd paid tuppence for,--why, here bet made three awpence do. when john coom home at neet, his wife wor soa uncommon thrang, at th' furst time in his wedded life, his drinkin time coom wrang. he did his best to seem content, till shuttin up time coom; "why, lass, he said, "thar't fairly spent, tha's oppen'd wi a boom." an ivvery day, to th' end o'th' wick browt customers enuff; but th' stock wor lukkin varry sick, for shoo'd sell'd all her stuff. but then, shoo'd bowt a new silk gaon, an john a silk top hat, an th' nicest easy chair ith' taan, an bits o' this an that. an th' upshot wor, shoo'd spent all th' brass, an shoo'd nowt left to sell; an what john sed,--aw'll let that pass for 'tisn't fit to tell. soa th' business brust, but bet declares, 'twor nobbut want o' thowt, for shoo'd sooin ha made a fortun, if th' stock had cost 'em nowt. th' little stranger. little bonny, bonny babby! how tha stares, an' weel tha may, for its but an haar or hardly sin' tha furst saw th' leet o' day. a'a tha little knows, young moppet, ha awst have to tew for thee; but may be when forced to drop it, 'at tha'll do a bit for me. are ta maddled mun amang it? does ta wonder what aw mean? aw should think tha does, but dang it, where's ta been to leearn to scream? that's noa sooart o' mewsic, bless thi, dunnot peawt thi lip like that; mun, aw hardly dar to nurse thi, feared awst hurt thi, little brat. come, aw'll tak thi to thi mother, shoo's more used to sich nor me, hands like mine worn't made to bother wi sich ginger-breead as thee. innocent an' helpless craytur, all soa pure an' undefiled, if ther's ought belangs to heaven, lives o'th' earth, it is a child. an' its hard to think 'at someday, if tha'rt spared to weather throo, 'at tha'll be a man, an' someway have to feight life's battles too. kings an' queens, an' lords an' ladies, once wor nowt noa moor to see, an' th' warst wretch at hung o'th' gallows, once wor born as pure as thee. an' what tha at last may come to, god aboon us all can tell; but aw hope 'at tha'll be lucky, even tho aw fail mysel. do aw ooin thi? its a pity, hush! nah prathi dunnot freat; goa an' snoozle to thi titty, tha'rt too young for trouble yet. th' traitle sop. once in a little country taan a grocer kept a shop, and sell'd amang his other things, prime traitle-drink and pop; teah, coffee, currans, spenish juice, soft soap an' paader blue, presarves an' pickles, cinnamon, allspice an' pepper too. an' hoasts o' other sooarts o' stuff to sell to sich as came, as figs, an' raisens, salt an' spice, too numerous to name. one summer's day a waggon stood just opposite his door; an' th' childer all gaped raand as if they'd ne'er seen one afoor. an' in it wor a traitle cask, it wor a wopper too, to get it aght they all wor fast which iver way to do. but wol they stood an' parley'd thear, th' horse gave a sudden chuck, an' aght it flew, an' bursting threw all th' traitle into th' muck. then th' childer laff'd an' clapp'd their hands, to them it seem'd rare fun; but th' grocer ommost lost his wits when he saw th' traitle run. he stamp'd an' raved, an' then declared he wodn't pay a meg! an' th' carter vow'd until he did he wodn't stir a peg. he said he'd done his business reight,- he'd brought it up to th' door, an' thear it wor, an' noa fair chap wod want him to do moor. but wol they stamped, an' raved, an' swore, an' vented aght ther spleen, th' childer wor thrang enough, you're sure, all plaisterd up to th' een. a neighbor chap saw th' state o' things, an' pitied ther distress, an' begg'd em not to be soa sour abaht soa sweet a mess; "an' tha'd be sour," th' owd grocer sed, "if th' job wor thine owd lad, an' somdy wanted thee to pay for what tha'd niver had." "th' fault isn't mine," said th' cart driver, "my duty's done i hope? i've brought him traitle, thear it is, an' he mun sam it up." soa th' neighbor left em to thersen, he'd nowt noa moor to say, but went to guard what ther wor left, an' send th' young brood away. this didn't suit th' young lads a bit,- they didn't mean to stop, they felt detarmin'd that they'd get another traitle sop. they tried all ways but th' chap stood firm, they couldn't get a lick, an' some o'th' boldest gate a taste o'th neighbor's walkin stick. at last one said, "i know a plan if we can scheme to do it, we'll knock one daan bang into th' dolt, an' let him roll reight throo it;" "agreed! agreed!" they all replied, "an here comes little jack, he's foorced to pass cloise up this side, we'll do it in a crack." poor jack wor rayther short, an' came just like a suckin duck; he little dream'd at th' sweets o' life wod ivver be his luck. but daan they shoved him, an' he roll'd heead first bang into th' mess, an' aght he coom a woeful seet, as yo may easy guess. they marched him off i' famous glee, all stickified an' clammy, then licked him clean an' sent him hooam to get lick'd by his mammy. then th' cartdriver an th' grocer came, booath in a dreadful flutter, to save some, but they came too lat, it all wor lost ith gutter: it towt a lesson to em booath befoor that job wor ended, to try (at stead o' falling aght) if owt went wrang to mend it. for wol fowk rave abaht ther loss, some sharper's sure to pop, an' aght o' ther misfortunes they'll contrive to get a sop. once agean welcome. once agean welcome! oh, what is ther grander, when years have rolled by sin' yo left an old friend? an what cheers yor heart, when yo far away wander, as mich as the thowts ov a welcome at th' end? yo may goa an be lucky, an win lots o' riches; yo may gain fresh acquaintance as onward yo rooam; but tho' wealth may be temptin, an honor bewitches, yet they're nowt when compared to a welcome back hooam. pray, who hasn't felt as they've sat sad an lonely, they'd give all they possessed for the wings ov a dove, to fly far away, just to catch a seet only ov th' friends o' ther childhood, the friends 'at they love. hope may fill the breast when some old spot we're leavin, bright prospects may lure us throo th' dear land away, but it's joy o' returnin at sets one's breast heavin, it's th' hopes ov a welcome back maks us feel gay. long miles yo may trudge ovver moor, heath, or mire, till yor legs seem to totter, an th' stummack feels faint; but yor thowts still will dwell o' that breet cottage fire, till yo feel quite refreshed bi th' fancies yo paint. an when yo draw nearer, an ovver th' old palins yo see smilin faces 'at welcome yo back, ther's an end to being weary! away wi complainin's! yo leeave all yor troubles behind on yor track. then if ther's sich joy in a welcome receivin, let us ivvery one try sich a pleasure to gain; an bi soothin' fowk's cares, an ther sorrows relievin, let us bind em all to us, wi' friendship's strong chain. let us love an be loved! let's be kind an forgivin, an then if fate forces us far from awr hooam, we shall still throughout life have the joy o' receivin a tear when we part, an a smile when we come. still true to nell. th' sun wor settin,--red an gold, wi splendor paintin th' west, an purplin tints throo th' valley roll'd, as daan he sank to rest. yet dayleet lingered looath to leeav a world soa sweet an fair, wol silent burds a pathway cleave, throo th' still an slumb'rin air. aw stroll'd along a country rooad, hedged in wi thorn an vine; which wild flower scents an shadows broad, converted to a shrine. as twileet's deeper curtains fell aw sat mi daan an sighed; mi thowts went back to th' time when nell, had rambled bi mi side. aw seemed to hear her voice agean, soft whisperin i' mi ear, recallin things 'at once had been, when th' futur all wor clear. when love,--pure, honest, youthful love had left us nowt to crave; an fancies full ov bliss we wove;- alas! nell's in her grave. oh, nell! i' that fair hooam ov thine, whear all is breet an pure,--say,--is ther room for love like mine? can earthborn love endure? do angels' hearts past vows renew, to mortals here who dwell? it must be soa;--if my heart's true, aw cannot daat thee, nell. it's weel we cannot see beyond that curtain deeath lets fall; lest cheerin hooaps, an longins fond, should be denied us all. better to live i' hooap nor fear,- 'tis mercy plan'd it soa; for if my nelly isn't thear, aw shouldn't care to goa. bide thi time. bide thi time! it's sure to come, tho' it may seem tardy,-thine's a better fate nor some: if tha's but a humble home, yet thart strong an hardy; then cheer up an ne'er repine, be content, an bide thi time. bide thi time! if fortun's blind, rail not at her givin; if tha thinks shoo's ovver kind to thi neighbor, nivver mind, if tha gets a livin; woll thi life is in its prime, be content, an bide thi time. bide thi time! for ther's a endin to a loin, haivver long: things at th' warst mun start o' mendin; ther's noa wind but what's befriendin one or other, tho' its strong: remember, poverty's noa crime-be content, an bide thi time. bide thi time! tho none are near thee to stretch out a helpin hand; let noa darken'd prospect fear thee, ther's a promise yet should cheer thee as tha nears a breeter land: tho thi rooad is hard to climb, be content, an bide thi time. bide thi time! "i will not leave thee nor forsake thee," he hath said. let not worldly smiles deceive thee, trust in him--he will relieve thee- he that gives thy daily bread: fill'd with faith and love sublime, still contented, bide thi time. a cold dooas. one neet aw went hooam, what time aw can't tell, but it must ha been lat, for awd th' street to mysel. furst one clock, then t'other, kept ringin aght chimes, aw wor gaumless, a chap will get gaumless sometimes. thinks aw--tha'll drop in for't to-neet lad, tha will! but aw oppen'd th' haase door an aw heeard all wor still; soa aw ventured o' tip toe to creep up to bed, thinkin th' less aw disturbed her an th' less wod be sed. when awd just getten ready to bob under th' clooas, aw bethowt me aw hadn't barred th' gate an lockt th' doors; soa daan stairs aw crept ommost holdin mi breeath, an ivverything raand mi wor silent as deeath. when aw stept aght oth door summat must ha been wrang, for it shut ov itsen wi a terrible bang; it wor lucky aw cleared it withaat gettin hurt, but still, aw wor lockt aght o' door i' mi shirt. thinks aw its noa use to be feared ov a din, awst be foorced to rouse betty to let me get in. an to mend matters snow wor beginnin to fall, an a linen shirt makes but a poor overall. aw knockt at first pratly, for fear ov a row, but her snooarin aw heeard plain enuff daan below. mi flesh wor i' gooise-lumps, mi feet wor like ice, to be frozzen to deeath, thinks aw, willn't be nice; soa as knockin wor useless aw started to bray, till at last one oth pannels began to give way. all th' neighbors ther heeads aght oth windows did pop, but aw couldn't wake betty, shoo slept like a top. at last a poleeceman coom raand wi his lamp, an he spied mi an thowt mi some murderin scamp; aw tried to explain, but he wodn't give heed, for he wanted a job like all th' rest ov his breed. he tuk me to th' lock-up, an thear made a charge, at aw wor a lunatic rooamin at large. in a cell aw wor put, whear aw fan other three, 'twor a small _cell_ for four, but a big _sell_ for me; an shiv'rin an shudd'rin an pairt druffen sick, that neet seem'd to me twice as long as a wick. next mornin they dragg'd me to th' cooart-haase to tell what it meant, an to give an accaant o' misel; an they fined me five shillin, but ha could aw pay, when mi brass wor ith pockets oth clooas far away? then they sent betty word, an shoo coom, for it seems shoo wor up i' gooid time, for shoo'd had ugly dreeams; an shoo browt me mi clooas, an shoo set me all streight, but her pity wor nobbut, "it just sarves thee reight." sin then yo've noa nooation what awve to endure, for aw gate sich a cold 'at noa phisic can cure; an if aw complain betty says i' quicksticks, "tha sees what tha gets wi thi wrang-headed tricks." soa aw grin an aw bide it as weel as aw can, but awve altered mi tactics, an nah it's mi plan if mi mates ivver tempt me an get me to rooam, aw sup pop when awm aght an sup whisky at hooam. an betty declares it's been all for mi gooid, for awd long wanted summat to cooil mi young blooid; but this lesson it towt me awl freely confess,-to mak sewer th' gate's made fast befoor aw undress. a jolly beggar. aw'm as rich as a jew, tho aw havn't a meg, but awm free as a burd, an aw shak a loise leg; aw've noa haase, an noa barns, soa aw nivver pay rent, but still aw feel rich, for awm bless'd wi content, aw live, an awm jolly, an if it is folly, let others be wise, but aw'l follow mi bent. mi kitchen aw find amang th' rocks up oth moor, an at neet under th' edge ov a haystack aw snoor, an a wide spreeadin branch keeps th' cold rain off mi nop, wol aw listen to th' stormcock at pipes up oth top; aw live, an awm jolly, &c. aw nivver fear thieves, for aw've nowt they can tak, unless it's thease tatters at hing o' mi back; an if they prig them, they'll get suck'd do yo see, they'll be noa use to them, for they're little to me. aw live, an awm jolly, &c. fowk may turn up ther nooas as they pass me ith rooad an get aght oth gate as if fear'd ov a tooad; but aw laff i' mi sleeve, like a snail in its shell, for th' less room they tak up, ther's all th' moor for misel. aw live, an awm jolly, &c. tho philosiphers tawk, an church parsons may praich, an tell us true joy is far aght ov us raich; yet aw nivver tak heed o' ther cant o' ther noise, for he's nowt to be fear'd on at's nowt he can loise. aw live, an awm jolly, &c. aw wodn't for all aw could see. why the dickens do some fowk keep thrustin, as if th' world hadn't raam for us all? wi consarn an consait they're fair brustin, one ud think th' heavens likely to fall. they fidge an they fume an they flutter, like a burd catched wi lime on a tree, and they'll fratch wi ther own breead an butter:- but aw wodn't for all aw could see. bless mi life! th' world could get on withaat em! it ud have to do if they wor deead; they may be sincere but aw daat em, if they're honest, they're wrang i' ther heead. they've all some pet doctrine, an wonder why fowk wi ther plans disagree, they expect yo should all knuckle under, but aw wodn't for all aw could see. my old woman may net be perfection, but we're wed soa we know we've to stick; an if shoo made another selection, aw mightn't be th' chap at shoo'd pick. but we get on reight gradely together, an her failins aw try net to see, some will bend under th' weight ov a feather, but aw wodn't for all aw could see. a chap at aits peaches and cherries, mun expect to be bothered wi stooans; an he's nobbut a fooil if he worries coss yearins arnt made withaat booans. to mak th' best o' things just as aw find em, seems th' reight sooart o' wisdom to me; an when things isn't reight aw neer mind em, for aw wodn't for all aw could see. all araand me aw see ther's moor pleasure nor aw can enjoy wol aw live; an contentment is this world's best treasure, then why should aw sit daan an grieve? if they enjoy naggin an growlin, it maks little difference to me, but wi th' world full o' pleasure to roll in:- why, aw wodn't for all aw could see. come thi ways! bonny lassie, come thi ways, an let us goa together! tho' we've met wi stormy days, ther'll be some sunny weather. an if joy should spring for me, tha shall freely share it; an if trouble comes to thee, aw can help to bear it. tho' thi mammy says us nay, an thi dad's unwillin'; wod ta have me pine away wi this love at's killin'? come thi ways, an let me twine mi arms once moor abaght thee; weel tha knows mi heart is thine, aw couldn't live withaat thee. ivvery day an haar at slips, some pleasure we are missin', for those bonny rooasy lips awm nivver stall'd o' kissin'. if men wor wise to walk life's track withaat sith joys to glad 'em, he must ha made a sad mistak at gave a eve to adam. what is it? what is it maks a crusty wife forget to scold, an leeave off strife? what is it smoothes th' rooad throo life? it's sooap. what is it maks a gaumless muff grow rich, an roll i' lots o' stuff, woll better men can't get enough? it's sooap. what is it, if it worn't theear, wod mak some fowks feel varry queer, an put em i' ther proper sphere? it's sooap. what is it maks fowk wade throo th' snow, to goa to th' church, becoss they know 'at th' squire's at hooam an sure to goa? it's sooap. what is it gains fowk invitations, throo them at live i' lofty stations? what is it wins mooast situations? it's sooap. what is it men say they detest, yet allus like that chap the best 'at gives em twice as mich as th' rest? it's sooap. what is it, when the devil sends his agents raand to work his ends, what is it gains him lots o' friends? it's sooap. what is it we should mooast despise, an by its help refuse to rise, tho' poverty's befoor awr eyes? it's sooap. what is it, when life's wasting fast, when all this world's desires are past, will prove noa use to us at last? it's sooap. awst nivver be jaylus. "awst nivver be jaylus, net aw!" sed nancy to th' love ov her heart, "aw couldn't, lad, if awd to try, for aw know varry weel what tha art. aw could trust thee to th' world's farthest point, noa matter what wimmen wor thear, they'd nooan put mi nooas aght o'th joint, tha'd come back to thi lass tha left here. though tha did walk leweezy to th' church, an fowk wink'd an dropt monny a hint, aw knew tha'd nooan leav me i'th lurch, for a dowdy like her wi a squint. an ellen at lives at th' yard end, may simper an innocent look, but aw think shoo'll ha' farther to fend, befoor shoo's a fish to her hook. nay, jaylussy's aght o' my line, or else that young widdy next door, wod ha heeard some opinions o' mine, at wodn't quite suit her awm sewer. what tha can see in her caps me, for awm sewer shoo's as faal as old flue, an aw think when shoo's tawkin to thee, shoo mud find surnmat better to do. 'shoo's a varry nice lass,' does ta say? 'an luks looansum tha thinks?' oh! that's it! tha'd better set off reight away, an try to console her a bit. shoo's a two-faced deceitful young freet! aw wish shoo wor teed raand thi neck! but goa to her an tell her to-neet, at nancy has given thi th' seck. awm nooan jaylus! aw ammot that fond! aw think far too mich o' mysen to care for sich a poucement as yond, at hankers for other fowk's men! aw tell thi aw'll net hold mi tongue! awm nooan jaylus tha madlin! it's thee!* an aw allus shall trust thee as long as tha nooatices nubdy but me." lamentin' an repentin'. awst be better when spring comes, aw think, but aw feel varry sickly an waik, awve noa relish for mait nor for drink, an awm ommost too weary to laik. what's to come on us all aw can't tell, for we havn't a shillin put by; ther's nowt left to pop nor to sell, an aw cannot get trust if aw try. my wife has to turn aght to wark, an th' little uns all do a share; an they're tewin throo dayleet to dark, to keep me sittin here i' mi chair. it doesn't luk long sin that day when bessy wor stood bi mi side; an shoo promised to love an obey, an me to protect an provide. shoo wor th' bonniest lass i' all th' taan, an fowk sed as they saw us that day, when we coom aght o' th' church, arm i' arm, shoo wor throwin' hersen reight away. but shoo smiled i' mi face as we went, an her arm clung moor tightly to mine; "aw feel happy," shoo sed, "an content to know at tha'rt mine an awm thine." aw wor praad ov her bonny breet een,- aw wor praad ov her little white hand,-an aw thowt shoo wor fit for a queen, for ther wornt a grander ith' land. we gat on varry weel for a bit, an aw stuck to mi wark like a man, an enjoying mi hooam, thear awd sit, as a chap at works hard nobbut can. we hadn't been wed quite a year, when they showed me a grand little lad, an th' old wimmen sed, "sithee! luk here! he's th' image exact ov his dad." but mi mates nivver let me alooan, till aw joined i' ther frolics and spree, an tho' bessy went short, or had nooan, shoo wor kinder nor ivver to me. sometimes when shoo's ventur'd to say, "come hooam an stop in lad, to-neet." awve felt shamed an awve hurried away, for her een have been glist'nin wi weet. an awve sed to misen 'at awd mend, for it's wrang to be gooin on soa; but at neet back to th' aleus awd wend, wi th' furst swillgut at ax'd me to goa. two childer wor added to th' stock, but aw drank, an mi wark went to th' bad; an awve known em be rooarin for jock, wol awve druffen what they should ha had. aw seldom went hooam but to sleep, tho bessy ne'er offered to chide; but grief 'at is silent is deep, an sorrow's net easy to hide. if th' childer wod nobbut complain, or bessy get peevish an tart, aw could put up wi th' anguish or pain, but ther kindness is braikin mi heart. little emma, poor child, ov a neet does th' neighbours odd jobs nah and then, an shoo runs hersen off ov her feet, for a hawpny, they think for hersen. an shoo saved em until shoo gat three, but this mornin away shoo went aght, an spent em o' bacca for me, 'coss shoo thowt aw luk'd looansum withaat. it's a lesson awst nivver forget, an awve bid a gooid-bye to strong drink; an theyst hev ther reward yo can bet;- awst be better when spring comes aw think. an if spendin what's left o' mi life for ther sakes can mak up for lost time, ther shan't be a happier wife, nor three better loved childer nor mine. aw can't help mi een runnin o'er, for mi heart does mi conduct condemn; but awl promise to do soa noa moor, if god spares me to bessy and them. bite bigger. as aw hurried throo th' taan to mi wark, (aw wur lat, for all th' whistles had gooan,) aw happen'd to hear a remark, at ud fotch tears throo th' heart ov a stooan.-it wur raanin, an snawin, an cowd, an th' flagstoans wur covered wi muck, an th' east wind booath whistled an howl'd, it saanded like nowt but ill luck; when two little lads, donn'd i' rags, baght stockins or shoes o' ther feet, coom trapesin away ower th' flags, booath on em sodden'd wi th' weet.-th' owdest mud happen be ten, th' young en be hauf on't,--noa moor; as aw luk'd on, aw sed to misen, god help fowk this weather at's poor! th' big en sam'd summat off th' graand, an aw luk'd just to see what 't could be; 'twur a few wizend flaars he'd faand, an they seem'd to ha fill'd him wi glee: an he sed, "come on, billy, may be we shall find summat else by an by, an if net, tha mun share thease wi me when we get to some spot where its dry." leet-hearted they trotted away, an aw follow'd, coss 'twur i' mi rooad; but aw thowt awd ne'er seen sich a day- it worn't fit ta be aght for a tooad. sooin th' big en agean slipt away, an sam'd summat else aght o'th' muck, an he cried aght, "luk here, bill! to-day arn't we blest wi' a seet o' gooid luck? here's a apple! an th' mooast on it's saand: what's rotten aw'll throw into th' street-worn't it gooid to ligg thear to be faand? nah booath on us con have a treat." soa he wiped it, an rubb'd it, an then sed, "billy, thee bite off a bit; if tha hasn't been lucky thisen tha shall share wi me sich as aw get." soa th' little en bate off a touch, t'other's face beemed wi pleasur all throo, an' he sed, "nay, tha hasn't taen much, bite agean, an bite bigger; nah do!" aw waited to hear nowt noa moor,- thinks aw, thear's a lesson for me! tha's a heart i' thi breast, if tha'rt poor: th' world wur richer wi' moor sich as thee! tuppince wur all th' brass aw had, an awd ment it for ale when coom nooin, but aw thowt aw'll goa give it yond lad, he desarves it for what he's been dooin. soa aw sed, "lad, here's tuppince for thee, for thi sen,"--an they stared like two geese; but he sed, woll th' tear stood in his e'e, "nay, it'll just be a penny a piece." "god bless thi! do just as tha will, an may better days speedily come; tho clam'd, an hauf donn'd, mi lad, still tha'rt a deal nearer heaven nur some." second thowts. aw've been walkin up th' loin all ith weet, aw felt sure tha'd be comin that way; for tha promised tha'd meet me to-neet, an answer me "aye" or else "nay." tho aw hevn't mich fear tha'll refuse, yet awd rayther mi fate tha'd decide, for this trailin abaat is no use, unless tha'll at last be mi bride. aw dooant like keepin thus i' suspense, an aw think tha'rt too full o' consait; if aw get thee tha'll bring me expense, to provide thee wi clooas an wi mait. if tha fancies all th' gain's o' my side tha'rt makkin a sorry mistak, for when a chap tackles a bride, he's an extra looad on his back. an in fact, when aw study things o'er, awm nooan sorry tha hasn't shown up, for awm nooan badly off nah awm sure, for awve plenty to ait an to sup. aw've noa wife to find fault if awm lat, aw've noa childer to feed nor to clam, an when aw put this thing to that, aw think aw shall stop as aw am. a neet when aw've nowt to do. why lad, awm sewer tha'rt ommost done, this ovvertime is killin; 'twor allus soa sin th' world begun, they put o' them at's willin. tha's ne'er a neet to call thi own,- tha starts furst thing o' mundy, an works thi fingers fair to th' booan, booath day an neet wol sundy. aw know tha addles extra pay,- we couldn't weel do baght it, but if tha'rt browt hooam sick some day, we'st ha to do withaat it. aw seldom get to see thi face, exceptin when tha'rt aitin; neet after neet aw caar ith' place wol awm fair sick o' waitin. an when tha comes, tha'rt off to bed, befoor aw've chonce o' spaikin, an th' childer luk, aw've ofttimes sed, like orphans when they're laikin. come hooam at six o'clock to-morn, an let wark goa to hummer, thi face is growin white an worn:- tha'll nivver last all summer. besides ther's lots o' little jobs, at tha can tak a hand in,-that kist o' drawers has lost two nobs, an th' table leg wants mendin. ther's th' fixin up oth' winderblind, an th' chaymer wants whiteweshin, th' wall's filled wi marks o' ivvery kind,- (yond lads desarve a threshin.) aw can't shake th' carpet bi misen, nor lig it square an straightly;-th' childer mud help me nah an then, but they ne'er do nowt reightly. that bed o' awrs wants shakin up, all th' flocks has stuck together, tha knows they all want braikin up, or they'll get tough as leather. an th' coilhoil wants a coit o' lime, then it'll smell mich sweeter, an th' cellar should be done this time, it maks it soa mich leeter. ther's lots o' little things beside;- all th' childer's clogs want spetchin, jack's hurts his toa, tha'll mak em wide, wi varry little stretchin. besides, tha raillee wants a rest, for a neet, or maybe two, an tha can fix theas trifles best, some neet when tha's nowt to do. awm net like some at connot feel for others, aw assure thi: tha's tewd until tha'rt owt but weel; an nowt but rest can cure thi. soa come hooam sooin an spend a neet, wi me an jack an freddy, they'll think it's ivver sich a treat; an aw'll have th' whitewesh ready. ther's much expected. life's pathway is full o' deep ruts, an we mun tak gooid heed lest we stumble; man is made up of "ifs" and of "buts," it seems pairt ov his natur to grumble. but if we'd all anxiously tak to makkin things smooth as we're able, ther'd be monny a better clooath'd back, an' monny a better spread table. it's a sad state o' things when a man cannot put ony faith in his brother, an fancies he'll chait if he can, an rejoice ovver th' fall ov another. an it's sad when yo see some at stand high in social position an power, to know at ther fortuns wor plann'd, an built, aght oth' wrecks o' those lower. it's sad to see luxury rife, an fortuns being thowtlessly wasted; while others are wearin out life, with the furst drops o' pleasure untasted. some in carriages rollin away, to a ball, or a rout, or a revel; but ther chariots may bear em some day varry near to the gates ov the devil. oh! charity surely is rare, or ther'd net be soa monny neglected; for ther's lots wi enuff an' to spare, an from them varry mich is expected. an tho' in this world they've ther fill of its pleasures, an wilfully blinded, let deeath come--an surely it will- they'll be then ov ther duties reminded. an when called on, they, tremblin wi fear, say "the hungry an nak'd we ne'er knew," that sentence shall fall o' ther ear- "depart from me; i never knew you." then, oh! let us do what we can, nor with this world's goods play the miser; if it's wise to lend money to man, to lend to the lord _must_ be wiser. coortin days. coortin days,--coortin days,--loved one an lover! what wod aw give if those days could come ovver? weddin is joyous,--its pleasur unstinted; but coortin is th' sweetest thing ivver invented. walkin an talkin, an nursin love's spark, charmin an warmin tho th' neet may be dark. oh! but it's nice when yor way's long and dreary, to walk wi yor arm raand th' waist ov yor dearie; tellin sweet falsehoods, the haars to beguile em, (if yo tell'd em ith' dayleet they'd put yo ith' sylum.) but ivverything's fair i' love an i' war, but be sewer to act square;- an do if yo dar! squeezin an kissin an kissin an squeezin,-laughin an coughin an ticklin an sneezin,-but remember,--if maybe, sich knowledge yo lack, allus smile in her face, but, sneeze at her back. yo may think, if a fooil, sich a thing nivver mattered, but a lass, as a rule, doesn't want to be spattered. when th' coortin neet comes, tho' yor appetite's ragin, dooant fill up wi oonions, wi mar'gum an sage in, remember, the darlin, where centred yor bliss is, likes to fancy, yor livin on love an her kisses. an yor linen, if plain, have all spotless an fresh: then shoo connot complain, when shoo has it to wesh. when love's flame's been lit, an burst into a glow, th' best thing yo can do,--(that's as far as aw know;) is to goa to a parson an pay him his price, an to join yo together he'll put in a splice, then together yo'll face this world's battle an bother, an if that isn't th' case, yo can feight for each other. sweet mistress moore. mistress moore is johnny's wife, an johnny is a druffen sot; he spends th' best portion of his life ith' beershop wi a pipe an pot. at schooil together john an me set side by side like trusty chums, an nivver did we disagree till furst we met sweet lizzy lumbs. at john shoo smiled, an aw wor riled; shoo showed shoo loved him moor nor me; her bonny e'en aw've seldom seen sin that sad day shoo slighted me. aw've heeard fowk say shoo has to want, for johnny ofttimes gets oth' spree; he spends his wages in a rant, an leeaves his wife to pine or dee. an monny a time awve ligged i' bed, an cursed my fate for bein poor, an monny a bitter tear awve shed, when thinkin ov sweet mistress moore. for shoo's mi life is johnny's wife, an tho to love her isn't reet, what con aw do, when all th' neet throo awm dreamin ov her e'en soa breet. aw'll goa away an leeave this spot, for fear at we should ivver meet, for if we did, as sure as shot awst throw me daan anent her feet. aw know shoo'd think aw wor a fooil, to love a woman when shoo's wed, but sin aw saw her furst at schooil, it's been a wretched life aw've led. but th' time has come to leeave mi hooam, an th' sea between us sooin shall roar, yet still mi heart will nivver part wi' th' image ov sweet mistress moore. waivin mewsic. ther's mewsic ith' shuttle, ith' loom, an ith frame, ther's melody mingled ith' noise; for th' active ther's praises, for th' idle ther's blame, if they'd harken to th' saand of its voice. an when flaggin a bit, how refreshin to feel as you pause an look raand on the throng, at the clank o' the tappet, the hum o' the wheel, sing this plain unmistakable song:- nick a ting, nock a ting; wages keep pocketing; workin for little is better nor laikin; twist an twine, reel an wind; keep a contented mind; troubles are oft ov a body's own makin. to see workin fowk wi a smile o' ther face as they labour thear day after day; an hear th' women's voices float sweetly throo th' place, as they join i' some favorite lay; it saands amang th' din, as the violet seems at peeps aght th' green dockens among, diffusing a charm ovver th' rest by its means, thus it blends i' that steady old song; nick a ting, nock a ting, wages keep pocketing; workin for little is better nor laikin; twist an twine, reel an wind, keep a contented mind, troubles are oft ov a body's own makin. an then see what lessons are laid out anent us, as pick after pick follows time after time, an warns us tho' silent, to let nowt prevent us from strivin by little endeavours to climb; th' world's made o' trifles, its dust forms a mountain, then nivver despair as yor trudgin along, if troubles will come an yor spirits dishearten, yo'll find ther's relief i' that steady owd song; nick a ting, nock a ting; wages keep pocketin; workin for little is better nor laikin; twist an twine, reel an wind; keep a contented mind; troubles are oft ov a body's own makin. life's warp comes throo heaven, th' weft's faand bi us sen, to finish a piece we're compell'd to ha booath; th' warp's reight, but if th' weft should be faulty, how then? noa waiver ith' world can produce a gooid clooath. then let us endeavour by workin an strivin, to finish awr piece so's noa fault can be fun, an then i' return for awr pains an contrivin, th' takker in 'll reward us and whisper "well done." clink a clank, clink a clank, workin withaat a thank, may be awr fortun, if soa nivver mind it, strivin to do awr best, we shall be reight at last, if we lack comfort now, then shall we find it. jimmy's choice. one limpin jimmy wed a lass; an this wor th' way it coom to pass-he'd saved a little bit o' brass, an soa he thowt he'd ventur to tak unto hissen a wife, to ease his mind ov all its strife, an be his comfort all throo life- an, pray, what should prevent her? "awve brass enuff," he sed, "for two, an noa wark at awm foorced to do, but all th' day long can bill an coo, just like a little pigeon. aw nivver have a druffen rant; aw nivver praich teetotal cant; aw nivver booast at awm a saint, i' matters o' religion. "then with a gradely chap like me, a lass can live mooast happily; an awl let all awr neighbors see we'll live withaat a wrangle; for if two fowk just have a mind to be to one another kind, they each may be as easy twined as th' hannel ov a mangle. "for love's moor paar nor oaths an blows, an kind words, ivverybody knows, saves monny a hundred thaasand rows; an soa we'll start wi kindness; for if a chap thinks he can win love or respect wi oaths an din, he'll surely find he's been let in, an sarved reight for his blindness." soa jimmy went to tell his tale to a young lass called sally swale, an just for fear his heart should fail, he gate a drop o' whiskey. net mich, but just enuff, yo see, to put a spark into his e'e, an mak his tongue a trifle free, an mak him strong an frisky. young sally, shoo wor varry shy, an when he'd done shoo breathed a sigh, an then began to sob an cry as if her heart wor brokken. "nay, sally lass,--pray what's amiss?" he sed, an gave a lovin kiss, "if awd expected owt like this, awm sewer awd ne'er ha spokken." at last shoo dried her bonny een, an felt as praad as if a queen; an nivver king has ivver been one hawf as praad as jimmy. an soa they made all matters sweet, an one day quietly stroll'd up th' street, till th' owd church door coom into seet- says jim, "come, lass, goa wi me." then wed they wor an off they went to start ther life ov sweet content; an sally ax'd him whear he meant ther honey-mooin to spend at? says jim, "we're best at hooam, aw think, we've lots o' stuff to ait an drink." but sally gave a knowin wink, an sed, "nay, awl net stand that. "tha needn't think aw meean to be shut up like in a nunnery; awm fond o' life, an love a spree, as weel as onny other." "tha cannot goa," sed jim, "that's flat." "but goa aw shall, awl tell thee that! what wod ta have a woman at? shame on thee for sich bother!" jim scrat his heead, "nah lass," sed he, "one on us mun a maister be, or else we'st allus disagree, an nivver live contented." sed sal, "awd ne'er a maister yet, an if tha thowt a slave to get, tha'll find thisen mista'en, awl bet; awm sewer aw nivver meant it." jim tried his best to change her mind, but mud as weel ha saved his wind; an soa to prove he worn't unkind, he gave in just to pleeas her. he's allus follow'd th' plan sin then, to help her just to pleeas hersen; an nah, he says, "they're fooilish men at wed a wife to teeas her." old moorcock. awm havin a smook bi misel, net a soul here to spaik a word to, awve noa gossip to hear nor to tell, an ther's nowt aw feel anxious to do. awve noa noashun o' writin a line, tho' awve just dipt mi pen into th' ink, towards warkin aw dooant mich incline, an awm ommost too lazy to think. awve noa riches to mak me feel vain, an yet awve as mich as aw need; awve noa sickness to cause me a pain, an noa troubles to mak mi heart bleed. awr dolly's crept off to her bed, an aw hear shoo's beginnin to snoor; (that upset me when furst we wor wed, but nah it disturbs me noa moor.) like me, shoo taks things as they come, makkin th' best o' what falls to her lot, shoo's content wi her own humble hooam, for her world's i' this snug little cot. we know at we're booath growin old, but time's traces we hardly can see; an tho' fifty years o'er us have roll'd, shoo's still th' same young dolly to me. her face may be wrinkled an grey, an her een may be losin ther shine, but her heart's just as leetsome to-day as it wor when aw furst made her mine. awve mi hobbies to keep me i' toit, awve noa whistle nor bell to obey, awve mi wark when aw like to goa to it, an mi time's all mi own, neet an day. an tho' some pass me by wi a sneer, an some pity mi lowly estate, aw think awve a deeal less to fear nor them at's soa wealthy an great. when th' sky stretches aght blue an breet, an th' heather's i' blossom all round, makkin th' mornin's cooil breezes smell sweet, as they rustle along ovver th' graand. when aw listen to th' lark as he sings far aboon, ommost lost to mi view, aw lang for a pair ov his wings, to fly wi him, an sing like him, too. when aw sit under th' shade of a tree, wi mi book, or mi pipe, or mi pen, aw think them at's sooary for me had far better pity thersen. when wintry storms howl ovver th' moor, an snow covers all, far an wide, aw carefully festen mi door, an creep cloise up to th' fire inside. a basin o' porridge may be, to some a despisable dish, but it allus comes welcome to me, if awve nobbut as mich as aw wish. mi cloas are old-fashioned, they say, an aw havn't a daat but it's true; yet they answer ther purpose to-day just as weel as if th' fashion wor new. let them at think joys nobbut dwell wheear riches are piled up i' stoor, try to get a gooid share for thersel' but leave me mi snug cot up o'th' moor. mi bacca's all done, soa aw'll creep off to bed, just as quite as a maase, for if dolly's disturbed ov her sleep, ther'll be a fine racket i'th' haase. aw mun keep th' band i'th' nick if aw can, for if shoo gets her temper once crost, all comforts an joys aw may plan is just soa mich labour at's lost. th' short-timer. some poets sing o' gipsy queens, an some o' ladies fine; aw'll sing a song o' other scenes,- a humbler muse is mine. jewels, an' gold, an silken frills, are things too heigh for me; but wol mi harp wi vigour thrills, aw'll strike a chord for thee. poor lassie wan, do th' best tha can, although thi fate be hard. a time ther'll be when sich as thee shall have yor full reward. at hauf-past five tha leaves thi bed, an off tha goes to wark; an gropes thi way to mill or shed, six months o'th' year i'th' dark. tha gets but little for thi pains, but that's noa fault o' thine; thi maister reckons up _his_ gains, an ligs i bed till nine. poor lassie wan, &c. he's little childer ov his own 'at's quite as old as thee; they ride i' cushioned carriages 'at's beautiful to see; they'd fear to spoil ther little hand, to touch thy greasy brat: it's wark like thine at makes em grand- they nivver think o' that. poor lassie wan, &c. i' summer time they romp an' play where flowers grow wild and sweet; ther bodies strong, ther spirits gay, they thrive throo morn to neet. but tha's a cough, aw hear tha has, an oft aw've known thee sick; but tha mun work, poor little lass, foa hauf-a-craan a wick. poor lassie wan, &c. aw envy net fowks' better lot- aw shouldn't like to swap. aw'm quite contented wi mi cot; aw'm but a workin chap. but if aw had a lot o' brass aw'd think o' them at's poor; aw'd have yo' childer workin less, an mak yor wages moor. poor lassie wan, &c. "there is a land of pure delight, where saints immortal reign, infinite day excludes the night, and pleasures banish pain." noa fact'ry bell shall greet thi ear, i' that sweet home ov love; an' those at scorn thi sufferins here may envy thee above. poor lassie wan, &c. sol an' doll. awm a young yorksher lad as jolly an gay, as a lark on a sunshiny mornin, an dolly's as fair as the flaars i' may, an trubbles we meean to be scornin. if we live wol to-morn aw shall make her mi wife, an we'll donce to a rollickin measure, for we booath are agreed to begin wedded life, as we mean to goa throo it, wi pleasure. then we'll donce an be gay, an we'll laff care away, an we'll nivver sit broodin o'er sorrow, an mi dolly an me, ax yo all to a spree; come an donce at awr weddin to-morrow. awst be bashful awm sewer, aw wor ne'er wed befoor, an aw feel rayther funny abaat it; but dolly aw guess can drag me aght o'th' mess, an if ther's owt short we'll do baat it. mi mother says "sol, if tha'll leave it to doll, tha'll find shoo can taich thee a wrinkle, shoo's expectin some fun befoor it's all done aw can tell, for aw saw her e'en twinkle." then we'll donce &c. we've a haase to step in, all as smart as a pin, an we've beddin an furnitur plenty; we've a pig an a caah, an aw connot tell ha monny paands, but aw think abaat twenty. we've noa family yet, but ther will be aw'll bet, for true comfort aw think ther's nowt licks it an if they dooant come, aw'll just let it alooan, an aw'll leave it for dolly to fix it. then we'll donce &c. their fred. "he's a nowt! if ther's owt at a child shouldn't do, he mun try, or know why, befoor th' day's getten throo. an his dad, ov his lad taks noa nooatice at all, aw declare it's net fair for job's patience he'd stall. awm his mam,- that aw am, but awm ommost worn aght, a gooid lick wi a stick, he just cares nowt abaght. thear he goes, wi a nooas like a chaneller's shop! aw may call, or may bawl, but th' young imp willn't stop. thear's a cat, he spies that, nah he's having a race!- that's his way ivvery day if a cat's abaght th' place. but if aw wor near by, awd just fotch him a seawse! come thee here! does ta hear? come thi ways into th' haase! who's that flat? what's he at? if he touches awr fred, if aw live aw'll goa rive ivvery hair off his head! what's th' lad done? it's his fun! tried to kill yor old cat? well suppooas at he does! bless mi life! what bi that? he's mi own, flesh an' booan, an aw'll net have him lickt; if he's wild, he's a child, pray what can yo expect! did um doy! little joy! let's ha nooan o' them skrikes nowty man! why he can kill a cat if he likes. hush a bee, hush a bye, little freddy munnot cry." love an' labor. th' swallows are buildin ther nests, jenny, th' springtime has come with its flowers; th' fields in ther greenest are drest, jenny, an th' songsters mak music ith' bowers. daisies an buttercups smile, jenny, laughingly th' brook flows along;-an awm havin a smook set oth' stile, jenny, but this bacca's uncommonly strong. aw wonder if thy heart like mine, jenny, finds its love-burden hard to be borne; do thi een wi' breet tears ov joy shine, jenny, as they glistened an shone yestermorn? ther's noa treasure wi' thee can compare, jenny, aw'd net change thi for wealth or estate;-but aw'll goa nah some braikfast to share, jenny, for aw can't live baght summat to ait. like a nightingale if aw could sing, jenny, aw'd pearch near thy winder at neet, an mi choicest love ditties aw'd bring, jenny, an lull thi to rest soft an sweet. or if th' wand ov a fairy wor mine, jenny, aw'd grant thi whate'er tha could wish;-but theas porridge are salty as brine, jenny, an they'll mak me as dry as a fish. a garland ov lillies aw'd twine, jenny, an place on thy curls golden bright, but aw know 'at they quickly wod pine, jenny, i' despair at thy brow's purer white. them angels 'at fell bi ther pride, jenny, wi' charms like thine nivver wor deckt;-but yond muck 'at's ith' mistal's to side, jenny, aw mun start on or else aw'st get seckt. varry sooin aw shall mak thi mi wife, jenny, an awr cot shall a paradise be; tha shall nivver know trubble or strife, jenny, if aw'm able to keep 'em throo thee. if ther's happiness this side oth' grave, jenny, tha shall sewerly come in for thi share;-an aw'll tell thi what else tha shall have, jenny, when aw've a two-or-three moor minnits to spare. nooan so bad. this world is net a paradise, tho' railly aw dooant see, what fowk should growl soa mich abaat;- its gooid enuff for me. it's th' only world aw've ivver known, an them 'at grummel soa, an praich abaat a better land, seem varry looath to goa. ther's some things 'at awm apt to think, if aw'd been th' engineer, aw might ha changed,--but its noa use,- aw connot interfere. we're foorced to tak it as it is; what faults we think we see; it mayn't be what it owt to be,- but its gooid enuff for me. then if we connot alter things, its folly to complain; to hunt for faults an failins, allus gooas agean my grain. when ther's soa monny pleasant things, why should we hunt for pain, if troubles come, we needn't freeat, for sunshine follows rain. if th' world gooas cruckt,--what's that to us? we connot mak it straight; but aw've come to this conclusion, 'at its th' fowk 'at isn't reight. if ivverybody 'ud try to do ther best wi' th' means they had, aw think 'at they'd agree wi' me,- this world is nooan soa bad. th' honest hard worker. it's hard what poor fowk mun put up wi'! what insults an snubs they've to tak! what bowin an scrapin's expected, if a chap's a black coit on his back. as if clooas made a chap ony better, or riches improved a man's heart; as if muck in a carriage smell'd sweeter nor th' same muck wod smell in a cart. give me one, hard workin, an' honest, tho' his clooas may be greasy and coorse; if it's muck 'at's been getten bi labor, it doesn't mak th' man onny worse. awm sick o' thease simpering dandies, 'at think coss they've getten some brass, they've a reight to luk daan at th' hard workers, an' curl up their nooas as they pass. it's a poor sooart o' life to be leadin, to be curlin an partin ther hair; an seekin one's own fun and pleasure, nivver thinkin ha others mun fare. it's all varry weel to be spendin ther time at a hunt or a ball, but if th' workers war huntin an doncin, whativer wod come on us all? ther's summat beside fun an frolic to live for, aw think, if we try; th' world owes moor to a honest hard worker nor it does to a rich fly-bi-sky. tho' wealth aw acknowledge is useful, an' awve oft felt a want on't misen, yet th' world withaat brass could keep movin, but it wodn't do long withaat men. one truth they may put i' ther meersham, an smoke it--that is if they can; a man may mak hooshuns o' riches, but riches can ne'er mak a man. then give me that honest hard worker, 'at labors throo mornin to neet, tho' his rest may be little an seldom, yet th' little he gets he finds sweet. he may rank wi' his wealthier brother, an rank heigher, aw fancy, nor some; for a hand 'at's weel hoofed wi' hard labor is a passport to th' world 'at's to come. for we know it's a sin to be idle, as man's days i' this world are but few; then let's all wi' awr lot be contented, an continue to toil an to tew. for ther's one thing we all may be sure on, if we each do awr best wol we're here; 'at when th' time comes for reckonin, we're called on, we shall have varry little to fear. an at last, when we throw daan awr tackle, an are biddin farewell to life's stage, may we hear a voice whisper at partin, "come on, lad! tha's haddled thi wage." peevish poll. aw've heeard ov mary mischief, an aw've read ov natterin nan; an aw've known a grumlin judy, an a cross-grained sarah ann; but wi' all ther faults an failins, they still seem varry tame, compared to one aw'll tell yo on, but aw dursn't tell her name. aw'll simply call her peevish poll, that name suits to a dot; but if shoo thowt 'twor meant for her, yo bet, aw'st get it hot. shoo's fat an fair an forty, an her smile's as sweet as spice, an her voice is low an tender when shoo's tryin to act nice. shoo's lots ov little winnin ways, 'at fit her like a glove; an fowk say shoo's allus pleasant,- just a woman they could love. but if they nobbut had her, they'd find aght for a start, it isn't her wi' th' sweetest smile at's getten th' kindest heart. haivver her poor husband lives an stands it,--that licks doll! aw'st ha been hung if aw'd been cursed wi' sich a wife as poll! her children three, sneak in an aght as if they wor hawf deead they seem expectin, hawf ther time, a claat o'th' side o'th' heead. if they goa aght to laik, shoo storms abaat her looanly state; if they stop in, then shoo declares they're allus in her gate. if they should start to sing or tawk shoo tells 'em, "hold yor din!" an if they all sit mum, shoo says, "it railly is a sin to think ha shoo's to sit an mope, all th' time at they're away, an when they're hooam they sit like stoops withaat a word to say." if feelin cold they creep near th' fire, they'll varry sooin get floored; then shoo'll oppen th' door an winder declarin shoo's fair smoored. when its soa swelterin an hot they can hardly get ther breeath, shoo'll pile on coils an shut all cloise, an sware shoo's starved to deeath. whativver's wrang when they're abaat, is their fault for bein thear; an if owt's wrang when they're away, it's coss they wornt near. to keep 'em all i' misery, is th' only joy shoo knows; an then shoo blames her husband, for bein allus makkin rows. poor chap he's wearin fast away,- he'll leeav us before long; a castiron man wod have noa chonce wi' sich a woman's tongue. an then shoo'll freeat and sigh, an try his virtues to extol; but th' mourner, mooast sincere will be that chap 'at next weds poll. the old bachelor's story. it was an humble cottage, snug in a rustic lane, geraniums and fuschias peep'd from every window-pane; the dark-leaved ivy dressed its walls, houseleek adorned the thatch; the door was standing open wide,- they had no need of latch. and close besides the corner there stood an old stone well, which caught a mimic waterfall, that warbled as it fell. the cat, crouched on the well-worn steps, was blinking in the sun; the birds sang out a welcome to the morning just begun. an air of peace and happiness pervaded all the scene; the tall trees formed a back ground of rich and varied green; and all was steeped in quietness, save nature's music wild, when all at once, methought i heard the sobbing of a child. i listened, and the sound again smote clearly on my ear: "can there,"--i wondering asked myself- "can there be sorrow here?"-i looked within, and on the floor was sat a little boy, striving to soothe his sister's grief by giving her a toy. "why weeps your sister thus?" i asked; "what is her cause of grief? come tell me, little man," i said, "come tell me, and be brief." clasping his sister closer still, he kissed her tear-stained face, and thus, in homely yorkshire phrase, he told their mournful case. -----"mi mammy, sir, shoos liggin thear, i' th' shut-up bed i'th' nook; an' tho aw've tried to wakken her, shoo'll nawther spaik nor look. mi sissy wants her porridge, an its time shoo had 'em too; but th' foir's gooan aght an th' mail's all done- aw dooant know what to do. an o, my mammy's varry cold- just come an touch her arm: aw've done mi best to hap her up, but connot mak her warm. mi daddy he once fell asleep, an nivver wakken'd moor: aw saw 'em put him in a box, an tak him aght o'th' door. he nivver comes to see us nah, as once he used to do, an let mi ride upon his back- me, an mi sissy too. an if they know mi mammy sleeps, soa cold, an white, an still, aw'm feeard they'll come an fotch her, sir; o, sir, aw'm feeard they will! aw happen could get on misen, for aw con work a bit, but little sissy, sir, yo see, shoo's varry young as yet. oh! dunnot let fowk tak mi mam! help me to rouse her up! an if shoo wants her physic, see,--it's in this little cup. aw know her heead wor bad last neet, when putting us to bed; shoo said, 'god bless yo, little things!' an that wor all shoo sed. aw saw a tear wor in her e'e- in fact, it's seldom dry: sin daddy went shoo allus cries, but nivver tells us why. aw think it's coss he isn't here, 'at maks her e'en soa dim; shoo says, he'll nivver come to us, but we may goa to him. but if shoo's gooan an left us here, what mun we do or say?-we connot follow her unless, somebody 'll show us th' way." ---my heart was full to bursting, when i heard the woeful tale; i gazed a moment on the face which death had left so pale; then clasping to my heaving breast the little orphan pair, i sank upon my bended knees, and offered up a prayer, that god would give me power to aid those children in distress, that i might as a father be unto the fatherless. then coaxingly i led them forth; and as the road was long, i bore them in my arms by turns- their tears had made me strong. i took them to my humble home, where now they may be seen, the lad,--a noble-minded youth,- his "sissy,"--beauty's queen. and now if you should chance to see, far from the bustling throng, an old man, whom a youth and maid lead tenderly along;-and if you, wondering, long to know the history of the three,-they are the little orphan pair- the poor old man is me: and oft upon the grassy mound 'neath which their parents sleep, they bend the knee, and pray for me; i pray for them and weep. did yo ivver! "gooid gracious!" cried susy, one fine summer's morn, "here's a bonny to do! aw declare! aw wor nivver soa capt sin th' day aw wor born! aw neer saw sich a seet at a fair. here, sally! come luk! there's a maase made its nest reight i'th' craan o' mi new sundy bonnet! haivver its fun its way into this chist, that caps me! aw'm fast what to mak on it! it's cut! sithee thear! it's run reight under th' bed! an luk here! what's these little things stirrin? if they arn't some young uns 'at th' gooid-for-nowt's bred, may aw be as deead as a herrin! but what does ta say? 'aw mun draand 'em?' nooan soa! just luk ha they're seekin ther mother; shoo must be a poor little softheead to goa; for awm nooan baan to cause her noa bother. but its rayther to bad, just to mak her hooam thear; for mi old en's net fit to be seen in; an this new en, awm thinkin, 'll luk rayther queer after sich a rum lot as that's been in. but shut up awr pussy, an heed what aw say; yo mun keep a sharp eye or shoo'll chait us; ah if shoo sees th' mother shoo'll kill it! an pray what mun become o' these poor helpless crayturs? a'a dear! fowk have mich to be thankful for, yet, 'at's a roof o' ther own to cawer under, for if we'd to seek ony nook we could get, whativver'd come on us aw wonder? we should nooan on us like to be turned aght o' door, wi' a lot o' young bairns to take care on; an altho' awm baght bonnet, an think misen poor, what little aw have yo'st have't share on. that poor little maase aw dooant think meant me harm, shoo ne'er knew what that bonnet had cost me; all shoo wanted wor some little nook snug an warm an a gooid two-o'-three shillin its lost me. aw should think as they've come into th' world born i' silk, they'll be aristocratical varmin; but awm wasting mi time! awl goa get 'em some milk, an na daat but th' owd lass likes it warmin. bless mi life! a few drops 'll sarve them! if we try awm weel sure we can easily spare 'em, but as sooin as they're able, awl mak 'em all fly! nivver mind if aw dooant! harum scarum!" a quiet tawk. "nah, lass, caar thi daan, an let's have a chat,- it's long sin we'd th' haase to ussen; just give me thi nooations o' this thing an that, what tha thinks abaat measures an men. we've lived a long time i' this world an we've seen, a share of its joys an its cares; tha wor nooan born baght wit, an tha'rt net varry green, soa let's hear what tha thinks of affairs." "well, jooany, aw've thowt a gooid deal i' mi time, an aw think wi' one thing tha'll agree,-if tha'd listened sometimes to advice sich as mine, it mud ha been better for thee. this smookin an drinkin--tha knows tha does booath, it's a sad waste o' brass tha'll admit; but awm net findin fault,--noa indeed! awd be looath! but aw want thi to reason a bit." "then tha'rt lawse i' thi tawk, tho' tha doesn't mean wrang, an tha says stuff aw darnt repeat; an tha grumels at hooam if we chonce to be thrang, when tha comes throo thi wark of a neet. an if th' childer are noisy, tha kicks up a shine, tha mud want 'em as dummy as wax; an if they should want owt to laik wi' 'at's thine, they're ommost too freetened to ax." "an they all want new clooas, they're ashamed to be seen, an aw've net had a new cap this year; an awm sewer it's fair cappin ha careful we've been, there's nooan like us for that onnywhear." "come, lass, that's enuff,--when aw ax'd thi to talk, it worn't a sarmon aw meant, soa aw'll don on mi hat, an aw'll goa for a walk, for dang it! tha'rt nivver content!" lines, on startling a rabbit. whew!--tha'rt in a famous hurry! awm nooan baan to try to catch thi! aw've noa dogs wi' me to worry thee poor thing,--aw like to watch thi. tha'rt a runner! aw dar back thi, why, tha ommost seems to fly! did ta think aw meant to tak thi? well, awm fond o' rabbit pie. aw dooan't want th' world to misen, mun, awm nooan like a dog i'th' manger; yet still 'twor happen best to run, for tha'rt th' safest aght o' danger. an sometimes fowks' inclination leads 'em to do what they shouldn't;-but tha's saved me a temptation,- aw've net harmed thi, 'coss aw couldn't. aw wish all temptations fled me, as tha's fled throo me to-day; for they've oft to trouble led me, for which aw've had dear to pay. an a taicher wise aw've faand thi, an this lesson gained throo thee; 'at when dangers gether raand me, th' wisest tactics is to flee. they may call thi coward, bunny, but if mine had been thy lot, aw should fail to see owt funny, to be stewin in a pot. life to thee, awm sewer is sweeter, nor thi flesh to me could prove; may thy lot an mine grow breeter, blest wi' liberty an love. nivver heed. let others boast ther bit o' brass, that's moor nor aw can do; aw'm nobbut one o'th' workin class, 'at's strugglin to pool throo; an if it's little 'at aw get, it's little 'at aw need; an if sometimes aw'm pinched a bit, aw try to nivver heed. some fowk they tawk o' brokken hearts, an mourn ther sorry fate, becoss they can't keep sarvent men, an dine off silver plate; aw think they'd show more gradely wit to listen to my creed, an things they find they connot get, why, try to nivver heed. ther's some 'at lang for parks an halls, an letters to ther name; but happiness despises walls, it's nooan a child o' fame. a robe may lap a woeful chap, whose heart wi' grief may bleed, wol rags may rest on joyful breast, soa hang it! nivver heed! th' sun shines as breet for me as them, an' th' meadows smell as sweet, th' larks sing as sweetly o'er mi heead, an th' flaars smile at mi feet. an when a hard day's wark is done, aw ait mi humble feed; mi appetite's a relish fun, soa hang it, nivver heed. gronfayther's days. 'a, johnny! a'a, johnny! aw'm sooary for thee! but come thi ways to me, an sit o' mi knee; for it's shockin to hearken to th' words 'at tha says;-ther wor nooan sich like things i' thi gronfayther's days. when aw wor a lad, lads wor lads, tha knows, then; but nahdays they owt to be 'shamed o' thersen; for they smook, an they drink, an get other bad ways; things wor different once i' thi gronfayther's days. aw remember th' furst day aw went cooartin a bit,-an walked aght thi gronny;--aw'st nivver forget; for we blushed wol us faces wor all in a blaze;-it wor noa sin to blush i' thi gronfayther's days, ther's noa lasses nah, john, 'at's fit to be wed; they've false teeth i' ther maath, an false hair o' ther heead; they're a mak-up o' buckram, an waddin, an stays,-but a lass wor a lass i' thi gronfayther's days. at that time a tradesman dealt fairly wi' th' poor, but nah a fair dealer can't keep oppen th' door; he's a fooil if he fails, he's a scamp if he pays; ther wor honest men lived i' thi gronfayther's days. ther's chimleys an factrys i' ivvery nook nah, but ther's varry few left 'at con fodder a caah; an ther's telegraff poles all o'th' edge o'th' highways, whear grew bonny green trees i' thi gronfayther's days. we're tell'd to be thankful for blessin's 'at's sent, an aw hooap 'at tha'll alius be blessed wi' content; tha mun mak th' best tha con o' this world wol tha stays, but aw wish tha'd been born i' thi gronfayther's days. awr dooad. her ladyship's getten a babby,- an they're makkin a famous to do,-they say,--providence treated her shabby- shoo wor fairly entitled to two. but judgin bi th' fuss an rejoicin, it's happen as weel as it is; for they could'nt mak moor ov a hoilful, nor what they are makkin o' this. he's heir to ther titles an riches, far moor nor he ivver can spend; wi' hard times an cold poverty's twitches, he'll nivver be called to contend. life's rooad will be booarded wi' flaars, an pleasur will wait on his train, he can suck at life's sweets, an its saars will nivver need cause him a pain. aw cannot help thinkin ha diff'rent it wor when awr dooady wor born; aw'd to tramp fifteen mile throo a snow storm, one bitterly, cold early morn. aw'd to goa ax old mally-o'th'-hippins, if shoo'd act as booath doctor an nurse;-an god bless her! shoo sed, "aye, an welcome," tho' aw had'nt a meg i' mi purse. 'twor hard scrattin to get what wor needed, but we managed someha, to pool throo'; an what we wor short we ne'er heeded, for that child fun us plenty to do. but we'd health, an we loved one another, soa things breetened up after a while; an nah, that young lad an his mother, cheer mi on wi' ther prattle an smile. them at th' hall, may mak feeastin an bluster, an ther table may grooan wi' its looad; but ther's one thing aw know they can't muster,- that's a lad hawf as grand as awr dooad. for his face is like lillies an rooases, an his limbs sich as seldom are seen; an just like his father's his nooas is, an he's getten his mother's blue een. soa th' lord an his lady are welcome, to mak all they like o' ther brat; they may hap him i' silk an i' velvet,- he's net a bit better for that. i' life's race they'll meet all sooarts o' weather, but if they start fair on th' same rooad, they _may_ run pratty nearly together, but aw'll bet two to one on awr dooad. whear natur missed it. as rueben wor smookin his pipe tother neet, bi th' corner o'th' little "slip inn;" he spied some fowk marchin, an fancied he heeard a varry queer sooart ov a din. as nearer they coom he sed, "bless mi life! what means all this hullaballoo? if they dooant stop that din they'll sewer get run in, an just sarve 'em reight if they do." but as they approached, he saw wi' surprise, they seemed a respectable lot; an th' hymn at they sung he'd net heeard for soa long, wol he felt fairly rooited to th' spot. i'th' front wor a woman who walked backards rooad, beatin time wi' a big umberel, an he sed, "well, aw'll bet, that licks all aw've seen yet, what they'll do next noa mortal can tell." on they coom like a flood, an shoo saw rueben stood,- an her een seemed fair blazin wi' leet; "halt!" shoo cried, an shoo went an varry sooin sent rueben's pipe flyin off into th' street. "young man," shoo began, "if yo had been born to smoke that old pipe, then insteead, ov a nice crop o' hair natur wod a put thear a chimly at top o' thi heead." rueben felt rather mad, for 'twor all th' pipe he had, an he sed, "well, that happen mud be; but aw'm nobbut human, an thee bein a woman has proved a salvation to thee. if a chap had done that aw'd ha knocked him daan flat, but wi' yo its a different thing; but aw'm thinkin someha, th' same law will allaa me too smook, at allaas yo to sing." shoo gloored in his face an went back to her place, as shoo gave him a witherin luk; an swung her umbrel,--ovverbalanced, an fell an ligg'd sprawlin her length amang th' muck. all her army seemed dumb, an th' chap wi' th' big drum, turned a bulnex, an let on her chest; wol th' fiddles an flute wor ivvery one mute, an th' tamborines tuk a short rest. then rueben drew near, an he sed in her ear, as he lifted her onto her feet; "sometimes its as wise when we start to advise, to be mindful we're net indiscreet. if yo'd been intended to walk backardsway, to save yo from gettin that bump, dame natur, in kindness, aw'll ventur to say, wod ha planted a e'e i' yor bustle." that's all. mi hair is besprinkled wi' gray, an mi face has grown wrinkled an wan;-they say ivvery dog has his day, an noa daat its th' same way wi a man. aw know at mi day is nah passed, an life's twileet is all at remains; an neet's drawin near varry fast,- an will end all mi troubles an pains. aw can see misen, nah, as a lad, full ov mischief an frolic an fun;-an aw see what fine chonces aw had, an regret lots o' things at aw've done. thowtless deeds--unkind words--selfish gains,- time wasted, an more things beside, but th' saddest thowt ivver remains,- what aw could ha done, if aw'd but tried. aw've had a fair share ov life's joys, an aw've nivver known th' want ov a meal; aw've ne'er laiked wi' luxuries' toys, nor suffered what starvin fowk feel. but aw'm moor discontented to-day, when mi memory carries me back, to know what aw've gethered is clay, wol diamonds wor strewed on mi track. aw can't begin ovver agean, (maybe its as weel as it is,) soa aw'm waitin for th' life 'at's to be, for ther's nowt to be praad on i' this. when deeath comes, as sewerly it will, an aw'm foorced to respond to his call; fowk'll say, if they think on me still,- "well, he lived,--an that's abaat all." mary hanner's peanner. when aw cooarted mary hanner, aw wor young an varry shy; an shoo used to play th' peanner wol aw sheepishly sat by. aw lang'd to tell her summat, but aw railly hadn't th' pluck, tho' monny a time aw started, yet, somha aw allus stuck. aw'm sewer shoo must ha guess'd it, but shoo nivver gave a sign; shoo drummed at that peanner;- a'a! aw wish it had been mine! aw'd ha chopt it into matchwood,- aw'd ha punced it into th' street, it wor awful aggravatin, for shoo thumpt it ivvery neet. aw'd getten ommost sickened, when one day another chap aw saw thear, an he'd getten mary hanner on his lap. aw didn't stop to argyfy,- but fell'd him like an ox; an mary hanner tried to fly on top o'th' music box. but he wor gam,--an sich a job aw'd nivver had befor, we fowt, but aw proved maister, an aw punced him aght o'th' door. then like a tigercat, at me flew ragin mary hammer;-yo bet! shoo could thump summat else, besides her loud peanner! aw had to stand an tak her blows, until shoo'd geeten winded; "tha scamp!" shoo says, "tha little knows what bargainin tha's hindered! awr jack had nobbut coom to pay, becoss he's bowt th' peanner, an nah tha's driven him away!" "forgie me, mary hanner." aw ran aghtside an sooin fan jack, an humbly begged his parden;-"all reight,"--he sed, "aw'm commin back," he didn't care a farden. he paid her th' brass, then fetched a cart, an hauled away th' peanner;-we're wed sin then, an nowt shall part, me an mi mary hanner. grondad's lullaby. sleep bonny babby, thi grondad is near, noa harm can touch thee, sleep withaat fear; innocent craytur, soa helpless an waik, grondad wod give up his life for thy sake, sleep little beauty, angels thee keep, grondad is watchin, sleep, beauty, sleep. through the thick mist of past years aw luk back, vainly aw try to discover the track buried, alas! for no trace can aw see, ov the way aw once trod when as sinless as thee, sleep little beauty, angels thee keep, grondad is watchin, sleep, beauty, sleep. smilin in slumber,--dreamin ov bliss, feelin in fancy a fond mother's kiss; richer bi far nor a king on his throne, fearlessly facing a future unknown. sleep little beauty, angels thee keep, grondad is watchin, sleep, beauty, sleep. what wod aw give could aw once agean be, innocent, spotless an trustin as thee; may noa grief give thee occasion to weep, blessins attend thee!--sleep, beauty, sleep. sleep little beauty, angels thee keep, grondad is watchin, sleep, beauty, sleep. sixty, turned, to-day. aw'm turned o' sixty, nah, old lass, yet weel aw mind the time, when like a young horse turned to grass, aw gloried i' mi prime. aw'st ne'er forget that bonny face 'at stole mi heart away; tho' years have hurried on apace:- aw'm sixty, turned, to-day. we had some jolly pranks an gams, e'en fifty year ago, when sportive as a pair o' lambs, we nivver dreeamed ov woe. when ivvery morn we left us bed, wi' spirits leet an gay,-but nah, old lass, those days have fled:- aw'm sixty, turned, to-day. yet we've noa reason to repine, or luk back wi' regret; those youthful days ov thine an mine, live sweet in mem'ry yet. thy winnin smile aw still can see, an tho' thi hair's turned grey; tha'rt still as sweet an dear to me, tho' sixty, turned, to-day. we've troubles had, an sickness too, but then in spite ov all, we've somha managed to pool throo, whativver might befall. awr pleasurs far outweighed the pain we've met along life's way; an losses past aw caant as gain,- when sixty, turned, to-day. awr childer nah are wed an gooan, to mak hooams for thersels; but we shall nivver feel alooan, wol love within us dwells. we're drawin near awr journey's end, we can't much longer stay; yet still awr hearts together blend, tho' sixty, turned, to-day. then let us humbly bow the knee, to him, whose wondrous love, has helpt an guided thee an me, on th' pathway to above. his mercies we will ne'er forget, then let us praise an pray, to him whose wings protect us yet; tho' sixty, turned, to-day. that lad next door. aw've nowt agean mi naybors, an aw wod'nt have it sed 'at aw wor cross an twazzy, for aw'm kind an mild asteead. but ther's an end to patience, e'en job knew that aw'm sewer;-an he nivver had noa dealins wi' that lad 'at lives next door. it wod'nt do to tell 'em what aw think abaat that lad, one thing aw'm sarten sewer on, is, he's ivverything 'at's bad. he's nivver aght o' mischief, an he nivver stops his din,-he's noa sooiner aght o' one scrape, nor he's another in. if he wor mine aw'd thresh him, wol th' skin coom off his back; aw'd cure him teein door-snecks, then givin th' door a whack. aw'd leearn him to draw th' shape o' me wi' chalk on th' nessy door, an mak mud pies o' awr front steps an leeav 'em thear bi th' scooar. he's been a trifle quieter for this last day or two; he's up to some new devilment,- aw dooant know what he'll do. but here's his father comin, he's lukkin awful sad,-noa wonder,--aw'st be sad enuff if aw had sich a lad. aw nivver thowt 'at aw could feel sich sorrow, or should grieve, but little dick is varry sick, they dunnot think he'll live. aw'd nivver nowt agean him! aw liked that lad aw'm sure! pray god, be merciful, an spare that lad 'at lives next door. a summer shaar. it nobbut luks like tother day, sin jane an me first met; yet fifty years have rolled away, but still aw dooant forget. th' sundy schooil wor ovver, an th' rain wor teemin daan an shoo had nowt to cover her sundy hat an gaan. aw had an umberella, quite big enuff for two, soa aw made bold to tell her, shoo'd be sewer to get weet throo, unless shoo'd share it wi' me. shoo blushed an sed, "nay, ben, if they should see me wi' thi, what wod yo're fowk say then?" "ne'er heed," says aw, "tha need'nt care what other fowk may say; ther's room for me an some to spare, soa let's start on us way." shoo tuk mi arm wi' modest grace, we booath felt rayther shy; but then aw'm sewer 'twor noa disgrace, to keep her new clooas dry. aw tried to tawk on different things, but ivvery thowt aw'd had, seem'd to ha flown as if they'd wings, an left me speechless mad. but when we gate cloise to her door, aw stopt an whispered, "jane, aw'd like to walk wi' thee some moor, when it doesn't chonce to rain." shoo smiled an blushed an sed, "for shame!" but aw tuk courage then. aw cared net if all th' world should blame, aw meant to pleas misen, for shoo wor th' grandest lass i'th' schooil an th' best,--noa matter what;-aw should ha been a sackless fooil, to miss a chonce like that. soa oft we met to stroll an tawk, noa matter, rain or shine; an one neet as we tuk a walk, aw ax't her to be mine. shoo gave consent, an sooin we wed:-sin' then we've had full share ov rough an smooth, yet still we've led a life ov little care. an monny a time aw say to jane, if things luk dull an bad;-cheer up! tha knows we owe to th' rain all th' joys o' life we've had. awr lad. beautiful babby! beautiful lad! pride o' thi mother and joy o' thi dad! full ov sly tricks an sweet winnin ways;- two cherry lips whear a smile ivver plays; two little een ov heavenly blue,- wonderinly starin at ivverything new, two little cheeks like leaves of a rooas,- an planted between em a wee little nooas. a chin wi' a dimple 'at tempts one to kiss;- nivver wor bonnier babby nor this. two little hands 'at are seldom at rest,- except when asleep in thy snug little nest. two little feet 'at are kickin all day, up an daan, in an aght, like two kittens at play. welcome as dewdrops 'at freshen the flaars, soa has thy commin cheered this life ov awrs. what tha may come to noa mortal can tell;- we hooap an we pray 'at all may be well. we've other young taistrels, one, two an three, but net one ith' bunch is moor welcome nor thee. sometimes we are tempted to grummel an freeat, becoss we goa short ov what other fowk get. poverty sometimes we have as a guest, but tha needn't fear, tha shall share ov the best. what are fowks' riches to mother an me? all they have wodn't buy sich a babby as thee. aw wor warned i' mi young days 'at weddin browt woe, 'at labor an worry wod keep a chap low,-'at love aght o' th' winder wod varry sooin flee, when poverty coom in at th' door,--but aw see old fowk an old sayins sometimes miss ther mark, for love shines aght breetest when all raand is dark. ther's monny a nobleman, wed an hawf wild, 'at wod give hawf his fortun to have sich a child. then why should we envy his wealth an his lands, tho' sarvents attend to obey his commands? for we have the treasures noa riches can buy, an aw think we can keep 'em,--at leeast we can try; an if it should pleeas him who orders all things, to call yo away to rest under his wings,-tho' to part wod be hard, yet this comfort is giv'n, we shall know 'at awr treasures are safe up i' heaven, whear no moth an noa rust can corrupt or destroy, nor thieves can braik in, nor troubles annoy. blessins on thi! wee thing,--an whativver thi lot, tha'rt promised a mansion, tho' born in a cot, what fate is befoor thi noa mortal can see, but christ coom to call just sich childer as thee. an this thowt oft cheers me, tho' fortun may fraan, tha may yet be a jewel to shine in his craan. bonny mary ann. when but a little toddlin thing, i'th' heather sweet shoo'd play, an like a fay on truant wing, shoo'd rammel far away; an even butterflees wod come her lovely face to scan, an th' burds wod sing ther sweetest song, for bonny mary ann. shoo didn't fade as years flew by, but added day bi day, some little touch ov witchery,- some little winnin way. her lovely limbs an angel face, to paint noa mortal can; shoo seemed possessed ov ivvery grace, did bonny mary ann. to win her wod be heaven indeed, soa off aw went to woo; mi tale o' love shoo didn't heed, altho' mi heart spake too. aw axt, "what wants ta, onnyway?" shoo sed, "aw want a man," then laffin gay, shoo tript away,- mi bonny mary ann. thinks aw, well, aw'll be man enough to leeav thi to thisen, some day tha'll net be quite as chuff, aw'll wait an try thi then. 'twor hard,--it ommost braik mi heart to carry aght mi plan; but honestly aw played mi part, an lost mi mary ann. for nah shoo's wed an lost yo see, but oh! revenge is sweet; her husband's less bi th' hawf nor me, his face is like a freet; an what enticed her aw must own, to guess noa mortal can; for what it is, is nobbut known,- to him an mary ann. that christmas puddin. ha weel aw remember that big christmas puddin, that puddin mooast famous ov all in a year; when each lad at th' table mud stuff all he could in, an ne'er have a word ov refusal to fear. ha its raand speckled face, craand wi' sprigs o' green holly seem'd sweeatin wi' juices ov currans an plums; an its fat cheeks made ivvery one laff an feel jolly, for it seem'd like a meetin ov long parted chums, that big christmas pudding,--that rich steamin puddin,- that scrumptious plum puddin, mi mother had made. ther wor father an mother,--awr hannah an mary, uncle tom an ont nancy, an smart cussin jim; an jim's sister kitty, as sweet as a fairy,-an sam wi' his fiddle,--we couldn't spare him. we'd rooast beef an mutton, a gooise full o' stuffin, boil'd turnips an taties, an moor o' sich kind; an fooamin hooam brewed,--why,--aw think we'd enuff in, to sail a big ship if we'd been soa inclined. an then we'd that puddin--that thumpin big puddin- that rich christmas puddin, mi mother had made. sam sat next to mary an jim tuk awr hannah, an kitty ov coorse had to sit next to me,-an th' stuff wor sooin meltin away in a manner, 'at mi mother declared 't wor a pleasur to see. they wor nowt could be mended, we sed when it ended, an all seem'd as happy as happy could be; an aw've nivver repented, for kitty consented, an shoo's still breet an bonny an a gooid wife to me. an aw think o' that puddin,--that fateful plum puddin,- that match makkin puddin mi mother had made. a bad sooart. aw'd rayther face a redwut brick, sent flyin at mi heead; aw'd rayther track a madman's steps, whearivver they may leead; aw'd rayther ventur in a den, an stail a lion's cub; aw'd rayther risk the foamin wave in an old leaky tub. aw'd rayther stand i'th' midst o'th' fray, whear bullets thickest shower; nor trust a mean, black hearted man, at's th' luck to be i' power. a redwut brick may miss its mark, a madman change his whim; a lion may forgive a theft; a leaky tub may swim. bullets may pass yo harmless by, an leeav all safe at last; a thaasand thunders shake the sky, an spare yo when they've past. yo may o'ercome mooast fell disease; mak poverty yo're friend; but wi' a mean, blackhearted man, noa mortal can contend. ther's malice in his kindest smile, his proffered hand's a snare; he's plannin deepest villany, when seemingly mooast fair. he leads yo on wi' oily tongue, swears he's yo're fastest friend; he get's yo once within his coils, an crushes yo i'th' end. old nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin aght, an seeks whom to devour; but he's a saint, compared to some, 'at's th' luk to be i' power. fairly weel-off. ov whooalsum food aw get mi fill,-ov drink aw seldom want a gill; aw've clooas to shield me free throo harm, should winds be cold or th' sun be warm. aw rarely have a sickly spell,-mi appetite aw'm fain to tell ne'er plays noa scurvy tricks on me, nowt ivver seems to disagree. aw've wark, as mich as aw can do,-sometimes aw laik a day or two,-mi wage is nobbut small, but yet, aw manage to keep aght o' debt. mi wife, god bless her! ivvery neet has slippers warmin for mi feet; an th' hearthstun cleean, an th' drinkin laid, an th' teah's brew'd an th' tooast is made. an th' childer weshed, an fairly dressed, wi' health an happiness are blest; an th' youngest, tho' aw say't misen, is th' grandest babby ivver seen. aw've friends, tho' humble like misen, they're gradely, upright, workin-men, they're nooan baght brains oth' sooart they're on;-they do what's reight as near's they con. aw tak small stock i' politics, for lib'ral shams an tooary tricks, have made me daat 'em one an all;-ther words are big, but deeds are small. aw goa to th' chapil, yet confess aw'm somewhat daatful, moor or less, for th' chaps at cracks up gloory soa, ne'er seem in onny haste to goa. to me, religion seems quite plain;-aw cause noa fellow-mortal pain, aw do a kind act when aw can, an hooap to dee an honest man. aw hooap to live till old an gray, an when th' time comes to goa away, aw feel convinced some place ther'll be, just fit for sich a chap as me. green fields, an trees, an brooks, an flaars, are treasures we can all call awrs, an when hooam is earth's fairest spot one should be thankful for his lot. aw'm nooan contented,--nay, net aw! aw nivver con be tho' aw try; but aw enjoy th' gooid things aw have, an if aw for moor blessins crave, it's more for th' sake o'th' wife an bairns, to spare them my life's ups an daans. well, yo may laff, an sneerin say, aw'm praad an selfish i' mi way;-maybe aw am,--but yo'll agree, ther's few fowk better off nor me. a warnin. a'a dear, what it is to be big! to be big i' one's own estimation, to think if we shake a lawse leg, 'at th' world feels a tremblin sensation. to fancy 'at th' nook 'at we fill, wod be empty if we worn't in it, 'at th' universe wheels wod stand still, if we should neglect things a minnit. to be able to tell all we meet, just what they should do or leeav undone; to be crammed full o' wisdom an wit, like a college professor throo lundun. to show statesmen ther faults an mistaks,- to show whear philosifers blunder; to prove parsons an doctors all quacks, an strike men o' science wi' wonder. but aw've nooaticed, theas varry big men, 'at strut along th' streets like a bantam, nivver do mich 'at meeans owt thersen, for they're seldom at hand when yo want 'em. at ther hooam, if yo chonce to call in, yo may find 'em booath humble an civil, wol th' wife tries to draand th' childer's din, bi yellin an raisin the devil. a'a dear, what it is to be big! but a chap 'at's a fooil needn't show it, for th' rest o'th' world cares net a fig, an a thaasand to one doesn't know it. consait, aw have often heeard say, is war for a chap nor consumption, an aw'll back a plain chap onny day, to succeed, if he's nobbut some gumpshun. my advice to young fowk is to try to grow honestly better an wiser; an yo'll find yor reward by-an-by,- true merit's its own advertiser. false colors yo'll seldom find fast, an a mak-believe is but a bubble, it's sure to get brussen at last, an contempt's all yo'll get for yor trouble. to w. f. wallett. the queen's jester. born at hull, november, 1806. died at beeston, near nottingham, march 13th, 1892. wallett, old friend! thy way's been long;- few livin can luk farther back; but tha has left, bi jest an song, a sunny gleam along thy track. aw'm nursin nah, mi childer's bairns, yet aw remember when a lad, sittin an listnin to thy yarns, an thank thi nah, for th' joys aw had. full monny a lesson, quaintly towt, wi' witty phrase, sticks to me still; nor can aw call to mind ther's owt tha sed or did, to work me ill! noa laff tha raised do aw regret,- wit mixed wi' wisdom wor thy plan, which had aw heeded, aw admit, aw should ha been a better man. aw'd like to meet thee once agean, an clink awr glasses as of yore, an hear thi rail at all things meean, an praise an cheer the honest poor. aw'd like to hear th' owd stooaries towld, 'at nobbut tha knows ha to tell;-unlike thisen they ne'er grow old;- a'a dear! aw'm growin owd misel. we'st miss thee, wallett, when tha goas, (may that sad time be far away; for when tha doffs thi motley clooas, an pays that debt we all mun pay,) we'st feel ther's one link less to bind, us to this 'vain an fleetin show,' an we'st net tarry long behind,- we may goa furst for owt we know. well,--if noa moor aw clasp thi hand,- noa moor enjoy thy social chat,-aw send thi from this distant land, true friendship's greetin,--this is that. may ivvery comfort earth can give, be thine henceforward to the end, an tho' the sea divides, believe ther's one who's proud to call thee friend. lads an lasses. lads an lasses lend yor ears unto an old man's rhyme, dooant hurry by an say wi' sneers, it's all a waste o' time. some little wisdom yo may gain, some trewth yo'll ne'er forget: soa blame me net for spaikin plain, yo'll find it's better net. for yo, life's journey may be long, or it may end to-day; deeath gethers in the young an strong, along wi' th' old an gray. then nivver do an unkind thing, which yo will sure regret, nor utter words 'at leeav a sting,- yo'll find it's better net. if yo've a duty to get throo, goa at it with a will, dooant shirk it 'coss it's hard to do, that mak's it harder still. dooant think to-morn is time enuff for what to-day is set, nor trust to others for ther help, yo'll find it's better net. if little wealth falls to yor share, try nivver to repine; but struggle on wi' thrift an' care,- some day the sun will shine. it's better to be livin poor, than running into debt, an bavin duns coom to yor door;- yo'll find it's better net. when tempted bi some jolly friend, to join him in a spree, remember sich things sometimes end i' pain an misery. be firm an let temptations pass as if they'd ne'er been met, an nivver drain the sparklin glass;- yo'll find it's better net. mak trewth an honesty yor guide, tho' some may laff an rail, fear net, whativver ills betide, at last yo must prevail. contented wi' yor portion be nor let yor heart be set, on things below 'at fade an dee,- yo'll find it's better net. a new year's gift. a little lad,--bare wor his feet, his 'een wor swell'd an red, wor sleepin, one wild new year's neet,- a cold doorstep his bed. his little curls wor drippin weet, his clooas wor thin an old, his face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,- his limbs wor numb wi' cold. th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street, an snowflakes whirled abaat,-it wor a sorry sooart o' neet, for poor souls to be aght. 'twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin, could shine throo sich a storm;-unless some succour turns up sooin, god help that freezin form! a carriage stops at th' varry haase,- a sarvent oppens th' door; a lady wi' a pale sad face, steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor. her 'een fell on that huddled form, shoo gives a startled cry; then has him carried aght o'th' storm, to whear its warm an dry. shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands, an monny a tear shoo shed; for shoo'd once had a darlin lad but he, alas! wor dead. this little waif seemed sent to cheer, an fill her darlin's place; an to her heart shoo prest him near, an kissed his little face. matty's reason. "nah, matty! what meeans all this fuss? tha'rt as back'ard as back'ard can be; ther must be some reason, becoss it used to be diff'rent wi' thee. aw've nooaticed, 'at allus befoor if aw kussed thi, tha smiled an lukt fain; ther's summat nooan reight, lass, aw'm sewer, tha seems i' soa gloomy a vein. if tha's met wi' a hansomer chap, aw'm sewer aw'll net stand i' thi way; but tha mud get a war, lass, bi th' swap,- if tha'rt anxious aw'll nivver say nay. but tha knows 'at for monny a wick aw've been savin mi brass to get wed; an aw'd meant thee gooin wi' me to pick aght some chairs an a table an bed. aw offer'd mi hand an mi heart; an tha seemed to be fain to ha booath; but if its thi wish we should part, to beg on thi, nah, aw'd be looath. an th' warst wish aw wish even yet,- is tha'll nivver get treeated soa meean;-gooid neet, matty lass, nivver freeat, tha'll kuss me when aw ax thi agean." "nah, jimmy lad, try to be cooil,- mi excuse tha may think is a funny en; aw've nowt agean thee, jaylus fooil, but thi breeath savoors strongly o' oonion." wi' wonderin 'een he luk't abaat, dazzled wi' th' blaze o' leet, then drooped his heead, reight wearied aght wi' cold an wind an weet. then tenderly shoo tuckt him in a little cosy bed, an kissed once moor his cheek soa thin, an stroked his curly head. noa owner coom to claim her prize, tho' mich shoo feear'd ther wod, it seem'd a blessin dropt throo th' skies a new year's gift throo god. an happiness nah fills her heart, 'at wor wi' sorrow cleft; noa wealth could tempt her nah to part, wi' her heaven sent new year's gift. a new year's gift. a little lad,--bare wor his feet, his 'een wor swell'd an red, wor sleepin, one wild new year's neet,- a cold doorstep his bed. his little curls wor drippin weet, his clooas wor thin an old, his face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,- his limbs wor numb wi' cold. th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street, an snowflakes whirled abaat,-it wor a sorry sooart o' neet, for poor souls to be aght. 'twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin, could shine throo sich a storm;-unless some succour turns up sooin, god help that freezin form! a carriage stops at th' varry haase,- a sarvent oppens th' door; a lady wi' a pale sad face, steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor. her 'een fell on that huddled form, shoo gives a startled cry; then has him carried aght o'th' storm, to whear its warm an dry. shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands, an monny a tear shoo shed; for shoo'd once had a darlin lad but he, alas! wor dead. this little waif seemed sent to cheer, an fill her darlin's place; an to her heart shoo prest him near, an kissed his little face. wi' wonderin 'een he luk't abaat, dazzled wi' th' blaze o' leet, then drooped his heead, reight wearied aght wi' cold an wind an weet. then tenderly shoo tuckt him in a little cosy bed, an kissed once moor his cheek soa thin, an stroked his curly head. noa owner coom to claim her prize, tho' mich shoo feear'd ther wod, it seem'd a blessin dropt throo th' skies a new year's gift throo god. an happiness nah fills her heart, 'at wor wi' sorrow cleft; noa wealth could tempt her nah to part, wi' her heaven sent new year's gift. uncle ben. a gradely chap wor uncle ben as ivver lived i'th' fowd: he made a fortun for hissen, an lived on't when he'r owd. his yed wor like a snow drift, an his face wor red an breet, an his heart wor like a feather, for he did the thing 'at's reet. he wore th' same suit o' fustian clooas he'd worn sin aw wor bred; an th' same owd booits, wi' cappel'd tooas, an th' same hat for his yed; his cot wor lowly, yet he'd sing throo braik o' day till neet; his conscience nivver felt a sting, for he did the thing 'at's reet. he wod'nt swap his humble state wi' th' grandest fowk i'th' land; he nivver wanted silver plate, nor owt 'at's rich an grand; he did'nt sleep wi' curtained silk drawn raand him ov a neet, but he slept noa war for th' want o' that, for he'd done the thing 'at's reet. owd fowk called him "awr benny," young fowk, "mi uncle ben,"-an th' childer, "gronfather," or "dad," or what best pleased thersen. a gleam o' joy coom o'er his face when he heeard ther patterin feet, for he loved to laik wi th' little bairns an he did the thing 'at's reet. he nivver turned poor fowk away uncared for throo his door; he ne'er forgate ther wor a day when he hissen wor poor; an monny a face has turned to heaven, all glistenin wi' weet, an prayed for blessins on owd ben, for he did the thing 'at's reet. he knew his lease wor ommost spent, he'd sooin be called away; yet he wor happy an content, an waited th' comin day. but one dark neet he shut his e'en, an slept soa calm an sweet, when mornin coom, th' world held one less, 'at did the thing 'at's reet. a hawporth. whear is thi daddy, doy? whear is thi mam? what are ta cryin for, poor little lamb? dry up thi peepies, pet, wipe thi wet face; tears o' thy little cheeks seem aght o' place. what do they call thi, lad? tell me thi name; have they been ooinion thi? why, its a shame. here, tak this hawpny, an buy thi some spice, rocksticks or humbugs or summat 'at's nice. then run of hooam agean, fast as tha can; thear,--tha'rt all reight agean; run like a man. he wiped up his tears wi' his little white brat, an he tried to say summat, aw couldn't tell what; but his little face breeten'd wi' pleasure all throo:-a'a!--its cappin, sometimes, what a hawpny can do. th' better part. a poor owd man wi' tott'ring gait, wi' body bent, an snowy pate, aw met one day;-an daan o'th' rooad side grassy banks he sat to rest his weary shanks; an aw, to while away mi time, o'th' neighbourin hillock did recline, an bade "gooid day." said aw, "owd friend, pray tell me true, if in your heart yo nivver rue th' time 'at's past? does envy nivver fill yor breast when passin fowk wi' riches blest? an do yo nivver think it wrang at yo should have to trudge along, soa poor to th' last?" "young man," he sed, "aw envy nooan; but ther are times aw pity some, wi' all mi heart; to see what trubbl'd lives they spend, what cares upon their hands depend; then aw in thowtfulness declare 'at 'little cattle little care' is th' better part. gold is a burden hard to carry, an tho' dame fortun has been chary o' gifts to me; yet still aw strive to feel content, an think what is, for th' best is meant; an th' mooast ov all aw strive for here, is still to keep mi conscience clear, from dark spots free. an while some tax ther brains to find what they'll be foorced to leeav behind, when th' time shall come; aw try bi honest word an deed, to get what little here aw need, an live i' hopes at last to say, when breeath gooas flickerin away, 'aw'm gooin hooam.'" aw gave his hand a hearty shake, it seem'd as tho' the words he spake sank i' mi heart: aw walk'd away a wiser man, detarmined aw wod try his plan i' hopes at last 'at aw might be as weel assured ov heaven as he; that's th' better part. th' lesser evil. young harry wor a single chap, an wod have lots o' tin, an monny a lass had set her cap, this temptin prize to win. but harry didn't want a wife, he'd rayther far be free; an soa escape all care an strife 'at wedded couples see. but when at last his uncle deed, an left him all his brass, 'twor on condition he should wed, some honest yorksher lass. soa all his dreamin day an neet abaat what sprees he'd have; he had to bury aght o'th' seet, deep in his uncle's grave. to tak a wife at once, he thowt wor th' wisest thing to do, soa he lukt raand until he browt his choice daan between two. one wor a big, fine, strappin lass, her name wor sarah ann, her height an weight, few could surpass, shoo'r fit for onny man. an t'other wor a little sprite, wi' lots o' bonny ways, an little funny antics, like a kitten when it plays. an which to tak he could'nt tell, he rayther liked 'em booath; but if he could ha pleased hissen, to wed one he'd be looath. a wife he thowt an evil thing, an sewer to prove a pest; soa after sometime studyin he thowt th' least wod be th' best. they sooin wor wed, an then he faand he'd quite enuff to do, for a'a! shoo wor a twazzy haand, an tongue enuff for two. an if he went aght neet or day, his wife shoo went as weel; he gat noa chonce to goa astray;- shoo kept him true as steel. his face grew white, his heead grew bald, his clooas hung on his rig, he grew like one 'at's getten stall'd, ov this world's whirligig. one day, he muttered to hissen, "if aw've pickt th' lesser evil, th' poor chap 'at tackles sarah ann, will wish he'd wed the d---l." take heart! roughest roads, we often find, lead us on to th' nicest places; kindest hearts oft hide behind some o'th' plainest-lukkin faces. flaars whose colors breetest are, oft delight awr wond'ring seet; but ther's others, humbler far, smell a thaasand times as sweet. burds o' monny color'd feather, please us as they skim along, but ther charms all put together, connot equal th' skylark's song. bonny women--angels seemin,- set awr hearts an brains o' fire; but its net ther beauties; beamin, its ther gooidness we admire. th' bravest man 'at's in a battle, isn't allus th' furst i'th' fray; he best proves his might an' mettle, who remains to win the day. monkey's an vain magpies chatter, but it doesn't prove 'em wise; an it's net wi noise an clatter, men o' sense expect to rise. 'tis'nt them 'at promise freely, are mooast ready to fulfill; an 'tis'nt them 'at trudge on dreely 'at are last at top o'th' hill. bad hauf-craans may pass as payment, gaudy flaars awr e'en beguile; women may be loved for raiment, show may blind us for a while; but we sooin grow discontented, an for solid worth we sigh, an we leearn to prize the jewel, tho' it's hidden from the eye. him 'at thinks to gether diamonds as he walks along his rooad, nivver need be tired wi' huggin, for he'll have a little looad. owt 'at's worth a body's winnin mun be toiled for long an hard; an tho' th' struggle may be pinnin, perseverance wins reward. earnest thowt, an constant strivin, ever wi' one aim i'th' seet; tho' we may be late arrivin, yet at last we'st come in reet. he who will succeed, he must, when he's bid false hopes farewell, if he firmly fix his trust in his god, and in hissel. they all do it. they're all buildin nests for thersen, one bi one they goa fleetin away; a suitable mate comes,--an then, i'th' old nest they noa longer can stay. well,--it's folly for th' old en's to freeat, tho' it's hard to see loved ones depart,-an we sigh,--let a tear drop,--an yet, we bless 'em, an give 'em a start. they've battles to feight 'at we've fowt, they've trubbles an trials to face; i'th' futer they luk an see nowt 'at can hamper ther coorse i' life's race. th' sun's shinin soa breetly, they think sorrow's claads have noa shadow for them, they walk on uncertainty's brink, an they see in each teardrop a gem. happy dreams 'at they had long ago, too sweet to believe---could be true, are realized nah, for _they know_ th' world's pleasures wor made for them two. we _know_ 'at it's all a mistak, an we pity, an yet we can pray, 'at when th' end comes they'll nivver luk back wi' regret to that sweet weddin day. god bless 'em! may happiness dwell, i' ther hearts, tho' they beat in a cot; an if in a palace,--well,--well,- shall ther young love be ever forgot. nay,--nay,--tho' old time runs his plough, o'er fair brows an leaves monny a grove; may they cloiser cling, th' longer they grow, till two lives blend i' one sacred love. bless th' bride! wi' her bonny breet e'en! bless th' husband, who does weel his part; aye! an bless those old fowk where they've been, the joy an the pride ov ther heart. may health an prosperity sit at ther table soa long as they live! an accept th' gooid wishes aw've writ, for they're all 'at aw'm able to give. to let. aw live in a snug little cot, an' tho' poor, yet aw keep aght o' debt, cloise by, in a big garden plot, stands a mansion, 'at long wor "to let." twelve month sin or somewhear abaat, a fine lukkin chap donned i' black, coom an luk'd at it inside an aght an decided this mansion to tak. ther wor whiteweshers coom in a drove an masons, an joiners, an sweeps, an a blacksmith to fit up a cove, an bricks, stooans an mortar i' heaps. ther wor painters, an glazzeners too, to mend up each bit ov a braik, an a lot 'at had nowt else to do, but to help some o'th t'others to laik. ther wor fires i' ivvery range, they nivver let th' harston get cooiled, throo th' cellar to th' thack they'd a change, an ivverything all in a mooild. th' same chap 'at is th' owner o'th' hall, is th' owner o'th' cot whear aw dwell, but if aw ax for th' leeast thing at all; he tells me to do it mysel. this hall lets for fifty a year, wol five paand is all 'at aw pay; when th' day come mi rent's allus thear, an that's a gooid thing in its way. at th' last all th' repairers had done, an th' hall wor as cleean as a pin, aw wor pleased when th' last lot wor gooan, for aw'd getten reight sick o' ther din. then th' furnitur started to come, waggon looads on it, all spankin new, rich crimson an gold covered some, wol some shone i' scarlet an blue. ov sofas aw think hauf a scoor, an picturs enuff for a show? they fill'd ivvery corner aw'm sure, throo th' garret to th' kitchen below. one day when a cab drove to th' gate, th' new tenant stept aght, an his wife, (an tawk abaat fashion an state! yo ne'er saw sich a spreead i' yor life.) ther war sarvents to curtsey 'em in, an aw could'nt help sayin, "bi th' mass;" as th' door shut when they'd booath getten in, "a'a, it's grand to ha plenty o' brass." ther wor butchers, an bakers, an snobs, an grocers, an milkmen, an snips, all seekin for orders an jobs, an sweetenin th' sarvents wi' tips. aw sed to th' milk-chap 'tother day, "ha long does ta trust sich fowk, ike? each wick aw'm expected to pay," "fine fowk," he says, "pay when they like." things went on like this, day bi day, for somewhear cloise on for a year; wol aw ne'er thowt o' lukkin that way, altho' aw wor livin soa near. but one neet when aw'd finished mi wark, an wor tooastin mi shins anent th' fire, a chap rushes in aght 'o'th' dark throo heead to fooit plaistered wi' mire. says he, "does ta know whear they've gooan?" says aw, "lad, pray, who does ta meean?" "them at th' hall," he replied, wi a grooan, "they've bolted an diddled us cleean." aw tell'd him aw'd ne'er heeard a word, he cursed as he put on his hat, an he sed, "well, they've flown like a burd, an paid nubdy owt, an that's what." he left, an aw crept off to bed, next day aw'd a visit throo ike, but aw shut up his maath when aw sed, "fine fowk tha knows pay when they like." ther's papers i'th' winders, "to let," an aw know varry weel ha 't 'll be; they'll do th' same for th' next tenant awl bet, tho they ne'er do a hawpoth for me. but aw let 'em do just as they pleease, aw'm content tho' mi station is low, an awm thankful sich hard times as thease if aw manage to pay what aw owe. this precept, friends, nivver forget, for a wiser one has not been sed, be detarmined to rise aght o' debt tho' yo go withaat supper to bed. lost love. shoo wor a bonny, bonny lass, her e'en as black as sloas; her hair a flyin thunner claad, her cheeks a blowin rooas. her smile coom like a sunny gleam her cherry lips to curl; her voice wor like a murm'ring stream 'at flowed throo banks o' pearl. aw long'd to claim her for mi own, but nah mi love is crost; an aw mun wander on alooan, an mourn for her aw've lost. aw could'nt ax her to be mine, wi' poverty at th' door: aw nivver thowt breet e'en could shine wi' love for one so poor; */ 92 */ but nah ther's summat i' mi breast, tells me aw miss'd mi way: an lost that lass i loved the best throo fear shoo'd say me nay. aw long'd to claim her for, &c. aw saunter'd raand her cot at morn, an oft i'th' dark o'th' neet, aw've knelt mi daan i'th' loin to find prints ov her tiny feet. an under th' window, like a thief, aw've crept to hear her spaik; an then aw've hurried hooam agean for fear mi heart wod braik. aw long'd to claim her for, &c. another bolder nor misen, has robb'd me o' mi dear; an nah aw ne'er may share her joy, an ne'er may dry her tear. but tho' aw'm heartsick, lone, an sad, an tho' hope's star is set; to know shoo's lov'd as aw'd ha lov'd wod mak me happy yet. aw long'd to claim her for mi own, &c. drink. when yo see a chap covered wi' rags, an hardly a shoe to his fooit, gooin sleawshin along ovver th' flags, wi' a pipe in his maath black as sooit; an he tells yo he's aght ov a job, an he feels wellny likely to sink,-an he hasn't a coin in his fob, yo may guess what he's seekin--it's drink. if a woman yo meet, poorly dressed, untidy, an spoortin black e'en; wi' a babby hawf clammed at her breast, neglected an shame-to-be-seen; if yo ax, an shoo'll answer yo true, what's th' cause of her trouble? aw think, yo'll find her misfortuns are due to that warst o' all enemies,--drink. ax th' wretches convicted o' crime, what caused 'em to plunge into sin, an they'll say ommost ivvery time, it's been th' love o' rum, whisky or gin. even th' gallus, if it could but tell ov its victims dropt ovver life's brink; it wod add a sad lot moor to swell the list ov those lost throo strong drink. yet daily we thowtlessly pass, the hell-traps 'at stand like a curse; bedizened wi' glitter an glass, to mak paupers, an likely do worse. some say 'at th' millenium's near, but they're reckonin wrang aw should think, when they fancy the king will appear, in a world soa besotted wi' drink. duffin johnny. (a rifleman's adventure.) th' mooin shone breet wi' silver leet, an th' wind wor softly sighin; th' burds did sleep, an th' snails did creep, an th' buzzards wor a flying; th' daisies donned ther neet caps on, an th' buttercups wor weary, when jenny went to meet her john, her rifleman, her dearie. her johnny seemed as brave a lad as iver held a rifle, an if ther wor owt in him bad, 'twor nobbut just a trifle. he wore a suit o' sooity grey, to show 'at he wor willin to feight for th' queen and country when perfect in his drillin. his heead wor raand, his back wor straight, his legs wor long an steady, his fist wor fully two pund weight, his heart wor true an ready; his upper lip wor graced at th' top wi' mustache strong an bristlin, it railly wor a spicy crop; yo'd think to catch him whistlin. his buzzum burned wi' thowts o' war, he long'd for battles' clatter, he grieved to think noa foeman dar to cross that sup o' watter; he owned one spot,--an nobbut one, within his heart wor tender, an as his darlin had it fun, he'd be her bold defender. at neet he donn'd his uniform, war trials to endure, an helped his comrades brave, to storm a heap ov horse manure! they said it wor a citidel, fill'd wi' some hostile power, they boldly made a breach, and well they triumph'd in an hour. they did'nt wade to th' knees i' blooid, (that spoils one's britches sadly,) but th' pond o' sypins did as gooid, an scented 'em as badly; ther wor noa slain to hug away, noa heeads, noa arms wor wantin, they lived to feight another day, an spend ther neets i' rantin. brave johnny's rooad wor up a loin where all wor dark an shaded, part grass, part stooans, part sludge an slime but quickly on he waded; an nah an then he cast his e'e an luk'd behund his shoulder. he worn't timid, noa net he! he crack'd, "he knew few bolder." but once he jumped, an sed "oh dear!" becoss a beetle past him; but still he wor unknown to fear, he'd tell yo if yo asked him. he could'nt help for whispering once, "this loin's a varry long un, a chap wod have but little chonce wi thieves, if here amang 'em." an all at once he heeard a voice cry out, "stand and deliver! your money or your life, mak choice, before your brains i shiver;" he luk'd all raand, but failed to see a sign of livin craytur, then tremlin dropt upon his knee, fear stamp'd on ivvery faytur. "gooid chap," he said, "mi rifle tak, mi belts, mi ammunition, aw've nowt but th' clooas 'at's o' mi back oh pity mi condition; aw wish aw'd had a lot o' brass, aw'd gie thi ivvery fardin; aw'm nobbut goin to meet a lass, at tate's berry garden." "aw wish shoo wor, aw dooant care where, its her fault aw've to suffer;" just then a whisper in his ear said, "johnny, thar't a duffer," he luk'd, an' thear cloise to him stuck wor jenny, burst wi' lafter; "a'a, john," shoo says, "aw've tried thi pluck, aw'st think o' this at after." "an when tha tells what things tha'll do, an booasts o' manly courage, aw'st tell thi then, as nah aw do, go hooam an get thi porrige." "why jenny wor it thee," he sed, "aw fancied aw could spy thi, aw nobbut reckoned to be flaid, aw did it but to try thi." "just soa," shoo says, "but certain 'tis aw hear thi heart a beatin, an tak this claat to wipe thi phiz, gooid gracious, ha tha'rt sweeatin. thar't brave noa daat, an tha can crow like booastin cock-a-doodle, but nooan sich men for me, aw vow, when wed, aw'll wed a 'noodle.'" plenty o' brass. a'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! it's grand to be able to spend a trifle sometimes on a glass for yorsen, or sometimes for a friend. to be able to bury yor neive up to th' shackle i' silver an' gowd, an, 'baght pinchin, be able to save a wee bit for th' time when yo're owd. a'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! to be able to set daan yor fooit withaat ivver thinkin--bi'th' mass! 'at yo're wearin' soa much off yor booit. to be able to walk along th' street, an stand at shop windows to stare, an net ha to beat a retreat if yo scent a "bum bailey" i'th' air. a'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! to be able to goa hooam at neet, an sit i'th' arm-cheer bi'th' owd lass, an want nawther foir nor leet. to tak th' childer a paper o' spice, or a pictur' to hing up o' th' wall; or a taste ov a summat 'at's nice for yor friends, if they happen to call. a'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! then th' parsons'll know where yo live; if yo're poor, it's mooast likely they'll pass, an call where fowk's summat to give. yo may have a trifle o' sense, an yo may be booath upright an trew, but that's nowt, if yo can't stand th' expense ov a whole or a pairt ov a pew. a'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! an to them fowk 'at's getten a hooard, this world seems as smooth as a glass, an ther's flaars o' booath sides o'th' rooad; but him 'at's as poor as a maase, or, happen, a little i' debt, he mun point his nooas up to th' big haase, an be thankful for what he can get. a'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' chink! but dooan't let it harden yor heart: yo 'at's blessed wi' abundance should think an try to do gooid wi' a part! an then, as yo're totterin' daan, an th' last grains o' sand are i'th glass, yo may find 'at yo've purchased a craan wi' makkin gooid use o' yor brass. the new year's resolve. says dick, "ther's a nooation sprung up i' mi yed, for th' furst time i'th' whole coorse o' mi life, an aw've takken a fancy aw'st like to be wed, if aw knew who to get for a wife. aw dooant want a woman wi' beauty, nor brass, for aw've nawther to booast on misel; what aw want is a warm-hearted, hard-workin lass, an ther's lots to be fun, aw've heeard tell. to be single is all weel enuff nah an then, but it's awk'ard when th' weshin day comes; for aw nivver think sooapsuds agree weel wi' men; they turn all mi ten fingers to thumbs. an aw'm sure it's a fact, long afoor aw get done, aw'm slopt throo mi waist to mi fit; an th' floor's in a pond, as if th' peggy-tub run, an mi back warks as if it 'ud split. aw fancied aw'st manage at breead-bakin best; soa one day aw bethowt me to try, but aw gate soa flustered, aw ne'er thowt o'th' yeast, soa aw mud as weel offered to fly. aw did mak a dumplin, but a'a! dear a me! abaght that lot aw hardly dar think; aw ne'er fan th' mistak till aw missed th' sooap, yo see, an saw th' suet i'th' sooap-box o'th' sink. but a new-year's just startin, an soa aw declare aw'll be wed if a wife's to be had; for mi clooas is soa ragg'd woll aw'm ommost hauf bare, an thease mullucks, they're drivin me mad. soa, if yo should know, or should chonce to hear tell, ov a lass 'at to wed is inclined, talegraft me at once, an aw'll see her misel, afoor shoo can alter her mind." a strange stooary. aw know some fowk will call it crime, to put sich stooaries into ryhme, but yet, contentedly aw chime mi simple ditty: an if it's all a waste o' time, the moor's the pity. ------o'er wibsey slack aw coom last neet, wi' reekin heead and weary feet, a strange, strange chap, aw chonced to meet; he made mi start; but pluckin up, aw did him greet wi' beatin heart. his dress wor black as black could be, an th' latest fashion aw could see, but yet they hung soa dawderly, like suits i' shops; bi'th' heart! yo mud ha putten three sich legs i'th' slops. says aw, "owd trump, it's rayther late for one 'at's dress'd i' sich a state, across this slack to mak ther gate: is ther some pairty? or does ta allus dress that rate- black duds o'th' wairty?" he twisted raand as if to see what sooart o' covy aw could be, an grinned wi' sich a maath at me, it threw me sick! "lor saves!" aw cried, "an is it thee 'at's call'd owd nick?" but when aw luk'd up into th' place, whear yo'd expect to find a face; a awful craytur met mi gaze, it took mi puff: "gooid chap," aw sed, "please let me pass, aw've seen enuff!" then bendin cloise daan to mi ear, he tell'd me 'at aw'd nowt to fear, an soa aw stop't a bit to hear what things he'd ax; but as he spake his teeth rang clear, like knick-a-nacks. "a'a, jack," he sed, "aw'm cap't wi' thee net knowin sich a chap as me; for oft when tha's been on a spree, aw've been thear too; but tho' aw've reckon'd safe o' thee, tha's just edged throo. mi name is deeath--tha needn't start, an put thi hand upon thi heart, for tha may see 'at aw've noa dart wi' which to strike; let's sit an tawk afoor we part, o'th edge o'th dyke." "nay, nay, that tale wea'nt do, owd lad, for bobby burns tells me tha had a scythe hung o'er thi shoulder, gad! tha worn't dress'd i' fine black clooath; tha wore a plad across thi breast!" "well, jack," he said, "thar't capt no daat to find me wanderin abaght; but th' fact is, lad, 'at aw'm withaat a job to do; mi scythe aw've had to put up th' spaat, mi arrows too." "yo dunnot mean to tell to me, 'at fowk noa moor will ha to dee?" "noa, hark a minnit an tha'll see when th' truth aw tell! fowk do withaat mi darts an me, thev kill thersel. they do it too at sich a rate wol mi owd system's aght o' date; what we call folly, they call fate; an all ther pleasur is ha to bring ther life's estate to th' shortest measur. they waste ther time, an waste ther gains, o' stuff 'at's brew'd throo poisoned grains, throo morn to neet they keep ther brains, for ivver swimmin, an if a bit o' sense remains, it's fun i'th wimmen. tha'll find noa doctors wi ther craft, nor yet misen wi' scythe or shaft, e'er made as monny deead or daft, as gin an rum, an if aw've warn'd fowk, then they've lafft at me, bi gum! but if they thus goa on to swill, they'll not want wilfrid lawson's bill, for give a druffen chap his fill, an sooin off pops he; an teetotal fowk moor surely still, will dee wi' th' dropsy. it's a queer thing 'at sich a nation can't use a bit o' moderation; but one lot rush to ther damnation throo love o'th' bottle: wol others think to win salvation wi' bein teetotal." wi' booany neive he stroked mi heead, "tak my advice, young chap," he sed, "let liquors be, sup ale asteead, an tha'll be better, an dunnot treat th' advice tha's heard like a deead letter." "why deeath," aw sed, "fowk allus say, yo come to fotch us chaps away! but this seems strange, soa tell me pray, ha wor't yo coom? wor it to tell us keep away, yo hav'nt room?" "stop whear tha art, jack, if tha dar but tha'll find spirits worse bi far sarved aght i' monny a public bar, 'at's thowt quite lawful; nor what tha'll find i'th' places parsons call soa awful." "gooid bye!" he sed, an off he shot, leavin behind him sich a lot o' smook, as blue as it wor hot! it set me stewin! soa hooam aw cut, an' gate a pot ov us own brewin. --------if when yo've read this stooary throo, yo daat if it's exactly true, yo'll nobbut do as others do, yo may depend on't. blow me! aw ommost daat it too, so thear's an end on't. what wor it? what wor it made me love thee, lass? aw connot tell; aw know it worn't for thi brass;- tho' poor misel aw'd moor nor thee, aw think, if owt, an what _aw_ had wor next to nowt. aw didn't love thi 'coss thi face wor fair to see: for tha wor th' plainest lass i'th' place, an as for me, they called me "nooasy," "long-legs," "walkin prop," an sed aw freetened customers throo th' shop. aw used to read i' fairy books ov e'en soa breet, ov gowden hair, angelic looks, an smiles soa sweet; aw used to fancy when aw'd older grown, aw'd claim some lovely fairy for mi own. an weel aw recollect that neet,- 'twor th' furst o'th' year, aw tuk thi hooam, soaked throo wi' sleet, an aw'd a fear lest th' owd man's clog should give itsen a treat, an be too friendly wi' mi britches seeat. what fun they made, when we went in;- they cried, "yo're catched!" an then thi mother sed i'th' midst o'th' din "they're fairly matched, an beauty's in th' beholder's e'e they say, an they've booath been gooid childer, onyway." an then aw saw a little tear, unbidden flow, that settled it!--for then an thear aw seemed to know, 'at we wor meant to share each others lot, an fancy's fairies all could goa to pot. full thirty years have rolled away, sin that rough time; what won mi love aw connot say, but this is mine, to know, mi greatest prize on earth is thee, but pray, whativver made thee fancy me? billy bumble's bargain. young billy bumble bowt a pig, soa aw've heeard th' neighbors say; an monny a mile he had to trig one sweltin' summer day; but billy didn't care a fig, he sed he'd mak it pay; he _knew_ it wor a bargain, an he cared net who said nay. he browt it hooam to ploo croft loin, but what wor his surprise to find all th' neighbors standing aght, we oppen maaths an eyes; "by gow!" sed billy, to hissen, "this pig _must_ be a prize!" an th' wimmen cried, "gooid gracious fowk but isn't it a size?" then th' chaps sed, "billy, where's ta been? whativver has ta browt? that surely isn't crayture, lad, aw heeard 'em say tha'd bowt? it luks moor like a donkey, does ta think 'at it con rawt?" but billy crack'd his carter's whip. an answered 'em wi' nowt. an reight enuff it wor a pig, if all they say is true, its length wor five foot eight or nine, its height wor four foot two; an when it coom to th' pig hoil door, he couldn't get it throo, unless it went daan ov its knees, an that it wodn't do. then billy's mother coom to help, an hit it wi' a mop; but thear it wor, an thear it seem'd detarmined it 'ud stop; but all at once it gave a grunt, an oppen'd sich a shop; an finding aght 'at it wor lick'd, it laup'd cleean ovver th' top. his mother then shoo shook her heead, an pool'd a woeful face; "william," shoo sed, "tha should'nt bring sich things as theas to th' place. aw hooap tha art'nt gooin to sink thi mother i' disgrace; but if tha buys sich things as thease aw'm feared it will be th' case!" "nah, mother, nivver freat," sed bill, "its one aw'm gooin to feed, its rayther long i'th' legs, aw know, but that's becoss o'th' breed; if its a trifle long i'th' grooin, why hang it! nivver heed! aw know its net a beauty, _but its cheap, it is, indeed!"_ "well time 'ul try," his mother sed,- an time at last did try; for nivver sich a hungry beeast had been fed in a sty. "what's th' weight o'th' long legged pig, billy!" wor th' neighbors' daily cry; "aw connot tell yo yet," sed bill, "aw'll weigh it bye an bye." an hard poor billy persevered, but all to noa avail, it swallow'd all th' mait it could get, an wod ha swallow'd th' pail; but billy tuk gooid care to stand o'th' tother side o'th' rail; but fat it didn't gain as mich as what 'ud greeas its tail. pack after pack o' mail he bowt, until he'd bowt fourteen; but net a bit o' difference i'th' pig wor to be seen: its legs an snowt wor just as long as ivver they had been; poor billy caanted rib bi rib an heaved a sigh between. one day he mix'd a double feed, an put it into th' troff; "tha greedy lukkin beeast," he sed, "aw'll awther stawl thee off, or else aw'll brust thi hide--that is unless 'at its to toff!" an then he left it wol he went his mucky clooas to doff. it worn't long befoor he coom to see hah matters stood; he luk'd at th' troff, an thear it wor, five simple bits o' wood, as cleean scraped aght as if it had ne'er held a bit o' food; "tha slotch!" sed bill, "aw do believe tha'd ait me if tha could." next day he browt a butcher, for his patience had been tried, an wi a varry deeal to do, its legs wi' rooap they tied; an then his shinin knife he drew an stuck it in its side-it mud ha been a crockadile, bi th' thickness ov its hide. but blooid began to flow, an then its long legg'd race wor run; they scalded, scraped, an hung it up, an when it all wor done, fowk coom to guess what weight it wor, an monny a bit o' fun they had, for billy's mother sed, "it ought to weigh a ton." billy wor walkin up an daan, dooin nowt but fume an fidge! he luk'd at th' pig--then daan he set, i'th nook o'th' window ledge, he saw th' back booan wor stickin aght, like th' thin end ov a wedge; it luk'd like an owd blanket hung ovver th' winterhedge. his mother rooar'd an th' wimmen sigh'd, but th' chaps did nowt but laff; poor billy he could hardly bide, to sit an hear ther chaff-then up he jumped, an off he run, but whear fowk nivver knew; an what wor th' war'st, when mornin coom, th' deead pig had mizzled too. th' chaps wander'd th' country far an near, until they stall'd thersen; but nawther billy nor his pig coom hooam agean sin then; but oft fowk say, i'th' deead o'th' neet, near shibden's ruined mill, the gooast o' billy an his pig may be seen runnin still. moral. yo fowk 'at's tempted to goa buy be careful what yo do; dooant be persuaded 'coss "it's _cheap_," for if yo do yo'll rue; dooant think its lowerin to yor sen to ax a friend's advice, else like poor billy's pig, 't may be bowt dear at onny price. aght o' wark. aw've been laikin for ommost eight wick, an aw can't get a day's wark to do! aw've trailed abaat th' streets, wol aw'm sick an aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost throo. aw've a wife an three childer at hooam, an aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock, for they think it's high time aw should come, an bring 'em a morsel 'o jock. a'a dear! it's a pitiful case when th' cubbord is empty an bare; when want's stamped o' ivvery face, an yo hav'nt a meal yo can share. today as aw walked into th' street, th' squire's carriage went rattlin past; an aw thowt 'at it hardly luk'd reet, for aw had'nt brokken mi fast. them horses, aw knew varry weel, wi' ther trappins all shinin i' gold, had nivver known th' want of a meal, or a shelter to keep 'em throo th' cold. even th' dogs have enuff an to spare, tho' they ne'er worked a day i' ther life; but ther maisters forget they should care for a chap 'at's three bairns an a wife. they give dinners at th' hall ivvery neet, an ther's carriages standin bi'th' scooar, an all th' windows are blazin wi' leet, but they seldom give dinners to th' poor. i' mi pocket aw hav'nt a rap, nor a crust, nor a handful o' mail; an unless we can get it o'th' strap, we mun pine, or mun beg, or else stail. but hooam'ards aw'll point mi owd clogs to them three little lambs an ther dam;-aw wish they wor horses or dogs, for its nobbut poor fowk 'at's to clam. but they say ther is one 'at can see, an has promised to guide us safe throo; soa aw'll live on i'hopes, an' surelee, he'll find a chap summat to do. that's a fact. "a'a mary aw'm glad 'at that's thee! aw need thy advice, lass, aw'm sure;-aw'm all ov a mooild tha can see, aw wor nivver i' this way afoor. aw've net slept a wink all th' neet throo; aw've been twirlin abaat like a worm, an' th' blankets gate felter'd, lass, too-tha nivver saw cloas i' sich form. aw'll tell thee what 't all wor abaght-but promise tha'll keep it reight squat; for aw wod'nt for th' world let it aght, but aw can't keep it in--tha knows that. we'd a meetin at th' schooil yesterneet, an jimmy wor thear,--tha's seen jim? an he hutch'd cloise to me in a bit, to ax me for th' number o'th' hymn; aw thowt 't wor a gaumless trick, for he heeard it geen aght th' same as me; an he just did th' same thing tother wick,-it made fowk tak nooatice, dos't see. an when aw wor gooin towards hooam, aw heeard som'dy comin behund: 'twor pitch dark, an aw thowt if they coom, aw should varry near sink into th' graund. aw knew it wor jim bi his traid, an aw tried to get aght ov his gate; but a'a! tha minds, lass, aw wor flaid, aw wor nivver i' sich en a state. then aw felt som'dy's arm raand my shawl, an aw said, "nah, leeav loise or aw'll screeam! can't ta let daycent lasses alooan, consarn thi up! what does ta mean?" but he stuck to mi arm like a leach, an he whispered a word i' mi ear; it tuk booath mi breeath an mi speech, for aw'm varry sooin thrown aght o' gear. then he squeezed me cloise up to his sel, an he kussed me, i' spite o' mi teeth: aw says, "jimmy, forshame o' thisel!" as sooin as aw'd getten mi breeath. but he wod'nt be quiet, for he sed 'at he'd loved me soa true an soa long-aw'd ha geen a ear off o' my ye'd to get loise--but tha knows he's soa strong.-then he tell'd me he wanted a wife, an he begged 'at aw wodn't say nay;-aw'd ne'er heeard sich a tale i' mi life, aw wor fesen'd whativver to say; 'coss tha knows aw've a likin for jim; but yo can't allus say what yo meean; for aw tremb'ld i' ivvery limb, wol he kussed me agean an agean. but at last aw began to give way, for, raylee, he made sich a fuss, an aw kussed him an all--for they say, ther's nowt costs mich less nor a kuss. then he left me at th' end o' awr street, an aw've felt like a fooil all th' neet throo; but if aw should see him to neet, what wod ta advise me to do? but dooant spaik a word--tha's noa need, for aw've made up mi mind ha to act, for he's th' grandest lad ivver aw seed, an aw like him th' best too--that's a fact!" babby burds. aw wander'd aght one summer's morn, across a meadow newly shorn; th' sun wor shinin breet and clear, an fragrant scents rose up i'th' air, an all wor still. when, as my steps wor idly rovin, aw coom upon a seet soa lovin! it fill'd mi heart wi' tender feelin, as daan aw sank beside it, kneelin o'th' edge o'th' hill. it wor a little skylark's nest, an two young babby burds, undrest, wor gapin wi' ther beaks soa wide, callin for mammy to provide ther mornin's meal; an high aboon ther little hooam, th' saand o' daddy's warblin coom; ringin soa sweetly o' mi ear, like breathins throo a purer sphere, he sang soa weel. ther mammy, a few yards away, wor hoppin on a bit o' hay; too feeard to coom, too bold to flee; an watchin me wi' troubled e'e, shoo seem'd to say: "dooant touch my bonny babs, young man! ther daddy does the best he can to cheer yo with his sweetest song; an thoase 'll sing as weel, ere long, soa let 'em stay." "tha needn't think aw'd do 'em harm-come shelter 'em and keep 'em warm! for aw've a little nest misel, an two young babs, aw'm praad to tell, 'at's precious too; an they've a mammy watching thear, 'at howds them little ens as dear, an dearer still, if that can be, nor what thease youngens are to thee, soa come,--nah do! "a'a well!--tha'rt shy, tha hops away,-tha doesn't trust a word aw say; tha thinks aw'm here to rob an plunder, an aw confess aw dunnot wonder- but tha's noa need; aw'll leave yo to yorsels,--gooid bye! for nah aw see yor daddy's nigh; he's dropt that strain soa sweet and strong; he loves yo better nor his song- he does indeed." aw walk'd away, and sooin mi ear caught up the saand o' warblin clear; thinks aw, they're happy once agean; aw'm glad aw didn't prove so meean to rob that nest; for they're contented wi' ther lot, nor envied me mi little cot; an in this world, as we goa throo, it is'nt mich gooid we can do, an do awr best. then let us do as little wrong to onny as we pass along, an never seek a joy to gain 'at's purchased wi' another's pain, it isn't reet. aw shall goa hooam wi' leeter heart, to mend awr johnny's little cart: (he allus finds me wark enuff to piecen up his brocken stuff, for ivvery neet.) an sally--a'a! if yo could see her! when aw sit daan to get mi teah, shoo puts her dolly o' mi knee, an maks me sing it "hush a bee," i'th' rocking chear; then begs some sugar for it too; what it can't ait shoo tries to do; an turnin up her cunnin e'e, shoo rubs th' doll maath, an says, "yo see, it gets its share." sometimes aw'm rayther cross, aw fear! then starts a little tremblin tear, 'at, like a drop o' glitt'rin dew swimmin within a wild flaar blue, falls fro ther e'e; but as the sun in april shaars revives the little droopin flaars, a kind word brings ther sweet smile back: aw raylee think mi brain ud crack if they'd ta dee. then if aw love my bairns soa weel, may net a skylark's bosom feel as mich consarn for th' little things 'at snooze i'th' shelter which her wings soa weel affoards? if fowk wod nobbut bear i' mind how mich is gained by bein kind; ther's fewer breasts wi' grief ud swell, an fewer fowk ud thoughtless mell even o'th' burds. queen ov skircoit green. have yo seen mi bonny mary, shoo lives at skircoit green; an old fowk say a fairer lass nor her wor nivver seen. an th' young ens say shoo's th' sweetest flaar, 'at's bloomin thear to-day; an one an all are scared to deeath, lest shoo should flee away. shoo's health an strength an beauty too, shoo's grace an style as weel: an what's moor precious far nor all, her heart is true as steel. shoo's full ov tenderness an love, for onny in distress; whearivver sorrows heaviest prove, shoo's thear to cheer an bless. her fayther's growin old an gray, her mother's wellny done; but in ther child they find a stay, as life's sands quickly run. her smilin face like sunshine comes, to chase away ther cares, an peeace an comfort allus dwells, in that dear hooam ov theirs. each sundy morn shoo's off to schooil, to taich her bible class; an meets a smilin welcome, from ivvery lad an lass; an when they sing some old psalm tune, her voice rings sweet an clear, it saands as if an angel's tongue, had joined in worship thear. aw sometimes see her safely hooam, an oft aw've tried to tell, that precious saycret ov a hooap 'at in mi heart does dwell. but when aw've seen the childlike trust, 'at glances throo her e'e, to spaik ov love aw nivver durst;- shoo's far too gooid for me. but to grow worthy ov her love, is what aw meean to try; an time may my affection prove,- an win her bye-an-bye. then aw shall be the happiest chap 'at yorksher's ivver seen, an some fine day aw'll bear away, the queen ov skircoit green. th' little black hand. ther's a spark just o'th tip o' mi pen, an it may be poetical fire: an suppoase 'at it is'nt--what then? wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire? aw'm detarmined to scribble away-soa's them 'at's a fancy con read; an tho' aw turn neet into day, if aw'm suitin an odd en, ne'er heed! aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life; but then ther's abundance o' care, an them 'at's contented wi' strife may allus mak sure o' ther share. but aw'll laff woll mi galluses braik,-tho mi bed's net as soft as spun silk; an if butter be aght o' mi raik, aw'll ma' th' best ov a drop o' churn milk. it's nooan them 'at's getten all th' brass 'at's getten all th' pleasure, net it! when aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd lass, aw con thoil 'em whativver they get. but sometimes when aw'm walkin throo th' street, an aw see fowk hawf-clam'd, an i' rags, wi' noa bed to lig daan on at neet but i'th' warkus, or th' cold-lukkin flags; then aw think, if rich fowk nobbut knew what ther brothers i' poverty feel, they'd a trifle moor charity show, an help 'em sometimes to a meal. but we're all far too fond of ussen, to bother wi' things aght o'th' seet; an we leeav to ther fate sich as them 'at's noa bed nor noa supper at neet. but ther's monny a honest heart throbs, tho' it throbs under rags an' i' pains, 'at wod'nt disgrace one o'th' nobs, 'at booasts better blooid in his veins. see that child thear! 'at's workin away, an sweepin that crossin i'th' street: he's been thear ivver sin it coom day, an yo'll find him thear far into th' neet. see what hundreds goa thowtlessly by, an ne'er think o' that child wi' his broom! what care they tho' he smothered a sigh, or wiped off a tear as they coom? but luk! thear's a man wi' a heart! he's gien th' poor child summat at last: ha his e'en seem to twinkle an start, as he watches th' kind gentleman past! an thear in his little black hand he sees a gold sovereign shine! he thinks he ne'er saw owt soa grand, an he says, "sure it connot be mine!" an all th' lads cluther raand him i' glee, an tell him to cut aght o'th seet; but he clutches it fast,--an nah see ha he's threedin his way along th' street. till he comes to that varry same man, an he touches him gently o'th' back, an he tells him as weel as he can, 'at he fancies he's made a mistak. an th' chap luks at that poor honest lad, with his little nak'd feet, as he stands, an his heart oppens wide--he's soa glad woll he taks one o'th little black hands, an he begs him to tell him his name: but th' child glances timidly raand-poor craytur! he connot forshame to lift up his e'en off o'th graand. but at last he finds courage to spaik, an he tells him they call him poor joa; 'at his mother is sickly an' waik; an his father went deead long ago; an he's th' only one able to work aght o' four; an he does what he can, throo early at morn till it's dark: an he hopes 'at he'll sooin be a man. an he tells him his mother's last word, as he starts for his labor for th' day, is to put all his trust in the lord, an he'll net send him empty away.-see that man! nah he's wipin his e'en, an he gives him that bright piece o' gowd; an th' lad sees i' that image o'th queen what'll keep his poor mother throo th' cowd. an monny a time too, after then, did that gentleman tak up his stand at that crossing an watch for hissen the work ov that little black hand. an when years had gooan by, he expressed 'at i'th' spite ov all th' taichin he'd had, an all th' lessons he'd leearn'd, that wor th' best 'at wor towt by that poor little lad. tho' the proud an the wealthy may prate, an booast o' ther riches and land, some o'th' laadest 'ul sink second-rate to that lad with his little black hand. my native twang. they tell me aw'm a vulgar chap, an ow't to goa to th' schooil to leearn to talk like other fowk, an net be sich a fooil; but aw've a noashun, do yo see, although it may be wrang, the sweetest music is to me, mi own, mi native twang. an when away throo all mi friends, i' other taans aw rooam, aw find ther's nowt con mak amends for what aw've left at hooam; but as aw hurry throo ther streets noa matter tho aw'm thrang, ha welcome if mi ear but greets mi own, mi native twang. why some despise it, aw can't tell, it's plain to understand; an sure aw am it saands as weel, tho' happen net soa grand. tell fowk they're courtin, they're enraged, they call that vulgar slang; but if aw tell 'em they're engaged, that's net mi native twang. mi father, tho' he may be poor, aw'm net ashamed o' him; aw love mi mother tho' shoo's deeaf, an tho' her e'en are dim; aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walk its crucken'd streets amang; for thear it is aw hear fowk tawk mi own, mi native twang. aw like to hear hard-workin fowk say boldly what they meean; for tho' ther hands are smeared wi' muck, may be ther hearts are cleean. an them 'at country fowk despise, aw say, "why, let 'em hang;" they'll nivver rob mi sympathies throo thee, mi native twang. aw like to see grand ladies, when they're donn'd i' silks soa fine; aw like to see ther dazzlin' e'en throo th' carriage winders shine; mi mother wor a woman, an tho' it may be wrang, aw love 'em all, but mooastly them 'at tawk mi native twang. aw wish gooid luck to ivvery one; gooid luck to them 'ats brass; gooid luck an better times to come to them 'ats poor--alas! an may health, wealth, an sweet content for ivver dwell amang true, honest-hearted, yorkshire fowk, 'at tawk mi native twang. sing on. sing on, tha bonny burd, sing on, sing on; aw connot sing; a claad hings ovver me, do what aw con fresh troubles spring. aw wish aw could, like thee, fly far away, aw'd leeav mi cares an be a burd to-day. mi heart wor once as full o' joy as thine, but nah it's sad; aw thowt all th' happiness i'th' world wor mine, sich faith aw had;-but he who promised aw should be his wife has robb'd me o' mi ivvery joy i' life. sing on! tha cannot cheer me wi' thi song; yet, when aw hear thi warblin' voice, 'at rings soa sweet an strong, aw feel a tear roll daan mi cheek, 'at gives mi heart relief, a gleam o' comfort, but it's varry brief. this little darlin, cuddled to mi breast, it little knows, when snoozlin' soa quietly at rest, 'at all mi woes are smothered thear, an mi poor heart ud braik but just aw live for mi wee laddie's sake. sing on; an if tha e'er should chonce to see that faithless swain, whose falsehood has caused all mi misery, strike up thy strain, an if his heart yet answers to thy trill fly back to me, an we will love him still. but if he heeds thee not, then shall aw feel all hope is o'er, an he that aw believed an loved soa weel be loved noa more; for that hard heart, bird music cannot move, is far too cold a dwellin-place for love. shoo's thi sister. (written on seeing a wealthy townsman rudely push a poor little girl off the pavement.) gently, gently, shoo's thi sister, tho' her clooas are nowt but rags; on her feet ther's monny a blister: see ha painfully shoo drags her tired limbs to some quiet corner: shoo's thi sister--dunnot scorn her. daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin, shoo's been shov'd aside befoor; used to scoffs, an sneers, an shunnin- shoo expects it, 'coss shoo's poor; schooil'd for years her grief to smother, still shoo's human--tha'rt her brother. tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin, a kid glove o' awther hand, dunnot touch her roughly, loathin-shoo's thi sister, understand: th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters, poor lost pilgrim!--but what matters? luk ha sharp her elbow's growin, an ha pale her little face; an her hair neglected, showin her's has been a sorry case; o, mi heart felt sad at th' seet, when tha shov'd her into th' street. ther wor once a "man," mich greater nor thisen wi' all thi brass; him, awr blessed mediator,- wod he scorn that little lass? noa, he called 'em, an he blessed 'em, an his hands divine caress'd 'em. goa thi ways! an if tha bears net some regret for what tha's done, if tha con pass on, an cares net for that sufferin little one; then ha'ivver poor shoo be, yet shoo's rich compared wi' thee. oh! 'at this breet gold should blind us, to awr duties here below! for we're forced to leeav behind us all awr pomp, an all awr show; why then should we slight another? shoo's thi sister, unkind brother. another babby. another!--well, my bonny lad, aw wodn't send thee back; altho' we thowt we hadn't raam, tha's fun some in a crack. it maks me feel as pleased as punch to see thi pratty face; ther's net another child i'th' bunch moor welcome to a place. aw'st ha to fit a peark for thee, i' some nook o' mi cage; but if another comes, raylee! aw'st want a bigger wage. but aw'm noan feard tha'll ha to want- we'll try to pool thee throo, for him who has mi laddie sent, he'll send his baggin too. he hears the little sparrows chirp, an answers th' raven's call; he'll nivver see one want for owt, 'at's worth aboon 'em all. but if one on us mun goa short, (altho' it's hard to pine,) thy little belly shall be fill'd whativver comes o' mine. a chap con nobbut do his best, an that aw'll do for thee, leavin to providence all th' rest, an we'st get help'd, tha'll see. an if thi lot's as bright an fair as aw could wish it, lad, tha'll come in for a better share nor ivver blessed thi dad. aw think aw'st net ha lived for nowt, if, when deeath comes, aw find aw leeav some virtuous lasses an some honest lads behind. an tho' noa coat ov arms may grace for me, a sculptor'd stooan, aw hooap to leeav a noble race, wi' arms o' flesh an booan. then cheer up, lad, tho' things luk black, wi' health, we'll persevere, an try to find a brighter track- we'll conquer, nivver fear! an may god shield thee wi' his wing, along life's stormy way, an keep thi heart as free throo sin, as what it is to-day. to a roadside flower. tha bonny little pooasy! aw'm inclined to tak thee wi' me: but yet aw think if tha could spaik thi mind, tha'd ne'er forgie me; for i' mi jacket button-hoil tha'd quickly dee, an life is short enuff, booath for mi-sen an thee. here, if aw leeav thee bi th' rooadside to flourish, whear scoors may pass thee; some heart 'at has few other joys to cherish may stop an bless thee: then bloom, mi little pooasy! tha'rt a beauty! sent here to bless: smile on--tha does thi duty. aw wodn't rob another of a joy sich as tha's gien me; for aw felt varry sad, mi little doy until aw'd seen thee. an may each passin, careworn, lowly brother, feel cheered like me, an leeav thee for another. an old man's christmas morning. its a long time sin thee an' me have met befoor, owd lad,- soa pull up thi cheer, an sit daan, for ther's noabdy moor welcome nor thee: thi toppin's grown whiter nor once,--yet mi heart feels glad, to see ther's a rooas o' thi cheek, an a bit ov a leet i' thi e'e. thi limbs seem to totter an shake, like a crazy owd fence, 'at th' wind maks to tremel an creak; but tha still fills thi place; an it shows 'at tha'rt bless'd wi' a bit o' gradely gooid sense, 'at i' spite o' thi years an thi cares, tha still wears a smile o' thi face. come fill up thi pipe--for aw knaw tha'rt reight fond ov a rick,- an tha'll find a drop o' hooam-brew'd i' that pint up o'th' hob, aw dar say; an nah, wol tha'rt tooastin thi shins, just scale th' foir, an aw'll side thi owd stick, then aw'll tell thi some things 'at's happen'd sin tha went away. an first of all tha mun knaw 'at aw havn't been spar'd, for trials an troubles have come, an mi heart has felt well nigh to braik; an mi wife, 'at tha knaws wor mi pride, an mi fortuns has shared, shoo bent under her griefs, an shoo's flown far, far away aght o' ther raik. my life's like an owd gate 'at's nobbut one hinge for support, an sometimes aw wish--aw'm soa lonely- at tother 'ud drop off wi' rust; but it hasn't to be, for it seems life maks me his spooart, an deeath cannot even spare time, to turn sich an owd man into dust. last neet as aw sat an watched th' yule log awd put on to th' fire, as it crackled, an sparkled, an flared up wi sich gusto an spirit, an when it wor touched it shone breeter, an flared up still higher, till at last aw'd to shift th' cheer further back for aw couldn't bide near it; th' dull saand o'th' church bells coom to tell me one moor christmas mornin, had come, for its welcome--but ha could aw welcome it when all alooan? for th' snow wor fallin soa thickly, an th' cold wind wor mooanin, an them 'at aw lov'd wor asleep i' that cold church yard, under a stooan. soa aw went to bed an aw slept, an then began dreamin, 'at mi wife stood by mi side, an smiled, an mi heart left off its beatin, an aw put aght mi hand, an awoke, an mornin wor gleamin; an its made me feel sorrowful, an aw connot give ovver freatin. for aw think what a glorious christmas day 'twod ha' been, if awd gooan to that place, where ther's noa moor cares, nor partin, nor sorrow, for aw know shoo's thear, or that dream aw sud nivver ha seen, but aw'll try to be patient, an maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow. it's forty long summers an winters, sin tha bade "gooid bye," an as fine a young fella tha wor, as ivver aw met i' mi life; when tha went to some far away land, thi fortune to try, an aw stopt at hooam to toil on, becoss it wor th' wish o' my wife. an shoo wor a bonny young wench, an better nor bonny,- aw seem nah as if aw can see her, wi' th' first little bairn on her knee; an we called it ann, for aw liked that name best ov onny, an fowk said it wor th' pictur o'th' mother, wi' just a strinklin o' me. an th' next wor a lad, an th' next wor a lad, then a lass came,- that made us caant six,--an six happier fowk nivver sat to a meal, an they grew like hop plants--full o' life--but waikly i'th' frame, an at last one drooped, an deeath coom an marked her with his seal. a year or two moor an another seemed longin to goa, an all we could do wor to smooth his deeath bed, 'at he might sleep sweeter-then th' third seemed to sicken an pine, an we couldn't say "noa," for he said his sister had called, an he wor most anxious to meet her-an how we watched th' youngest, noa mortal can tell but misen, for we prized it moor, becoss it wor th' only one left us to cherish; at last her call came, an shoo luked sich a luk at us then, which aw ne'er shall forget, tho' mi mem'ry ov all other things perish. a few years moor, when awr griefs wor beginnin to lighten, mi friends began askin my wife, if shoo felt hersen hearty an strong? an aw nivver saw at her face wor beginnin to whiten, till shoo grew like a shadow, an aw could'nt even guess wrong. then aw stood beside th' grave when th' saxton wor shovin in th' gravel, an he sed, "this last maks five, an aw think ther's just room for another," an aw went an left him, lonely an heartsick to travel, till th' time comes when aw may lig daan beside them four bairns an ther mother. an aw think what a glorious christmas day 'twod ha been if aw'd gooan to that place where ther's noa moor cares, nor partin, nor sorrow; an aw knaw they're thear, or that dream aw should nivver ha seen, but aw'll try to be patient, an maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow. settin off. it isn't 'at aw want to rooam an leeav thi bi thisen: for aw'm content enuff at hooam, aw'm net like other men. but then ther's thee an childer three, to care for an protect, it's reight 'at yo should luk to me, an wrang should aw neglect. aw'm growin older ivvery day, my race is ommost run, time's growin varry precious, lass, an lots remains undone. if aw wor called away, maybe, tha'd find some other man, but tha cannot find a father, for them lads,--do th' best tha can. another husband might'nt prove as kind as aw have been; an wedded life's a weary thing, when love's shut aght o'th' scene. aw know aw've faults, aw'll own a lot,- but then, tha must agree, aw've allus kept a tender spot within mi heart for thee. an if aw've spokken nowty words at's made thee cry an freeat; aw've allus suffered twice as mich, an beg'd thi to forget. tha'rt th' only woman maks me mad, then soothes me wi' a smile, then maks mi fancy aw'm a king, an snubs me all the while, nay,--nay,--old lass! it isn't fun nor frolics that allure,-aw'm strivin for thisen an bairns, to mak yor futur sure. it's duty at aw think aw owe to them young things an thee, the thowts o' which may cheer mi heart, when aw lay daan to dee. to th' swallow. bonny burd! aw'm fain to see thee, for tha tells ov breeter weather; but aw connot quite forgie thee,- connot love thee altogether. 'tisn't thee aw fondly welcome- 'tis the cheerin news tha brings, tellin us fine weather will come, when we see thi dappled wings. but aw'd rayther have a sparrow,- rayther hear a robin twitter;-tho' they may net be thi marrow, may net fly wi' sich a glitter; but they nivver leeav us, nivver- storms may come, but still they stay; but th' first wind 'at ma's thee shivver, up tha mounts an flies away. ther's too monny like thee, swallow, 'at when fortun's sun shines breet, like a silly buzzard follow, doncin raand a bit o' leet. but ther's few like robin redbreast, cling throo days o' gloom an care; soa aw love mi old tried friends best- fickle hearts aw'll freely spare. a wife. wod yo leead a happy life? aw can show yo ha,-get a true an lovin wife,- (yo may have one nah.) if yo have, remember this, be a true man to her, an whativver gooas amiss, keep noa secrets throo her. some chaps think a wife's a toy, just for ther caressin; but sichlike can ne'er enjoy, this world's richest blessin. some ther are who think 'em slaves, fit for nowt but drudgin, an if owt ther fancy craves, give it to 'em grudgin. dooant forget yor patient wife, like yorsen is human, for yo owe yor precious life, to another woman. mak her equal wi' yorsen, (ten to one shoo's better,) tell her all yor plans, an then if shoo'll help yo, let her. oft yo'll find her ready wit, an her keen perception, help yo're slower brains a bit wi' some new conception. dooant expect 'at wives should be like dumb breedin cattle, spendin life contentedly wi' ther babby's prattle. if yo happen to be sick, then they nurse an tend yo, an when trubbles gether thick, they can best befriend yo. an if sympathy yo need, thear yo'll sure receive it, yo accept it, but indeed, yo but seldom give it. if life's journey yo'd have breet, mak yor wife yor treasure, trustin her booath day an neet, sharin grief an pleasure. then yo'll find her smilin face, ivver thear to cheer yo, an yo'll run a nobler race, knowin 'at shoo's near yo. heart brokken. he wor a poor hard workin lad, an shoo a workin lass, an hard they tew'd throo day to day, for varry little brass. an oft they tawk'd o'th' weddin day, an lang'd for th' happy time, when poverty noa moor should part, two lovers i' ther prime. but wark wor scarce, an wages low, an mait an drink wor dear, they did ther best to struggle on, as year crept after year. but they wor little better off, nor what they'd been befoor; it tuk 'em all ther time to keep grim want aghtside o'th' door. soa things went on, wol hope at last, gave place to dark despair; they felt they'd nowt but lovin hearts, an want an toil to share. at length he screw'd his courage up to leeav his native shore; an goa where wealth wor worshipped less, an men wor valued moor. he towld his tale;--poor lass!--a tear just glistened in her e'e; then soft shoo whispered, "please thisen, but think sometimes o' me: an whether tha's gooid luck or ill, tha knows aw shall be glad to see thee safe at hooam agean, an welcome back mi lad." "awl labor on, an do mi best; tho' lonely aw must feel, but awst be happy an content if tha be dooin weel. but ne'er forget tho' waves may roll, an keep us far apart; tha's left a poor, poor lass behind, an taen away her heart." "dost think 'at aw can e'er forget, whearivver aw may rooam, that bonny face an lovin heart, aw've prized soa dear at hooam? nay lass, nooan soa, be sure o' this, 'at till next time we meet tha'll be mi first thowt ivvery morn, an last thowt ivvery neet." he went away an years flew by, but tidins seldom came; shoo couldn't help, at times, a sigh, but breathed noa word o' blame; when one fine day a letter came, 'twor browt to her at th' mill, shoo read it, an her tremblin hands, an beating heart stood still. her fellow workers gathered raand an caught her as shoo fell, an as her heead droop'd o' ther arms, shoo sighed a sad "farewell." poor lass! her love had proved untrue, he'd play'd a traitor's part, he'd taen another for his bride, an broke a trustin heart. her doleful stooary sooin wor known, an monny a tear wor shed; they took her hooam an had her laid, upon her humble bed; shoo'd nawther kith nor kin to come her burial fees to pay; but some poor comrade's undertuk, to see her put away. each gave what little helps they could, from aght ther scanty stooar; i' hooaps 'at some 'at roll'd i' wealth wod give a trifle moor. but th' maisters ordered 'em away, abaat ther business, sharp! for shoo'd deed withaat a nooatice, an shoo hadn't fell'd her warp. lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed. nay surelee tha's made a mistak; tha'rt aght o' thi element here; tha may weel goa an peark up o'th' thack, thi bonny wings shakin wi' fear. aw should think 'at theease rattlin looms saand queer sooart o' music to thee; an tha'll hardly quite relish th' perfumes o' miln-greease,--what th' quality be. maybe tha'rt disgusted wi' us, an thinks we're a low offald set, but tha'rt sadly mistaen if tha does, for ther's hooap an ther's pride in us yet. tha wor nobbut a worm once thisen, an as humble as humble could be; an tho we nah are like tha wor then, we may yet be as nobby as thee. tha'd to see thi own livin when young, an when tha grew up tha'd to spin; an if labor like that wornt wrong, tha con hardly call wayvin 'a sin.' but tha longs to be off aw con tell: for tha shows 'at tha ar'nt content; soa aw'll oppen thee th' window--farewell off tha goas, bonny fly!--an it went. rejected. gooid bye, lass, aw dunnot blame, tho' mi loss is hard to bide! for it wod ha' been a shame, had tha ivver been the bride of a workin chap like me; one 'ats nowt but love to gie. hard hoof'd neives like thease o' mine. surely ne'er wor made to press hands so lily-white as thine; nor should arms like thease caress one so slender, fair, an' pure, 'twor unlikely, lass, aw'm sure. but thease tears aw cannot stay,- drops o' sorrow fallin fast, hopes once held aw've put away as a dream, an think its past; but mi poor heart loves thi still, an' wol life is mine it will. when aw'm seated, lone and sad, wi mi scanty, hard won meal, one thowt still shall mak me glad, thankful that alone aw feel what it is to tew an' strive just to keep a soul alive. th' whin-bush rears o'th' moor its form, an' wild winds rush madly raand, but it whistles to the storm, in the barren home it's faand; natur fits it to be poor, an 'twor vain to strive for moor. if it for a lily sighed, an' a lily chonced to grow, when it found the fair one died, powerless to brave the blow of the first rude gust o' wind, which had left its wreck behind. then 'twod own 'twor better fate niver to ha' held the prize; whins an' lilies connot mate, sich is not ther destinies; then 'twor wrang for one like me, one soa poor, to sigh for thee. then gooid bye, aw dunnot blame, tho' mi loss it's hard to bide, for it wod ha' been a shame had tha iver been mi bride; content aw'll wear mi lonely lot, tho' mi poor heart forgets thee not. persevere. what tho' th' claads aboon luk dark, th' sun's just waitin to peep throo; let us buckle to awr wark, for ther's lots o' jobs to do: tho' all th' world luks dark an drear, let's ha faith, an persevere. he's a fooil 'at sits an mumps 'coss some troubles hem him raand! man mud allus be i'th dumps, if he sulk'd 'coss fortun fraand; th' time 'll come for th' sky to clear:- let's ha faith, an persevere. if we think awr lot is hard, nivver let us mak a fuss; lukkin raand, at ivvery yard, we'st find others war nor us; we have still noa cause to fear! let's ha faith, an persevere. a faint heart, aw've heeard 'em say, nivver won a lady fair: have a will! yo'll find a way! honest men ne'er need despair. better days are drawin near:-then ha faith, an persevere. workin men,--nah we've a voice, an con help to mak new laws; let us ivver show awr choice lains to strengthen virtue's cause, wrangs to reighten,--griefs to cheer; this awr motto--'persevere.' let us show to foreign empires loyalty's noa empty booast; we can scorn the thirsty vampires if they dar molest awr cooast: to awr queen an country dear still we'll cling an persevere. the printed version in yorkshire lyrics finishes here these two extra verses are from yorkshire ditties first series. but as on throo life we hurry, by whativver path we rooam, let us ne'er forget i'th' worry, true reform begins at hooam: then, to prove yorsens sincere, start at once; an persevere. hard wark, happen yo may find it, some dear folly to forsake, be detarmined ne'er to mind it! think, yor honor's nah at stake. th' gooid time's drawin varry near! then ha faith, an persevere. a pointer. just listen to mi stooary lads, it's one will mak yo grieve; it's full ov sich strange incidents; yo hardly can believe. that lass aw cooarted, went one neet aght walkin wi' a swell; they ovvertuk me on mi way, an this is what befell. they tuk me for a finger pooast; aw stood soa varry still; an daan they set beside me, just at top o' beacon hill. he sed shoo wor his deary; shoo sed he wor her pet; 'twor an awkward sittiwation which aw shall'nt sooin forget. aw stood straight up at top o'th' hill,- they set daan at mi feet; he hugged her up soa varry cloise, aw thowt ther lips must meet. he sed he loved wi' all his heart, shoo fainted reight away; aw darsn't luk,--aw darsn't start, but aw wished misen away. they tuk me for, &c. he bathed her temples from the brook; he sed shoo wor his life, it made me queer, becoss aw'd sworn to mak that lass mi wife. shoo coom araand, an ligg'd her heead, upon his heavin breast; an then shoo skriked, an off aw ran, but aw cannot tell the rest. they tuk me for, &c. they wedded wor, sooin after that, aw thowt mi heart wod braik;-it didn't,--soa aw'm livin on, an freeatin for her sake. but sweet revenge,--it coom at last, for childer shoo had three, an they're all marked wi' a finger pooast whear it didn't owt to be. they tuk me for, &c. an acrostic. h a! if yo'd nobbut known that lass, a w'm sure yo'd call her bonny; n oa other could her charms surpass, n oa other had as monny. a n ha aw lost mi peace o' mind, h ark! an aw'll tell if yor inclined. c awered in a nook one day aw set, r aand which wild flaars wor growin; o, that sweet time aw'st ne'er forget, s oa long as aw've mi knowin. t hear aw first saw this lovely lass; i n thowtful mood shoo tarried, "c ome be mi bride, sweet maid!" aw cried: "k eep off!" shoo skriked, "aw'm married!" help thisen. "come, help thisen, lad,--help thisen!" wor what mi uncle sed. we'd just come in throo makkin hay, to get some cheese an breead. an help misen aw did,--yo bet! aw wor a growin lad; aw thowt then, an aw fancy yet, 'twor th' grandest feed aw'd had. when aw grew up aw fell i' love,- shoo wor a bonny lass! but bein varry young an shy, aw let mi chonces pass. aw could'nt for mi life contrive a thing to do or say, for fear aw should offend her, soa aw let her walk away. but what aw suffered nooan can tell;- aw loved her as mi life! but dursn't ax her for the world to be mi darlin wife. aw desperate grew,--we met,--aw ax'd for just one kuss,--an then, shoo blushed, an shook her bonny curls, but let me help misen. it's varry monny years sin then,- mi hair's nah growin gray; but oft throo life aw've thowt aw've heeard that same owd farmer say,-when in some fix aw've vainly sowt for aid from other men,-"tha'rt wastin time,--if tha wants help pluck up, an help thisen." if th' prize yo long for seems too heigh, dooant let yor spirits drop; ther may be lots o' thrustin, but yo'll find ther's room at th' top. yo connot tell what yo can do until yo've had a try; it may be a hard struggle, but yo'll get thear, by-an-bye. nah, young fowk, bear this in yor mind an let it be yor creed, for sooin yo'll find fowk's promises are but a rotten reed. feight yor own battles bravely throo, yo'll sewerly win, an then yo'll find ther's lots will help yo, when yo con help yorsen. bless 'em! o, the lasses, the lasses, god bless 'em! his heart must be hard as a stooan 'at could willingly goa an distress 'em, for withaat 'em man's lot 'ud be looan. tho' th' pooasies i' paradise growin for adam, wor scented soa sweet, he ne'er thank'd 'em for odour bestowin, he trampled 'em under his feet. he long'd to some sweet one to whisper; an wol sleepin eve came to his home; he wakken'd, an saw her, an kuss'd her, an ne'er ax'd her a word ha shoo'd come. an tho' shoo, like her sex, discontented, an anxious fowk's saycrets to know, pluck'd an apple,--noa daat shoo repented when shoo saw at it made sich a row. tho' aw know shoo did wrang, aw forgie her; for aw'm fairly convinced an declare, 'at aw'd rayther ha sin an be wi' her, nor all th' world an noa woman to share. then let us be kind to all th' wimmin, throo th' poorest to th' queen up oth' throne, for if, eve-like, they sometimes goa sinnin, it's moor for th' chaps' sakes nor ther own. act square. "another day will follow this," ah,--that shall sewerly be, but th' day 'at dawns to-morn, my lad, may nivver dawn for thee, this day is thine, soa use it weel, for fear when it has passed, some duty has been left undone on th' day at proved thy last. what's passed an gooan's beyond recall, an th' futer's all unknown; dooant specilate on what's to be, neglect in what's thi own. when morn in comes thank god tha'rt spared to see another day; an when tha goas to bed at neet, life's burdens on him lay. although thy station may be low, thy life's conditions hard, mak th' best o' what falls to thi lot, an tha shall win reward. man's days ov toil on earth are few compared to that long rest 'at stretches throo eternity, for them 'at's done ther best. though monny rough hills tha's to climb, an bogs an becks to wade; though thorns an brambles chooak thi path, yet, push on undismayed. detarmination, back'd wi' faith, an hope to cheer thi on, shall gie thi strugglin efforts strength, until thi journey's done. let thi religion be thi life,- let ivvery word an deed be prompted bi a love for all, whativver be ther creed. let wranglin praichers twist an twine, ther doctrines new an old; act square,--an ther is one will see tha'rt net left aght i'th' cold. his dowter gate wed. he'd had his share ov ups an daans, his sprees an troubles too; ov country joys an life i' taans, he'd run th' whoal gamut throo. he labored hard to mak ends meet, an keep things all ship-shap: an th' naybor's sed, 'at lived i'th' street, "he's a varry daycent chap." he paid his rent an gave his wife enuff for clooas an grub, to pleas her he'd insured his life, an joined a burial club. his childer,--grander nivver ran to climb a father's knee; noa better wife had onny man,- noa praader chap could be. he tuk noa stock i' fleetin time, he nivver caanted th' years; for he wor hale, just in his prime, an nowt to cause him fears. he nivver dreamt ov growin old, sich thowts ne'er made him freat, he sed,--"why aw'm as gooid as gold, aw'm but a youngster yet!" his childer thrave like willow wands, an made fine maids an men, but th' thowt ne'er entered in his nut, 'at he grew old hissen. his e'en wor oppened one fine day, his dreams o' youth all fled; an th' reason on it wor, they say,- his dowter,--shoo gate wed. "e'a, gow!" he sed, "but this licks me! shoo's but a child hersen,-ov all things!--why,--it connot be her thowts should turn to men!" "whisht!" sed his wife, "we wed as young, an shoo's moor sense bi far,-an then tha knows shoo's th' grandest lass 'at lives at batley carr." he gave a grooan, for on his lass he'd set a deal o' stooar. he lit his pipe an filled his glass, then fixed his e'en o'th' flooar. "by gum!" he sed, "but this is rough, aw ne'er knew owt as bad, if shoo's a wife, its plain enuff aw connot be a lad." "aw must be old,--aw say,--old lass,- does't think aw'm growin grey? gooid gracious! but ha time does pass! but tha doesn't age a day. tha'rt just as buxum nah as then, aw'st think tha must feel shamed, tha luks as young as her thisen,- or could do, if tha framed." "aw'st ha to alter all mi ways,- noa moor aw'st ha to rooam;-just sattle daan an end mi days cronkt up bith' hob at hooam. an 'fore owts long, as like as net, wol crooidled up i'th' nook, ther'll be some youngster browt, aw'll bet, to watch his grondad smook." "do stop! aw wonder ha tha dar, behave thi soa unkind! does't think 'at th' lads i' batley carr are all booath dumb an blind? shoo's wed a steady, honest chap, an shoo's booath gooid an fair, ther's net another fit to swap,- they mak a gradely pair." "'man worn't made to live alooan,' tha tell'd me that thisen:-tha needn't shak thi heead an grooan;- tha's happen changed sin then. but if ther ivver wor a crank, it's been my luck to see, it wor my childer's father when he furst coom coortin me." "but rest content, its all for th' best;- an then tha must ha known,-shoo thowt it time at shoo possest a nice hooam ov her own." "well--may they prosper! that's my prayer,- they'st nivver want a friend wol aw'm alive,--but aw'st beware, an watch theas younger end." all we had. it worn't for her winnin ways, nor for her bonny face but shoo wor th' only lass we had, an that quite alters th' case. we'd two fine lads as yo need see, an' weel we love 'em still; but shoo war th' only lass we had, an' we could spare her ill. we call'd her bi mi mother's name, it saanded sweet to me; we little thowt ha varry sooin awr pet wod have to dee. aw used to watch her ivery day, just like a oppenin bud; an' if aw couldn't see her change, aw fancied' at aw could. throo morn to neet her little tongue wor allus on a stir; awve heeard a deeal o' childer lisp, but nooan at lispt like her. sho used to play all sooarts o' tricks, 'at childer shouldn't play; but then, they wor soa nicely done, we let her have her way. but bit bi bit her spirits fell, her face grew pale an' thin; for all her little fav'rite toys shoo didn't care a pin. aw saw th' old wimmin shak ther heeads, wi monny a doleful nod; aw knew they thowt shoo'd goa, but still aw couldn't think shoo wod. day after day my wife an' me, bent o'er that suff'rin child, shoo luk'd at mammy, an' at me, then shut her een an' smiled. at last her spirit pass'd away; her once breet een wor dim; shoo'd heeard her maker whisper 'come,' an' hurried off to him. fowk tell'd us t'wor a sin to grieve, for god's will must be best; but when yo've lost a child yo've loved, it puts yor faith to th' test. we pick'd a little bit o' graand, whear grass and daisies grew, an' trees wi spreeadin boughs aboon ther solemn shadows threw. we saw her laid to rest, within that deep grave newly made; wol th' sexton let a tear drop fall, on th' handle ov his spade. it troubled us to walk away, an' leeav her bi hersen; th' full weight o' what we'd had to bide, we'd niver felt till then. but th' hardest task wor yet to come, that pang can ne'er be towld; 'twor when aw feszend th' door at nee't, an' locked her aat i'th' cowld. 'twor then hot tears roll'd daan mi cheek, 'twor then aw felt mooast sad; for shoo'd been sich a tender plant, an' th' only lass we had. but nah we're growin moor resign'd, although her face we miss; for he's blest us wi another, an we've hopes o' rearin this, th' first o'th sooart. aw heeard a funny tale last neet-aw could'nt howd fro' laffin-'twor at th' bull's heead we chonced to meet, an' spent an haar i' chaffin. some sang a song, some cracked a joak, an' all seem'd full o' larkin; an' th' raam war blue wi' bacca smook, an' ivery e'e'd a spark in. long joa 'at comes thro th' jumples cluff, wor gettin rayther mazy; an' warkus ned had supped enuff to turn they're betty crazy;-an bob at lives at th' bogeggs farm, wi' nan throo th' buttress bottom, wor treating her to summat wanm, (it's just his way,--"odd drot em!") an' jack o'th' slade wor theear as weel, an' joa o' abe's throo waerley; an' lijah off o'th' lavver hill, wor passing th' ale raand rarely.-throo raand and square they seem'd to meet, to hear or tell a stoory; but th' gem o' all aw heard last neet wor one bi dooad o'th' gloory. he bet his booits 'at it wor true, an' all seem'd to believe him; tho' if he'd lost he need'nt rue-but 't wodn't ha done to grieve him his uncle lived i' pudsey taan, an' practised local praichin; an' if he 're lucky, he wor baan to start a schooil for taichin. but he wor takken varry ill; he felt his time wor comin: (they say he brought it on hissel wi' studdyin his summin.) he call'd his wife an' neighbors in to hear his deein sarmon, an' tell'd 'em if they liv'd i' sin ther lot ud be a warm en. then turin raand unto his wife, said--"mal, tha knows, owd craytur, if awd been bless'd wi' longer life, aw might ha' left things straighter. joa sooitill owes me eighteen pence-aw lent it him last lovefeast." says mal--"he has'nt lost his sense-thank god for that at least!" "an ben o'th' top o'th' bank tha knows, we owe him one paand ten.".-"just hark!" says mally, "there he goas! he's ramellin agean! dooant tak a bit o' noatice, fowk! yo see, poor thing, he's ravin! it cuts me up to hear sich talk-he spent his life i' savin! "an mally lass," he said agean, "tak heed o' my direction: th' schooil owes us hauf a craan--aw mean my share o'th' last collection.-tha'll see to that, an have what's fair when my poor life is past."-says mally, "listen, aw declare, he's sensible to th' last." he shut his een an' sank to rest-deeath seldom claimed a better: they put him by,--but what wor th' best, he sent 'em back a letter, to tell 'em all ha he'd gooan on; an' ha he gate to enter; an' gave 'em rules to act upon if ever they should ventur. theear peter stood wi' keys i' hand: says he, "what do you want, sir? if to goa in--yo understand unknown to me yo can't sir.-pray what's your name? where are yo throo? just make your business clear." says he, "they call me parson drew, aw've come throo pudsey here." "you've come throo pudsey, do you say? doant try sich jokes o' me, sir; aw've kept thease doors too long a day, aw can't be fooiled bi thee, sir." says drew, "aw wodn't tell a lie, for th' sake o' all ther's in it: if yo've a map o' england by, aw'll show yo in a minit." soa peter gate a time-table-they gloored o'er th' map together: drew did all at he wor able, but could'nt find a stiver. at last says he, "thear's leeds taan hall, an thear stands braforth mission: it's just between them two--that's all: your map's an old edition. but thear it is, aw'll lay a craan, an' if yo've niver known it, yo've miss'd a bonny yorksher taan, tho mony be 'at scorn it." he oppen'd th' gate,--says he, "it's time some body coom--aw'll trust thee. tha'll find inside noa friends o' thine-tha'rt th' furst 'at's come throo pudsey." poor old hat. poor old hat! poor old hat! like misen tha's grown an fowk call us old fashioned an odd; but monny's the storm we have met sin that day, when aw bowt thee all shiny an snod. as aw walked along th' street wi thee peearkt o' mi broo, fowk's manners wor cappin to see; an aw thowt it wor me they bade 'ha do yo do,' but aw know nah they nodded at thee. poor old hat! poor old hat! aw mun cast thee aside, for awr friendship has lasted too long; tho' tha still art mi comfort, an once wor mi pride, tha'rt despised i' this world's giddy throng. dooant think me ungrateful, or call me unkind, if another aw put i thi place; for aw think tha'll admit if tha'll oppen thi mind, tha can bring me nowt moor but disgrace. poor old hat! poor old hat! varry sooin it may be, aw'st be scorned an cast off like thisen; an be shoved aght o'th gate wi less kindness nor thee an have nubdy to care for me then. but one thing aw'll contrive as tha's sarved me soa weel, an tha gave thi best days to mi use; noa war degradation aw'll cause thee to feel, for aw'll screen thi throo scorn an abuse. poor old hat! poor old hat! if thart thrown aght o' door, tha may happen be punced abaat th' street, for like moor things i'th world, if thart shabby an poor, it wor best tha should keep aght o'th seet. wine mellows wi age, an old pots fotch big brass, an fowk rave ov antique this an that, an they worship grey stooans, an old booans, but alas! ther's nubdy respects an old hat. poor old hat! poor old hat! awm reight fast what to do, to burn thi aw havnt the heart, if aw stow thi away tha'll be moth etten throo, an thart seedy enuff as tha art. tha's long been a comfort when worn o' mi heead, soa dooant freeat, for to pairt we're net gooin, for aw'll mak on thi soils for mi poor feet asteead, an aw'll wear thi once moor i' mi shooin. poor old hat! poor old hat! ne'er repine at thi lot, if thart useful what moor can ta be? better wear cleean away nor be idle an rot, an remember thart useful to me. though its hard to give up what wor once dearly prized, tha but does what all earthly things must, for though we live honored, or perish despised,- we're at last but a handful o' dust. done agean. aw've a rare lump o' beef on a dish, we've some bacon 'at's hung up o' th' thack, we've as mich gooid spice-cake as we wish, an wi' currens its varry near black; we've a barrel o' gooid hooam brewed drink, we've a pack o' flaar reared agean th' clock, we've a load o' puttates under th' sink, so we're pretty weel off as to jock. aw'm soa fain aw can't tell whear to bide, but the cause aw dar hardly let aat; it suits me moor nor all else beside: aw've a paand at th' wife knows nowt abaat. aw can nah have a spree to misel; aw can treat mi old mates wi' a glass; an' aw sha'nt ha' to come home an tell my old lass, ha' aw've shut all mi brass. some fowk say, when a chap's getten wed, he should nivver keep owt thro' his wife; if he does awve oft heeard 'at it's sed, 'at it's sure to breed trouble an strife; if it does aw'm net baan to throw up, though awd mich rayther get on withaat; but who wodn't risk a blow up, for a paand 'at th' wife knows nowt abaat. aw hid it i' th' coil hoil last neet, for fear it dropt aat o' mi fob, coss aw knew, if shoo happened to see 't, 'at mi frolic wod prove a done job. but aw'll gladden mi e'en wi' its face, to mak sure at its safe in its nick;-but aw'm blest if ther's owt left i' th' place! why, its hook'd it as sure as aw'm wick. whear its gooan to's a puzzle to me, an' who's taen it aw connot mak aat, for it connot be th' wife, coss you see it's a paand 'at shoo knew nowt abaat. but thear shoo is, peepin' off th' side, an' aw see 'at shoo's all on a grin; to chait her aw've monny a time tried, but i think it's nah time to give in, a chap may be deep as a well, but a woman's his maister when done; he may chuckle and flatter hissel, but he'll wakken to find at shoo's won. it's a rayther unpleasant affair, yet it's better it's happened noa daat; aw'st be fain to come in for a share o' that paand at th' wife knows all abaat. what it is to be a mother. a'a, dear! what a life has a mother! at leeast, if they're hamper'd like me, thro' mornin' to neet ther's some bother, an' ther will be, aw guess, wol aw dee. ther's mi chap, an misen, an' six childer, six o'th' roughest, aw think, under th' sun, aw'm sartin sometimes they'd bewilder old joab, wol his patience wor done. they're i' mischief i' ivery corner, an' ther tongues they seem niver at rest; ther's one shaatin' "little jack horner," an' another "the realms o' the blest." aw'm sure if a body's to watch 'em, they mun have een at th' back o' ther yed; for quiet yo niver can catch 'em unless they're asleep an' i' bed. for ther's somdy comes runnin to tell us 'at one on em's takken wi' fits; or ther's two on 'em feightin for th' bellus, an' rivin' ther clooas all i' bits. in a mornin' they're all weshed an' tidy'd, but bi nooin they're as black as mi shoe; to keep a lot cleean, if yo've tried it, yo know 'at ther's summat to do. when my felly comes hooam to his drinkin', aw try to be gradely, an' straight; for when all's nice an' cleean, to mi thinkin', he enjoys better what ther's to ait. if aw tell him aw'm varry near finished wi allus been kept in a fuss, he says, as he looks up astonished, "why, aw niver see owt 'at tha does." but aw wonder who does all ther mendin', weshes th' clooas, an cleans th' winders an' flags? but for me they'd have noa spot to stand in- they'd be lost i' ther filth an' ther rags. but it allus wor soa, an' it will be, a chap thinks' at a woman does nowt; but it ne'er bothers me what they tell me, for men havn't a morsel o' thowt. but just harken to me wol aw'm tellin' ha aw tew to keep ivery thing straight; an' aw'l have yo for th' judge if yor willin', for aw want nowt but what aw think's reight. ov a monday aw start o' my weshin', an' if th' day's fine aw get um all dried; ov a tuesday aw fettle mi kitchen, an' mangle, an' iron beside. ov a wednesday, then aw've mi bakin'; ov a thursday aw reckon to brew; ov a friday all th' carpets want shakin', an' aw've th' bedrooms to clean an' dust throo. then o'th' setterday, after mi markets, stitch on buttons, an' th' stockins' to mend, then aw've all th' sundy clooas to luk ovver, an' that brings a week's wark to its end. then o'th' sundy ther's cooking 'em th' dinner, it's ther only warm meal in a wick; tho' ther's some say aw must be a sinner, for it's paving mi way to old nick. but a chap mun be like to ha' summat, an' aw can't think it's varry far wrang, just to cook him an' th' childer a dinner, tho' it may mak me rayther too thrang. but if yor a wife an' a mother, yo've yor wark an' yor duties to mind; yo mun leearn to tak nowt as a bother, an' to yor own comforts be blind. but still, just to seer all ther places, when they're gethred raand th' harston at neet, fill'd wi six roosy-red, smilin' faces; it's nooan a despisable seet. an, aw connot help thinkin' an' sayin', (tho' yo may wonder what aw can mean), 'at if single, aw sooin should be playin' coortin tricks, an' be weddin' agean. what they say. they say 'at its a waste o' brass--a nasty habit too,-a thing 'at noa reight-minded chap wod ivver think to do; maybe they're reight; they say it puts one's brains to sleep, an maks a felly daft,-aw've hearken'd to ther doctrins, then aw've lit mi pipe an laft, at ther consait. at morn when startin for mi wark, a bit o' bacca's sweet, an aw raillee should'nt like to be withaat mi pipe at neet, it comforts me. an if awm worritted an vext, wi' bothers durin th' day, aw tak a wiff, an in a claad, aw puff 'em all away, an off they flee. they tell me its a poison, an its bad effects they show; aw nivver contradict 'em but aw think its varry slow, an bad to tell; they say it leeads to drinkin, an drink leeads to summat war; but aw know some at nivver smook 'at's getten wrang as far as me misel. they say its an example 'at we did'nt owt to set,-for owt 'at's nowt young fowk sooin leearn, but dooant soa sooin forget, that's varry true. but aw shall be contented, if when comes mi time to dee, to smook a pipe o' bacca is th' warst thing they've lent throo me: aw'st manage throo, they say it maks one lazy, an time slips by unawares,-it may be soa, an if it is, that's noa consarn o' theirs; aw work mi share. if it prevents fowk meddlin wi' th' affairs ov other men, 'twod happen be as weel, aw think, if they'd to smook thersen;- they've time to spare. but what they say ne'er matters, for aw act upon a plan, if th' world affooards a pleasure awll enjoy it if aw can, at morn or neet; they may praich agean mi bacca, an may looad it wi' abuse, but aw think its a gooid crayter if its put to a gooid use. pass me a leet. young jockey. young jockey he bowt him a pair o' new shooin, ooin, ooin, ry diddle dooin! young jockey he bowt him a pair o' new shooin, for he'd made up his mind he'd be wed varry sooin; an he went to ax jenny his wife for to be, but shoo sed, "nay, aw'll ne'er wed a hawbuck like thee, thi legs luk too lanky, thi heead is too cranky, its better bi th' hawf an old maid aw should dee!" young jockey then went an he bowt him a gun, un, un, ry diddle dun! young jockey then went an he bowt him a gun, for his ivvery hooap i' this wide world wor done; an he went an tell'd jenny, to end all his pains, he'd made up his mind 'at he'd blow aght his brains, but shoo cared net a pin, an shoo sed wi' a grin,-"befoor they're blown aght tha man get some put in." missed his mark. aw like fowrk to succeed i' life if they've an honest aim, an even if they chonce to trip awm varry loath to blame; its sich a simple thing sometimes maks failure or success, th' prize oft slips by strugglin men to them 'at's striven less. aw envy nubdy fortun's smiles, aw lang for 'em misen,-but them at win her favors should dispense 'em nah an then. an them 'at's blest wi' sunshine let 'em think o' those i'th' dark, an nivver grudge a helpin hand to him 'at's missed his mark. we connot allus hit it,--an ther's monny a toilin brain, has struggled for a lifetime, but its efforts proved in vain; an monny a hardy son ov toil has worn his life away, an all his efforts proved in vain to keep poverty at bay; wol others, bi a lucky stroke, have carved ther way to fame, an ivvery thing they've tackled on has proved a winnin' game; let those who've met wi' fav'rin winds to waft-life's little bark, just spare a thowt, an gie a lift, to him 'at's missed his mark. aw hate to hear a purse-praad chap keep booastin of his gains,-sneerin at humble workin fowk who're richer far i' brains! aw hate all meean hard graspin slaves, who mak ther gold ther god,-for if they could grab all ther is, awm pratty sewer they wod. aw hate fowk sanctimonious, whose humility is pride, who, when they see a chap distressed, pass by on tother side! aw hate those drones 'at share earth's hive, but shirk ther share o' wark, yet curl ther nooas at some poor soul, who's toiled, yet missed his mark. give me that man whose heart can feel for others griefs an woes;-who loves his friends an nivver bears a grudge ageean his foes; tho' kindly words an cheerin smiles are all he can bestow,-if he gives that wi' willin heart, he does some gooid below. an when th' time comes, as come it will, when th' race is at an end, he'll dee noa poorer for what gooid he's ivver done a friend. an when they gently put him by,--unconscious, stiff an stark, his epetaph shall be, 'here's one 'at didn't miss his mark.' when lost. if at hooam yo have to tew, though yor comforts may be few, an yo think yore lot is hard, and yor prospects bad; yo may swear ther's nowt gooas reight, wi' yor friends an wi' yor meyt, but yo'll nivver know ther vally till j'o've lost em, lad. though yo've but a humble cot, an yore share's a seedy lot; though yo goa to bed i'th dumps, an get up i'th mornin mad, yet yo'll find its mich moor wise, what yo have to fondly prize, for yo'll nivver know ther vally till yo've lost em, lad. mak a gooid start. let's mak a gooid start, nivver fear what grum'lers an growlers may say; that nivver need cause yo a tear, for whear ther's a will ther's a way. if yo've plenty to ait an to drink, nivver heed, though yor wark may be rough; if yo'll nobbut keep hooapful, aw think, yo'll find th' way to mend plain enuff. if yor temper gets saar'd an cross, an yor mind is disturbed an perplext; or if troubled wi' sickness an loss, an yor poverty maks yo feel vext;-nivver heed! for its fooilish to freeat abaat things at yo connot prevent; an i'th futer ther may be a treeat, 'at'll pay for all th' sad days you've spent, i' this new life beginnin,--who knows what for each on us may be i' stoor? for th' river o' time as it flows, weshes th' threshold o' ivvery man's door. at some it leeavs little, may be, an at others deposits a prize; but if yo be watchful yo'll see ther's a trifle for each one 'at tries. ther's a time booath to wish an decide;- for a chap at ne'er langs nivver tews;-if yo snuff aght ambition an pride, yo sink a chap's heart in his shoes, wish for summat 'at's honest an reight, an detarmine yo'll win it or dee! yo'll find obstacles slink aght o'th gate, an th' black claads o' daat quickly flee. young men should seek labor an gains, old men wish for rest an repose;-young lasses want brave, lovin swains, an hanker for th' finest o' clooas. old wimmin,--a cosy foirside, an a drop o' gooid rum i' ther teah; little childer, a horse they can ride, or a dolly to nurse o' ther knee. one thing a chap cant do withaat, is a woman to share his estate; an mooast wimmen, ther isn't a daat, think life a dull thing baght a mate. ther's a sayin booath ancient an wise, an its one at should be acted upon;-yo'll do weel, to accept its advice,- to, "begin as yo meean to goa on." stop at hooam. "tha wodn't goa an leave me, jim, all lonely by mysel? my een at th' varry thowts grow dim- aw connot say farewell. tha vow'd tha couldn't live unless tha saw me every day, an' said tha knew noa happiness when aw wor foorced away. an th' tales tha towld, i know full weel, wor true as gospel then; what is it, lad, 'at ma's thee feel soa strange--unlike thisen? ther's raam enuff, aw think tha'll find, i'th taan whear tha wor born, to mak a livin, if tha'll mind to ha' faith i' to-morn. aw've mony a time goan to mi wark throo claads o' rain and sleet; all's seem'd soa dull, soa drear, an' dark, it ommust mud be neet. but then, when braikfast time's come raand, aw've seen th' sun's cheerin ray, an' th' heavy lukkin claads have slunk like skulkin lads away. an' then bi nooin it's shooan soa breet aw've sowt some shade to rest, an' as aw've paddled hooam at neet, glorious it's sunk i'th west. an' tho' a claad hangs ovver thee, (an' trouble's hard to bide), have patience, lad, an' wait an' see what's hid o'th' tother side. if aw wor free to please mi mind, aw'st niver mak this stur; but aw've a mother ommust blind, what mud become o' her? tha knows shoo cared for me, when waik an' helpless ivery limb, aw'm feeard her poor owd heart ud braik if aw'd to leave her, jim. aw like to hear thee talk o' th' trees 'at tower up to th' sky, an' th' burds 'at flutterin i'th' breeze, lie glitterin' jewels fly. woll th' music of a shepherd's reed may gently float along, lendin its tender notes to lead some fair maid's simple song; an' flaars 'at grow o' ivery side, such as we niver see; but here at hooam, at ivery stride, there's flaars for thee an' me. aw care net for ther suns soa breet, nor warblin melody; th' clink o' thi clogs o' th' flags at neet saands sweeter, lad, to me. an' tho' aw wear a gingham gaan, a claat is noa disgrace; tha'll niver find a heart moor warm beat under silk or lace. then settle daan, tak my advice, give up this wish to rooam! an' if tha luks, tha'll find lots nice worth stoppin' for at hooam." "god bless thee, jenny! dry that e'e, an' gi'e us howd thi hand! for words like thoase, throo sich as thee, what mortal could withstand! it isn't mich o'th' world aw know, but aw con truly say, a faithful heart's too rich to throw withaat a thowt away. so here aw'll stay, and should fate fraan, aw'll tew for thine and thee, an' seek for comfort when cast daan, i'th' sunleet o' thi e'e." advice to jenny. jenny, jenny, dry thi ee, an' dunnot luk soa sad; it grieves me varry mich to see tha freeats abaat yon lad; for weel tha knows, withaat a daat, whearivver he may be, tho fond o' rammellin' abaat, he's allus true to thee. tha'll learn mooar sense, lass, in a while, for wisdom comes wi' time, an' if tha lives tha'll leearn to smile at troubles sich as thine; a faithful chap is better far, altho' he likes to rooam, nor one 'at does what isn't reight, an' sits o'th' hearth at hooam. tha needn't think 'at wedded life noa disappointment brings; tha munnot think to keep a chap teed to thi appron strings. soa dry thi een, they're varry wet, an' let thi heart be glad, for tho' tha's wed a rooamer, yet, tha's wed a honest lad. ther's mony a lady, rich an' great, 'at's sarvents at her call, wod freely change her grand estate for thine tha thinks soa small: for riches cannot buy content, soa tho' thi joys be few, tha's one ther's nowt con stand anent,- a heart 'at's kind an' true. soa when he comes luk breet an' gay, an' meet him wi' a kiss, tha'll find him mooar inclined to stay wi treatment sich as this; but if thi een luk red like that, he'll see all's wrang at once, he'll leet his pipe, an' don his hat, an' bolt if he's a chonce. jockey an dolly. th' sun shone breet at early morn, burds sang sweetly on the trees; larks wor springin from the corn, tender blossoms sowt the breeze. jockey whistled as he went o'er rich meadows wet wi' dew; in his breast wor sweet content, for his wants an cares were few. dolly passed him on his way, fresh an sweet an fair wor she; jockey lost his heart that day, to the maid ov salterlee. jockey an dolly had allus been jolly, till love shot his arrow an wounded the twain; their days then pass sadly, yet man an maid madly, in spite ov the torture, they nursed the sweet pain. since that day did jockey pine, dolly shyly kept apart; still shoo milk'd her willin kine, tho' shoo nursed a braikin heart, but one neet they met i'th' fold, when a silv'ry mooin did shine; jockey then his true love told, an he axt, "will't thou be mine?" tears ov joy filled dolly's een, as shoo answered modestly; dolly nah is jockey's queen, th' bonniest wife i' salterlee. jockey an dolly, are livin an jolly, may blessins for ivver attend i' ther train; ther days they pass gladly, noa moor they feel sadly, for two hearts are for ivver bound fast i' love's chain. dooant forget the old fowks. dooant forget the old fowks,- they've done a lot for thee; remember tha'd a mother once, who nursed thi on her knee. a father too, who tew'd all day to mak thi what tha art, an dooant forget tha owes a debt, an strive to pay a part. just think ha helpless once tha wor,- a tiny little tot; but tha wor given th' cosiest nook i' all that little cot. thy ivvery want wor tended to, an soothed thy ivvery pain, they didn't spare love, toil or care, an they'd do it o'er ageean. an all they crave for what they gave, is just a kindly word;-a fond "god bless yo parents," wod be th' sweetest saand they've heard. then dooant forget the old fowks, &c. tha's entered into business nah,- tha'rt dooin pratty weel; tha's won an tha desarves success,- aw know tha'rt true as steel. tha'rt growin rich, an lives i' style, tha's sarvents at thi call; but dooant forget thi mother, lad, to her tha owes it all. thi father totters in his walk, his hair is growin grey; he cannot work as once he did, he's ommost had his day. but th' heart 'at loved thi when a child, is still as warm an true; his pride is in his lad's success,- he hopes tha loves him too. but what they long for mooast ov all, is just that kindly word, "god bless yo, my dear parents!" wod be th' sweetest saand they've heard. then dooant forget the old fowks, &c, soa bonny. aw've travell'd o'er land, an aw've travell'd o'er sea, an aw've seen th' grandest lasses 'at ivver can be; but aw've nivver met one 'at could mak mi heart glad, like her,--for oh! shoo wor bonny mi lad. shoo wornt too gooid, for her temper wor hot, an when her tongue started, shoo wag'd it a lot; an it worn't all pleasant, an some on it bad, but oh! shoo wor bonny!--soa bonny mi lad. consaited and cocky, an full o' what's nowt, an shoo'd say nasty things withaat ivver a thowt; an shood try ivvery way, just to mak me get mad;--for shoo knew shoo wor bonny,--soa bonny mi lad. fowk called me a fooil to keep hingin araand, but whear shoo'd once stept aw could worship the graand; for th' seet ov her face cheer'd mi heart when 'twor sad, for shoo wor soa bonny,--soa bonny mi lad. but shoo wor like th' rest,--false,--false in her heart; shoo made me to love her,--an cupid's sharp dart wor nobbut her fun,--wi' decait it wor clad;-but then, shoo wor bonny;--soa bonny mi lad. shoo sooin wed another,--noa better nor me, an aw hooap shoo'll be happy, though my life is dree; an aw'll try to submit, though shoo treated me bad, but oh! mi poor heart is nigh brokken mi lad. ther may come a time when her passion has cooiled, shoo may think ov a chap shoo unfeelingly fooiled; shoo may seek me agean;--if shoo does,--well, by gad! aw'll welcome her back. shoo's soa bonny mi lad. the linnet. little linnet,--stop a minnit,- let me have a tawk with thee: tell me what this life has in it, maks thee seem so full o' glee? why is pleasure i' full measure, thine throo rooasy morn to neet, has ta fun some wondrous treasure, maks thi be for ivver breet? ---------sang the linnet,--"wait a minnit, let me whisper in thine ear; life has lots o' pleasure in it, though a shadow's oftimes near. ivvery shoolder has its burden, ivvery heart its weight o' care; but if bravely yo accept it, duty finds some pleasure thear. lazy louts dooant know what rest is,- those who labor find rest sweet; grumling souls ne'er know what best is,- blessins wither 'neath ther feet. sorrow needs noa invitation,- joy is shy an must be sowt; grief seeks onny sitiwation,- willin to accept for nowt. all pure pleasure is retirin, allus modest,--shrinkin,--shy,-like a violet,--but goa seek it, an yo'll find it by-an-bye. birds an blossoms,--shaars an sunshine, strive to cheer man on his way; an its nobbut them 'at willn't, 'at cant taste some joy each day. awm a teeny little songster,- all mi feathers plainly grave; but aw wish noa breeter plumage, awm content wi' what aw have. an mi mate is just as lovin, an he sings as sweet to me,-an his message nivver varies,- 'love me love, as aw love thee.' an together, o'er awr nestlins, we keep watch, i' hooaps to see, they may sooin share in awr gladness full ov love,--from envy free. grumbler,--cast a look araand thi;- is this world or thee to blame? joys an blessins all surraand thi,- dar to grummel?--fie,--for shame!" ---------an that linnet, in a minnit, flitted off, the trees among; an those joys its heart had in it, ovverflowed i' limpid song. an it left me sittin, blinkin, as it trill'd its nooats wi glee;-an truly,--to my way o' thinkin, th' linnet's far moor sense nor me. mary jane. one easter mundy, for a spree, to bradforth, mary jane an me, decided we wod tak a jaunt, an have a dinner wi mi hont; for mary jane, aw'd have yo know, had promised me, some time ago, to be mi wife,--an soa aw thowt aw'd introduce her, as aw owt. mi hont wor pleeased to see us booath,-to mak fowk welcome nivver looath,-an th' table grooaned wi richest fare, an one an all wor pressed to share, mi sweetheart made noa moor to do. shoo buckled on an sooin gate throe; mi hont sed, as shoo filled her glass,-"well, god bless thi belly, lass!" mi mary jane is quite genteel, shoo's fair an slim, an dresses weel; shoo luks soa delicate an fair, yo'd fancy shoo could live on air. but thear yo'd find yor judgment missed, for shoo's a mooast uncommon twist; whear once shoo's called to get a snack, it's seldom at they've axt her back. to a cookshop we went one neet, an th' stuff at vanished aght o'th' seet, made th' chap at sarved us gape an grin, but shoo went on an tuckt it in; an when aw axt ha mich we'd had, he sed, "it's worth five shillin, lad." aw sighed as aw put daan mi brass,-"well, god bless thi belly lass!" but when a lass's een shine bright, yo ne'er think ov her appetite; her love wor what aw lang'd to gain, nor did mi efforts prove in vain, for we wor wed on leeds fair day, an started life on little pay. but aw've noa reason to regret, her appetite shoo keeps up yet. eight years have passed sin shoo wor mine, an nah awr family numbers nine. a chap when wedded life begins, seldom expects a brace o' twins; but mary jane's browt that for me,-shoo's nursin th' last pair on her knee; an as aw th' bowls o' porrige pass, aw say, "god bless thi belly lass!" we have noa wealth i' gold or lands, but cheerful hearts, an willin hands; altho soa monny maaths to fill, we live i' hooaps an labor still. ther little limbs when stronger grown, will be a fortun we shall own. we're in a mooild thro morn to neet, but rest comes to us doubly sweet, an fowk learn patience, yo can bet, when they've to care for sich a set. but we can honestly declare, ther isn't one at we can spare. ther little tricks cause monny a smile, an help to leeten days o' toil. an joyfully aw say, "bith' mass! well, god bless thi childer, lass." my lass. fairest lass amang the monny, hair as black as raven, o. net another lass as bonny, lives i'th' dales ov craven, o. city lasses may be fairer, may be donned i' silks an laces, but ther's nooan whose charms are rarer, nooan can show sich bonny faces. yorksher minstrel tune thy lyre, show thou art no craven, o; in thy strains 'at mooast inspire, sing the praise ov craven, o. purest breezes toss their tresses, tint ther cheeks wi' rooases, o, an old sol wi' warm caresses, mak 'em bloom like pooasies, o. others may booast birth an riches, may have studied grace ov motion, but they lack what mooast bewitches,- hearts 'at love wi' pure devotion. perfect limbs an round full bosoms, sich as set men ravin, o, only can be faand i' blossoms, sich as bloom i' craven, o, an amang the fairest,--sweetest, ther's net sich a brave en, o; for her beauty's the completest, yo can find i' craven, o. ivvery charm 'at mother nature had to give, shoo placed upon her,--modest ways, an comely feature- health ov body,--soul ov honor isn't shoo a prize worth winnin? an a gem worth savin, o? smile on,--sooin yo'll stop yor grinnin, when my lass leeaves craven, o. a gooid kursmiss day. it wor kursmiss day,--we wor ready for fun, th' puddin wor boil'd an th' rooast beef wor done; th' ale wor i'th' cellar, an th' spice-cake i'th' bin, an th' cheese wor just lively enuff to walk in. th' lads wor all donned i' ther hallidy clooas, an th' lasses,--they each luckt as sweet as a rooas; an th' old wife an me, set at each end o'th' hob, an th' foir wor splutterin raand a big cob, an aw sed, "nah, old lass, tho we havn't mich brass, we shall celebrate kursmiss to-day." th' young fowk couldn't rest, they kept lukkin at th' clock, yo'd a thowt 'twor a wick sin they'd had any jock, but we winkt one at tother as mich as to say, they mun wait for th' reight time, for ther mother has th' kay. then they all went to th' weshus at stood just aghtside, an they couldn't ha made mich moor din if they'd tried, for they skriked an they giggled an shaated like mad, an th' wife sed, "they're happy," an aw sed, "awm glad, an be thankful old lass, tho we havn't mich brass, we shall celebrate kursmiss to-day." when twelve o'clock struck, th' wife says "aw'll prepare, an ov ivvery gooid thing they shall all have a share; but aw think some o'th' lasses should help me for once," an aw answered, "ov coorse,--they'll be glad ov a chonce." soa aw went to call em, but nivver a sign could aw find o' them strackle-brained childer o' mine; an when th' wife went ith' cellar for th' puddin an th' beef, an saw th' oppen winder, it filled her wi grief, an shoo sed, "nay old lad, this is rayther too bad, we can't celebrate kursmiss to-day," aw went huntin raand, an ith' weshus aw faand, some bits o' cold puddin, beef, spicecake an cheese; then aw heard a big shaat, an when aw lukt agivt, them taistrels wor laffin as hard as yo pleeas. aw felt rayther mad,--but ov coorse awm ther dad, an as it wor kursmiss aw tuk it as fun; but what made me capt, wor th' ale worn't tapt, soa mi old wife an me stuck to that wol 'twor done. an aw railly did feel we enjoyed ussen weel, an we had a gooid kursmiss that day. mi love's come back. let us have a jolly spree, an wi' joy an harmonie, let the merry moments flee, for mi love's come back. o, the days did slowly pass, when awd lost mi little lass, but nah we'll have a glass, for mi love's come back. o, shoo left me in a hig, an shoo didn't care a fig, but nah aw'll donce a jig, for mi love's come back, an aw know though far away, 'at her heart ne'er went astray, an awst ivver bless the day, for mi love's come back. when shoo axt me yesterneet, what made mi een soa breet? aw says, "why cant ta see'ts 'coss mi love's come back," then aw gave her sich a kiss, an shoo tuk it nooan amiss;-an awm feeard awst brust wi bliss, for mi love's come back. nah, awm gooin to buy a ring, an a creddle an a swing, ther's noa tellin what may spring, nah, mi love's come back; o, aw nivver thowt befooar, 'at sich joy could be i' stooar, but nah aw'll grieve noa moor, for mi love's come back. a wife. who is it, when one starts for th' day a cheerin word is apt to say, at sends yo leeter on yor way? a wife. an who, when th' wark is done at neet, sits harknin for yor clogs i'th' street, an sets warm slippers for yor feet? a wife. an who, when yo goa weary in, bids th' childer mak a little din, an smiles throo th' top o'th' heead to th' chin? a wife. an who, when troubled, vext an tried, comes creepin softly to yor side, an soothes a grief 'at's hard to bide? a wife. an when yor ommost driven mad, who quiets yo daan, an calls yo "lad," an shows yo things are nooan soa bad? a wife. who nivver once forgets that day, when yo've to draw yor bit o' pay, but comes to meet yo hawf o'th' way? a wife. who is it, when yo hooamward crawl, taks all yo have, an thinks it small; twice caants it, an says, "is this all?" a wife. all tawk. some tawk becoss they think they're born wi' sich a lot o' wit; some seem to tawk to let fowk know they're born withaat a bit. some tawk i' hooaps 'at what they say may help ther fellow men; but th' inooast 'at tawk just tawk becoss they like to hear thersen. aw can't tell. aw nivver rammel mich abaat, aw've summat else to do; but yet aw think, withaat a daat, aw've seen a thing or two. one needn't leeav his native shoor, an visit foreign lands,-at hooam he'll find a gooid deeal moor nor what he understands. aw can't tell why a empty heead should be held up soa heigh, or why a suit o' clooas should leead soa monny fowk astray. aw can't tell why a child 'at's born to lord or lady that, should be soa worship'd, wol they scorn a poor man's little brat. aw can't tell why a workin man should wear his life away, wol maisters grasp at all they can, an grudge a chap his pay. aw can't tell why a lot o' things are as they seem to be; but if its nowt to nubdy else, ov coorse its nowt to me. happen thine. then its o! for a wife, sich a wife as aw know! who's thowts an desires are pure as the snow, who nivver thinks virtue a reason for praise, an who shudders when tell'd ov this world's wicked ways. shoo isn't a gossip, shoo keeps to her hooam, shoo's a welcome for friends if they happen to come; shoo's tidy an cleean, let yo call when yo may, shoo's nivver upset or put aght ov her way. at morn when her husband sets off to his wark, shoo starts him off whistlin, as gay as a lark; an at neet if he's weary he hurries straight back, an if worried forgets all his cares in a crack. if onny naybor is sick or distressed, shoe sends what shoo can an allus her best; an if onny young fowk chonce to fall i' disgrace, they fly straight to her and they tell her ther case. shoo harkens--an then in a motherly tone sympathises as tho they were bairns ov her own; shoo shows 'em ther faults, an points aght th' best way, to return to th' reight rooad, if they've wandered astray. soa kindly shoo tries to set tangled things straight, yo'd ommost goa wrang to let her set yo reight. shoo helps and consoles the poor, weary an worn,-shoo's an angel baght wings if one ivver wor born. shoo can join a mild frolic if fun's to be had, for her principal joy is to see others glad; shoo's a jewel, an th' chap who can call her his own, has noa 'cashion to hunt for th' philosopher's stooan. if failins shoo has, they're unknown unto me,-shoo's as near to perfection as mortal can be;-to know shoo's net mine, does sometimes mak me sad;-if shoo's thine, then tha owt to be thankful, owd lad. contrasts. if yo've a fancy for a spree, goa up to lundun, same as me, yo'll find ther's lots o' things to see, to pleeas yo weel. if seem isn't quite enuff, yo needn't tew an waste yor puff, to find some awkard sooarts o' stuff at yo can feel. yo'll nobbut need to set yor shoe on some poleeceman's tender toa,-a varry simple thing to do,- an wi a crack enuff to mak a deead man jump, daan comes his staff, an leeaves a lump, an then he'll fling yo wi a bump, flat o' yor back. if signs o' riches suit yo best, yer een can easily be blest; or if yo seek for fowk distrest, they're easy fun, wi faces ommost worn to nowt, an clooas at arn't worth a thowt, yet show ha long wi want they've fowt, till fairly done. like a big ball it rolls along, a nivver ending, changing throng, mixt up together, waik an strong,- an gooid an bad. virtues an vices side bi side,-poverty slinkin after pride,-wealth's waste, an want at's hard to bide, some gay, some sad. it ommost maks one have a daat, (to see some strut, some crawl abaat, one in a robe, one in a claat,) if all's just square. it may be better soa to be, but to a simpleton like me, it's hard to mak sich things agree; it isn't fair. to mally. its long sin th' parson made us one, an yet it seems to me, as we've gooan thrustin, toilin on, time's made noa change i' thee. tha grummeld o' thi weddin day,- tha's nivver stopt it yet; an aw expect tha'll growl away th' last bit o' breeath tha'll get. growl on, old lass, an ease thi mind! it nivver troubles me; aw've proved 'at tha'rt booath true an kind,- ther's lots 'at's war nor thee. an if tha's but a hooamly face, framed in a white starched cap, ther's nooan wod suit as weel i'th' place,- ther's nooan aw'd like to swap. soa aw'll contented jog along,- it's th' wisest thing to do; aw've seldom need to use im tongue, tha tawks enuff for two. tha cooks mi vittals, maks mi bed, an finds me clooas to don; an if to-day aw worn't wed, aw'd say to thee,--"come on." th' state o' th' poll. a nop tickle illusion. sal sanguine wor a bonny lass, ov that yo may be sewer; shoo had her trubbles tho', alas! an th' biggest wor her yure. noa lass shoo knew as mich could spooart, but oft shoo'd heeard it sed, they thank'd ther stars they'd nowt o'th sooart, it wor soa varry red. young fowk we know are seldom wise,- experience taiches wit;-some freeat 'coss th' color o' ther eyes is net as black as jet. wol others seem quite in a stew, an can't tell whear to bide, 'coss they've black een asteead o' blue,- an twenty things beside. aw'm foorced to own sal sanguine's nop, it had a ruddy cast; an once shoo heeard a silly fop, say as he hurried past-"there goes the girl i'd like to wed,- 'twould grant my heart's desire; in spring pull carrots from her head,- in winter 'twould save fire." her cheeks wi' passion fairly burned,- shoo made a fearful vow, to have to some fresh color turned that yure upon her brow. shoo knew a chap 'at kept a shop, an dyed all sooarts o' things; an off shoo went withaat a stop, as if shoo'd flown wi' wings. shoo fan him in, an tell'd her tale, an tears stood in her ee; "why, sal," he sed, "few chap's wod fail if axt, to dye for thee. what color could ta like it done? aw'll pleeas thi if aw can; we'st ha some bother aw'll be bun, but aw think aw know a plan." "why mak it black, lad, if tha can; black's sewer to suit me best; aw dooant care if its black an tan,- mi life's been sich a pest. for tho' aw say 'at should'nt say't, ther's lots noa better bred, curl up ther nooas an cut me straight, becoss mi yure's soa red." "come on ageean to-morn at neet, aw'll have all ready, lass; an if aw connot do it reight aw'll ax thi for noa brass." soa sally skuttered hooam agean, an into bed shoo popt, her fowk wor capt what it could meean, for thear th' next day shoo stopt, when th' evenin coom shoo up an dress'd, an off shoo went to th' place; shoo seem'd like some poor soul possess'd, or one i' dire disgrace. "come here," sed th' chap, "all's ready nah, it's stewin here i'th' pan; aw'll dip thi heead,--hold,--steady nah! just bide it if tha can." poor sally skriked wi' all her might, but as all th' doors wor shut, he nobbut sed, "nah lass, keep quiet, it weant do baght its wut. to leearn mi trade, for twenty year, throo morn to neet aw've toiled, an know at nawther hanks nor heeads, are weel dyed unless boiled. but as tha'rt varry tender, an aw've takken th' job i' hand, aw'll try it rayther cooiler,- but then, th' color might'nt stand." an for a while he swilled an slopt, wol shoo wor oinmost smoor'd; an when he wrung it aght an stopt, he varry near wor floored. for wol thrang workin wi' her yure, he'd been soa taen wi' th' case, he'd nivver gein a thowt befooar, abaat her neck an face. but nah he saw his sad mistak, yet net a word he sed; her skin wor all a deep blue black, her yure, a dark braan red. he gate her hooam sooin as he could, shoo slyly slipt up stairs; an chuckled to think ha shoo should tak all th' fowk unawares. shoo slept that neet just like a top, next morn shoo rose content, shoo rubb'd some tutty on her nop, an then daan stairs shoo went. all th' childer screamed as if they'd fits,- th' old fowk they stared like mad;-"nay, sally! has ta lost thi wits? or has ta seen th' old lad?" shoo smil'd an sed, "well, what's to do?" "gooid gracious! whear's ta been? thi face has turned a breet sky blue, thi yure's a bottle green!" shoo flew to th' lukkin glass to see, an then her heart stood still; "that villan sed 'he'd dee for me,' aw'll swing for him, aw will!" an then shoo set her daan o'th flooar, as if her heart wod braik; an th' childer gethered raand to rooar, but th' old fowk nivver spaik. i' time her grief grew less, ov course, shoo raased hersen at last; shoo weshed, an swill'd, but things lukt worse, for th' color still proved fast. they sent a bobby after th' chap, he browt him in a crack; says he, "it's been a slight mishap, aw've made a small mistak. but just to prove aw meant noa ill, mi offer, friends, is this; if shoo'll consent to say 'i will,' aw'll tak her as shoo is. tho' shoo luks black befooar we're wed, that's sewer to wear away; aw'd like to own her yure soa red, until time turns it grey." says shoo, "awm feeard tha nobbut mocks, tha'rt strivin to misleead." "nay lass," he sed, "aw've turned thy locks, but tha's fair turned my heead." "aw think yo'd better far agree," sed th' old fowk in a breeath; "will ta ha me?" "will ta ha me?" "an nah we'll stick till deeath." sooin after that th' law made 'em one, an sin that time awm sewer; he ne'er regretted th' job he'd done, nor shoo her ruddy yure. an when fowk ax'd her ha to get sich joy as hers, shoo sed, "if anxious for some gradely wit, just goa an boil thi heead." try a smile. this world's full o' trubbles fowk say, but aw daat it, yo'll find as mich pleasure as pain; some grummel at times when they might do withaat it, an oft withaat reason complain. a fraan on a face nivver adds to its beauty, then let us forget for a while theas small disappointments, an mak it a duty, to try the effect ov a smile. though the sun may be claaded he'll shine aght agean, if we nobbut have patience an wait, an its sewer to luk breeter for th' shadda ther's been; then let's banish all fooilish consait, if we'd nivver noa sorrow joys on us wod pall, soa awr hearts let us all reconcile to tak things as they come, makkin th' best on 'em all, an cheer up a faint heart wi' a smile. growin old. old age, aw can feel's creepin on, aw've noa taste for what once made me glad; mi love ov wild marlocks is gooan, an aw know awm noa longer a lad. when aw luk back at th' mile stooans aw've pass'd, as aw've thowtlessly stroll'd o'er life's track, awm foorced to acknowledge at last, 'at its mooastly been all a mistak. aw know aw can ne'er start agean, an what's done aw can nivver undo, all aw've gained has been simply to leearn ha mi hooaps, one bi one's fallen throo. when a lad, wi' moor follies nor brains, aw thowt what awd do as a man; an aw caanted mi profits an gains, as a lad full ov hooap only can. an aw thowt when mi beard 'gan to grow, aw could leead all this world in a string, yet it tuk but a few years to show 'at aw couldn't do onny sich thing. but aw tewd an aw fowt neet an day, an detarmined awd nivver give in, hooap still cheered me on wi' her ray, an awd faith 'at i'th' long run awst win. a fortun aw felt wor for me, an joy seem'd i'th' grasp o' mi list; an aw laffd as aw clutched it wi' glee, but someha or other it miss'd. still, aw pluckt up mi courage once moor, an aw struggled wi' might an wi' main, but awd noa better luck nor befooar, an mi harvest wor sorrow an pain. an nah, when mi best days are passed, an mi courage an strength are all spent; aw've to stand o' one side an at last, wi' mi failures an falls rest content, in this world some pleasures to win, aw've been trubbled an tried an perplext, an aw've thowtlessly rushed into sin, an ne'er cared for a treasure i'th' next. as mi limbs get moor feeble an waik, an aw know sooin mi race will be run; mi heart ommost feels fit to braik, when aw think what aw've left all undone. nah, aw've nobbut th' fag end o' mi days to prepare for a world withaat end; soa its time aw wor changin mi ways. for ther's noa time like the present to mend gooid bye, old lad. ge me thi hand, mi trusty friend, mi own is all aw ha to gie thi; let friendship simmer on to th' end;- god bless thi! i an gooid luck be wi' thi! aw prize thee just for what tha art;- net for thi brass, thi clooas, or station; but just becoss aw know thi heart, finds honest worth an habitation. ther's monny a suit ov glossy black, worn bi a chap 'at's nowt to back it: wol monny a true, kind heart may rack, lapt in a tattered fushten jacket. ther's monny a smilin simperin knave, wi' oppen hand will wish 'gooid morrow,' 'at wodn't gie a meg to save a luckless mate, or ease his sorrow. praichers an taichers seem to swarm, but sad to tell,--th' plain honest fact is, they'd rayther bid yo shun all harm, nor put ther taichin into practice. but thee,--aw read thee like a book,- aw judge thi booath bi word an action; an th' mooar aw know, an th' mooar aw look, an th' mooar awm fill'd wi' satisfaction. soa once agean, gooid bye, old lad! an till we meet agean, god bless thi! may smilin fortun mak thi glad, an may noa ills o' life distress thi. that drabbled brat. goa hooam,--tha little drabbled brat, tha'll get thi deeath o' cold; whear does ta live? just tell me that, befooar aw start to scold. thart sypin weet,--dooant come near me! tha luks hawf pined to deeath; an what a cough tha has! dear me! it ommost taks thi breeath. them een's too big for thy wee face,- thi curls are sad neglected; poor child! thine seems a woeful case, noa wonder tha'rt dejected. nah, can't ta tell me who tha art? tha needn't think aw'll harm thi; here, tak this sixpence for a start, an find some place to warm thi. tha connot spaik;--thi een poor thing, are filled wi' tears already; tha connot even start to sing, thi voice is soa unsteady. it isn't long tha'll ha to rooam, an sing thi simple ditty; tha doesn't seem to be at hooam, i' this big bustlin city. it's hard to tell what's best to be when seets are soa distressin; for to sich helpless bairns as thee, deeath seems to be a blessin. some hear thi voice an pass thi by, an feel noa touch o' sorrow; an, maybe, them at heave a sigh, laff it away to-morrow. for tha may sing, or sigh, or cry; nay,--tha may dee if needs be; an th' busy craads 'at hurries by, streeams on an nivver heeds thee. but ther is one, hears ivvery grooan, we needn't to remind him; an he'll net leeav thi all alooan; god give thee grace to find him! an may be send his angels daan, thi feet throo dangers guidin; until he sets thee in his craan,- a gem, in light abidin. song for th' hard times, (1879.) nah chaps, pray dooant think it's a sarmon awm praichin, if aw tell yo some nooations at's entered mi pate; for ther's nubdy should turn a cold shoulder to taichin, if th' moral be whoalsum an th' matter be reight. we're goin throo a time o' bad trade an depression, an scoors o' poor crayturs we meet ivvery day, 'at show bi ther faces they've had a hard lesson:- that's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way. aw couldn't but think as throo th' streets aw wor walkin, an lukt i' shop winders whear fin'ry's displayed, if they're able to sell it we're fooils to keep tawkin, an liggin all th' blame on this slackness o' trade. tho times may be hard, yet ther's wealth, aye, an plenty, an if fowk do ther duty aw'll venter to say, ther's noa reason a honest man's plate should be empty:- that's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way. when it's freezin an snowin, an cold winds are blowin, aw see childer hawf covered wi two or three rags; as they huddle together to shelter throo th' weather, an think thersen lucky to find some dry flags; wol others i' carriages, gay wi fine paintin, lapt up i' warm furs, they goa dashin away; do they think o' them poor little childer at's faintin?- that's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way. all honor to them who have proved thersen willin, to help the unfortunate ones from their stooar; an if freely bestowed, be it pence, pound, or shillin, they shall nivver regret what they've given to th' poor. an if we all do what we can for our naybor, we shall sooin drive this bitter starvation away; till th' time when gooid wages reward honest labor:- that's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way. but theas trubbles an trials may yet prove a blessin, if when th' sun shines agean we all strive to mak hay; an be careful to waste nowt o' drinkin an dressin, but aght ov fair wages put summat away. when adversity's claad agean hangs o'er the nation, we can wait for th' return ov prosperity's ray; an noa mooar find awr land i' this sad situation:- that's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way. an ther's one matter mooar, at aw cannot but mention, for it points aght a moral at shouldn't be missed; can't yo see ha they use ivvery aid an invention, to grind daan yor wage when yo cannot resist. if yo strike, they dooant care, for yor foorced to knock under, yor net able to live if they stop off yer pay; will it bring workin men to ther senses aw wonder?- that's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way. some are lukkin for help from this chap or tother, an pinnin ther faith on pet parliament men; but to feight ther own battles finds them lots o' bother, an if help's what yo want yo mun luk to yorsen. if we're blessed wi gooid health, an have brains, booans, an muscle, an keep a brave heart, we shall yet win the fray; an be wiser an stronger for havin this tussle:- that's a nooation held then, an it holds to this day. stir thi lass! come lassie be stirrin, for th' lark's up ith' lift, an th' dew drops are hastin away; an th' mist oth' hillside is beginnin to shift, an th' flaars have all wakkened for th' day. tha promised to meet me beside this thorn tree, an darlin, thi sweet face awm langing to see; when tha arn't here ther's noa beauty for me; soa stir thi lass, stir thi, or else awst come for thi, for tha knows what tha tell'd me last neet tha wod be. come lassie be stirrin, awm here all alooan; tha'rt sewerly net slumb'rin still; th' lark's finished his tune an th' dewdrops have gooan, an th' mist's rolled away ovver th' hill. net a wink have aw slept sin aw left thee last neet, lukkin forrad to th' time when tha sed we should meet; but it's past, an mi sweetheart is still aght oth' seet; but its cappin, lass, cappin, 'at tha should be nappin, when tha knows what tha promised at th' end o' awr street. awm weary o' waitin, aw'll off to mi wark, awst be bated a quarter,--that's flat;-if tha's nobbut been fooilin me just for a lark, tha may find thi mistak when to lat. aw wanted to mak thi mi wife, for aw thowt, tha'd prove thisen just sich a mate as aw sowt; but it seems tha'rt a false-hearted, young gooid-for-nowt! but aw see thi, lass, see thi! god bless thi! forgie me! for tha'rt truer an fairer an dearer nor owt. tother day. as awm sittin enjoyin mi pipe, an tooastin mi shins beside th' hob, aw find ther's a harvest quite ripe, o' thowts stoored away i' mi nob. an aw see things as plainly to-neet, 'at long years ago vanished away,-as if they'd but just left mi seet, tother day. aw remember mi pranks when at schooil, when mischievous tricks kept me soa thrang; an mi maister declared me a fooil,- an maybe, he wor net soa far wrang. ha mi lessons awd skip throo, or miss, to give me mooar chonces for play; an aw fancy aw went throo all this, tother day. aw remember mi coortin days too,- what a felly aw fancied misen; an aw swore at mi sweetheart wor true,- for mi faith knew noa falterin then. aw remember ha jealous an mad, aw felt, when shoo turned me away, an left a poor heartbrokken lad, tother day. aw remember when hung o' mi arm, to th' church went mi blushin' young bride; ha aw glooated o'er ivvery charm, an swell'd like a frog i' mi pride. an th' world seem'd a fooitball to me, to kick when inclined for a play; an life wor a jolly gooid spree,- tother day. aw remember mi day dreeams o' fame, an aw reckoned what wealth aw should win but alas! aw confess to mi shame,- aw leeav offwhear aw thowt to begin, mi chief joy is to dreeam o' what's pass'd, for mi future, one hope sheds its ray, an awm driftin along varry fast, to that day. happy sam's song. varry monny years ago, when this world wor rather young, a varry wicked sarpent, wi' a varry oily tongue, whispered summat varry nowty into mistress adam's ear; an shoo pluckt a little apple 'at soa temptingly hung near. then shoo ait this dainty fruit shoo'd been tell'd shoo mudn't touch, an shoo gave some to her husband, but it wornt varry much:-but sin that fatal day, he wor tell'd, soa it wor sed, 'at henceforth wi' a sweeaty broo, he'd have to earn his breead. an all awr lords an princes, an ladies great an grand, have all sprung off that common stock a laborer i' the land; soa aw think ther airs an graces are little but a sham, an aw wodn't change 'em places wi' hardworkin, happy sam. awm contented wi' mi share, rough an ready tho' mi fare, an aw strive to do mi duty to mi naybor; if yo wonder who aw am, well,--mi name is happy sam; awm a member ov the multitude who labor. when aw've worked throo morn to neet for a varry little brass, yet a smilin welcome greets me from mi buxom, bonny lass; an two tiny little toddles come to meet me at mi door, an they think noa less ov daddy's kiss becoss that daddy's poor; an as aw sit to smook mi pipe, mi treasures on mi knee; aw think ther's net a man alive 'at's hawf as rich as me; aw wodn't change mi station wi' a king upon his throne, for ivvery joy araand me, honest labor's made mi own. an we owe noa man a penny 'at we're net prepared to pay, an we're tryin hard to save a bit agean a rainy day. soa aw cry a fig for care! awm contented as aw am,-an bless the fate 'at made me plain, hardworkin, happy sam. awm contented wi' mi share, rough an ready tho' mi fare, an aw strive to do mi duty to mi naybor; if yo wonder who aw am, well, mi name is happy sam, awm a member ov the multitude who labor. gradely weel off. draw thi cheer nigher th' foir, put th' knittin away, put thi tooas up o'th' fender to warm: we've booath wrought enuff, aw should think, for a day, an a rest willn't do us mich harm. awr lot's been a rough en, an tho' we've grown old, we shall have to toil on to its end; an altho' we can booast nawther silver nor gold, yet we ne'er stood i'th' want ov a friend. soa cheer up, old lass, altho' we've grown grey, an we havn't mich brass, still awr hearts can be gay: for we've health an contentment an soa we can say, 'at we're gradely weel off after all. as aw coom ovver th' moor, a fine carriage went by, an th' young squire wor sittin inside; an wol makkin mi manners aw smothered a sigh, as for th' furst time aw saw his young bride. shoo wor white as a sheet, an soa sickly an sad, wol aw could'nt but pity his lot; thinks aw, old an grey, yet awm richer to-day, for aw've health an content i' mi cot. soa cheer up, old lass, &c. gie me th' pipe off o'th' hob, an aw'll tak an odd whiff, for aw raillee feel thankful to-neet; an altho' mi booans wark, an mi joints are all stiff, yet awm able to keep mi heart leet. if we've had a fair share ov th' world's trubble an care, we mun nivver forget i' times past, ther wor allus one friend, his help ready to lend, an he'll nivver forsake us at last. soa cheer up, old lass, &c. tho' we've noa pew at th' church, an we sit whear we can, an th' sarmon we dooant understand; an th' sarvice is all ov a new fangled plan, an th' mewsic's suppooased to be grand,-we can lift up awr hearts when we come hooam at neet, as we sing th' old psalms ovver agean; an tho' old crackt voices dooant saand varry sweet, he knows varry weel what we mean. soa cheer up, old lass, altho' we've grown grey, an we havn't mich brass, still awr hearts can be gay; for we've health an contentment, an soa we can say, 'at we're gradely weel off after all. is it reight? awm noa radical, liberal nor toory, awm a plain spokken, hard-workin man; aw cooart nawther fame, wealth nor glory, but try to do th' best 'at aw can. but when them who hold lofty positions, are unmindful of all but thersen,-an aw know under what hard conditions, thaasands struggle to prove thersen men, it sets me a thinkin an thinkin, ther's summat 'at wants setting reight; an wol th' wealthy all seem to be winkin, leeavin poor fowk to wonder an wait,-is it cappin to find one's hooap sickens? or at workers should join in a strike? when they see at distress daily thickens, till despairin turns into dislike? is it strange they should feel discontented, an repine at ther comfortless lot, when they see lux'ry rife in the mansion, an starvation at th' door ov the cot? is it reight 'at theas hard-handed workers should wear aght ther life day bi day, an find 'at th' reward for ther labors is ten per cent knockt off ther pay? but we're tell'd 'at we owt to be thankful if we've plenty to ait an to drink; an its sinful to question one's betters,- we wor sent here to work, net to think. then lets try to appear quite contented, for this maathful o' summat to ait; its for what us poor fowk wor invented,- but awm blowed if aw think at its reight. a yorksher bite. bless all them bonny lasses, i' yorksher born an bred! ther beauty nooan surpasses, complete i'th' heart an th' heead. an th' lads,--tho aw've seen monny lands, ther equal aw ne'er met; for honest hearts an willin hands, they nivver can be bet. aw nivver hold mi heead soa heigh, or feel sich true delight, as when fowk point me aght an say, "thear gooas a yorksher bite." lily's gooan. "well, robert! what's th' matter! nah mun, aw see 'at ther's summat nooan sweet; thi een luk as red as a sun-aw saw that across th' width of a street; aw hope 'at yor lily's noa war-surelee--th' little thing is'nt deead? tha wod roor, aw think, if tha dar-what means ta bi shakin thi heead? well, aw see bi thi sorrowful e'e at shoo's gooan, an' aw'm soory, but yet, when youngens like her hap ta dee, they miss troubles as some live to hit. tha mun try an' put up wi' thi loss, tha's been praad o' that child, aw mun say, but give over freatin, becoss it's for th' best if shoo's been taen away." "a'a! daniel, it's easy for thee to talk soa, becoss th' loss is'nt thine; but its ommost deeath-blow to me, shoo wor prized moor nor owt else 'at's mine; an' when aw bethink me shoo's gooan, mi feelins noa mortal can tell; mi heart sinks wi' th' weight ov a stooan, an' aw'm capped 'at aw'm livin mysel. aw shall think on it wor aw to live to be th' age o' methusla or moor; tho' shoo said 'at aw had'nt to grieve, we should booath meet agean, shoo wor sure: an' when shoo'd been dreamin one day, shoo said shoo could hear th' angels call; but shoo could'nt for th' life goa away till they call'd for her daddy an' all. an' as sooin as aw coom thro' my wark, shoo'd ha' me to sit bi her bed; an' thear aw've watched haars i'th' dark, an' listened to all 'at shoo's said; shoo's repeated all th' pieces shoo's learnt, when shoo's been ov a sundy to th' schooil, an ax'd me what dift'rent things meant, woll aw felt aw wor nobbut a fooill an' when aw've been gloomy an' sad, shoo's smiled an' taen hold o' mi hand, an whispered, 'yo munnot freat, dad; aw'm gooin to a happier land; an' aw'll tell jesus when aw get thear, 'at aw've left yo here waitin his call; an' he'll find yo a place, niver fear, for ther's room up i' heaven for all.' an' this mornin, when watchin th' sun rise, shoo said, 'daddy, come nearer to me, thers a mist comin ovver mi eyes, an' aw find at aw hardly can see.-gooid bye!--kiss yor lily agean,-let me pillow mi heead o' yor breast! aw feel now aw'm freed thro' mi pain; then lily shoo went to her rest." what aw want. gie me a little humble cot, a bit o' garden graand, set in some quiet an' sheltered spot, wi' hills an' trees all raand; an' if besides mi hooam ther flows a little mumuring rill, at sings sweet music as it gooas, awst like it better still. gie me a wife 'at loves me weel, an' childer two or three, wi' health to sweeten ivery meal, an' hearts brimful o' glee. gie me a chonce, wi' honest toil mi efforts to engage, gie me a maister who can smile when forkin aght mi wage. gie me a friend 'at aw can trust, 'an tell mi secrets to; one tender-hearted, firm an' just, who sticks to what is true. gie me a pipe to smook at neet, a pint o' hooam-brew'd ale, a faithful dog 'at runs to meet me wi a waggin tail. a cat to purr o'th' fender rims, to freeten th' mice away; a cosy bed to rest mi limbs throo neet to commin day. gie me all this, an' aw shall be content, withaat a daat, but if denied, then let me be content to live withaat. for 'tisn't th' wealth one may possess can purchase pleasures true; for he's th' best chonce o' happiness, whose wants are small an' few. latter wit. awm sittin o' that old stooan seeat, wheear last aw set wi' thee; it seems long years sin' last we met, awm sure it must be three. awm wond'rin what aw sed or did, or what aw left undone: 'at made thi hook it, an' get wed, to one tha used to shun. aw dooant say awm a handsom chap, becoss aw know awm net; but if aw wor 'ith' mind to change, he isn't th' chap, aw'll bet. awm net a scoller, but aw know a long chawk moor ner him; it couldn't be his knowledge box 'at made thi change thi whim. he doesn't haddle as mich brass as aw do ivery wick: an' if he gets a gradely shop, it's seldom he can stick. an' then agean,--he goes on th' rant; nah, that aw niver do;-aw allus mark misen content, wi' an odd pint or two. his brother is a lazy lout,- his sister's nooan too gooid,-ther's net a daycent 'en ith' bunch,- vice seems to run ith' blooid. an yet th'art happy,--soa they say, that caps me moor ner owt! tha taks a deal less suitin, lass, nor iver awst ha' thowt. aw saw yo walkin aat one neet, befoor yo'd getten wed; aw guess'd what he wor tawkin, tho aw dooant know what he sed. but he'd his arm araand thi waist, an tho' thi face wor hid, aw'll swear aw saw him kuss thi:- that's what aw niver did. aw thowt tha'd order him away, an' mak a fearful row, but tha niver tuk noa nooatice, just as if tha didn't know. awm hawf inclined to think sometimes, aw've been a trifle soft, aw happen should a' dun't misen? aw've lang'd to do it oft. thar't lost to me, but if a chonce should turn up by-an-by, if aw get seck'd aw'll bet me booits, that isn't t'reason why. a millionaire. aw wodn't gie a penny piece to be a millionaire, for him 'at's little cattle, is the chap wi' little care. jewels may flash o'er achin broos, an silken robes may hide bosoms all fair to look upon, whear braikin hearts abide. gie me enuff for daily needs, an just a bit to spend; enuff to pay mi honest way, an help a strugglin friend. aw'll be contented it aw keep the wolf from off mi door; aw'll envy nubdy o' ther brass, an nivver dream awm poor. dewdrops 'at shine i'th' early morn are diamons for me. an jewels glint i' ivvery tint, on th' hill or daan i'th' lea. my sweet musicianers are burds at tune their joyous lay, araand mi cottage winder, an nivver strike for pay. aw lang for noa fine carriages to drag me raand about! shanks galloway my purpose fits far better, beyond daat. an when at times aw weary grow, an fain wod have a rest; aw toddle hooam an goa to bed,- that allus answers best. "insomnia;" ne'er bothers me,- it's tother way abaght; aw sleep throo tummelin into bed, wol th' time to tummel aght. aw nivver want a "pick-me-up," to tempt mi appetite; aw ait what's set anent me, an aw relish ivvery bite. what pleasure has a millionaire 'at aw've net one to match? awd show 'em awm best off o'th' two, if they'd come up to th' scratch. ov one thing aw feel sartin sewer, they've mooar nor me to bear; yo bet! its net all "lavender," to be a millionaire. mi fayther's pipe. aw've a treasure yo'd laff if yo saw, but its mem'ries are dear to mi heart; for aw've oft seen it stuck in a jaw, whear it seem'd to form ommost a part. its net worth a hawpny, aw know, but its given mooar pleasure maybe, nor some things at mak far mooar show, an yo can't guess its vally to me. mi fayther wor fond ov his pipe, an this wor his favorite clay; an if mi ideas wor ripe, awd enshrine it ith' folds ov a lay; but words allus fail to express what aw think when aw see its old face; for aw know th' world holds one friend the less, an mi hearth has one mooar vacant place. ov trubbles his life had its share, but he kept all his griefs to hissen; tho aw've oft seen his brow knit wi care, wol he tried to crack jooaks nah an then. but one comfort he'd ivver i' stooar, an he'd creep to his favorite nook, an seizin his old pipe once mooar, all his trubbles would vanish i' smook. if his fare should be roughish or scant, he nivver repined at his lot; he seem'd to have all he could want, if he knew he'd some bacca ith' pot. an he'd fill up this little black clay, an as th' reek curled away o'er his heead, ivvery trace ov his sorrow gave way, an a smile used to dwell thear asteead. he grew waiker as years rolled along, an his e'eseet an hearin gave way; an his limbs at had once been soa strong, grew shakier day after day. yet his heart nivver seem'd to grow old, tho life's harvest had long been past ripe for his ailments wor allus consoled, when he'd getten a whiff ov his pipe, aw'll keep it as long as aw can, for its all aw've been able to save, to bind mi heart still to th' old man, at's moulderin away in his grave. he'd noa strikin virtues to booast, noa vices for th' world to condemn; to be upright an honest an just, in his lifetime he ne'er forgate them, as a fayther, kind, patient and true, his mem'ry will allus be dear; for he acted soa far as he knew, for th' best to all th' fowk he coom near. an aw ne'er see this blackened old clay, but aw find mi een dimmed wi a tear; an aw ne'er put th' old relic away but aw wish mi old fayther wor here. let th' lasses alooan! what a lot ov advice ther is wasted;- what praichin is all thrown away;-young fowk lang for pleasures untasted, an its little they'll heed what yo say. old fowk may have wisdom i' plenty, but they're apt to forget just one thing; what suits sixty will hardly fit twenty, an youth ivver will have its fling. __________ old jenny sat silently freeatin,- sed alec, "pray lass, what's to do?" but his old wife went on wi her knittin, as if shoo'd a task to get throo. then shoo tuk off her specs, and sed sadly, "awm capt ha blind some fowk can be; ther's reason for me lukkin badly, but nowt maks a difference to thee." ther's awr reuben, he's hardly turned twenty, an awr jim isn't nineteen wol may;-aw provide for em gooid things i plenty, an ne'er a wrang word to em say; but they've noa sooiner swoller'd ther drinkin, nor they're don'd, an away off they've gooan, an awm feared,--for aw connot help thinkin, at they dunnot let th' lasses alooan. ther's that forrad young hussy, sal sankey, awm thankful shoo's noa child o' mine:-when awr reuben's abaat shoo's fair cranky;- an shoo's don'd like some grand lady fine. an reuben's soa soft he can't see it, an aw mud as weel praich to a stooan, he does nowt but grin when aw tell him, to mind, an let th' lasses alooan. awr jim follers reuben's example, he hasn't a morsel o' wit! an yond lass o' braans,--shoo's a sample ov a gigglin, young impitent chit. an he'd cheek to tell me shoo wor bonny,- one like her!!--why, shoo's just skin an booan awd have better nor her if awd onny, but he'd better let th' lasses alooan. "all th' four went to th' meetin last sundy,- aw dursn't think what they'll do next; an ther worrit one on em at mundy could tell what th' chap tuk for his text. tha may laff, like a child at a bubble, but thi laff may yet end in a grooan; for they're sartin to get into trubble, if they dunnot lei th' lasses alooan." "aw connot help laffin, old beauty! tho' aw know at tha meeans to do reight; tha's nivver neglected thi duty, an tha's kept thi lads honest an straight. just think ha ther father behaved when he met thee i'th' days at are gooan; tha knows ha aw beg'd, an aw slaved, then to win th' lass at aw ne'er let alooan." "aw've nivver regretted that mornin, when aw made thi mi bonny young bride, an although we're nah past life's turnin, we still jog along, side bi side. we've shared i' booath pleasures an bothers, an ther's noa reason why we should mooan; an its folly to try to stop others, for lads willn't let th' lasses alooan," a breet prospect. as aw passed wit'orth chapel 'twor just five o'clock, aw'd mi can full o' teah, an a bundle o' jock; an aw thowt th' bit o' bacca aw puffed on mi way wor sweeter nor ivver aw'd known it that day. an th' burds sang soa sweetly, an th' sun shone soa breetly, an th' trees lukt soa green;--it wor th' furst day i' may. aw wor lazy that mornin, an could'nt help thinkin, as aw'd getten booath braikfast, an dinner, an drinkin, an bacca, an matches,--'at just a odd day for a stroll, could'nt braik monny squares onnyway, but it tuk me noa little, to screw up mi mettle, for if th' wife gate to know aw'd a guess what shoo'd say. soa aw thowt aw'll let wark goa to pot for a bit, its net once i'th' year 'at aw get sich a treeat; but aw'll have a day aght just bi th' way ov a change, for aw've moped i' yond miln wol aw raylee feel strange: for mi heead's full o'th' whirlin, o'th' twistin an twirlin;-mun aw'm feeard aw'st goa crackt if aw've nivver a change. then aw thowt o' mi wife an mi childer at hooam, an says aw, aw shall loise a day's wage if aw rooam; green fields an wild flaars wor ne'er meant for me, aw mun tew ivvery day wol mi time comes to dee; an then fowk 'll mutter, as aw'm tossed into th' gutter, "it's nobbut a wayver;--oh, fiddle-de-dee!" missin yor way. it wor dark an mi way wor across a wild mooar, an noa signs could aw find ov a track, 'twor a place whear aw nivver had rambled befooar; an aw eearnestly wished misen back. as aw went on an on mooar uneven it grew, an farther mi feet seem'd to stray, when a chap made me start, as he shaated "halloa! maister, yor missin yor way!" wi' his help aw contrived to land safely back hooam, an aw thowt as o'th' hearthstun aw set, what a blessin 'twod be if when other fowk rooam, they should meet sich a friend as aw'd met. an aw sat daan to write just theas words ov advice, soa read 'em young yorksher fowk, pray; an aw'st think for mi trubble aw'm paid a rare price, if aw've saved one throo missin ther way. yo lads 'at's but latly begun to wear hats, an fancy yor varry big men; yo may fancy yor sharps when yor nowt nobbut flats,- be advised an tak care o' yorsen. shun that gin palace door as yo'd shun a wild beast, nivver heed what yor comrades may say, tho' they call yo a fooil, an they mak yo ther jest, stand stedfast,--they're missin ther way. shun them lasses, (god help 'em!) 'at wander throo th' streets, an cut sich a dash an a swell,-who simper an smirk at each chap 'at they meet, flingin baits to drag victims to hell. they may laff, they may shaat, they may join in a dance, they may spooart ther fine clooas an seem gay; but ther's sorrow within,--yo may see at a glance,- poor crayturs! they're missin ther way. luk at yond,--but a child,--what's shoo dooin thear? shoo sewerly is innocent yet? her face isn't brazen,--an see, ther's a tear in her ee an her checks are booath wet, they are tears ov despair, for altho' shoo's soa young, shoo has sunk deep i' sin to obtain fine feathers an trinkets, an nah her heart's wrung wi' remorse, an shoo weeps wi' her pain. but shoo's gooin away,--let us follo an see whear her journey soa hurried can tend; some danger it may be shoo's tryin to flee, or maybe shoo's i' search ov a friend. her hooam, once soa happy, shoo durs'nt goa thear, for shoo's fill'd it wi' sorrow an grief; an shoo turns her een upward, as if wi' a fear, even heaven can give noa relief. nah shoo's takken a turn, an we've lost her,--but hark! what's that cry? it's a cry o' distress! an o'th' bridge we discover when gropin i'th' dark, a crushed bonnet, a mantle an dress. an thear shines the river, soa quiet an still, o'er its bed soa uncertain an deep; can it be? sich a thowt maks one's blooid to run chill,- has that lass gooan for ivver to sleep? alas! soa it is. for shoo's takken a bound, an rashly life's river shoo's crost; an th' wind seems to whisper wi' sorrowful sound, "lost,--lost,--another one lost!" o, lads, an o, lasses! tak warnin i' time, shun theas traps set bi satan, whose bait may seem temptin; beware! they're but first steps to crime, act to-day,--lest to-morrow's too late. heather bells. ye little flowrets, wild an free, yo're welcome, aye as onny! ther's but few seets 'at meet mi ee 'at ivver seem as bonny. th' furst gift 'at lizzie gave to me, wor a bunch o' bloomin heather, shoo pluckt it off o'th' edge o'th' lea, whear we'd been set together. an when shoo put it i' mi hand, a silent tear wor wellin within her ee;--it fell to th' graand, a doleful stooary tellin. "it is a little gift," shoo sed, "an sooin will fade an wither, yet, still, befooar its bloom is shed, we two mun pairt for ivver." i tried to cheer her trubbled mind, wi' tender words endearin; an raand her neck mi arms entwined, but grief her breast wor tearin. "why should mi parents sell for gold, ther dowter's life-long pleasure? noa charm 'at riches can unfold, can match a true love's treasure." "but still, aw mun obey ther will,- it isn't reight to thwart it; but mi heart's love clings to thee still, an nowt but deeath can part it, forgie me if aw cause a pang,- aw'll love thee as a brother,-mi heart is thine, an oh! its wrang, mi hand to give another." "think on me when theas fields grow bare, an cold winds kill the flowers, ov bitterness they have a share; their lot is like to awrs. an if aw'm doomed to pine away, wi' pleasure's cup untasted, just drop a tear aboon the clay, 'at hides a young life wasted." "why should awr lot soa bitter be, theas burds 'at sing together, when storms are commin off they flee, to lands ov sunny wreather? an nah, when trubbles threaten thee what should prevent thee gooin, an linkin on thi fate wi' me, withaat thi parents knowin?" "tha knows my love is soa sincere, noa risk can mak it falter, soa put aside all daat an fear, an goa wi' me to th' altar i' one month's time my wife tha'll be,- or less if tha'll but shorten it." "well then," says lizzy, "aw'll agree, tha'st have me in a fortnit." shoo laft an cried,--aw laft as weel, aw feear'd shoo did'nt meean it; but lizzie proved as true as steel,- her fowk sed nowt ageean it. an who that wealthy chap could be, aw nivver shall detarmin, for if aw ax shoo glints wi' glee. an says, "thee mind thi farmin." an soa aw till mi bit o' graand, an oft when aght together, i'th' cooil o'th' day we saunter raand an pluck a sprig o' heather. soa sweethearts nooat theas simple facts, an trust i' one another; a lass i' love ne'er stops to ax, her fayther or her mother. a lucky dog. tha'rt a rough en;--aye tha art,--an aw'll bet just as ready. tha ne'er lived as a pet, aw can tell. ther's noa mistress weshed thi skin, cooam'd thi heead; net mich pettin; kicks an cuffins oft asteead, like mysel. tha'rt noa beauty;--nivver wor;--nivver will; ther's lots like thee amang men,--but then still, sich is fate; an its fooilish for to be discontent at a thing we've noa paar to prevent. that's true mate. why tha's foller'd one like me aw cant tell; if tha'rt seekin better luck,--its a sell, as tha'll find; nay, tha needn't twitch thi tail aght o' seet, aw'll nooan hurt thi, tho' aw own tha'rt a freet. nivver mind. here's mi supper, an aw'll spare thee a part,-gently, pincher! tak thi time. here tha art; that's thy share. are ta chooakin? sarve thi reight! tak thi time! why it's wasted, owt 'at's gien thee 'at's prime. aw declare. are ta lukkin for some mooar? tha's a cheek tha mud nivver had a taste for a week, tha'rt soa small; aw've net tasted sin this nooin,--soa tha knows! thi maath watters,--awm a fooil,--but here gooas, tak it all. tha luks hungry even yet,-aw believe tha'd caar thear as long as awd owt to give, but it's done. are ta lost? aw'll tell thi what tha'd best do draand thisen! or let's toss up which o'th' two, just for fun. come, heead or tail? if its heead then its thee, but net furst time,--we'll have two aght o' three,- one to me. nah, it's tail,--one an one,---fairly tost,-if its tail a second time, then aw've lost; two to thee. soa it's sattled, an tha's won;--aw've to dee, but aw think it weant meean mich to thee if aw dull; for if awm poor, life is still sweet to all, deeath's walkin raand, he's pratty sewer to call, sooin enuff. aw'll toss noa moor, awm aght o' luck to neet, aw'll goa to bed, an tha can sleep baght leet aw expect. if tha'd ha lost, as sewer as here's a clog, tha'd had to draand, but thart a lucky dog, recollect. my doctrine. aw wodn't care to live at all, unless aw could be jolly! let sanctimonious skinflints call all recreation folly. aw still believe this world wor made for fowk to have some fun in; an net for everlastin trade, an avarice an cunnin. aw dooant believe a chap should be at th' grinnel stooan for ivver; ther's sewerly sometime for a spree, an better lat nor nivver. it's weel enuff for fowk to praich an praise up self denial; but them 'at's forradest to praich, dooant put it oft to trial. they'd rayther show a thaasand fowk a way, an point 'em to it; nor act as guides an stop ther tawk, an try thersens to do it. aw think this world wor made for me, net me for th' world's enjoyment; an to mak th' best ov all aw see will find me full employment. "my race," they say, "is nearly run, it mightn't last a minnit;" but if ther's pleasure to be fun, yo bet yor booits awm in it. aw wodn't care to live at all, weighed daan wi' melancholy; my doctrine is, goa in for all, 'at helps to mak life jolly. that lass. awm nobbut a poor workin man, an mi wage leeavs me little to spare; but aw strive to do th' best 'at aw can, an tho' poor, yet aw nivver despair. 'at aw live bi hard wark is mi booast, tho' mi clooas may be shabby an meean; but th' one thing awm langin for mooast, is that grand yorksher lass 'at aw've seen. they may call me a fooil or a ass, to tawk abaat wantin a wife; but there's nowt like a true hearted lass, to sweeten a workinman's life. an love is a feelin as pure in a peasant as 'tis in a queen, an happy aw could be awm sewer, wi' that grand yorksher lass 'at aw've seen. aw dreeam ov her ivvery neet, an aw think o' nowt else durin th' day; an aw lissen for th' saand ov her feet, but its melted i'th' distance away. at mi lot aw cant help but repine, when aw think ov her bonny black een, for awm feeard shoo can nivver be mine; that grand yorksher lass 'at aw've seen. mi old umberel what matters if some fowk deride, an point wi' a finger o' scorn? th' time wor tha wor lukt on wi' pride, befooar mooast o'th' scoffers wor born. but aw'll ne'er turn mi back on a friend, tho' old-fashioned an grey like thisen; but aw'll try to cling to thi to th' end, tho' thart nobbut an old umberel. whear wod th' young ens 'at laff be to-day, but for th' old ens they turn into fun? who wor wearm thersen bent an grey, when their days had hardly begun. ther own youth will quickly glide past; if they live they'll ail grow old thersel; an they'll long for a true friend at last, tho' its nobbut an old umberel. tha's grown budgey, an faded, an worn, yet thi inside is honest an strong; but thi coverin's tattered an torn, an awm feeard 'at tha cannot last long. but when th' few years 'at's left us have run, an to th' world we have whispered farewells; may they say at my duty wor done, as weel as mi old umberel's what it comes to. young alick gate wed, as all gradely chaps do, an tuk sally for better or war; a daycenter felly ne'er foller'd a ploo,- th' best lad ov his mother's bi far. an shoo wor as nice a young lass as yo'll see in a day's march, aw'll wager mi hat; but yo know unless fowk's dispositions agree, tho' they're bonny,--noa matter for that. they'd better bi hawf have a hump o' ther rig, or be favvor'd as ill as old flew; if ther temper is sweet, chaps 'll net care a fig, tho' his wife may have one ee or two. young sally had nivver been used to a farm, an shoo seem'd to know nowt abaat wark; shoo set wi' her tooas up o'th' fender to warm, readin novels throo mornin to dark. alick saw 'at sich like gooins on wod'nt do, soa one neet when they'd getten to bed, he tell'd her he thowt shoo'd best buckle too, or else we'st be ruined, he sed. says sally, "its cappin to hear thi awm sewer, for tha tell'd me befooar we wor wed, tha'd be happy wi me, an tha wanted nowt mooar if aw nivver stirred aght o' mi bed." "tha sed aw wor bonny, an th' leets o' mi een wor enuff for thi sunshine throo life; an tha tell'd me tha wanted to mak me a queen,- but it seems 'at tha wanted a wife." "aw'm willin to own love's all reight in its way, an aw'm glad aw've discovered soa sooin 'at love withaat labor sooin dwindles away,- for fowk can't live o' billin an cooin." "that's my nooation too,--but aw thowt tha should try, what a wife as a laikon could be; noa daat tha's fan livin o' love rayther dry, for aw'll own aw'd grown sickened o' thee." hold up yer heeads. hold up yer heeads, tho' at poor workin men simple rich ens may laff an may scorn; maybe they ne'er haddled ther riches thersen, somdy else lived befooar they wor born. as noble a heart may be fun in a man, who's a poor ragged suit for his best, (an who knows he mun work or else he mun clam,) as yo'll find i' one mich better drest. soa here's to all th' workers whearivver they be, i'th' land or i'th' loom or i'th' saddle; an the dule tak all them who wod mak us less free, or rob us o'th' wages we haddle! a quiet day. a'a! its grand to have th' place to yorsen! to get th' wimmen fowk all aght o'th' way! mine's all off for a trip up to th' glen, an aw've th' haase to misen for a day. if aw'd mi life to spend ovver ageean, aw'd be bothered wi' nooan o' that mak; what they're gooid for aw nivver could leearn, except to spooart clooas o' ther back. nah, aw'll have a quiet pipe, just for once, aw'm soa thankful to think 'at they're shut; an its seldom a chap has a chonce;- whear the dickens has th' matches been put? well, nah then, aw've th' foir to leet,- it will'nt tak long will'nt that, an as sooin as its gotten burned breet, aw'il fry some puttates up i' fat. aw know aw'm a stunner to cook,- guys-hang-it! this kinlin's damp! it does nowt but splutter an smook, an this hue's ov a varry poor stamp. it's lukkin confaandedly black,- its as dismal an dull as mi hat; nah, sal leets a foir in a crack,- aw will give her credit for that. ther's nowt nicer nor taties when fried,- aw could ait em to ivvery meal; aw can't get 'em, altho' aw've oft tried,- its some trouble aw know varry weel. th' foirs aght! an it stops aght for me! aw'il bother noa mooar wi' th' old freet! next time they set off for a spree, they'st net leeav me th' foir to leet. aw dooant care mich for coffee an teah, aw can do wi' some milk an a cake; an fried taties they ne'er seem to me, worth th' bother an stink 'at they make. whear's th' milk? oh, its thear, an aw'm blest, that cat has its heead reight i'th' pot; s'cat! witta! a'a, hang it aw've missed! if aw hav'nt aw owt to be shot! an th' pooaker's flown cleean throo a pane; it wor fooilish to throw it, that's true; them 'at keep sich like cats are insane, for aw ne'er see noa gooid 'at they do. aw think aw'il walk aght for a while, but, bless us! mi shooin isn't blackt! aw'm net used to be sarved i' this style, an aw think at ther's somdy gooan crackt. it doesn't show varry mich thowt, when aw'm left wi' all th' haasewark to do, for fowk to set off an do nowt, net soa mich as to blacken a shoe. it'll be dinner time nah varry sooin,- an ther's beefsteaks i'th' cubbord aw know; but aw can't leet that foir bi nooin, an aw can't ait beefsteak when its raw. aw tell'd sal this morn 'at shoo'd find, a rare appetite up i' that glen; an aw think if aw dooant change mi mind, aw shall manage to find one misen. aw wor fooilish to send 'em away, but they'll ha to do th' best at they can; but aw'st feel reight uneasy all th' day,- wimmen's net fit to goa baght a man. they've noa nooation what prices to pay, an they dooant know th' best places to call; aw'il be bun it'll cost 'em to-day, what wod pay my expences an all. it luks better, aw fancy, beside, when a chap taks his family raand; nah, suppooas they should goa for a ride, an be pitched ovver th' brig an be draand. aw ne'er should feel happy ageean, if owt happen'd when aw wor away; an to leeav 'em i' danger luks meean, just for th' sake o' mi own quiet day. aw could catch th' train at leeavs abaat nooin; e'e, gow! that'll be a gooid trick! an aw'st get a gooid dinner for gooin, an th' foir can goa to old nick. its a pity to miss mi quiet day, but its better to do that 'at's reight; an it matters nowt what fowk may say, but a chap mun ha summat to ait, lass o'th haley hill. o winds 'at blow, an flaars 'at grow, o sun, an stars an mooin! aw've loved yo long, as weel yo know, an watched yo neet an nooin. but nah, yor paars to charm all flee, altho' yor bonny still, but th' only beauty i' mi e'e, is th' lass o'th haley hill. her een's my stars,--her smile's my sun, her cheeks are rooases bonny; her teeth like pearls all even run, her brow's as fair as onny. her swan-like neck,--her snowy breast,- her hands, soa seldom still; awm fain to own aw love her best,- sweet lass o'th' haley hill. aw axt her i' mi kindest tone, to grant mi heart's desire; a tear upon her eyelid shone,- it set mi heart o' foir. wi' whispers low aw told mi love, shoo'd raised her droopin heead; says shoo, "awm sooary for thi lad, but awm already wed; an if awr isaac finds thee here,- as like enuff he will,-tha'll wish 'at tha wor onnywhear, away throo th' haley hill. ditherum dump. ditherum dump lived i'th' haase behund th' pump, an he grummel'd throo mornin to neet, on his rig he'd a varry respectable hump, an his nooas end wor ruddy an breet. his een wor askew an his legs knock-a-kneed, an his clooas he could don at a jump; an th' queerest old covey 'at ivver yo seed, wor mi naybor old ditherum dump. ditherum dump he lived behund th' pump, an he grummel'd throo mornin to neet; an he sed fowk neglect one they owt to respect, an blow me, if aw think 'at its reet! yo mun know this old ditherum lived bi hissen, for he nivver had met wi' a wife; an th' lasses all sed they'd have nooan sich like men, for he'd worrit 'em aght o' ther life. but he grinned as he caanted his guineas o' gold, an he called hissen "jolly old trump!" an he sed, "tho' awm ugly, an twazzy, an old, still ther's lots wod bi mistress dump." ditherum dump,--jolly old trump! tho' tha'rt net varry hansum to th' seet, yet ther's monny a lass wod be fain o' mi brass, for mi guineas are bonny an breet. soa he gethered his gold till he grew varry old, wi' noa woman to sweeten his life; till one day a smart lass chonced his winder to pass. an he cried, "that's the wench for my wife!" soa he show'd her his bags runnin ovver wi' gold, an he axt her this question reight plump; "tho' awm ugly an waspish, an getten soa old, will ta come an be my mistress dump?" "for mistress dump shall have gold in a lump, if tha'll tak me for better or worse;" soa shoo says, "awm yor lass, if yo'll leeav me yor brass, an aw'll promise to mak a gooid nurse." soa ditherum dump an this young lass gate wed, an th' naybors cried, "shame! fie,--for--shame!" but shoo cared net a button for all at they sed, for shoo fancied shoo'd played a safe game. then ditherum sickened an varry sooin deed, an he left her as rich as a jew, an shoo had a big tombstun put ovver his heead, an shoo went into black for him too. nah, mistress dump, soa rooasy an plump, in a carriage gooas ridin up th' street; an th' lasses sin then all luk aght for old men, an they're crazy to wed an old freet. my polly. my polly's varry bonny, her een are black an breet; they shine under her raven locks, like stars i'th' dark o'th' neet. her little cheeks are like a peach, 'at th' sun has woo'd an missed; her lips like cherries, red an sweet, seem moulded to be kissed. her breast is like a drift o' snow, her little waist's soa thin, to clasp it wi' a careless arm wod ommost be a sin. her little hands an tiny feet, wod mak yo think shoo'd been browt up wi' little fairy fowk to be a fairy queen. an when shoo laffs, it saands as if a little crystal spring, wor bubblin up throo silver rocks, screened by an angel's wing. it saands soa sweet, an yet soa low, one feels it forms a part ov what yo love, an yo can hear its echoes in yor heart. it isn't likely aw shall win, an wed soa rich a prize; but ther's noa tellin what strange things man may do, if he tries. love one another. let's love one another, it's better bi far; mak peace wi yor brother--it's better nor war! life's rooad's rough enuff,--let's mak it mooar smooth, let's sprinkle awr pathway wi kindness an love. ther's hearts at are heavy, and een at are dim, ther's deep cups o' sorrow at's full up to th' brim; ther's want an misfortun,--ther's crime an ther's sin; let's feight 'em wi love,--for love's sarten to win. give yor hand,--a kind hand,--to yor brother i' need, dooant question his conduct, or ax him his creed,-nor despise him becoss yo may think he's nooan reight, for, maybe, some daat whether yo're walkin straight. dooant set up as judge,--it's a dangerous plan, luk ovver his failins,--he's nobbut a man; suppooas at he's one at yo'd call 'a hard case,' what might yo ha been if yo'd been in his place? fowk praich abaat 'charity,'--'pity the poor,' but turn away th' beggar at comes to ther door;-"indiscriminate charity's hurtful," they say, "we hav'nt got riches to throw em away!" noa! but if that grand book,--th' grandest book ivver writ, (an if ther's a true book aw think at that's it,) says "what yo have done to th' leeast one o' theas yo did unto me;"--reckon that if yo pleeas. awm nooan findin fault,--yet aw cant help but see ha some roll i' wealth, wol ther's some, starvin, dee; they grooan "it's a pity;--poverty is a curse!" but they button ther pockets, an shut up ther purse. ther's few fowk soa poor, but they could if they wod, do summat for mankind.--do summat for god. it wor jesus commanded 'to love one another,' ther's no man soa lost but can claim thee as brother. then let us each one, do what little we can, to help on to comfort a less lucky man; remember, some day it may fall to thy lot to feel poverty's grip, spite o' all at tha's got. but dooant help another i' hooaps at some day. tha'll get it all back.--nay, a thaasand times nay! be generous an just and wi th' futer ne'er bother;-tha'll nivver regret bein a friend to thi brother. dick an me. two old fogies,--dick an me,-old, an grey as grey can be. a'a,-but monny a jolly spree we have had;-an tha ne'er went back o' me;- bonny lad! all thi life, sin puppy days we've been chums:--tha knows mi ways;-an noa matter what fowk says, on we jog. 'spite what tricks dame fortun plays,- tha'rt my dog. th' world wod seem a dreary spot,-all mi joys wod goa to pot;-looansum be mi little cot, withaat thee; a'a, tha knows awst freeat a lot if tha'd to dee. once on a time we rammeld far o'er hills an dales, an rugged scar; whear fowk, less ventersum, ne'er dar to set ther feet; an nowt wor thear awr peace to mar;- oh, it wor sweet! but nah, old chap, thi limbs are stiff;-tha connot run an climb--but if tha wags thi tail,--why, that's eniff to cheer me yet; an th' fun we've had o'er plain an cliff, awst ne'er forget. if aw, like burns, could sing thi praise; could touch the strings to tune sich lays-tha'd be enshrined for endless days i' deathless song; but fate has will'd it otherways. yet, love is strong. blest be that heart 'at finds i' me what nubdy else could ivver see;-summat to love.--aye! even thee, tha knows its true; we've shared booath wealth an poverty, an meean to do. when fowk wi kindly hearts aglow, say, "poor old fogies," they dooant know 'at all they own is far below thy worth to me; an all the wealth at they could show wod ne'er tempt thee, time's creepin on,--we wait a chonce, when we shall quit life's mazy donee; but, please god! tak us booath at once, old dick an me; when's time to quit,--why--that announce when best suits thee. briggate at setterdy neet. sin leeds wor a city it puts on grand airs, an aw've noa wish to bother wi' others' affairs; 'at they've mich to be praad on aw freely admit, but aw think thier's some things they mud alter a bit. they've raised some fine buildings 'at's worth lookin at,-they're a credit to th' city, thers noa daat o' that; but ther's nowt strikes a stranger soa mich as a seet o'th' craad 'at's i' briggate at setterdy neet. aw've travelled a bit i' booath cities an taans, an aw've oft seen big craads when they've stept aght o' baands;-well,--excitement sometimes will lead fowk astray, when they dooant meean owt wrang, but just rollikin play, but leeds is a licker,--for tumult an din,-for bullies an rowdies an brazzen-faced sin. aw defy yo to find me another sich street,-as disgraceful, as briggate at setterdy neet. poleecemen are standin i' twos an i' threes, but they must be stooan blinnd to what other fowk sees; it must be for ornaments they've been put thear,-it cant be nowt else, for they dooant interfere. young lads who imagine it maks 'em seem men if they hustle an shaat and mak fooils o' thersen. daycent fowk mun leeav th' cawsey for th' middle o'th' street for its th' roughs at own briggate at setterdy neet. an if yo've a heart 'at can feel, it must ache when yo hear ther faal oaths an what coorse jests they make; yet once they wor daycent an wod be soa still, but they've takken th' wrang turnin,--they're gooin daan hill. them lasses, soa bonny, just aght o' ther teens, wi' faces an figures 'at's fit for a queen's. what is it they're dooin? just watch an yo'll see 't, what they're hawkin i' briggate at setterdy neet. they keep sendin praichers to th' heathen an sich, but we've heathen at hooam at require 'em as mich: just luk at that craad at comes troopin along, some yellin aght th' chorus o'th' new comic song; old an young,--men an wimmen,--some bummers, some swells, turned aght o' some dnnkin an singin room hells;-they seek noa dark corners, they glory i'th' leet, this is briggate,--their briggate, at setterdy neet. is it axin too mich ov "the powers that be," for a city's main street from sich curse to be free? shall morality's claims be set all o' one side, sich a market for lewdness an vice to provide? will that day ivver come when a virtuous lass, alone, withaat insult, in safety may pass? its time for a change, an awm langin to see 't,-a respectable briggate at setterdy neet. them well-meeanin parents, at hooam at ther ease, are oft wilfully blind to sich dangers as theas; their sons an their dowters are honest an pure,-that may be,--an pray god it may ivver endure. but ther's noa poor lost craytur, but once on a time, wor as pure as ther own an wod shudder at crime. the devil is layin his snares for ther feet,-an they're swarmin i' briggate at setterdy neet. awr annie. saw yo that lass wi' her wicked een? that's awr annie. shoo's th' pet o'th' haase, we call her 'queen,' shoo's th' bonniest wench wor ivver seen; shoo laffs an frolics all th' day throo,-shoo does just what shoo likes to do,-but then shoo's loved,--an knows it too;- that's awr annie. if ivver yo meet wi' a saucy maid,- that's awr annie. shoo's sharp as onny sheffield blade, shoo puts all others into th' shade. at times shoo'll sing or laff or cry, an nivver give a reason why: sometimes shoo's cheeky, sometimes shy; that's awr annie. roamin throo meadows green an sweet, that's awr annie; trippin away wi' fairy feet, noa fairer flaar yo'll ivver meet; or in some trees cooil shade shoo caars deckin her golden curls wi' flaars; singin like happy burd for haars, that's awr annie. chock full o' mischief, aw'll admit, that's awr annie;-but shoo'li grow steadier in a bit, shoo'll have mooar wisdom, an less wit. but could aw have mi way i' this, aw'd keep her ivver as shoo is,-th' same innocent an artless miss, that's awr annie. child ov mi old age, dearest, best! that's awr annie; cloise to mi weary bosom prest, far mooar nor others aw feel blest;-jewels an gold are nowt to me, for when shoo's sittin o' mi knee, ther's nubdy hawf as rich as me, unless it's annie. peter prime's principles. "sup up thi gill, owd peter prime, tha'st have a pint wi' me; it's worth a bob at onny time to have a chat wi' thee. aw like to see thi snowy hair, an cheeks like apples ripe,-come squat thi daan i'th' easy cheer, draw up, an leet thi pipe. tho' eighty years have left ther trace, tha'rt hale an hearty yet, an still tha wears a smilin face, as when th' furst day we met. pray tell me th' saycret if tha can what keeps thi heart soa leet, an leeavs thi still a grand owd man, at we're all praad to meet?" "why lad, my saycret's plain to see, an th' system isn't hard; just live a quiet life same as me, an tha'll win th' same reward. be honest i' thi dealins, lad, that keeps a easy mind; shun all thi conscience says is bad, an nivver be unkind. if others laff becoss tha sticks to what tha knows is reight, why, let 'em laff, dooant let their tricks prevent thee keepin straight. if blessed wi' health, an strong to work dooant envy them at's rich; if duty calls thi nivver shirk, tha'rt happier far nor sich. contentment's better wealth nor gold, an labor sweetens life,-ther's nowt at maks a chap grow old, like idleness an strife. dooant tawk too mich, but what tha says be sewer it's allus true; an let thi ways be honest ways, an that'll get thi throo. if tha's a wife, pray dooant forget shoo's flesh an blooid like thee; be kind an lovin, an aw'll bet a helpmate true shoo'll be. dooant waste thi brass i' rants an sprees, or maybe when tha'rt old,-wi' body bent an tott'rin knees, tha'll be left aght i'th' cold. luk at th' breet side o' ivverything an varry sooin tha'll see, whear providence has placed thi, is whear tha owt to be. dooant live as if this world wor all, for th' time will come someday, when that grim messenger will call, an tha mun goa away. tha'll nivver need to quake or fear, if tha carries aght this plan, an them tha's left behind shall hear 'thear lies an honest man.'" cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! just a word i' thi ear,- aw hooap we shall net disagree; but aw'm foorced to admit as aw watch thi each year, at tha seems a big humbug to me. we know at tha brings us glad tidins ov spring, an for that art entitled to thanks; but tha maks a poor fist when tha offers to sing, an tha plays some detestable pranks. too lazy to build a snug hooam for thisel, tha lives but a poor vagrant life; an thi mate is noa better aw'm sooary to tell, shoo's unfit to be onny burd's wife. shoo drops her egg into another burd's nest, an shirks what's her duty to do; noa love for her offspring e'er trubbles the breast, ov this selfish, hard-hearted cuckoo. some other poor burd mun attend to her young, an work hard to find 'em wi' grubs, an all her reward, is to find befooar long at her foster child treeats her wi' snubs. tha lives throo all th' sunshine, but th' furst chilly wind 'at ruffles thi feathers a bit, yo gather together an all i' one mind turn yor tails,--fly away, an forget. ther's some men just like yo, soa selfish an base, they dooant care what comes or what gooas; if they can just manage to live at ther ease, ait an drink, an be donn'd i' line clooas, cuckoo, thar't a type ov a lot at aw've met,- aw'm nooan sooary when th' time comes to part;-an i' spite ov all th' poets 'at's lauded thi, yet, tha'rt a humbug!--that's just what tha art. fowk next door. said mistress smith to mistress green, aw'm feeard we'st ha to flit; twelve year i' this same haase we've been, an should be stoppin yet, i'th' same old spot, we thowt to spend if need be twelve year mooar; but all awr comfort's at an end, sin th' fowk moved in next door. yo know aw've nivver hurt a flea, all th' years at aw've been here; an fowk's affairs are nowt to me,- aw nivver interfere. we've had gooid naybors all this while,- all honest fowk tho' poor; but aw can't tolerate sich style as they put on next door. aw dooant know whear they get ther brass, it's little wark they do;-ther's eight young bairns, an th' owdest lass is gaddin raand th' day throo. they dress as if they owned a mint, throo th' owdest to th' youngest brat, noa skimpin an noa sign o' stint, but aw've nowt to do wi' that. ther's th' maister wears a silk top hat, an sometimes smooks cigars!-an owd clay pipe or sich as that is gooid enuff for awrs. when th' mistress stirs shoo has to ride i' cabs or else i'th' buss; but aw mun walk or caar inside; ov coorse that's nowt to us. aw wonder if they've paid ther rent? awr landlord's same as theirs; if we should chonce to owe a cent, he'll put th' bums in he swears. an th' butcher wodn't strap us mait, noa, net if we'd to pine, aw daat at their accaant's nooan straight, but it's noa affair o' mine. one can't help havin thowts yo know, when one meets sich a case; an nivver sin we lived i'th' row did such like things tak place. wi' business when it isn't mine, aw nivver try to mell, an if they want to cut a shine they're like to pleas thersel. but stuck up fowk aw ne'er could bide,- an pride will have a fall. aw connot match 'em, tho' aw've tried, aw wish aw could, that's all! aw dunnot envy 'em a bit, aw'm quite content, tho' poor, but one on us will ha to flit, us or them fowk next door. dad's lad. little patt'rin, clatt'rin feet, runnin raand throo morn to neet; banishin mi mornin's nap,-little bonny, noisy chap,-but aw can't find fault yo see,-for he's dad's lad an he loves me. he loves his mother withaat daat, tho' shoo gies him monny a claat; an he says, "aw'll tell mi dad," which ov coorse maks mother mad; then he snoozles on her knee, for shoo loves him 'coss shoo loves me. he's a bother aw'll admit, but he'll alter in a bit; an when older grown, maybe, he'll a comfort prove to me, an mi latter days mak glad, for aw know he's daddy's lad. if he's aght o' sect a minnit, ther's some mischief, an he's in it, when he's done it then he'll flee; an for shelter comes to me. what can aw do but shield my lad? for he's my pet an aw'm his dad. after a day's hard toil an care, sittin in mi rockin chair; nowt mi wearied spirit charms, like him nestlin i' mi arms, an noa music is as sweet, as his patt'rin, clatt'rin feet. willie's weddin. a'a, willie, lad, aw'm fain to hear tha's won a wife at last; tha'll have a happier time next year, nor what tha's had i'th' past. if owt can lend this life a charm, or mak existence sweet, it is a lovin woman's arm curled raand yor neck at neet. an if shoo's net an angel, dooant grummel an find fault, for eearth-born angels, lad, tha'll find are seldom worth ther salt. they're far too apt to flee away, to spreead ther bonny wings; they'd nivver think o'th' weshin day nor th' duties wifehood brings. a wife should be a woman, an if tha's lucky been; tha'il find a honest yorksher lass, is equal to a queen. for if her heart is true to thee, an thine to her proves true,-tha's won th' best prize 'at's under th' skies, an tha need nivver rue. tha'll have to bite thi lip sometimes, when mooar inclined to sware; but recollect, no precious things bring joy unmixed wi' care. an when her snarlin turns to smiles, an bitterness to bliss, tha'll yield fresh homage to her wiles, an mak up wi' a kiss. tha'll happen think 'at shoo's a fooil, an thy superior wit will allus win, an keepin cooil tha'll triumph in a bit. shoo's happen thinkin th' same o' thee an holds thi in love's tether, well, nivver heed,--they best agree when two fooils mate together. somdy's chonce. what's a poor lass like me to do, 'at langs for a hooam ov her own? aw'm a hale an bonny wench too, an nubdy can say aw'm heigh-flown. aw want nawther riches nor style, just a gradely plain felly will do; but aw'm waitin a varry long while an ov sweethearts aw've getten but two. but th' trubble's just this,--let me tell, what aw want an will have if aw can, to share wedded life wi' misel, is a man 'at's worth callin a man. but harry's as stiff as a stoop, an jack, onny lass wod annoy,-harry's nobbut a soft nin-com-poop, an jack's just a hobble-de-hoy. if caarin at th' hob ov a neet, wi' a softheeaded twaddlin fooil; aw should order him aght o' mi seet, or be cooamin his yure wi' a stooil. his wage,--what it wor,--couldn't bring joy enuff to mak up for life's pains, if aw fan misen teed to a thing, at could work, ait an live, withaat brains. "but ther's love," yo may say,--hi that's it! but aw nivver could love a machine; an aw'll net wed a chap 'at's baat wit, net if he could mak me a queen. aw'd like one booath hansum an strong, an honest, truehearted an kind, but aw'm sewer aw could ne'er get along, wi' a felly 'at had'nt a mind. soa harry will ha to be seckt, for a nin-com-poop's nowt i' mi line; as for jack,--he could nivver expect to win sich a true heart as mine. ther's lasses enuff to be had, 'at'll jump at sich chonces wi' joy, they'll tak owt at's i'th' shape ov a lad, quite content wi' a hobble-de-hoy. aw dooant want to spend all mi life, like a saar, neglected old maid; aw'd rayther bi th' hawf be a wife, nor to blossom an wither i'th' shade. soa if onny young chap wants a mate, tho' he may net be hansum nor rich, if he's getten some sense in his pate, aw'm his chonce.--an he need'nt have mich. to a true friend. here'sa song to mi brave old friend, a friend who has allus been true; his day's drawin near to its end, when he'll leeav me, as all friends mun do. his teeth have quite wasted away, he's grown feeble an blind o' one ee, his hair is all sprinkled wi' gray, but he's just as mich thowt on bi me. when takkin a stroll into th' taan, he's potterin cloise at mi heels; noa matter whearivver aw'm baan, his constancy nivver once keels. his feyts an his frolics are o'er, but his love nivver offers to fail; an altho' some may fancy us poor, they could'nt buy th' wag ov his tail. if th' grub is sometimes rayther rough, an if prospects for better be dark; he nivver turns surly an gruff, or shows discontent in his bark. ther's nubdy can tice him away,- he owns but one maister,--that's me, he seems to know all 'at aw say, an maks th' best ov his lot, what it be. aw've towt him a trick, nah an then, just when it has suited mi whim; but aw'm foorced to admit to misen, at aw've leearned far mooar lessons throo him. he may have noa soul to be saved, an when life ends i' this world he's done; but aw wish aw could say aw'd behaved hawf as weel, when my life's journey's run. yo may call it a fooilish consait,- but to me he's soa faithful an dear, 'at whativver mi futer estate, aw'st feel looansum if dick isn't thear. but if foorced to part, once for all, an his carcase to worms aw mun give, his mem'ry aw oft shall recall, for he nivver can dee wol aw live. warmin pan. that old warmin pan wi' it's raand, brazzen face, has hung thear for monny a day; 'twor mi gronny's, an th' haase wodn't luk like th' same place, if we tuk th' owd utensil away. we ne'er use it nah,--but aw recollect th' time, when at neet it wor filled wi' red cowks; an ivvery bed gate weel warmed, except mine, for they sed it wornt meant for young fowks. when old gronny deed, t'wornt mich shoo possest, an mi mother coom in for all th' lot; an shoo raised up a duzzen, misen amang th' rest, an shoo lived wol shoo deed i'th' same cot. aw'm th' maister here nah, but aw see plain enuff, things willn't goa long on th' old plan; th' young ens turn up ther nooases at old-fashioned stuff, an mak gam o' mi old warmin pan. but aw luk at it oft as it glimmers i'th' leet, an aw seem to live ovver once mooar; them days when mi futer wor all seemin breet, an aw thowt nowt but joy wor i' stooar. aw'm summat like th' pan, aw've aght lasted mi day, an aw'st sooin get mi nooatice to flit; but aw've this consolation,--aw think aw may say, aw'st leeav some 'at aw've warmed up a bit. it may be soa. this world's made up ov leet an shade, but some things strange aw mark; one class live all on th' sunny side, wol others dwell i'th' dark. wor it intended some should grooap, battlin with th' world o' care, wol others full ov joy an hooap have happiness to spare? it may be soa,--aw'll net contend, opinions should be free;- aw'm nobbut spaikin as a friend,- but it seems that way to me. should one class wear ther lives away, to mak another great; wol all their share will hardly pay, for grub enuff to ait? an is it reight at some should dress i' clooas bedeckt wi' gold, wol others havn't rags enuff, to keep ther limbs throo th' cold? it may be soa,--aw'll net contend, &c, when gazin at th' fine palaces, whear live the favoured few; aw cant help wonderin sometimes if th' inmates nobbut knew, at th' buildins next to their's i' size are workhaases for th' poor, an if they'd net feel some surprise at th' misery raand ther door? it may be soa,--aw'll net contend, &c. sometimes aw wonder what chaps think when shiverin wi' th' cold, abaat th' brass at they've spent i' drink, whear th' landlords caant ther gold. they couldn't get a shillin lent, to buy a bit o' breead, whear all ther wages have been spent,- they'd get kickt aght asteead. it may be soa,--aw'll net contend, &c. aw wonder if they'll leearn some day, at th' best friend they can find, when th' shop's shut daan, an stopt ther pay, is ther own purse snugly lined? aw wonder, will th' time ivver come, when th' darkest day is done, when they can sing of home sweet home. an know they've getten one? it may be soa, aw hooap it will, for then we'st all be free; when ivvery man's his own best friend,- gooid by to poverty. a safe investment. yo fowk 'at's some brass to invest, luk sharp an mak th' best ov yor chonce! aw'll gie yo a tip,--one o'th' best, whear ther's profit an safety for once. yo needn't be feeard th' bank 'll brust, or at onny false 'jabez' will chait,-depend on't its one yo can trust, for th' balance sheet's sewer to be reight. yo've heeard on it oftimes befooar,- but mooast fowk are apt to forget;-yet yo know if yo give to the poor, at yo're gettin the lord i' yor debt. its as plain as is th' nooas o' yor face, an its true too,--believe it or net,-it's a bargain god made i' this case, an he'll nivver back aght on't,--yo bet. all th' wealth yo may have can't prevent grim deeath commin to yo some day; an yo'll have to give up ivvery cent, when yor time comes for gooin away. but yo'll dee wi' a leetsomer heart, an for what yo leeav care net a straw, earth's losses will cause yo noa smart, if i' heaven yo've summat to draw. its useless to pray an to praich,- yo can't fill fowk's bellies wi' wynd; put summat to ait i' ther raich, an then lectur em all yo've a mind; ther's poor folk on ivvery hand, yo can't shut yor ears to ther cry;-a wail ov woe's sweepin throo th' land, which may turn to a rooar by-an-bye. yo can't expect chaps who have wives, an childer at's clammin i'th' cold, to be patient an quiet all ther lives, when they see others rollin i' gold. when th' workers are beggin for jobs, an th' helpless are starvin to deeath, it's just abaat time some o'th' nobs wor reminded they dooant own all th' eearth. if ther duties they still will neglect, an ther pomps an ther pleasurs pursue, they may find when they little expect, 'at they've getten thersen in a stew. yo may trample a worm wol it turns,- an ther's danger i' starvin a rat;-a man's passion inflamed wol it burns, is a danger mooar fearful nor that. but why should ther be sich distress, when ther's plenty for all an to spare? sewerly them at luck's blest can't do less nor to help starvin fowk wi' a share. rich harvests yo'll win from the seed when theas welcome words fall on yor ear,-"what yo did to th' leeast brother i' need, yo did unto me;--come in here." red stockin. shoo wor shoeless, an shiverin, an weet,- her hair flyin tangled an wild: shoo'd just been browt in aght o'th street, wi drink an mud splashes defiled. th' poleece sargent stood waitin to hear what charge agean her wod be made, he'd scant pity for them they browt thear, to be surly wor pairt ov his trade. "what name?" an he put it i'th' book,- an shoo hardly seemed able to stand; as shoo tottered, he happened to luk saw summat claspt in her hand. "what's that? bring it here right away! you can't take that into your cell;" "it's nothing." "is that what you say? let me have it and then i can tell." "nay, nay! yo shall nivver tak this! it's dearer nor life is to me! lock me up, if aw've done owt amiss, but aw'll stick fast to this wol aw dee!" "no nonsense!" he sed wi a frown, an two officers speedily came; shoo seem'd to have soberer grown, but shoo fowt like a fiend, just the same. "is it money or poison?" he sed,- an unfolded it quickly to see; when sum in at fell aght,--soft an red, an it rested across ov his knee. 'twor a wee babby's stockin,--just one, but his hard face grew gentle and mild, as he sed in his kindliest tone, "this stockin was worn by your child?" "yes, sir,--an its all at aw have to remind me ov when aw wor pure, for mi husband an child are i'th' grave;- yo'll net tak it throo me, aw'm sewer!" "no, not for the world would i take your treasure round which love has grown; pray keep it for poor baby's sake;- i once lost a child of my own." and he folded it up wi much care as he lukt at her agonized face;-a face at had once been soa fair, but nah bearin th' stamp ov disgrace. "you seem soberer now,--do you think you could find your way home if you tried?" "oh! yes, sir! god help me! it's drink at has browt me to this, sir," shoo cried. "god help you! be sure that he will; if you seek him, he'll come to your aid; he is longing and waiting there still to receive you;--none need be afraid. the mother whose heart still retains the love for her babe pure and bright, may have err'd, but the hope still remains that she yet will return. now, good night." ---------with his kindly words still in her ears, an that little red sock in her breast; shoo lukt up to heaven through her tears; an her faith, in christ's love did the rest. plain jane. plain jane--plain jane; this wor owd butterworth's favourite strain: for wealth couldn't buy, such pleasur an joy. as he had wi his owd plain jane. ther wor women who oft, maybe, thinkin him soft, who endeavoured to 'tice him away, but tho ther breet een, an ther red cheeks had been quite enuffto lead others astray,- all ther efforts wor lost, for he knew to his cost, 'at th' pleasur they promised browt pain, soa he left em behind, wol he went hooam to find, purer pleasures i'th' arms o' plain jane. plain jane,--plain jane,-owd butterworth sed he'd noa cause to complain: shoo wor hearty an strong, an could troll aght a song, an trubbles shoo held i' disdain, he'd not sell her squint for all th' brass i'th' mint, nor pairt wi her blossomin nooas; he's no rival to fear, soa he keeps i' gooid cheer, an cares nowt ha th' world comes or it gooas. cats are all gray at neet, soa when puttin aght th' leet, as he duckt under th' warm caanterpain, he sed, "beauty breeds strife oft between man an wife, but it ne'er trubbles me nor awr jane." plain jane,--plain jane,-to cuddle and coddle him allus wor fain; shoo wod cook, stew or bake, wesh and scaar for his sake, an could doctor his ivvery pain. tho his wage wor but small shoo ne'er grummeld at all, an if th' butter should chonce to run short; her cake shoo'd ait dry, if axt why? shoo'd reply, becoss aw know weel ther's nowt for't. but th' harstun wor cleean, tho th' livin wor meean, an her karacter hadn't a stain; an owd butterworth knows, as his bacca he blows, ther's war wimmen ith' world nor owd jane. cash v. cupid. aw dooat on a lass wi' a bonny face, wi' a twinkle ov fun in her ee;-an aw like a lass 'at's some style an grace, an aw'm fond o' one winnin an shy. an ther's one 'at's a lot o' curly hair, an a temptinly dimpled chin, an one 'at's sedate an cold tho' fair, but shoo wod'nt be easy to win. ther's one 'at's a smile ivvery time we meet, an ther's one 'at seems allus sad; yet ther's sum mat abaat 'em all seems sweet,- just a sum mat aw wish aw had. but somha aw connot mak up mi mind, which one to seek for a wife; an its wise to be careful if love is blind, for a weddin oft lasts for a life. ther's one 'at has nawther beauty nor wit,- just a plain lukkin, sensible lass; but shoo's one thing 'at adds to her vally a bit,- an that is 'at shoo's plenty o' brass. an beauty will fade an een will grow dim, ther's noa lovin care can help that; an th' smartest young woman, tho' stylish an slim, may i' time grow booath clumsy an fat. soa aw think aw shall let thowts o' beauty slide by, for a workin chap must be a crank, 'at sees mooar in a dimple or twinklin eye, nor in a snug sum in a bank. some may say ther's noa love in a weddin like this, an its nowt but her brass 'at aw want, well, maybe they can live on a smile or a kiss, if they can,--why, they may,--but aw cant. mary's bonnet. have yo seen awr mary's bonnet? it's a stunner,--noa mistak! ther's a bunch o' rooasies on it, an a feather daan her back. yollo ribbons an fine laces, an a cock-a-doodle-doo, an raand her bonny face is a string o' pooasies blue. when shoo went to church last sundy, th' parson could'nt find his text; an fat old mistress grundy sed, "a'a, mary! pray what next!" th' lads wink'd at one another,- th' lasses snikered i' ther glee, an th' whooal o'th' congregation had her bonnet i' ther ee. sooin th' singers started singin, but they braik daan one bi one, for th' hymn wor on "the flowers of fifty summers gone." but when they saw awr mary, they made a mullock on it, for they thowt 'at all them flaars had been put on mary's bonnet. then th' parson sed mooast kindly, "ther wor noa offence intended; but flaar shows wor aght o' place, i'th' church whear saints attended. an if his errin sister wished to find her way to glory; shoo should'nt carry on her heead, a whooal consarvatory." nah, mary is'nt short o' pluck,- shoo jumpt up in a minnit, shoo lukt as if shoo'd swollo th' church, an ivverybody in it. "parson," shoo sed, "yor heead is bare,- nowt in it an nowt on it; suppooas yo put some flaars thear, like theas 'at's in my bonnet." prime october. ther's some fowk like watter, an others like beer; it doesn't mich matter, if ther heead is kept clear. but to guzzle an swill, as if aitin an drinkin wor all a chap lives for, is wrang to my thinkin. ivvery gooid thing i' life should be takken i' reason; even takkin a wife should be done i'th' reight season. tho' i' that case to give advice is noa use, aw should ne'er win fowk's thanks but might get some abuse. but if ther's a fault 'at we owt to luk ovver, it's when a chap's tempted wi' "prime old october." an to cheer up his spirits as nowt else on earth could, he keeps testin its merits, an gets mooar nor he should. ov coorse he'll be blamed if he gets ovver th' mark; an noa daat he'll feel shamed when he's throo wi' his lark. an he'll promise "it nivver shall happen agean," tho' he's feelin all th' time just as dry as a bean. but who can resist, when it sparkles an shines; an his nooas gets a whif at's mooar fragrant nor wines? aw'd forgie a teetotaller at sich times, if he fell;-for aw know ha it is, 'coss aw've been thear mysel. old dave to th' new parson. "soa, yo're th' new parson, are yo? well, awm fain to see yo've come; yo'll feel a trifle strange at furst, but mak yorsen at hooam. aw hooap yo'll think nor war o' me, if aw tell what's in mi noddle, remember, if we dooant agree, it's but an old man's twaddle. but aw might happen drop a hint, 'at may start yo to thinkin; awd help yo if aw saw mi way, an do it too, like winkin. awm net mich up o' parsons,- ther's some daycent ens aw know; they're smart enuff at praichin, but at practice they're too slow. for dooin gooid nooan can deny ther chonces are mooast ample; if they'd give us fewer precepts, an rayther moor example. we need a friend to help waik sheep, oe'r life's rough ruts an boulders;-ther's a big responsibility rests on a parson's shoulders. but oft ther labor's all in vain, noa matter ha persistent; becoss ther taichin an ther lives are hardly quite consistent. ther's nowt can shake ther faith in god, when bad is growing worse; an nowt abate ther trust, unless it chonce to touch ther purse. they say, "who giveth to the poor, lends to the lord," but yet, they all seem varry anxious, net to get the lord in debt. but wi my fooilish nooations mayhap yo'll net agree,-its like enuff 'at awm mistaen,- but it seems that way to me. if yo hear a clivver sarmon, yor attention it command's, if yo know at th' praicher's heart's as white as what he keeps his hands. ther's too mich love ov worldly ways, an too mich affectation; they work i'th' vinyard a few days, then hint abaat vacation. he has to have a holiday because he's worked soa hard;-well, aw allus think 'at labor is desarvin ov reward. what matters, tho' his little flock a shepherd's care is wantin: old nick may have his run o'th' fold wol he's off galavantin. aw dooant say 'at yo're sich a one, yo seem a gradely sooart; but if yo' th' gospel armour don, yo'll find it isn't spooart. dooant sell yor heavenly birthright, for a mess ov worldly pottage: but spend less time i'th' squire's hall an moor i'th' poor man's cottage. point aght the way an walk in it, they'll follow, one bi one, an when yo've gained yor journey's end, yo'll hear them words, "well done." a christian soldier has to be, endurin, bold an brave; strong in his faith he'll sewerly win, as sewer as my name's dave." tom grit. he'd a breet ruddy face an a laffin e'e, an his shoolders wer brooad as brooad need be; for each one he met he'd a sally o' wit, for a jovjal soul wor this same tom grit. he climb'd up to his waggon's heigh seeat wi' pride, for he'd bowt a new horse 'at he'd nivver tried; but he had noa fear, for he knew he could drive as weel, if net better, nor th' best man alive. soa he sed, as he gethered his reins in his hand, an prepared to start off on a journey he'd planned; but some 'at stood by shook ther heeads an lukt grave, for they'd daats ha that mettlesum horse might behave. it set off wi' a jerk when tom touched it wi' th' whip, but his arms they wor strong, an like iron his grip, an he sooin browt it daan to a nice steady gait, but it tax'd all his skill to mak it run straight. two miles o' gooid rooad to the next taan led on, an ov things like to scare it he knew ther wor none; soa he slackened his reins just to give it a spin,-then he faand 'at he couldn't for th' world hold it in. it had th' bit in its teeth an its een fairly blazed, an it plunged an reared madly,--an then as if crazed it dashed along th' rooad like a fury let lawse, woll tom tried his utmost to steady his course. wi' the reins raand his hands, an feet planted tight he strained ivvery muscle,--but saw wi' affright 'at the street o' the taan 'at he'd entered wor fill'd, wi' fowk fleein wildly for fear they'd be kill'd, "let it goa! let it goa!" they cried aght as it pass'd, an tom felt his strength givin way varry fast; his hands wor nah helpless its mad rush to check, but he duckt daan his heead an lapt th' reins raand his neck. that jerk caused the horse to loise hold o' the bit, an new hooap an new strength seem'd to come to tom grit, an tho' blooid throo his ears an his nooas 'gan to spurt, th' horse wor browt to a stand, an ther'd nubdy been hurt. then chaps went to hold it, an help poor tom daan, for tom's wor a favorite face i' that taan; "tha should ha let goa," they all sed, "an jumpt aght, thy life's worth a thaasand sich horses baght daat!" but tom wiped his face an he sed as he smiled, "i'th' back o' that waggon yo'll find ther's a child, an aw couldn't goa back to its mother alooan, for he's all th' lad we have. have yo nooan o' yer own?" th' demon o' debt. we read ov a man once possessed ov a devil, an pity his sorrowful case; but at this day we fancy we're free from sich evil, an noa mooar have that trubble to face. but dooan't be deceived, for yo're nooan aght o' danger, ther's a trap for yor feet ready set, an if to sich sorrow yo'd still be a stranger, be careful to keep aght o' debt. for debt is a demon 'at nivver shows pity, an when once yor fast in his grip, yo may try to luk wise or appear to be witty, but he'll drive yo to wreck wi' his whip. he tempts yo to start wi' a little at furst, an then deeper an deeper yo get, till at last yo find aght 'at yor life is accurst, an yo grooan under th' burden o' debt. then sweet sleep forsakes yo an tossin wi' care, yo wearily wear neet away; an yor joys an yor hopes have all turned to despair, an yo tremmel at th' commin o' day. yor een are daancast as yo walk along th' street, an yo shun friends yo once gladly met, the burden yo carry yo fancy they see 't;- that soul-crushin burden o' debt. tak an old man's advice, if yo'd keep aght o' trubble, an let 'pay as yo goa,' be yor plan; tho' yor comforts are fewer, yor joys will be double, an yo'll hold up yor heead like a man, better far wear a patch on yor elbow or knee, till yo're able a new suit to get, nor be dressed like a prince, an whearivver yo be, to be dog'd wi' that demon o' debt. th' lad 'at loves his mother. aw like to see a lot o' lads all frolicsome an free, an hear ther noisy voices, as they run an shaat wi' glee; but if ther's onny sooart o' lad aw like better nor another, 'at maks mi heart mooast truly glad, it's th' lad 'at loves his mother. he may be rayther dull at schooil, or rayther slow at play; he may be rough an quarrelsome,- mischievous in his way; he may be allus in a scrape, an cause noa end o' bother; but ther's summat gooid an honest in the lad 'at loves his mother. he may oft do what isn't reight, but conscience will keep prickin; he dreeads far mooar his mother's grief, nor what he'd fear a lickin. her trubbled face,--her tearful een, her sighs shoo tries to smother, are coals ov foir on the heead ov th' lad 'at loves his mother. when years have passed, an as a man he faces toil an care; an whear his mother used to sit is but a empty chair;-when bi his side sits her he loves, mooar dear nor onny other, he still will cherish, love an bless, the mem'ry ov his mother. a guardian angel throo life's rooad, her spirit still will be; an in the shadow ov her wings, he'll find security. a better husband he will prove, a father or a brother; for th' lad 'at maks the noblest man, is th' lad 'at loves his mother. matilda jane. matilda jane wor fat an fair, an nobbut just sixteen; shoo'd ruddy cheeks an reddish hair, an leet blue wor her een. shoo weighed abaat two hundred pund, or may be rayther mooar, shoo had to turn her sideways when shoo went aght o'th' door. shoo fairly dithered as shoo walked, shoo wor as brooad as long; but allus cheerful when shoo tawk'd, an liked to sing a song; an some o'th' songs shoo used to sing, aw weel remember yet; aw thowt it sich a funny thing, shoo pickt soa strange a set, "put me in my little bed," aw knew they couldn't do; for onny bed to put her in, must be big enuff for two. "aw wish aw wor a burd," shoo sang, aw nivver could tell why,-for it wod be a waste o' wings becoss shoo couldn't fly. "i'd choose to be a daisy," aw didn't wonder at, for it must ha made her crazy to hug that looad o' fat. then "flitting like a fairy;"- to hear it gave me pain, for ther wor novvt soa airy abaat matilda jane. last time aw heeard her singin, shoo sang "you'll remember me," an mi arm crept pairtly raand her, as aw held her on mi knee. ther's noa fear aw shall forget her, tho' shoo's ne'er set thear agean, but if shoo will, aw'll let her, for aw like matilda jane. modest jack o' wibsey slack. at wibsey slack lived modest jack, no daat yo knew him weel; his cheeks wor red, his een wor black, his limbs wor strong as steel. his curly hair wor black as jet, his spirits gay an glad, an monny a lass her heart had set on jack the wibsey lad. sal simmons kept a little shop, an bacca seld, an spice, an traitle drink, an ginger pop, an other things as nice. shoo wor a widow, fat an fair, an allus neat an trim; an jack seem'd fairly stuck on her; an shoo wor sweet on him. but other lasses thowt they had a claim on jack's regard; a widow to win sich a lad, they thowt wor very hard; they called her a designin jade, an one an all cried "shame!" but sally kept on wi her trade, an jack went just the same. one neet when commin hooam throo wark, they stopt him on his way, an pluckt up courage, as 't wor dark, to say what they'd to say. they sed they thowt a widow should let lasses have a share, an net get ivvery man shoo could; they didn't think it fair, jack felt his heart goa pit-a-pat, his face wor burnin red; his heart wor touched,--noa daat o' that, but this wor what he sed. "awd like to wed yo ivvery one, an but for th' law aw wod, but weel yo know if th' job wor done, they'd put me into quod." "as aw can mak but one mi wife,- sal simmons suits me weel; for aw wor ne'er wed i' mi life, an dooan't know ha awst feel. but if aw wed a widow, an aw fail mi pairt to play; shoo'll varry likely understand, an put me into th' way. work lads! work if tha can, it's thi duty to labor; if able, show willin,--ther's plenty to do, ther's battles to feight withaat musket or sabre, but if tha'll have pluck tha'll be safe to pool throo. ther's noa use sittin still wishin an sighin, an waitin for fortun to gie yo a lift; for ther's others i'th' struggle an time keeps on flyin, an him who wod conquer mun show he's some shift. ther's nobbut one friend 'at a chap can depend on, if he's made up his mind to succeed in the strife; a chap's but hissen 'at he can mak a friend on, unless he be blest wi' a sensible wife. but nivver let wealth, wi' its glamour an glitter, be th' chief end o' life or yo'll find when too lat, 'at th' fruits ov yor labor will all have turned bitter, an th' pleasures yo hoped for are all stale an flat. do gooid to yorsen, win wealth, fame, or power, but i'th' midst ov it all keep this object i' view; 'at the mooar yo possess, let yor self-love sink lower, an pure pleasur will spring from the gooid yo can do. bonny yorksher. bonny yorksher! how aw love thi! hard an rugged tho' thi face is; ther's an honest air abaat thi, aw ne'er find i' other places. ther's a music i' thi lingo, spreeads a charm o'er hill an valley, as a drop ov yorksher stingo warms an cheers a body's bally. ther's noa pooasies 'at smell sweeter, nor thy modest moorland blossom, th' violet's een ne'er shone aght breeter nor on thy green mossy bosom. hillsides deckt wi' purple heather, guard thy dales, whear plenty dwellin hand i' hand wi' peace, together tales ov sweet contentment tellin. on the scroll ov fame an glory, names ov yorksher heroes glisten; history tells noa grander stooary, an it thrills me as aw listen. young men blest wi' brain an muscle, swarm i' village, taan an city, nah as then prepared to tussle, wi' the brave, the wise, the witty. an thy lasses,--faithful,--peerless,- matchless i' ther bloom an beauty,-modest, lovin, brave an fearless, praad ov hooam an firm to duty. aw've met nooan i' other places can a cannle hold beside 'em; rich i' charms an winnin graces;- aw should know becoss aw've tried 'em. balmy breezes, blow yer mildest! sun an shaars yer blessins shed! thrush an blackburd pipe yor wildest skylarks trill heigh ovverheead! robin redbreast,--little linnet, sing yor little songs wi' glee; till wi' melody each minnit, makin vocal bush an tree. wild flaars don yer breetest dresses, breathe sweet scents on ivvery gale; stately trees wave heigh yer tresses, flingin charms o'er hill an dale. dew fall gently,--an sweet luna, keep thy lovin watch till morn;-all unite to bless an prosper, that dear spot whear aw wor born. sixty an sixteen. we're older nor we used to be, but that's noa reason why we owt to mope i' misery, an whine an grooan an sigh. we've had awr shares o' ups an daans, i' this world's whirligig; an for its favors or its fraans we needn't care a fig. let them, at's enterin on life be worried wi' its cares; we've tasted booath its joys an strife, they're welcome nah to theirs. to tak things easy owt to be an old man's futer plan, till th' time comes when he has to dee,- then dee as weel's he can. it's foolish nah to brood an freeat, abaat what might ha been; at sixty we dooant see wi' th' een, we saw wi at sixteen. young shoolders worn't meant to bear old heeads, an nivver will; youth had its fling when we wor thear, an soa it will have still. aw wodn't live life o'er agean, unless 'at aw could start quite free throo knowledge o' this world, quite free in heead an heart. that perfect trust 'at childer have, gives life its greatest charm; noa wisdom after years can give, will keep ther hearts as warm. when nearin th' bottom o' life's hill, if we, when lukkin back, can see some seeds ov gooid we've sown, are bloomin on awr track; wol th' evil deeds we did shall be all trampled aght o' seet; awr journey's end will peaceful be, an deeath itsen be sweet. then let's give thanks for mercies past, that've kept awr hearts still green; for thar't just as dear at sixty, lass, as when tha wor sixteen. come thi ways in. come thi ways in, an god bless thi, lad! come thi ways in, for thar't welcome, joy! a'a! tha'rt a shockin young taistrel, lad, but tha artn't as bad as they call thi, doy. tha'rt thi father upheeaped an daanthrussen, lad, it's his mother 'at knows what a glaid wor he;-but thi britches' knees are booath brussen, lad, an thi jacket, its raillee a shame to see. it's weel for thee tha's a gronny, lad,- if it wornt for me tha'd be lost i' muck! tha'rt wild, but tha'rt better ner monny, lad, an aw think 'at tha'll yet bring thi gronny gooid luck. nah, pool up to th' table an dry thi nooas;- (awd nooan leearn mi appron to onny but thee,) wol tha'rt fillin thi belly aw'll patch up thi clooas, then aw'll send thi hooam daycent an cleean tha'll see. nah, what are ta dooin wi' th' pussy cat, pray? if tha'll leeav it alooan it'll mell nooan o' thee, put th' mustard spooin daan! does ta hear what aw say! let goa that cat tail! ha tha aggravates me! tha mooant dip thi finger i'th' traitle pot, doy, (tho' aw reckon tha follers th' example tha's set,) mothers, nah days, dooan't know ha to train childer, joy, but tha'll heed what thi gronny says,--willn't ta, pet? a'a, dear! nah tha's upset thi basin o' stew! all ovver thisen an mi cleean scarrd flooar:-tha clumsy young imp; what next will ta do? tha'd wear aght job's patience, an twice as mich mooar! hold thi din! or aw'll gie thi a taste o' that strap! tha maks it noa better wi' yellin like that! come, whisht nah,--'twor nobbut a little mishap;- nah, whisht,--an tha'll see ha we'll leather yond cat. nah, dooan't touch mi thimel or needle an threead; sit daan like a gooid little child as tha art; wol aw wipe up this mess, an side th' butter an breead, then aw'll gie thi a penny to buy thi a tart. for tha puts me i' mind ov a time long ago, when thi father wor just sich a jockey as thee; an tho' aw'm a widdy, an poor as a crow, ther'll be allus a bite an a sup for thee. tak thi booits off that fender! tha's made it fair black; just see ha tha's scratched it! aw'm sewer it's a sin! jump into theas clooas an fly hooam in a crack, or aw'll braik ivvery booan 'at tha has i' thi skin! an stop hooam, until tha knows ha to behave, tha'd worrit my life aght i' less nor a wick! tell thi mother aw'm net gooin to be just a slave to a taistrel like thee! soa nah, off tha gooas--quick! horton tide. wor yo ivver at horton tide? it wor thear 'at aw won mi bride; an the joy o' mi life, is mi dear little wife, an we've three little childer beside. aw wor donn'd in a new suit o'clooas, a cigar wor stuck under mi nooas, aw set aght for a spree, an some frolics to see, full o' fun throo mi heead to mi tooas. aw met lijah an amos, an bill, an ov coorse wi' each one aw'd a gill; till aw felt rayther mazy, but net at all crazy, for aw didn't goa in for mi fill. as a lad aw'd been bashful an shy, an aw blushed if a woman went by, but this day bi gooid luck, aw felt chock full o' pluck, soa to leet on aw sattled to try. as aw wandered abaat along th' street, who, ov all i' this world should aw meet! but mary o' jooas, lukkin red as a rooas, a'a! but shoo wor bonny an sweet. aw nodded an walked bi her side, to mak misen pleasant aw tried, but shoo smiled as shoo sed, 'aw wor wrang i' mi heead,' an aw'm sewer aw dooan't think 'at shoo lied. then aw bowt her some parkin an spice, an owt else 'at shoo fancied lukt nice, then we tuk a short walk, an we had a long tawk; then aw axt if shoo thowt we should splice. what happen'd at after yo'll guess,-it wor heaven to me, an nowt less;- for aw left horton tide, wi' a promised fair bride, soa mi frolic wor craand wi' success. for shoo's one i' ten thaasand yo see; an shoo shows 'at shoo's suited wi' me, an yo chaps 'at want wives 'at will gladden yer lives, up at horton yo'll find 'em to be. mi old slippers. aw'm wearily trudgin throo mire an weet, for aw've finished another day's wark; an welcome to me is that flickerin leet, 'at shines throo mi winder i'th' dark. aw know ther's mi drinkin just ready o'th' hob, an a hearthstun as cleean as can be, for that old wife o' mine allus maks it her job, to have ivverything gradely for me. it isn't mich time aw can spend wi' th' old lass, for aw'm tewin throo early till lat, an its all aw can do just to get as mich brass as we need, an sometimes hardly that. but we keep aght o' debt, soa mi heart's allus leet, an aw sweeten mi wark wi' a song; an we try to mak th' best ov what trubbles we meet, an contentedly struggle along. two trusty old friends anent th' foir are set, they are waitin thear ivvery neet; they're nobbut a pair o' old slippers, but yet, they give comfort an rest to mi feet. like misen an mi wife, they're fast wearin away,- they've been shabby for monny a year; they have been a hansum pair once, aw can say, yet to me they wor nivver mooar dear. aw hooap they may last wol aw'm summon'd away, an this life's journey peacefully ends; for to part wod feel hard, for at this time o'th' day, it's too lat to be makkin new friends. aw know varry weel 'at ther end must be near, for aw see ha they're worn daan at th' heel; but they've sarved me reight weel, an aw'st ha nowt to fear, if aw've sarved his purpose as weel a friend to me. poor dick nah sleeps quietly, his labor is done, deeath shut off his steam tother day; his engine, long active, has made its last run, an his boiler nah falls to decay. maybe he'd his faults, but he'd vartues as well, an tho' dearly he loved a gooid spree; if he did onny harm it wor done to hissel:- he wor allus a gooid friend to me. his heart it wor tender,--his purse it wor free, to a friend or a stranger i' need; an noa matter ha humble or poor they might be, at his booard they wor welcome to feed. wi' his pipe an his glass bi his foirside he'd sit, yet some fowk wi' him couldn't agree, an tho' monny's the time 'at we've differed a bit, he wor allus a gooid friend to me. his word wor his bond, for he hated a lie, an sickophants doubly despised; he wor ne'er know to cringe to a rich fly-bi-sky, it wor worth an net wealth 'at he prized. aw shall ne'er meet another soa honest an true, as aw write ther's a tear i' mi ee; nah he's gooan to his rest, an aw'll give him his due,- he wor allus a gooid friend to me. a pair o' black een. one neet as aw trudged throo mi wark, thinks aw, nah mi labor is done, aw feel just inclined for a lark, for its long sin aw had onny fun. an ov coorse awd mi wife i' mi mind, shoo's a hot en, but then, what bi that! for when on a spree aw'm inclined, aw could nivver get on baght awr mat. sally slut wor a croney o' hers, a bonny an warm-hearted lass, an shoo'd latly been wed to a chap, 'at could booast booath some brains an some brass. but someha, awr mat seemed to think, 'at sally, soa hansum an trim; for a partner throo life owt to luk wi' somdy mich better nor him. an shoo profiside trubble an care, wor i' stoor at noa far distant day, an shoo muttered "poor sal, aw declare, tha's thrown thisen reight cleean away." as sooin as aw gate hold o'th' sneck, aw walked in wi' a sorrowful face, then aw sank like a hawf empty seck into th' furst seeat aw coom to i'th' place. "gooid gracious, alive! what's to do?" says matty, "whativver's amiss?" "a'a, lass! tha'll nooan think at its true,- it's a tarrible come-off is this," "tha knows sally slut,--a'a dear me! to-day as aw went across th' green, aw met her,--an what should aw see,- why, shoo'd getten a pair o' black een," "that scamp! but aw'll sattle wi' him!" says mat, as shoo threw on her shawl,-"aw warned her agean weddin tim,- but aw'll let him see;--sharply an all!" off shoo flew an left me bi misen, an aw swoller'd mi teah in a sniff, an aw crept up to bed, thear an then,- for aw knew shoo'd come back in a tiff. an shoo did, in a few minnits mooar; an worn't shoo mad? nivver fear! an th' laader aw reckoned to snooar, an th' laader shoo skriked i' mi ear. tha thowt tha'd put me in a stew,- but aw treeat sich like conduct wi' scorn! but tha didn't fooil me, for aw knew, shoo'd black een ivver sin shoo wor born. shoo can booast ov her een,--that shoo can! but shoo's nowt at aw envy,--net me! unless it's her bavin a man, asteead ov a hawbuck like thee. a screw lawse. when rich fowk are feastin, an poor fowk are grooanin, ther's summat 'at connot be reight. wol one lot are cheerin, another lot's mooanin for want ov sufficient to ait. ther must be a screw lawse i'th' social machine, an if left to goa on varry long, ther'll as sewer be a smash as befoortime ther's been, when gross wrangs ov thooas waik mak em strong. discontent may long smolder, but aght it'll burst, in a flame 'at ther efforts will mock; an they'll leearn when too lat, 'at they've met the just fate, ov thooas who rob th' poor o' ther jock. a sad mishap. "come, john lad, tell me what's to do, tha luks soa glum an sad; is it becoss tha'rt short o' brass? or are ta poorly, lad? has sombdy been findin fault, wi' owt tha's sed or done? or are ta bothered wi' thi loom, wi' th' warp tha's just begun? whativver 'tis, lad, let me know,- aw'll help thi if aw can; sometimes a woman's ready wit is useful to a man. tha allus let me share thi joys,- let's share when grief prevails; tha knows tha sed aw should, john, i'th' front o'th' alter rails. we've just been wed a year, lad, come sundy next but three; but if tha sulks an willn't spaik, aw'st think tha'rt stawld o' me. aw've done mi best aw'm sewer, john, to be a wife to thee; come tell me what's to do, john, wol aw caar o' thi knee." ---------"aw've brass enuff to pay mi way,- aw'm hearty as needs be;-ther's noabdy been findin fault, an aw'm nooan stawl'd o' thee. but aw'm soa mad aw connot bide,- for commin hooam to-neet, mi pipe slipt throo between mi teeth, an smashed to bits i'th' street. aw cant think what aw could be doin, to let the blam'd thing drop! an a'a! it wor a beauty, an colored reight to th' top." if. dear jenny, if fortun should favour mi lot, mi own bonny wife tha shall be; for trubbles an worries we'll care net a jot, for we'll rout 'em wi' frolic an glee. we'll have a snug cot wi' a garden at th' back, an aw'll fix peearks i'th' cellar for hens; then a fresh egg for braikfast tha nivver need lack, when thi fancy to sich a thing tends. some cheers an a table, an two-o'-three pans, some pots an a kettle for tea; a bed an a creddle an smart kist o' drawers, an a rockin-cheer, lass,--that's for thee. some books, an some picters to hing up o'th' wall, to mak th' place luk nobby an neat; an a rug up o'th' harstun to keep thi tooas warm, an some slippers to put on thi feet. an when sundy comes,--off to th' chapel or church, an when we get back we'll prepare, some sooart ov a meal,--tho its hooamly an rough, if its whooalsum we nivver need care. if we're blest wi' a bairn, we mun ne'er be put aght, if it shows us its tempers an tiffs; soa jenny, have patience, for th' change i' thi state, depends varry mich on theas "ifs." a true tale. ther's a squire lives at th' hall 'at's lukt up to, as if he wor ommost a god. he's hansum, he's rich, an he's clivver, an fowk's praad if he gives 'em a nod. he keeps carriages, horses an dogs, for spooartin, or fancy, or labor, he's a pew set apart in a church, an he's reckoned a varry gooid naybor. ther's a woman bedrabbled an weet, crouched daan in a doorhoil to rest; her een strangely breet,--her face like a sheet, an her long hair hings ovver her breast. want's shrivell'd her body to nowt, an vice has set th' stamp on her face; an her heart's grown soa callous an hard, 'at it connot be touched wi' disgrace. ther's a child bundled up i' some rags, 'at's whinin its poor life away; neglected an starvin on th' flags, on this wild, cold an dree winter's day. an its father is dinin at th' hall, an its mother is deein wi' th' cold, withaat even a morsel o' breead, yet its father is rollin i' gold. ther's a grey heeaded man an his wife, who are bow'd daan wi' grief,--net wi' years:-ivver mournin a dowter they've lost, ivver silently dryin ther tears. shoo wor th' hooap an pride o' ther life, till a squire put strange thowts in her heead; then shoo fled an they ne'er saw her mooar, soa they mourn her as if shoo wor deead. ther's one up aboon sees it all; he values noa titles nor brass, he cares noa mooar for a rich squire, nor he does for a poor country lass, his messengers now hover near, till that mother an child yield ther breath, an th' squire has noa longer a fear, for his secret is lockt up in death. peter's prayer. his face wor varry thin an pale, his een wor strangely breet; his old rags flapt i'th' wintry gale, an shooless wor his feet. his teeth they chattered in his heead, his hands had lost ther use, he humbly begg'd a bite o' breead, but nobbut gate abuse. a curse wor tremblin on his tongue, but with a mad despair, he curbed it wi' an effort strong, an changed it for a prayer. "oh, god!" he cried, "spare,--spare aw pray! have mercy an forgive; befooar too lat, show me some way my wife an bairns can live!" "aw read i'th' papers ivvery day, ov hundreds,--thaasands spent for shot an shell, an things to swell this nation's armament. into fowk's hearts, oh, god! instil a love ov peace, an then, maybe we'st have some better times, an men can help thersen. aw nobbut want a chonce to live, one cannot wish for less; wars fill this world wi' misery,- peace gives us happiness. if monarchs dooant get quite as mich, ther joys need not decrease;-pray think o'th' poor as weel as th' rich;- we've but one soul apiece." mak th' best ont. mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--tho' th' job be a bad en, god bless mi life! childer, its useless to freeat! this world's reight enuff, but it wod be a sad en, if we all started rooarin for what we cant get. who knows but what th' things we mooast wish for an covet, are th' varry warst things we could ivver possess; let's shak hands wi' awr luck, an try soa to love it, 'at noa joy ov awr life shall be made onny less. mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--ne'er heed if yor naybor can live withaat workin wol yo have to slave; ther's nowt sweetens life like some honest hard labor, an it's th' battles yo feight 'at proves yo are brave. ne'er heed if grim poverty pays yo a visit, 'twill nivver stop long if yo show a bold front; it's noa sin to be poor, if yo cant help it,--is it? soa keep up yor pecker an gie sorrow a shunt. mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--if fortune should favor, an a big share o' blessins pour into yor lap, 'twill give to yor pleasures a mich better flavor, if yo share yor gooid luck wi' some other poor chap. depend on't, ther's nowt tends to mak life as jolly, as just to mak th' best ov what falls to yor lot; for freeatin at best is a waste an a folly, an it nivver will help to mend matters a jot. on strike. he wandered slipshod through the street, his clothes had many a rent; his shoes seemed dropping from his feet, his eyes were downward bent. his face was sallow, pale and thin, his beard neglected grew, upon his once close shaven chin, like bristles sticking through. i'd known him in much better state, as "old hard-working mike," i asked, would he the cause relate? said he, "awm aght on th' strike. yo're capt, noa daat, to see me thus, aw'm shamed to meet a friend; it's varry hard on th' mooast on us, we wish 't wor at an end. aw cannot spend mi time i'th' haase, an see mi childer pine; they havn't what'll feed a maase, but that's noa fault o' mine. th' wife's varry nearly brokken daan,- shoo addles all we get, wol aw goa skulkin all throo th' taan, i' sorrow, rags an debt. but then yo know it has to be, th' committee tells us that; they owt to know,--but as for me, aw find it's hard,--that's flat. they say 'at th' miaisters suffer mooar nor we can ivver guess;-but th' sufferin they may endure, maks mine noa morsel less. but then th' committee says it's reight; soa aw mun rest content, an we mun still, goa on wi' th' feight, what comes o' jock or rent. aw dooant like to desart mi mates, but one thing aw dooant like; when th' table shows but empty plates it's hard to be on th' strike. gooid day,--for cake awst ha to fend, them childer's maaths to fill; th' committee say th' strike sooin will end; aw hooap to god it will." be happy. some fowk ivverlastinly grummel, at th' world an at th' fowk ther is in it; if across owt 'at's pleasant they stummel, they try to pick faults in a minnit. we all have a strinklin o' care, an they're lucky 'at ne'er meet a trubble, but aw think its unkind, an unfair, to mak ivvery misfortun seem double. some grummel if th' sun doesn't shine,- if it does they find cause for complainin; discontented when th' weather wor fine, they start findin fault if its rainin. aw hate sich dissatisfied men, an fowk 'at's detarmined to do soa, aw'd mak 'em goa live bi thersen, aght o'th' world,--like a robinson crusoe. to mak th' pleasures surraandin us less, ivvery reight-minded man must think sinful; when ther's soa mich to cheer us an bless, ov happiness let's have a skinful. aw truly mooast envy that man, who's gladly devotin his leisure, to mak th' world as breet as he can, an add to its stock ov pure pleasure. it's true ther's hard wark to be done, an mooast on us drop in to share it; but if sprinkled wi' innocent fun, why, we're far better able to bear it. may we live long surraanded wi' friends, to enjoy what is healthful an pure; an at last when this pilgrimage ends, we shall nivver regret it aw'm sure. its true. ther's things i'plenty aw despise;- false pride an wild ambition; tho' ivvery man should strive to rise, an better his condition. aw hate a meean an grovlin soul, i' breast ov peer or ploughman, but what aw hate the mooast ov all, is th' chap 'at strikes a woman. for let ther faults be what they may, he proves 'at he's a low man, who lifts his hand bi neet or day, an strikes a helpless woman. ther taunts may oft be hard to bide,- ther tempers may be fiery, but passions even dwell inside the convent an the priory. an all should think where'er we dwell, greek, saxon, gaul or roman; we're net sich perfect things ussel, as to despise a woman. for let ther faults, &c. it's true old eve first made a slip, an fill'd this world wi' bother; but adam had to bite his lip,- he couldn't get another. an tho' at th' present day they swarm, that chap proves his own foeman, who doesn't tak his strong reight arm, an twine it raand a woman. for let ther faults, &c. a chap may booast he's number one, an lord it o'er creation; may spaat an praich, but when he's done, he'll find his proper station. he may be fast when at his best, but age maks him a slow man, an as he sinks, he's fain to rest, on some kind-hearted woman. for let ther faults, &c. aw wodn't gie a pinch o' salt, for that cold-hearted duffer, who glories o'er a woman's fault, an helps to mak her suffer. ther's net a cock e'er flapt a wing, 'at had th' same reight to crow, man; as th' chap who wi' a weddin ring, has made a happy woman. then let ther faults be what they will, ther net for me to show, man; but if yo seek for comfort, still, yo'll find it in a woman. natty nancy. "mooar fowk get wed nor what do weel," a've heeard mi mother say; but mooast young lads an lasses too, think just th' contrary way. an lasses mooar nor lads it seems, to wed seem nivver flaid; for nowt they seem to dreead as mich as deein an old maid. but oft for single life they sigh, an net withaat a cause, when wi' ther tongue they've teed a knot, ther teeth's too waik to lawse. days arn't allus weddin days, they leearn that to ther sorrow, when panics come an th' brass gets done, an they've to try to borrow. when th' chap at th' strap shop's lukkin glum, an hardly seems to know yo; an gooas on sarvin other fowk as if he nivver saw yo. an when yo're fain to pile up th' foir, wi' bits o' cowks an cinders;-when poverty says, "here' aw've come," love hooks it aght o'th' winders. friends yo once had are far too thrang to ax yo to yer drinkin; they happen dunnot meean owt wrang,- but one cannot help for thinkin. an when yo're lukkin seedy like, wi' patched an tattered clooas; yo'll find when yer coit elbows gape, sich friends oft shut ther doors. ther are poor fowk 'at's happier far, nor rich ens,--ther's noa daat on't, for brass cannot mak happiness, but sewerly it's a pairt on't. aw'll tell yo ov a tale aw heeard,- it's one 'at tuk mi fancy,-abaat a young chap an his wife, they called her natty nancy. they called her natty, yo mun know becoss shoo wor soa clivver, at darnin, cookin, weshin clooas or onny job whativver. well, they began as monny do 'at arn't blest wi' riches; he hugg'd all th' fortun he possessed i'th' pocket ov his britches. it worn't mich, it wodn't raich aboon a two-o'-three shillin; but they wor full ov hooap an health, an they wor strong an willin. an fowk wor capt to see ha sooin ther little cot grew cooasy; shoo'd allus summat cheerful like, if't nobbut wor a pooasy. soa time slipt on, an all went weel when dick sed, "natty, lass, a-latly aw've begun to feel aw'st like a bigger haase. for when aw tuk this cot for thee, we'd nubdy but ussen; but sin that lad wor born ther's three, an ther'll sooin be four, an then?" "why, dick," shoo sed, "just suit thisen, here's raam enuff for me; but if tha'rt anxious for a change, aw'm willin to agree." soa sooin they tuk a bigger haase, they tew'd throo morn to neet, to mak it smart, an varry sooin 'twor th' nicest haase i'th' street. an when a little lass wor born they thowt ther pleasur double; but dick, alas! had nah to taste a little bit o' trubble. for times wer growin varry hard, an wark kept gettin slacker; he'd furst to goa withaat his ale, an then to stop his bacca. but even that did net suffice to keep want at a distance, an they'd noa whear i'th' world to turn, to luk for some assistance. an monny a time he left his meal untouched, tho' ommost pinin; an trail'd abaat, i' hooaps to find some breeter fortun shinin. for long he sowt, but sowt in vain, although his heart wor willin to turn or twist a hundred ways, to get an honest shillin. one day his wife coom back throo th' shop, her heart seem'd ommost brustin; shoo sob'd, "oh, dick,--what mun we do, th' shop keeper's stall'd o' trustin. we've nowt to ait, lad, left i'th' haase,- aw know th' fault isn't thine, but th' childer's bellies mun be fill'd tho' thee an me's to pine." dick seized his hat an aght o'th' door he flew like somdy mad, detarmined 'at he'd get some brass, if brass wor to be had. he furst tried them he thowt his friends, an tell'd his touchin stooary; they button'd up ther pockets as they sed, "we're varry sooary." they tell'd him to apply to th' taan, or sell his goods an chattels; dick felt at last 'at he'd to feight one o' life's hardest battles. for when he'd tried 'em ivvery one he fan aght to his sorrow, 'at fowk wi' brass have far mooar friends, nor them 'at wants to borrow. wi' empty hands, hooamwards he went, an thear on th' doorstep gleamin, wor ligg'd a shillin, raand an white;- he thowt he must be dreamin. he rub'd his een, an eyed it o'er, a-feeard lest it should vanish, he sed, "some angel's come aw'm sewer, awr misery to banish." he pickt it up an lifted th' sneck, then gently oppen'd th' door, an thear wor nancy an his bairns, all huddled up o'th' flooar. "cheer up!" he sed, "gooid luck's begun, here,--tak this brass an spend it; it isn't mine, lass, but aw'm sewer aw think the lord has sent it." a'a! ha her heart jumpt up wi' joy! shoo felt leet as a feather; an off shoo went an bowt some stuff, then they set daan together. befooar they'd weel begun, at th' door, they heeard a gentle tappin, "goa dick," shoo sed, "luk sharp,--awm sewer aw heead sombody rappin." it wor a poor old beggar man who ax'd for charity; "come in!" sed dick, "it's borrow'd stuff, but tha shall share wi' me. soa set thi jaws a waggin lad,- it's whooalsum, nivver heed it, an if tha ivver has a chonce, pay back to them 'at need it." wi' th' best they had th' old chap wor plied, an but few words wor spokken, till th' old chap pushed his plate aside, an silence then wor brokken. "aw'm varry old an worn," he sed, this life's soa full o' cares, yet have aw sometimes entertained an angel unawares. ther's one aboon reads ivvery heart, an them 'at he finds true, altho' he tries 'em sooar,--at last, he minds to pool 'em throo. then nivver let yor faith grow dim, altho yo've hard to feight; just let yer trust all rest o' him, an he'll put all things straight, he quietly sydled aght o'th' door, an when they lukt araand, a purse they'd nivver seen befooar wor liggin up o'th' graand. dick pickt it up--what could it be? he hardly dar to fancy;-"why, its addressed to thee an me! to dick an natty nancy!" ---------they oppened it wi' tremblin hands, an when they saw the treasure; 'twor hard to say which filled 'em mooast, astonishment or pleasur. ther wor a letter for 'em too, an this wor ha it ended,-"you once helped me, may this help you,- from one you once befriended," --------they nivver faand aght who he wor, altho' they spared noa labor; but for his sake they ne'er refuse to help ther needy naybor. fugitive poems. by john hartley. not written in the yorkshire dialect. angels of sunderland. in memoriam, june 16th, 1893. on the sixteenth of june, eighteen eighty-three, the children of sunderland hastened to see, strange wonders performed by a mystic man, believing,--as only young children can. and merry groups chattered, as hand in hand, they careered through the streets of sunderland. in holiday dress, and with faces clean, and hearts as light as the lightest, i ween;- the hall was soon crowded, and wondering eyes, expressed their delight at each fresh surprise; the sight of their bright, eager faces was grand,-such a mass of fair blossoms of sunderland. with wonder and laughter the moments fly, and the wizard at last bade them all good-bye, but not till he promised that each one there, in his magical fortune should have a share;-such a wonderful man with such liberal hand, had never before been in sunderland. they danced, and they shouted, and full of glee, they rushed to find out what these presents could be, and the sea of young faces was borne along, until checked by a barrier, stout and strong; and then the bright current was brought to a stand, and a heart piercing shriek rang through sunderland. then the hearts of the little ones filled with fear, with a sickening sense of a danger near; and with frantic efforts they strove to flee, to the homes where they knew there would safety be; and deaf alike to request or command, rushed to death,--the sweet flowers of sunderland. swift flew the alarm from street to street, and swiftly responded the hurrying feet. fathers and mothers with grief gone wild, cried as they ran, "oh, my child! my child!" women half fainting, and men all unmanned,-'twas a sad, sad day for sunderland. pen cannot tell what keen anguish wrung, their bleeding hearts, as the fair and young, were dragged from the struggling, groaning mass, mangled, disfigured and dead, alas! and offers of help came from every hand, for they were the children of sunderland. quickly and tenderly, one by one, they were brought to light, till the task was done; the wounded were tended with kindness and skill; side by side lay the dead,--all so ghastly and still;-what a terrible tale told that silent band, as the sabbath sun rose over sunderland. in the promise of beauty and strength cut down, two hundred spirits from earth had flown; two hundred frail caskets that love could not save, awaiting their last earthly home in the grave; and a crowd of white angels expectant stand, to welcome the angels from sunderland. woe in the cottage, and woe in the hall;- woe in the hearts of the great and the small;- woe in the streets,--in the houses of prayer; woe had its dwelling place everywhere. suffering and sorrow on every hand,-woe-woe-woe throughout sunderland. who can give comfort in grief such as this? man's arm is helpless,--no power is his. there is but one unto whom we can flee, one who in mercy cries, "come unto me." one who in pity outstretches his hand, to the heart-broken mourners of sunderland. sad will the homes be for many a day, where the light of the household has been snatched away; but through the dull cloud of our sorrow and pain, shines the hope that at last we may meet them again; for on the bright shores of the 'better land,' are gathered the treasures of sunderland. trusting still. when shall we meet again? one more year passed; one more of grief and pain;- maybe the last. are the years sending us farther apart? or love still blending us heart into heart? do love's fond memories brighten the way, or faith's fell enemies darken thy day? oh! could the word unkind be recalled now, or in the years behind buried lie low, how would my heart rejoice as round it fell, sweet cadence of thy voice, still loved so well. sometimes when sad it seems whisperings say: "cherish thy baseless dreams, yet whilst thou may, try not to pierce the veil, lest thou should'st see, only a dark'ning vale stretching for thee." but hope's mist-shrouded sun once more breaks out, chasing the shadows dim, heavy with doubt. and far ahead i see, two rays entwine; one faint, as soul of me, one bright like thine. and in that welcome sign, clearly i view, proof of this trust of mine,- thou art still true. shiver the goblet. shiver the goblet and scatter the wine! tempt me no more with the sight! i care not though brightly as ruby it shine, like a serpent i know it will bite. give me the clustering fruit of the vine,- heap up my dish if you will,-but banish the poison that lurks in the wine, that dulls reason and fetters the will. oft has it lured me to deeds i detest,- filled me with passions debased; robbed me of all that was dearest and best, and left scars that can ne'er be effaced. oh! that the generous rich would but think, as they scatter their wealth far and wide, of the evil that lives in the ocean of drink, of the thousands that sink in its tide. they give of their substance to help the poor wretch, the victim of custom and laws; but never attempt the strong arm to outstretch, to try to abolish the cause. the preacher as well may his eloquence spare, nor his tales of "glad tidings" need tell, if by precepts he urge them for heaven to prepare, whilst his practice leads downward to hell. erect new asylums and hospitals raise,- build prisons for creatures of sin;-can these be a means to improve the world's ways? or one soul from destruction e'er win? no!--license the cause and encourage the sale of the evil one's strongest ally, and in vain then lament that the curse should prevail,- and in vain o'er the fallen ones sigh. strike the black blot from the laws of the land! and take the temptation away; then give to the struggling and weak one's a hand, to pilot them on the safe way. can brewers, distillers, or traffickers pray for the blessing of god, on the seed which they sow for the harvest of men gone astray? of ruin, the fruit of their greed? no bonds can be forged the drink-demon to bind, that will hinder its power for ill; for a way to work mischief it surely will find, let us watch and contrive as we will. then drive out the monster! the plague-breathing pest; and so long as our bodies have breath, let us fight the good fight, never stopping for rest, till at last we rejoice o'er its death. little sunshine. winsome, wee and witty, like a little fay, carolling her ditty all the livelong day, saucy as a sparrow in the summer glade, flitting o'er the meadow came the little maid. a youth big and burly, loitered near the stile, he had risen early, just to win her smile. and she came towards him trying to look grave, but she couldn't do it, not her life to save. for the fun within her, well'd out from her eyes, and the tell-tale blushes to her brow would rise. then he gave her greeting, and with bashful bow, said in tones entreating, "darling tell me now, you are all the sunshine, this world holds for me; be my little valentine, i have come for thee." but she only tittered when he told his love, and the gay birds twittered on the boughs above; he continued pleading, calling her his sun-said his heart was bleeding,- which seemed famous fun. then he turned to leave her. but she caught his hand, and its gentle pressure made him understand, that in spite of teasing, he her heart had won, and through life hereafter, she would be his sun. ---------now they have been married twenty years or more, but she's just as wilful as she was before. and she's just as winsome in his eyes to-day, as when first be met her, mischievous and gay. will the years ne'er tame her? will she ne'er grow old? does the grave man blame her? does he never scold? does he never weary of her ready tongue? does he love her dearly as when he was young? yes--she was the sunshine of his youthful day, and her light laugh cheers him now he's growing gray. happy little woman, that time cannot tame; happy sober husband, loving still the same. happy in her lightness when life's morn was bright, happy in her brightness as draws on the night. passing events. passing events,--tell, what are they i pray? are they some novelty?--nay, nay, nay! ever since the world its course began, since the breath of life was breathed into man, still rolling on with the wane of time, through every nation, in every clime; in every spot where man has his home, ever they long for events to come. hours or days or years it may be, before hopes realization they see; and no sooner it comes than it hastes away, and others rush after no longer to stay. and there scarcely is time to know its in sight, e'er its found to be leaving with marvellous flight, and what had been longed for with eager intent, is chronicled but as a passing event. hope's joys are uncertain;--anxiety rules, expectancy's paradise, peopled by fools; and the present has oft so much bustle and care, that the joys spread around we have no time to share. he is surer of peace who leaves future to fate, and the present joy snatches before it's too late; but he's safest by far, who in mem'ry holds fast, the sweet tastes and joys of events that are past. those days have gone. those days have gone, those happy days, when we two loved to roam, beside the rivulet that strays, near by my rustic home. yes, they have fled, and in the past, we've left them far behind, yet dear i hold, those days of old, when you were true and kind. you dreamed not then of wealth or fame, the world was bright and fair, i seldom knew a grief or game, that you, too, did not share. and though i mourn my hapless fate, in mem'ry's store i find, and dearly hold those days of old, when you were true and kind. say, can the wealth you now possess, such happiness procure, as did our youthful pleasures bless, when both our hearts were pure? no,--and though wandering apart, i strive to be resigned; and dearer hold those days of old, when you were true and kind. and if your thoughts should turn to me, with one pang of regret, know that this heart, still beats for thee, and never will forget; those tender links of long ago are round my heart entwined, and dear i hold those days of old, when you were true and kind. i'd a dream. i'd a dream last night of my boyhood's days, and the scenes where my youth was spent; and i roamed the old woods where the squirrel plays, full of frolicsome merriment. and i walked by the brook, and its silvery tone, seemed to soothe me again as of yore; and i stood by the cottage with moss overgrown and the woodbine that trailed round the door. no change could i see in the garden plot, the flowers bloomed brightly around, and one little bed of forget-me-not in its own little corner i found. the sky had a home-look, the breeze seemed to sigh, in the strain i remembered so well, and the little brown sparrows looked cunning and shy, as though anxious some story to tell. but as quietness reigned and a loneliness fell, o'er the place that had once been so gay; its sunlight had saddened since i bade farewell, and left it for lands far away. the door stood ajar and i sought for a face, of the dear ones i longed so to see; but others i knew not were now in the place, and their presence was painful to me. a pang of remorse seemed to shoot through my heart, as i left with a sorrowing tread, from all the familiar objects to part; for i knew that the loved ones were dead. the home once my own, now knows me no more, the treasures that bound me all gone, and i woke with cheeks tear-stained, and heart sadly sore, to find that a home i had none. to my harp. wake up my harp! thy strings begin to rust! has the soul fled that once within thee dwelt? idle so long, shake off that coat of dust! are there no souls to cheer, no hearts to melt? are there no victims under tyrants' yoke, whose wrongs thy stirring music should proclaim? or have the fetters of mankind been broke? or are there none deserving songs of fame? awake! awake! thy slumber has been long! and let thy chords once more arouse the heart; and teach us in thy most impassioned song, how in our sphere we best may play our part. tell the down-trodden, who with daily toil, wear out their lives, another's greed to fill; that they have rights and interests in the soil, and they can win them if they have the will. tell the high-born that chance of birth ne'er gave to them a right to carve another's fate; nor yet to make the humbler born a slave, whose heart with goodness may be doubly great. tell the hard-handed poor, yet honest man, that though through roughest ways of life he plod, nature hath placed upon his birth no ban,- all men are equal in the sight of god. and yet a softer, pitying strain let pour, to soothe the anguish of the troubled soul, and fill the heart bereaved, with hope once more, and from the brow the heavy grief-cloud roll. cheer on the brave who struggle in the fight,- and warn oppression of the gathering storm, and drag the deeds of false ones to the light,- and herald in the day of true reform. nor leave the gentler, loving themes, unsung, compassionate the maiden's tender woes, revive the faint who are with fears unstrung, and solace them who writhe in suffering's throes. awake! awake! there's need enough of thee, nor let again such sloth enchain thy tongue, and may thy constant effort henceforth be, to plant the right, and to uproot the wrong. backward turn, oh! recollection. backward turn, oh! recollection! far, far back to childhoods' days; to those treasures of affection, 'round which loving memory plays show to me the loving faces of my parents, now no more,-fill again the vacant places with the images of yore. conjure up the home where comfort seemed to make its cosy nest; where the stranger's only passport, was the need of food and rest. show the schoolhouse where with others, i engaged in mental strife, and the playground, where as brothers running, jumping, full of life. now i see the lovely maiden, that my young heart captive led; like a sylph, with gold curls laden, and her lips of cherry red. now fond voices seem to echo, tones as when i heard them last; and my heart sighs sadly, heigh, ho! for the joys for ever past. from the past back to the present, come, ye wandering thoughts again; memories however pleasant, will not rid to-day of pain, now we live, the past is buried,- we are midway in life's stream; onward, onward! ever hurried,- and the futures but a dream. alice. dear little alice lay dying;- i see her as if 'twas to-day, and we stood round her snowy bed, crying, and watching her life ebb away. 'twas a beautiful day in the spring, the sun shone out warmly and clear; and the wee birds, their love songs to sing came and perched on the trees that grew near. in the distance, the glistening sea, could be heard in a deep solemn tone, as if murmuring in sad sympathy, for our griefs and our hopes that had flown. the windows, wide open, allowed the soft wind to fan her white cheek, as with uncovered heads, mutely bowed, we stood watching, not daring to speak. we were only her playmates,--no tie of relationship drew us that way, we'd been told that dear alice must die, and she'd begg'd she might see us that day. we were all full of sorrow, and tears we all shed,--but not one showed surprise; of her future we harboured no fears, for we knew she was fit for the skies. ever gentle and kind as a dove, to each one she knew she had been; she had ruled her dominion by love, and we all paid her homage as queen. her strange beauty, now, as i look back, i can see as i ne'er saw it then; but words to describe it i lack, it could never be told by a pen. half asleep, half awake, as she lay, with her golden curls round her pale face; a smile round her lips 'gan to play, and her eyes gazed intently on space. with an effort she half raised her head, and looked lovingly round us on all, then she motioned us nearer the bed; and we silently answered her call. then she put out her tiny white hand, the friend nearest her took it in his; and so faintly she whispered "good-bye," as he printed upon it a kiss. one by one, boy and girl, did the same, and she bade them 'farewell' as they passed calling everyone by their name, 'till it came to my turn;--i was last, "good-bye, harry," she breathed very low, and her eyes to my soul seemed to speak; and she strove not to let my hand go, till i stooped down and kissed her pale cheek. then she wearily laid down her head, and she closed her blue eyes with a sigh;-"don't forget me, dear harry, when dead, but meet me in heaven by-and-bye." and that whisper i never forgot, and her hand's dying clasp i feel still; for i swore, that whatever my lot, i'd be true to that child,--and i will. it may be a foolish conceit, but it oft is a solace for me, to think, when life's troubles i meet, there's an angel in heaven cares for me. friends deplore my lone bachelor state, some may pity, and others deride; but they know not for alice i wait, who took with her my heart when she died. looking back. i've been sitting reviewing the past, dear wife, from the time when a toddling child,-through my boyish days with their joys and strife,- through my youth with its passions wild. through my manhood, with all its triumph and fret, to the present so tranquil and free; and the years of the past that i most regret, are the years that i passed without thee. it was best we should meet as we did, dear wife,- it was best we had trouble to face; for it bound us more closely together through life, and it nerved us for running the race. we are nearing the end where the goal is set, and we fear not our destiny, and the only years that i now regret, are the years that i passed without thee. 'twas thy beauty attracted my eye, dear wife, but thy goodness that kept me true; 'twas thy sympathy soothed me when cares were rife, 'twas thy smile gave me courage anew. thy bloom may be faded by time, but yet, thou hast still the same beauty to me, and no part of my past do i now regret, save the years that i passed without thee. we have struggled and suffered our share, dear wife, but our joys have been many and sweet; and our trust in each other has taken from life, the heartaches and pangs others meet. i still bless the day, long ago, when we met, and my prayer for the future shall be, that when the call comes and thy life's sun has set, i may never be parted from thee. i know i love thee. i shall never forget the day, annie, when i bid thee a fond adieu; with a careless good bye i left thee, for my cares and my fears were few. true that thine eyes seemed brightest;- true that none had so fair a brow,-i _thought_ that i loved thee then, annie, but i _knew_ that i love thee now. i had neither wealth nor beauty, whilst thou owned of both a share, i bad only a honest purpose and the courage the fates to dare. to all others my heart preferred thee, and 'twas hard to part i know; for i _thought_ that i loved thee then, annie, but i _know_ that i love thee now. oh! what would i give to-night, love, could i clasp thee once again, to my heart that is aching with loving,- to my heart where my love does reign. could i hear thy voice making music, so gentle, so sweet and so low, i _thought_ that i loved thee then, annie, but i _know_ that i love thee now. i have won me wealth and honour,- i have earned a worldly regard, but alas they afford me no pleasure, nor lighten my lot so hard. oh come for my bosom yearneth, all its burden of love to bestow,-once i _thought_ that i really loved thee, but i _know_ that i love thee now. canst thou ever forgive me the folly, of failing to capture the prize, of thy maiden heart, trustful and loving, that shone thro' thy tear bedimmed eyes. but i knew not until we had parted, how fiercely love's embers could glow; or how _truly_ i loved thee then, annie, or how _madly_ i'd love thee now. bachelors quest. she may be dark or may be fair, if beauty she possesses; but she must have abundant hair- i doat on flowing tresses. her skin must be clear, soft and white her cheeks with health's tints glowing, her eyes beam with a liquid light,- red lips her white teeth showing. she must be graceful as a fawn, with bosom gently swelling, her presence fresh as early dawn,- a heart for love to dwell in. she must be trusting, yet aware that flatterer's honey'd phrases are often but a wily snare, to catch her in love's mazes. accomplishments she must possess, these make life worth the having; and taste, especially in dress yet still inclined to saving. in cookery she must excel, to this there's no exception, and serve a frugal meal as well as manage a reception. untidyness she must abhor, in every household matter; and resolutely close the door to any gossip's chatter. she must love children, for a home ne'er seems like home without 'em. and women seldom care to roam, who love their babes about 'em, should she have wealth, she must not boast or tell of what she brought me; content that i should rule the roost,- (that's what my father taught me.) if i can find some anxious maid who all these charms possesses, i shall be tempted, i'm afraid, to pay her my addresses. waiting at the gate. draw closer to my side to-night, dear wife, give me thy hand, my heart is sad with memories which thou canst understand, its twenty years this very day, i know thou minds it well, since o'er our happy wedded life the heaviest trouble fell. we stood beside the little cot, but not a word we said; with breaking hearts we learned, alas, our little claude was dead, he was the last child born to us, the loveliest,--the best, i sometimes fear we loved him more than any of the rest. we tried to say "thy will be done," we strove to be resigned; but all in vain, our loss had left too deep a wound behind. i saw the tears roll down thy cheek, and shared thy misery, but could not speak a soothing word, i could but grieve with thee. he looked so calm, so sweet, so fair why should we stand and weep? death had but paused a moment there, and put our pet to sleep. the weary hours crept sadly on, until the burial day; then in the deep, cold, gravel grave, we saw him laid away. his little bed was taen apart, his toys put out of sight; his brother and his sister soon grew gay again and bright. but we, dear wife, we ne'er threw off, the sorrow o'er us cast; and even yet, at times, we grieve, though twenty years have passed. we know he's in a better land, a heaven where all is bliss; nor would we try if we'd the power to bring him back to this. draw closer to my side, dear wife, and wipe away that tear, heaven does not seem so far away, i seem to feel him near. he'll come no more with us to dwell, for our life's lamp burns dim; but he who doeth all things well, will draw us up to him. come closer, wife, let us not part, we have not long to wait; a something whispers to my heart, "claude's waiting at the gate." love. love--love--love--love,-a tiny hand in a tiny glove; a witching smile that means,--well,--well, whether little or much its hard to tell. a tiny foot and a springy tread, short curls running riot all over her head; a waist that invites a fond embrace, yet by modesty girt seems a holy place; not a place where an arm should be idly thrown, but should gently rest, as would rest my own. an angel whose wings are but hid from view, whose charms are many and faults so few, as near perfection as mortal can be, is the one that i love and that loves but me. they tell me that love is blind,--.oh, no! they can never convince a lover so; love cannot be blind for it sees much more, then others have ever discovered before. oh, the restless night with its pleasing dreams, sweet visions through which her beauty beams; the pleasant pains that find vent in sighs,-and the hopes of a earthly paradise where we shall dwell and heart to heart in unison beat. of the world a part yet so full of our love for each other that we shall sail all alone on life's troublesome sea, in a charmed course, of perpetual calm, away from all danger, sccure from harm. ah, yes,--such is love to the maiden and youth, that have implicit trust in each others truth;-such love was mine, but alas, alas! the things i had hoped for ne'er came to pass. but i thank the star of my destiny, that guided a true plain woman to me; that amid the bustle and worry and strife, has proved a good mother and faithful wife, though the fates did not grant me an angel to wed, they gave me a woman for helpmate instead. do your best and leave the rest. as through life you journey onward many a hill you'll have to climb; many a rough and dang'rous pathway, you'll encounter time and time. now and then a gleam of sunshine, will bring hope to cheer your breast; then press onward,--ever trusting,- do your best and leave the rest. though your progress may be hindered, by false friends or bitter foes; and the goal for which you're striving, seems so far away,--who knows? you may yet have strength to reach it, e'er the sun sinks in the west; ever striving,--still undaunted;- do your best and leave the rest. if you fail, as thousands must do, you will still have cause for pride; you will have advanced much further, than if you had never tried. never falter, but remember, life is not a foolish jest; you all are in the fight to win it;- do your best and leave the rest. if at last your strength shall fail you, and your struggles have proved vain; there is one who will sustain you;- soothe your sorrow,--ease your pain, he has seen your earnest striving, and your efforts shall be blest; for he knows, that you, though failing, did your best,--he'll do the rest. to my daughter on her birthday. darling child, to thee i owe, more than others here will know; thou hast cheered my weary days, with thy coy and winsome ways. when my heart has been most sad, smile of thine has made me glad; in return, i wish for thee, health and sweet felicity. may thy future days be blest, with all things the world deems best. if perchance the day should come, thou does leave thy childhood's home; bound by earth's most sacred ties, with responsibilities, in another's life to share, wedded joys and worldly care; may thy partner worthy prove,-richest in thy constant love. strong in faith and honour, just,-with brave heart on which to trust. one, to whom when troubles come, and the days grow burdensome, thou canst fly, with confidence in his love's plenipotence. and if when some years have flown, sons and daughters of your own bless your union, may they be wellsprings of pure joy to thee. and when age shall line thy brow, and thy step is weak and slow,-and the end of life draws near may'st thou meet it without fear; undismayed with earth's alarms,-sleeping,--to wake in jesus' arms. remorse. none ever knew i had wronged her, that secret she kept to the end. none knew that our ties had been stronger, than such as should bind friend to friend. her beauty and innocence gave her such charms as are lavished on few; and vain was my earnest endeavour to resist,--though i strove to be true. she had given her heart to my keeping,- 'twas a treasure more precious than gold; and i guarded it, waking or sleeping, lest a strange breath should make it grow cold. and i longed to be tender, yet honest,- alas! loved,--where to love was a sin,-and passion was deaf to the warning, of a still small voice crying within. i feasted my eyes on her beauty,- i ravished my ears with her voice,-and i felt as her bosom rose softly, that my heart had at last found its choice. 'twas a wild gust of passion swept o'er us,- just a flash of tumultuous bliss;-then life's sunlight all vanished before us, and we stood by despair's dark abyss. 'tis past,--and the green grass grows over, the grave that hides her and our shame; none ever knew who was her lover, for her lips never uttered his name. but at night when the city is sleeping, i steal with a tremulous tread, and spend the dark solemn hours weeping, o'er the grave of the deeply wronged dead. my queen annie--oh! what a weary while it seems since that sad day; when whispering a fond "good bye," i tore myself away. and yet, 'tis only two short years; how has it seemed to thee? to me, those lonesome years appear like an eternity. we loved,--ah, me! how much we loved; how happy passed the day when pouring forth enraptured vows, the charmed hours passed away. in every leaf we beauty saw,- in every song and sound, some sweet entrancing melody, to soothe our hearts we found. and now it haunts me as a dream,- a thing that could not be!-that one so pure and beautiful could ever care for me. but i still have the nut-brown curl, which tells me it is true; and in my fancy i can see the brow where once it grew. those eyes, whose pensive, loving light, did thrill me through and through: still follow me by day and night, as they were wont to do. thy smile still haunts me, and thy voice, at times i seem to hear; and when the scented zephyrs pass i fancy thou art near. 'twill not be long, dear heart, (although it will seem long to me;) until i clasp thee once again; to part no more from thee. though storms may roar, and oceans rage and furies vent their spleen;-there's naught shall keep me from my love; my beautiful;--my queen! now and then. did we but know what lurks beyond the now; could we but see what the dim future hides; had we some power occult that would us show the joy and sorrow which in then abides; would life be happier,--or less fraught with woe, did we but know? i long, yet fear to pierce those clouds ahead;- to solve life's secrets,--learn what means this death. are fresh joys waiting for the silent dead? or do we perish with am fleeting breath? if not; then whither will the spirit go? did we but know. 'tis all a mist. reason can naught explain, we dream and scheme for what to-morrow brings; we sleep, perchance, and never wake again, nor taste life's joys, or suffer sorrow's stings. will the soul soar, or will it sink below? how can we know. "you must have faith!"--how can a mortal weak, pin faith on what he cannot comprehend? we grope for light,--but all in vain we seek, oblivion seems poor mortal's truest friend. like bats at noonday, blindly on we go, for naught we know. yet, why should we repine? could we but see our lifelong journey with its ups and downs! ambition, hope and longings all would flee, indifferent alike to smiles and frowns. 'tis better as it is. it must be so. we ne'er can know. the open gates. my heart was sad when first we met; 'yet with a smile,- a welcome smile i ne'er forget, thou didst beguile my sighs and sorrows;-and a sweet delight shed a soft radiance, where erst was night. i dreamed not we should meet again;- but fate was kind, once more my heart o'er fraught with pain, to joy inclined. it seemed thy soul had power to penetrate my inmost self, changing at will my state. then sprang the thought:--be thou my queen! i will be slave; make here thy throne and reign supreme, 'tis all i crave. let me within thy soothing influence dwell, content to know, with thee all must be well. i knew not that another claimed by prior right, those charms that had my breast inflamed with fancies bright. ah! then i recognized my loneliness:-my dreams dispelled;--still i admired no less. time wearily dragged on its way,- we met once more, and thou wert free! oh, happy day! as sight of shore cheers the worn mariner;--so sight of thee, made my heart beat with sweet expectancy. is it too much to hope,--someday this heart of mine, that beats alone for thee,--yet may thy love enshrine? all things are said to come to him who waits, i'm waiting, darling.--love, opes wide the gates. blue bells. bonny little blue-bells mid young brackens green, 'neath the hedgerows peeping modestly between; telling us that summer is not far away, when your beauties blend with blossoms of the may. sturdy, tangled hawthorns, fleck'd with white or red, whilst their nutty incense, all around is shed. bonny drooping blue-bells, happy you must be with your beauties sheltered 'neath such fragrant tree. you need fear no rival,- other blossoms blown, with their varied beauties but enhance your own. steals the soft wind gently, 'round th' enchanted spot, sets your bells a-ringing though we hear them not. idle fancy wanders as you shake and swing, our hearts shape the message we would have you bring. dreams of happy springtimes we hope yet to share; vague, but pleasant visions all to melt in air. children's merry voices break your witching spells, chubby hands are clasping languishing blue-bells. gay and happy children hop and skip along, with their ringing laughter, sweet as skylark's song. slowly soon i follow through the rustic lane, but the sight that greets me gives me pang of pain. strewed upon the pathway, fairy blue-bells lie, trampled, crushed and wilted, cast away to die. yet they lived not vainly though their life was brief, shedding gleams of gladness o'er a world of grief. and they taught a lesson,- rightly understood; by their mute endeavour striving to do good. a song of the snow oh the snow,--the bright fleecy snow! isn't it grand when the north breezes blow? isn't it bracing the ice to skim o'er, with a jovial friend or the one you adore? how the ice crackles, and how the skates ring, how friends flit past you like birds on the wing. how the gay laugh ripples through the clear air, how bloom the roses on cheeks of the fair! few are the pleasures that life can bestow, to equal the charms of the beautiful snow. oh, the snow,-the pitiless snow! cruel and cold, as the shelterless know; huddled in nooks on the mud or the flags, wrapp'd in a few scanty, fluttering rags. gently it rests on the roof and the spire, and filling the streets with its slush and the mire, freezing the life out of poor, starving souls, wild whirling and drifting as boreas howls. hard is their lot who have no where to go, to shelter from storm and the merciless snow. oh, the snow,-the treacherous snow! up in a garret on pallet laid low! dying of hunger,--oh, sad is her fate;-no food in the cupboard,--no fire in the grate. a widening streak of frost crystals are shed, through the window's broke pane on the comfortless bed, and the child that she clasps to her chill milkless breast, has ended its troubles, and gone to its rest. husbandless,--childless, and friendless.--go slow,- she sleeps with her babe, and their shroud is the snow. oh, the snow, the health-giving snow! setting the cheeks of the children aglow, father and mother,--well fed and well clad, join in the frolic like young lass and lad. little they dream of the suffering and woe, of those shivering outcasts with nowhere to go. then they read from their paper with quivering breath, accounts of poor wand'rers found frozen to death, and their hearts with pure pity perchance overflow, but it vanishes soon, like the beautiful snow. hide not thy face. hide not thy face,--and though the road be dark and long and rough, with cheerfulness i'll bear my load, thy smile will be enough. all other helps i can forego, if with faith's eye i trace, through earthly clouds of grief and woe, the presence of thy face. hide not thy face;--weak, worn and oppressed with doubt and fear; still will i utter no complaint,- content if thou art near. thy loving hand my steps shall guide, and set my doubts at rest; in loving trust, whate'er betide, for thou, lord, knowest best. hide not thy face;--the tempter's wiles around my feet are spread; the world's applause,-the wanton's smiles, beset the path i tread. alone, too weak to fight the host of pleasure's vicious train, 'tis then i need thy succour most;- let me not seek in vain. hide not thy face, but day by day, shine out more clearly bright; until this narrow, thorny way, shall end in death's dark night. then freed from all the taints of sin, through thine abundant grace; the crown of righteousness i win, and see thee face to face. in my garden of roses. oh! come to me, darling! my sweet! here where the sunlight reposes; pink petals lie thick at my feet, here in my garden of rose's. oh! come to my bower! my queen! sweet with the breath of the flow'rs; shaded with curtains of green;- here let us dream through the hours. the sky is unfleck'd overhead,- trees languish in sol's fervid ray,-the earth to the heavens is wed, and robin is piping his lay. lost is their sweetness upon me; vainly their beauties displaying;-cheerless i wander, and lonely,- hoping and longing and praying. oh! come to me, queenliest flower! reign in my garden of roses; humbly we bow to thy power, loving the sway thou imposes. hark! 'tis her tinkling footfall! robin desist from thy singing; mar not those sounds that enthrall,- faint as a fairy bell's ringing. she cometh! my lily! my rose! queenlier,--purer, and sweeter! haste, every blossom that blows, pour out your perfumes to greet her! panting she rests in my arms;- now is my bower enchanted! essence of all this world's charms;- my heart has won all that it wanted. the match girl. merrily rang out the midnight bells, glad tidings of joy for all; as crouched a little shiv'ring child, close by the churchyard wall. the snow and sleet were pitiless, the wind played with her rags, she beat her bare, half frozen feet upon the heartless flags; a tattered shawl she tightly held with one hand, round her breast; whilst icicles shone in her hair, like gems in gold impressed, but on her pale, wan cheeks, the tears that fell too fast to freeze, rolled down, as soft she murmured, "do buy my matches, please." wee, weak, inheritor of want! she heard the christmas chimes, perchance, her fancy wrought out dreams, of by-gone, better times, the days before her mother died, when she was warmly clad; when food was plenty, and her heart from morn to night was glad. her father now is lying sick, she soon may be alone; he cannot use his spade and pick, as once he could have done. the workhouse door stands open wide, but should he enter there, they'd tear his darling from his side and place her anywhere. they'd call it charitable help, though breaking both their hearts; but then, when in adversity folks have to bear the smarts. some carriages go rolling by, gay laughter greets her ears; she envies not their better lot, she only sheds more tears, and now and then a passing step, will cause the tears to cease; as fainter, fainter, comes the plaint, "do buy my matches, please." darker the sky, colder the wind,- the bells are silent now;-she creeps still closer to the wall, and sinks upon the snow. the sound of revelry no more disturbs her weary ear, sleep conquers cold and pain and grief;- oblivion shuts out fear. the snow drifts to the churchyard wall, the graves with white are spread; but those gray walls do not enclose all of the near-by dead. the wind has ta'en the snowflakes, and gently as it might, has spread a shroud o'er one more lost and hid it from the sight. i would not wake her if i could, 'twas well for her she died; her spirit floated out upon the bells of christmastide, she breathed no prayer, nor thought of heaven,- her last faint words were these;-as time merged in eternity, "do buy my matches, please." but surely angels would be there, to shield her from all harm; and in christ's loving bosom, she could nestle and get warm. the wifeless, childless, stricken man, lies moaning in his pain-"come, let me bless thee e'er i die!" but she never came again. de profundis. down in the deeps of dark despair and woe;- of death expectant;--hope i put aside; counting the heartbeats, slowly, yet more slow,- marking the lazy ebb of life's last tide. sweet resignation, with her opiate breath, spread a light veil, oblivious, o'er the past, and all unwilling handmaid to remorseless death, shut out the pain of life's great scene,--the last. when, lo! from out the mist a slender form took shape and forward pressed and two bright eyes shone as two stars that gleam athwart the storm, grandly serene, amid the cloud-fleck'd skies. "not yet," she said, "there are some sands to run, ere he has reached life's limit, and no grain shall lie unused. then, when his fight is done, pronounce the verdict,--be it loss or gain." i felt her right hand lightly smooth my brow, her left hand on my heart; and a sweet thrill swept all the strings of being, and the flow of a full harmony aroused the dormant will. death slunk away, sweet resignation paled, and hope's bright star made all the future bright; the clouds were rent;--a woman's love prevailed, and dragged a sinking soul once more to love and light. angels there are who walk this troublous world, whose wings are hid beneath poor mortal clay, lest their effulgence to man's eyes unfurled, might scare the timid-hearted ones away. the whispered word, the smile, the gentle tone, love-prompted from a woman's heaving breast, enforce her claim to make the world her throne, beyond compare,--of all god's gifts the best. nettie. nettie, nettie! oh, she's pretty! with her wreath of golden curls; none compare with charming nettie, she's the prettiest of girls. not her face alone is sweetest,- nor her eyes the bluest blue, but her figure is the neatest of all forms i ever knew. but she has a fault,--the greatest that a pretty girl could have; when she's looking the sedatist, and pretending to be grave,-you discover, 'spite of hiding, what i feel constrained to tell; that she knows she is a beauty,- knows it,--knows it,--aye, too well. may be when the bloom has vanished; which we know in time it will; and her foolish fancies banished, may be, she'll be lovely still. for though time may put his finger, on her dainty-fashioned face; there will still some beauty linger, round her form so full of grace. and her heart,--the priceless treasure, which so many long to win, still shall prove a fount of pleasure, to the love that enters in. pity 'tis that fairest blossoms must in time fall from the tree; pity 'tis that snow-white bosoms must yield up their symmetry. brightest eyes will lose their love-light, fairest cheeks grow pale and gray;-golden locks will lose their sunlight, and the loveliest limbs decay. but whilst life is left we hunger for a taste of earthly bliss; but the man need seek no longer, who can call sweet nettie his. the dean's brother. a little lad, but thinly clad, all day had roamed the street; with stitled groans and aching bones, he beg'd for bread to eat. the wind blew shrill from o'er the hili, and shook his scanty rags; whilst cold and sleet benumbed his feet, as plodding o'er the flags. the night drew on with thick'ning gloom,- he hailed each passer by, for help to save, but nought they gave,- then he sat down to cry. it was a noble portico, 'neath which the beggar stept, and none would guess, one in distress there shiv'ring sat and wept. but soon the door was open thrown,- the dean, a goodly man; who lived within, had heard a moan, and came the cause to scan. "ah, little boy, what want you here, on such a bitter night? run home at once, you little dunce, or you'll be frozen quite." the boy looked at his cheery face, yet hid his own in dread; "i meant no harm, the place was warm, and i am begging bread; "and if you can a morsel spare, i'll thank you, oh! so much, for all day long i've begged and sung, and never had a touch." "step in," then said the kindly man, "and stand here in the hall, you shall have bread, poor starving child, i promise you you shall." and off he went, and soon returned with a thin, tempting slice, and little jemmy dapt his hands and cried, "oh, sir, that's nice!" "and what's your name, come tell me that?" "my name is jimmy pool." "and do you always beg all day instead of going to school? "and can you read, and can you write?" poor jimmy shook his head, "no, sir, i have to beg all day, at night i go to bed. "my mother lays me on the floor, upon a little rug; and i ne'er think of nothing more, when i'm so warm and snug. "sometimes i wake, and when i do, unless it's almost day, she's always there, upon her chair, working the night away. "it isn't much that she can make,- sometimes i think she'd die, but for her little jimmy's sake,- there's only her and i." "and do you ever pray, my boy?" "no, sir, i never tried, i never heard a praying word since my poor daddy died." "then let me teach you, little boy, just come now, let me see,-i know you'll manage if you try,- now say it after me. "our father,"--"our father,"--"right," "that art in heaven," "go on!" jimmy repeated every word, until the prayer was done. then turning up his hazel eyes, which questioning light shone through, he said, "that prayer sounds very nice,- is he your father too?" "yes, he is mine as well as yours, and lord of all you see." "far as i know, if that be so, my brother you must be." "yes we are brethren, every one, all equal in his sight." "well, i will _try_ to think so, sir, but i can't believe it _quite_. "it seems so strange that you should be akin to such as me, for you are rich, and great, and grand and i'm so poor you see." "but it is true, my little lad, and if to him you pray, he'll make your little heart feel glad,- he'll turn you not away." "well, if that's so, i'll learn to pray, i'll take your kind advice,-but if you are my brother, give me just one thicker slice. "and if he's father of us all,- now, as i'm going home, from your big share perhaps you'll spare your widowed sister some?" the dean's face wore a puzzled look, and then a look of joy; then said, "'tis you the teacher are, i am the scholar, boy." that night the widow's eyes were wet, but they were tears of joy,-'when she beheld the load of things brought by her little boy. and jimmy danced upon the flags, and cried, "there's few have seen, and ever thought that in these rags, stands brother to a dean." i would not live alway. "i would not live alway," why should i wish to stay, now, when grown old and grey, enduring slow decay? when power to do has fled, 'twere better to be dead-the tree that's ceased to bear, has no right to be there. who cares to keep a bird whose note is never heard? yet many things abound, encumbering the ground; useless, unsightly wrecks, that only serve to vex the sight of those who boast all that those wrecks have lost. if god gave me this life,-now, when worn out with strife, may i not give it back and move from out the track? this world is not for drones! the right to live each owns; but he to earn that right must work with all his might. when power to do has fled, 'twere better to be dead. the dog has had its day;-"i would not live alway." too late. how should i know, that day when first we met, i would be a day i never can forget? and yet 'tis so. that clasp of hands that made my heartstrings thrill, would not die out, but keeps vibrating still? how should i know? how should i know, that those bright eyes of thine would haunt me yet? and through grief's dark cloud shine, with that same glow? that thy sweet smile, so full of trust and love, should, beaming still, a priceless solace prove? how should i know? how should i know that one so good and fair, would condescend to spare a thought, or care, for one so low? i dared not hope such bliss could be in store;-how dare i who had known no love before? how should i know? but now i know- too late, alas! the prize can ne'er be mine, yet do i hug the pain, and bless the blow, knowing i love, and am loved in return, is bliss undying whilst life's lamp shall burn. yes, now i know. on the banks of the calder. on calder's green banks i stroll sadly and lonely, the flowers are blooming, the birds singing sweet, the river's low murmur seems whispering only, the name of the laddie i came here to meet. he promised yestre'en, by the thorn tree in blossom, he'd meet me to-night as the sun sank to rest, and a sprig of may blossom he put on my bosom, as his lips to my hot cheeks he lovingly prest. oh, where is my laddie? oh, where is my johnnie? oh, where is my laddie, so gallant and free? he's winsome and witty, his face is so bonny, oh, johnnie,--my johnnie,--i'm waiting for thee. the night's growing dark and the shadows are eerie, the stars now peep out from the blue vault above; oh, why does he tarry? oh, where is my dearie? oh, what holds him back from the arms of his love? i know he's not false, by his kind eyes so blue,- and his tones were sincere when he called me his own; oh, he promised so fairly he'd ever be true,- but why does he leave me to wander alone? oh, where is my laddie? oh, where is my johnnie? oh, where is my laddie so gallant and free? he's winsome and witty, his face is so bonny, oh, johnnie,--my johnnie, i'm waiting for thee. the moon now is up,--the owl hoots in the wood, the trees sigh and moan, and the water runs black; the tears down my cheeks roll a sorrowful flood,- and my heart throbs to tell me he'll never come back. oh, woe, woe is me! did he mean to betray? must my ruin the price of his perfidy be? no, the river shall hide me and bear me away; cold calder receive me, i'm coming to thee. oh, where is her laddie? oh, where is her johnnie? oh, where is her laddie that treated her so? but the voice of the river shall haunt him for ever, and his base heart shall never more happiness know. lines on receiving a bunch of wild hyacinths by post. sweet, drooping, azure tinted bells, how dear you are; bringing the scent of shady dells, to me from far; telling of spring and gladsome sunny hours,-nature's bright jewels!=-heart-refreshing flowers! oh, for a stroll when opening day silvers the dew, kissing the buds, whilst zephyrs play as though they knew their gentle breath was needed, just to shake your slumbering beauties, and to bid you wake. far from the moilding town and trade, how sweet to spend an hour amid the misty glade, and find a friend in every tiny blossom, and to lie, and dream of him whose love can never die. ye are gael's messengers, sent here to make us glad; mute, and yet eloquent, to cheer the heart that's sad; to turn our thoughts from sordid earthly gains, to that bright home where peace for ever reigns. how dare we murmur, when around on every side, such proofs of his great love abound, o'er the world wide? faith cannot die within these hearts of ours, if we but learn the lessons of the flowers. thanks to the one whose kindly heart was moved to send this gift, when we were far apart, to cheer a friend. sweet meditation now my mind employs; a pleasure pure, and one which never cloys. november's here. dullest month of all the year,-suicidal atmosphere, everything is dark and drear, filling nervous minds with fear, skies are seldom ever clear, fogs are ever hov'ring near,-'tis a heavy load to bear. were it not that life is dear, we should wish to disappear, for it puts us out of gear. but in vain we shed the tear, we must still cling to the rear of the year that now is near. though our eyes begin to blear, with fogs thick enough to shear, and we feel inclined to swear, at the month that comes to smear all things lovely, all things dear; we must bear and yet forbear. but some thoughts our spirits cheer, christmas time will soon be here, then at thee we'll scoff and jeer, smoke our pipes and drink our beer,-sit until brave chanticleer tells us that the morn is here. do thy worst, november drear! we can stand it, never fear,-christmas time will soon be here. mary. my mary's as sweet as the flowers that grow, by the side of the brooklet that runs near her cot; her brow is as fair as the fresh fallen snow, and the gleam of her smile can be never forgot. her figure is lithe and as graceful i ween as was venus when paris awarded the prize, she's the wiles of a fairy,--the step of a queen, and the light of true love's in her bonny brown eyes. to see was to love her,--to love was to mourn,- for her heart was as fickle as april days when you'd given her all and asked some return, you got but a taste of her false winsome ways. you never could tell, though you knew her so well, that her sweet fascinations were nothing but lies, like a fool you loved on when of hope there was none and your heart sought relief in her bonny brown eyes. yet 'tis sad to relate, though unhappy my fate, i would sacrifice all that on earth i hold dear, if she would but consent to be true, and content, with the heart that is faithful when distant or near. through pleasure and pain we together again, may never commingle our smiles and our sighs, but when sleeping or waking, i struggle in vain, to forget the sweet maid with the bonny brown eyes. oh, mary, my love! with the coo of the dove, i would woo thee to win thee, and ever to live, where thy bright loving face and thy figure of grace, could surround me with joys that none other can give. oh, say but a word, and i'll fly like a bird, to the one whom my heart will beat for till it dies, bid me come to my home, bid me come, bid me come, and bask in the light of thy bonny brown eyes. when cora died. bells ring out a joyful sound, old and young alike seem gay; one more year has gone its round, again we greet a new year's day. whilst to some they tell of cheer, other hearts may grief betide, for 'twas in the glad new year when our darling cora died. like a snowdrop, pure and fair, she had blossomed in our home; her we nursed with tender care, lest death's blighting frost should come. and we prayed to keep her here, but our pleading was denied;-early in the glad new year, little darling cora died. death had taken some before, some from whom 'twas hard to part; and their voices now no more, come to cheer the longing heart. in that one frail blossom dear, centered all our hope and pride; alas! then came the sad new year, when our darling cora died. since that time the pealing bells wake sad echoes in the heart; and the grief that in us dwells makes the tears unbidden start. though they ring so loud and clear, flinging gladness far and wide, they to me recall the year, when our darling cora died. the violet. little simple violet, glittering with dewy wet, hidden by protecting grass all unheeded we should pass were it not the rich perfume, leads us on to find the bloom which so modestly does dwell, sweetly scenting all the dell. simple little violet;-lessons i shall ne'er forget by thy modest mien were taught,-rich in peace,--with wisdom fraught. oft i've laid me down to rest, with thy blossoms on my breast; screen'd from noontide's sunny flood, by some monarch of the wood. i have thought and dreamed of thee, clad in such simplicity; yet so rich in fragrance sweet, that exhales from thy retreat; and i've seen the gaudy flower blest alone with beauty's dower;-have looked,--admired,--then bid them go,-violet,--i love thee so. rival, thou hast none to fear, for to me thou art most dear;-buttercups and daisies vie, 'with thy charms to please the eye, roses red and lillies white, all enchanting to the sight; yield me joys sincere, but yet thou'rt my favorite,--violet. repentant. oh lend me thy hand in the darkness, lead me once more to the light, bear with my folly and weakness, point me the way to do right. long have i groped in the shadow of error, temptation and doubt, in the maze i've strayed hither and thither, vainly seeking to find a way out. when i grasp thy firm hand in the darkness, courage takes place of my fear; no more do i shudder and tremble, when i know that my loved one is near. from sorrow and trouble, oh, lead me;- from dangers that sorely affright, till at last every terror shall leave me, and i rest in thine own loving light. rest! aye, rest! if i have thy forgiveness, if thy strong arm about me is twined; let the past, like a horrible vision, be for ever cast out of thy mind. when i wilfully all my vows slighted, and sought joy in a glittering sin, i found but two lives that were blighted, two hearts filled with ruin within. oh, take me again to thy bosom, with a kiss, tho' it be on my brow; and forgive one who wayward and sinful, ne'er knew how she loved thee till now. and keep me away from the darkness, let thy hand lead me on evermore, let me cling to thee, bless thee, and love thee, as no loved one was e'er loved before. sunset. last eve the sun went down like a globe of glorious fire; into a sea of gold i watched the orb expire. it seemed the fitting end for the brightness it had shed, and the cloudlets he had kissed long lingered over head. all vegetation drooped, as if with pleasure faint: the lily closed its cup to guard 'gainst storm and taint. the cool refreshing dew fell softly to the earth, all lovely things to cheer, and call more beauties forth. and as i sat and thought on nature's wond'rous plan, i felt with some regret, how small a thing is man. however bright he be, his efforts are confined, yet maybe, if he will, leave some rich fruits behind. the sun that kissed the flowers, and made the earth look gay, was culling, through the hours, rich treasures on his way. and when the day was dead, his stored up riches fell, and to the moon arose incense from hill and dell. and when our span of life is ended, will it be through such a glorious death we greet eternity? what have we said or done in all the long years passed! and may not such as me, forgotten, die at last? poetry and prose. do you remember the wood, love, that skirted the meadow so green; where the cooing was heard of the stock-dove, and the sunlight just glinted between. the trees, that with branches entwining made shade, where we wandered in bliss, and our eyes with true love-light were shining,- when you gave me the first loving kiss? the ferns grew tall, graceful and fair, but none were so graceful as you; wild flow'rs in profusion were there, but your eyes were a lovelier blue; and the tint on your cheek shamed the rose, and your brow as the lily was white, and your curls, bright as gold, when it glows, in the crucible, liquid and bright. and do you remember the stile, where so cosily sitting at eve, breathing forth ardent love-vows the while, we were only too glad to believe? and the castles we built in the air, oh! what glorious structures were they! no temple all earth was so fair,- but alas! they all vanished away. and do you remember the time, when cruel fate forced us apart, when with resignation sublime we obeyed, though with pain in each heart. then years dragged their wearisome round, and we ne'er again met as of yore,-but we did meet at last and we found, things were not as they had been before. you'd a child on your rough sunburned arm, and your husband had one on his knee, and i had my own little swarm, for i was the father of three. and i know we both thought of the days when love and romance filled each heart, now, we both have our children to raise,- you're washing,--i'm driving a cart. years ago. annie i dreamed a strange dream last night, at my bedside, i dreamed, you stood clad in white; your dark curly hair 'round your snow-white brow,-(are those locks as raven and curly now?) and those rosebud lips, which in days lang syne, i have kissed and blest, because they were mine. and thine eyes soft light, shone as mellow and bright, as it did years ago,- years ago. and i fancy i heard the soft soothing sound of thy voice, that sweet melody breathed all around, whilst enraptured i gazed, and once more the sweet smile, made sunshine, my sorrowing heart to beguile, and thy milkwhite hands stroked my heated brow;-(oh! what would i give could i feel them now!) but alas! woe is me! no more can it be, as it was years ago,- years ago. i awoke with a gnawing pain at my heart, the vision had vanished,--but oh, the smart of the wound, which no time can ever heal, was a torment, which only lost souls can feel. yet in spite of the pain, the woe, the despair, i dote, as i look on a lock of dark hair, that i culled from the head, of the loveliest maid; many long years ago,- years ago. will fate ever bring us together again? will my heart never know a surcease from pain? are the dark locks i worshipped, now mingled with grey? has time stolen brightness and beauty away? i care not,--for years have but made thee more dear; but my longing is vain, thou wilt ne'er come again. lost,--lost,--years ago,- years ago. somebody's. oh, isn't it nice to be somebody's?- somebody's darling and pet, to be shrined in the heart of a dear one, whose absence fills soul with regret? to be dreamed of, and longed for, and courted, as the queen whom his heart holds in thrall,-as the one--the great one, priceless jewel, that outweighs and outvalues them all? oh,--i'd rather my head should be resting, on the breast of the man that i love; and my hand in his strong grasp be nestling, and bask in the light of his love:-i would rather,--far rather, my darling should be loving, and faithful, and brave, than be titled, and wealthy, and fickle;- e'en though poverty held him a slave. oh, my heart yearns for one that is noble,- in mind, not in riches or birth, who would love me, and value my love too, then my lot would be heaven on earth. but where, alas, where shall i find him? this man, that my heart longs for so? this idol i picture and dream of,- does he live? i'm inclined to say, no. he is merely a fanciful hero, that my heart has pictured so fair: i must stoop from my realm of wild fancy, and take what may fall to my share. some plain, honest, working mechanic, may be the prize i may call mine, but if shaped like a man he'll be better, nor be left lonely, without valentine. claude. i named him claude, 'twas a strange conceit, 'twas a name that no relatives ever bore; yet there lingered around it a mem'ry sweet, of a face and a voice i miss evermore. i was pacing the deck of a captive ship, that was straining its cables to get away, from the parched up town, and its crowded slip, to its home on the wave and its life in the spray. when i saw the beautiful, sorrowful dame,-and never, oh, never, shall i forget the sweet chord struck as she spoke the name, that thrilled through my being and lingers yet. 'twas a winsome woman with raven hair, and a lovely face, and a beaming eye, with a smile that of joy and sorrow had share, and her form had the charms for which sculptors vie. i never had seen such a lovely hand, as the one that she pressed to her snowy brow; and her parted lips, showed a glistening band, of pearly teeth in an even row. a fragrant scent like a rose's breath, hung round her and seemed of herself a part, and a bouquet of lillies as pale as death, drooped sadly above her beating heart. she only uttered the one word, "claude," but oh! 'twas so touchingly, sweetly said;-a volume of grief expressed in a word, as she stedfastly gazed through the void overhead. then i noticed the sombre garments she wore, and i knew the grim reaper had gathered her flower 'twas the sense of the heart-crushing sorrow she bore, invested that name with such marvellous power. she went ashore, and we sailed away, 'twas the first and the only time ever we met, but my memory limns her as lovely to-day, as she was on that day i can never forget. months after, my baby boy came unto me, and i gave him the name she had breathed in her sigh, he was fair and sweet as the bloom on the tree, yet he never felt mine, though i could not tell why. but that musical note floated round in the air,-"claude!--claude!" sang the zephyrs that softly sped by, and his eyes had a far-a way look, as if there, far beyond, he could see what i failed to descry. one eve, in the gloaming, i hushed him to rest, and the trees whispered "claude" as they waved overhead, he smiled as he nestled more close to my breast,-and i wept,--for i knew that my darling was dead. all on a christmas morning. the wind it blew cold, and the ice was thick, deeper and deeper the snowdrifts grew; a young mother lay in her cottage, sick,- her needs were many, her comforts few. clasped to her breast was a newborn child, unknowing, unmindful of weal or woe; and away, far away, in the tempest wild, was a husband and father, kneedeep in the snow. all on a christmas morning, long ago. the lamp burned low, and the fire was dead, and the snow sifted in through each crevice and crack: as she tossed and turned in her lowly bed, and murmured, "good lord, bring my husband back." the clocks in the city had told the hour with a single stroke, for young was the day but no swelling note from the loftiest tower, could reach that lone cot where a mother lay. all on a christmas morning, long ago. high on the moorland that crowned the hill, bewildered, benumbed, midst the snow, so deep, fighting for life with a desperate will, lost,--wearied and worn, and oppressed with sleep, was the husband and father, with grief almost wild, bearing cordials and medicine safely bestowed, that he'd been to obtain for his wife and child;- then exhausted he sank.--and it snowed,--and it snowed. all on a christmas morning, long ago. the sun arose on a world so white, that glistened and sparkled beneath his ray: and the children's faces looked just as bright, as they cried, "what a glorious christmas day!" in a lowly cot lay a stiff white form,- and all was still, save a pitiful wail;-no more should that mother fear sickness or storm;- together, two spirits sped through the dark vale. all on a christmas morning, long ago. friends who were coming to bring good cheer, found a young babe sucking a cold white breast. noiselessly, reverently, gathering near, the orphan to full hearts was lovingly pressed. the parents were laid side by side in the grave, and the babe grew in beauty of face and of form; and they still call her snowdrop, the name that they gave,- sweet snowdrop,--the frail little flower of the storm. all on a christmas morning, long ago. once upon a time. when dull november's misty shroud, all nature's charms depress, flinging a damp, dark, deadening cloud, o'er each heart's joyousness. our fancies quit their lighter vein, and out from memory's shrine, we marshal thoughts of grief and pain, known,--once upon a time. 'tis then that faces, long forgot, in shadows reappear;-voices, that once we heeded not, come whispering in the ear; and ghosts of friends whom once we met, when life was in its prime, recall acts we would fain forget, done,--once upon time. regretfull sighs for thoughtless deeds, that worked another wrong; vows that we broke, like rotten reeds like spectres glide along; tears naught avail to heal the smart, we caused--nor deemed it crime, whilst selfishly we wrung a heart, loved,--once upon a time. oh, could we but, as on we go, care more for other's weal, nor deem all joys earth can bestow, are but for us to feel; then howe'er humble, howe'er poor, our lives would be sublime, nor should we dread to ponder o'er, days,--once upon a time. nearing home. we are near the last bend of the river, soon will the prospect be bright; already the waves seem to quiver, as touched with celestial light. since first we were launched on its bosom, strange hap'nings and perils we've passed, but we've braved and endured them together and we're nearing the haven at last. we are near the last bend of lifes river, around, all is tranquil and calm; the tempests that passed us can never, again strike our souls with alarm. we are drifting,--unconsciously gliding, down time's river--my darling and me. and soon in love's sweet trust abiding, we shall sail on eternities sea. oh, how the soul strains with its yearning to see what is hid beyond this, this life, with its pain and heartburning- the beyond, where is nothing but bliss. our life's sun has touched the horizon, it will speedily dip out of sight, and then what? will a new morn be rising? or will it for ever be night? those tiny fingers. she has gone for ever from earth away, yet those tiny fingers haunt me still; in the silent night, when the moons pale ray, silvers the leaves on the window sill. just between sleeping and waking i lie, makebelieve feeling their velvet touch, darling! my darling! oh, why should you die! leaving me lonely, who loved so much? those tiny fingers that used to stray over my face which is wrinkled now; those little white hands--how they used to play, with the wanton curls round my once fair brow. thy soft blue eyes and thy dimpled cheeks, i seem to see now as i saw them then; and a whispering voice to my sad heart speaks,- 'thou shalt meet her again,'--but when? oh, when? deep in the grave was the coffin laid, and buried with it was my purest love; oh, how i'd hoped, and watched, and prayed, that death would pass by and spare my dove, was it in mercy god took thee hence? was it because i had worshipped thee so? was my devotion to thee an offence? i was thy mother,--and god must know. if it were sinful, my tears have atoned; at last i can murmur, "thy will be done," sweet little cherub, to me but loaned, now safe at home, far beyond the sun. soon the dark river i too shall cross, and hopefully climb up that golden stair, and all this world's riches will be but dross, if those tiny fingers beckon me there. lilly-white hand. place thy lilly-white hand in mine, maid with the wealth of golden hair;-tresses, that gleaming like gold, entwine, round about a sweet face so fair. sweetheart, oh! whisper once more the words, that came from those coral lips of thine, and bound thee to me by those silken cords,- and place thy lilly-white hand in mine, place thy lilly-white hand in mine, that its gentle pressure may tell my heart that the idol round which i had reared a shrine, is mine,--mine,--never from me to part. sweetest and fairest of woman kind! gentlest, kindest, lovingest, best,-virtues with beauties are so combined, that manhood pays homage at love's behest. place thy lilly-white hand in mine, let its velvet touch on my horny palm, comfort, encourage, embolden, refine,- this grosser clay, by its subtle charm. long as life lasts let me clasp thy hand, as a pledge of our oneness, existing now; and when i depart for the better land, let it rest for a while on my death-cold brow. falsehood, treachery, sickness, pain,- i have endured, yet hopefully stand strong in the thought i have lived not in vain. had i won but this treasure,--this lilly-white hand. shut out. _"the drunkard shall not enter the kingdom of heaven."_ far, far beyond the skies, the land of promise lies; when death our souls release, a home of love and peace, has been prepared for all, who heed the gracious call, drunkards that goal ne'er win,-they cannot enter in. time noiselessly flits by, eternity draws nigh; will the fleet joy you gain, compensate for the pain, that through an endless day, will wring your soul for aye? slave to beer, rum, or gin, you cannot enter in. dash down the flowing bowl, endanger not thy soul; ponder those words of dread, that god himself has said. hurl the vile tempter down, and win and wear the crown, drunkard, forsake thy sin, thou mayst then enter in. charming may. "o! charming may!" that's what they say. the saying is not new,-the saying is not true;- o! may! bare fields and icebound streams, sunshine in fitful gleams, may smile beguile, and dispel poets' dreams. was ever may so gay as what the poets say? if so, we know, we live not in their day. a cosy coat and wrap, you may not find mishap- propo you know when comes the next cold snap. a heavy woollen scarf, strong boots that reach the calf,- away we go through snow and slush and wet,-and can we once forget 'tis may? oh, no! best is the old advice which we so oft despise, "cast not a clout till may goes out." may like a maiden, lies. a maypole dance.--o, my! such sport is all "my eye," just try, i tried it and i know, the snow, the blow, the aching toes, the smarting nose. i all defied, and loudly cried "come on, each one, be gay! be gay!--'tis may! tis may" they laughed and shook the head, and this is what they said, "old skunk, he's drunk." still we do love her so,- her truth? o, no! she's like some fancy fickle, she lands you in a pickle, you grin and bear, maybe you swear in manner most alarming, and yet--sweet may is charming. who cares? down in a cellar cottage in a dark and lonely street, was sat a widow and her boy, with nothing left to eat. the night was wild and stormy, the wind howl'd round the door, and heavy rain drops from above kept dripping to the floor. they had no candle burning, the fire was long since dead, a wretched heap of straw was all they had to call a bed. they nestled close together, on the cold and dampy ground, and as the storm rush'd past them, they trembled at the sound. "mother," the poor boy whispered, "may i not go again? i do not heed the wind, mother, i'm not afraid of rain. "may i not go and beg, mother, for you are very ill; some one will give me something, mother, i'm sure they will? "do let me go and try, mother, you know i won't be long; i did feel weak and tired, mother, but now i feel quite strong. "give me a kiss before i go, and pray whilst i'm away, that i may meet some christian friend, who will not say me nay." "dear boy, the night is stormy, your ragged clothes are thin, and soon the heavy rain-drops will wet you to the skin. "i would go out myself, boy, but, oh! i cannot rise, i am too weak to dry the tears that roll down from my eyes. "i fear i soon must go, love, and leave my boy alone. and oh! what can you do, love, when i am dead and gone?" "mother, you set me weeping, don't talk in such a strain, your tears are worse for me to bear than all the wind and rain. "wait till i'm rather bigger, and then i'll work all day, and shan't we both be happy when i bring you home my pay? "then you shall have some tea, mother, and bread as white as snow; you won't be sickly then, mother, you'll soon get well, i know. "and when that time shall come, mother, you shall have some sunday clothes, then you can go to church, mother- you cannot go in those. "and then i'll take you walking, and you shall see the flowers, and sit upon the sweet green grass beneath the trees for hours. "but i will haste away, mother, i won't be long--good bye!" "farewell, my boy," she murmured, then she laid her down to die. ---------the lamps were dimly shining, and the waters in a flood, came rolling o'er the pavement, where the little beggar stood. he listened for a footstep, then he hurried on the street, but the wind roared with such fury, till he scarce could keep his feet. a few there were who passed him, but they had no time to stay; they did not even stop to look, but hurried quick away. he passed the marts of business, where the gaslights were ablaze, and saw the countless heaps of things displayed to meet the gaze. one window held him spell-bound- from end to end 'twas piled with loaves of bread a tempting sight to a half-famished child. he clapped his little cold wet hands, and almost danced for joy, it seemed a glimpse of paradise to that poor hungry boy. with timid step he ventured in, and, trembling, thus began:-"please, sir, i've come to beg for bread- do help me if you can. "i do not want it for myself, my mother, too, shall share; do give me just one little crust, if you've a crust to spare." "give!" cried the shopman in a rage- "what shall we live to see? go tell your mother she must work, and earn her bread, like me." "but mother, sir, is very sick, she cannot work, i'm sure; father died some months ago, and left us very poor. "she has not tasted food for days. and die i fear she must. unless you'll help us, christian sir; do spare a little crust!" "i'll spare you nothing, saucy imp! away this moment! run! and tell your sickly mother i cannot thus be done!" he left the shop, and in the street he sat him down to cry, he heard the trampling of the feet of those who passed him by. he could not ask another, for his every hope had fled,-('tis sad that in a land like this a child needs beg for bread.) wet, cold, and faint, he reached his home, no richer than before, and noiselessly he entered in, and gently closed the door. there is no sound, the mother sleeps- then groping for the bed, he bent his weak and stiffened knees, and bowed his weary head, and pray'd "that god would grant them help, and bring them safely through." the whisper'd prayer was borne above, was heard, and answered too: and when the morning's sun looked in, and filled the place with light, two lifeless bodies on the straw was all that met the sight. thus were they found, alone, and dead, no reason left to show how they had come to that sad end; and no one cared to know. [transcriber's note: the pronunciation guide and word list are at the end of the book.] _poems of rural life in the dorset dialect._ by william barnes. [illustration] london: kegan paul, trench, trübner & co., ltd. 1903 _to the reader._ kind reader, two of the three collections of these dorset poems have been, for some time, out of print, and the whole of the three sets are now brought out in one volume. i have little more to say for them, than that the writing of them as glimpses of life and landscape in dorset, which often open to my memory and mindsight, has given me very much pleasure; and my happiness would be enhanced if i could believe that you would feel my sketches to be so truthful and pleasing as to give you even a small share of pleasure, such as that of the memories from which i have written them. this edition has a list of such dorset words as are found in the poems, with some hints on dorset word shapes, and i hope that they will be found a fully good key to the meanings of the verse. yours kindly, w. barnes _june 1879._ contents. first collection. spring. the spring 3 the woodlands 4 leädy-day, an' riddèn house 5 easter zunday 8 easter monday 9 dock-leaves 9 the blackbird 10 woodcom' feäst 12 the milk-maïd o' the farm 13 the girt woak tree that's in the dell 15 vellèn o' the tree 16 bringèn woone gwaïn o' zundays 17 evenèn twilight 18 evenèn in the village 20 may 20 bob the fiddler 22 hope in spring 23 the white road up athirt the hill 24 the woody hollow 25 jenny's ribbons 26 eclogue:--the 'lotments 28 eclogue:--a bit o' sly coortèn 30 summer. evenèn, an' maïdens out at door 34 the shepherd o' the farm 35 vields in the light 36 whitsuntide an' club walkèn 37 woodley 39 the brook that ran by gramfer's 41 sleep did come wi' the dew 42 sweet music in the wind 43 uncle an' aunt 44 havèn woones fortune a-twold 46 jeäne's weddèn day in mornèn 47 rivers don't gi'e out 49 meäken up a miff 50 haÿ-meäken 51 haÿ-carrèn 52 eclogue:--the best man in the vield 54 where we did keep our flagon 57 week's end in zummer, in the wold vo'k's time 58 the meäd a-mow'd 60 the sky a-cleärèn 61 the evenèn star o' zummer 62 the clote 63 i got two vields 65 polly be-èn upzides wi' tom 66 be'mi'ster 67 thatchèn o' the rick 68 bees a-zwarmèn 69 readèn ov a head-stwone 70 zummer evenèn dance 71 eclogue:--the veäiries 72 fall. corn a-turnèn yollow 76 a-haulèn o' the corn 77 harvest hwome:--the vu'st peärt 78 harvest hwome:--second peärt 79 a zong ov harvest hwome 80 poll's jack-daw 82 the ivy 83 the welshnut tree 84 jenny out vrom hwome 86 grenley water 86 the veäiry veet that i do meet 87 mornèn 88 out a-nuttèn 90 teäkèn in apples 91 meäple leaves be yollow 92 night a-zettèn in 93 the weather-beäten tree 94 shrodon feäir:--the vu'st peärt 95 shrodon feäir:--the rest o't 96 martin's tide 97 guy faux's night 99 eclogue:--the common a-took in 100 eclogue:--two farms in woone 102 winter. the vrost 105 a bit o' fun 106 fanny's be'th-day 107 what dick an' i did 109 grammer's shoes 111 zunsheen in the winter 112 the weepèn leädy 113 the happy days when i wer young 115 in the stillness o' the night 116 the settle an' the girt wood vire 117 the carter 118 chris'mas invitation 120 keepèn up o' chris'mas 121 zittèn out the wold year 122 woak wer good enough woonce 123 lullaby 124 meäry-ann's child 125 eclogue:--father come hwome 126 eclogue:--a ghost 129 sundry pieces. a zong 133 the maïd vor my bride 134 the hwomestead 135 the farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter 136 uncle out o' debt an' out o' danger 137 the church an' happy zunday 140 the wold waggon 141 the drèven o' the common 142 the common a-took in 143 a wold friend 145 the rwose that deck'd her breast 145 nanny's cow 147 the shep'erd bwoy 148 hope a-left behind 149 a good father 150 the beam in grenley church 151 the vaïces that be gone 152 poll 153 looks a-know'd avore 154 the music o' the dead 155 the pleäce a teäle's a-twold o' 156 aunt's tantrums 158 the stwonèn pworch 159 farmer's sons 160 jeäne 161 the dree woaks 162 the hwomestead a-vell into hand 164 the guide post 166 gwain to feäir 167 jeäne o' grenley mill 168 the bells ov alderburnham 169 the girt wold house o' mossy stwone 170 a witch 173 eclogue:--the times 175 * * * * * second collection. blackmwore maïdens 185 my orcha'd in lindèn lea 186 bishop's caundle 187 hay meäkèn--nunchen time 189 a father out an' mother hwome 191 riddles 192 day's work a-done 196 light or sheäde 197 the waggon a-stooded 197 gwaïn down the steps 201 ellen brine ov allenburn 202 the motherless child 203 the leädy's tower 204 fatherhood 208 the maïd o' newton 211 childhood 212 meäry's smile 213 meäry wedded 214 the stwonèn bwoy 215 the young that died in beauty 217 fäir emily of yarrow mill 218 the scud 219 mindèn house 221 the lovely maïd ov elwell meäd 222 our fathers' works 224 the wold vo'k dead 225 culver dell and the squire 227 our be'thplace 229 the window freämed wi' stwone 230 the waterspring in the leäne 231 the poplars 232 the linden on the lawn 233 our abode in arby wood 235 slow to come, quick agone 236 the vier-zide 236 knowlwood 238 hallowed pleäces 240 the wold wall 242 bleäke's house 243 john bleäke at hwome 245 milkèn time 247 when birds be still 248 ridèn hwome at night 249 zun-zet. 250 spring 252 the zummer hedge 253 the water crowvoot 254 the lilac 255 the blackbird 256 the slantèn light o' fall 257 thissledown 259 the may-tree 259 the lydlinch bells 260 the stage coach 261 wayfeärèn 263 the leäne 265 the raïlroad 267 the raïlroad 268 seats 268 sound o' water 270 trees be company 270 a pleäce in zight 272 gwaïn to brookwell 273 brookwell 275 the shy man 277 the winter's willow 279 i know who 281 jessie lee 282 true love 283 the beän-vield 284 wold friends a-met 286 fifehead 288 ivy hall 289 false friends-like 290 the bachelor 290 married peäir's love-walk 292 a wife a-praïs'd 293 the wife a-lost 295 the thorns in the geäte 296 angels by the door 297 vo'k a-comèn into church 298 woone rule 299 good meäster collins 300 herrènston 302 out at plough 304 the bwoat 306 the pleäce our own agean 307 eclogue:--john an' thomas 308 pentridge by the river 310 wheat 311 the meäd in june 313 early risén 315 zelling woone's honey 316 dobbin dead 317 happiness 319 gruffmoody grim 320 the turn o' the days 322 the sparrow club 323 gammony gaÿ 325 the heäre 327 nanny gill 329 moonlight on the door 330 my love's guardian angel 331 leeburn mill 332 praise o' do'set 333 third collection. woone smile mwore 339 the echo 340 vull a man 341 naighbour plaÿmeätes 343 the lark 345 the two churches 345 woak hill 347 the hedger 348 in the spring 349 the flood in spring 350 comen hwome 351 grammer a-crippled 352 the castle ruins 354 eclogue:--john jealous 355 early plaÿmeäte 359 pickèn o' scroff 360 good night 361 went hwome 362 the hollow woak 363 childern's childern 364 the rwose in the dark 365 come 366 zummer winds 367 the neäme letters 368 the new house a-gettèn wold 370 zunday 370 the pillar'd geäte 371 zummer stream 373 zummer stream 373 linda deäne 374 eclogue:--come an' zee us 376 lindenore 377 me'th below the tree 378 treat well your wife 379 the child an' the mowers 381 the love child 382 hawthorn down 383 oben vields 385 what john wer a-tellèn 386 sheädes 387 times o' year 387 eclogue:--racketèn joe 388 zummer an' winter 391 to me 392 two an' two 393 the lew o' the rick 394 the wind in woone's feäce 395 tokens 396 tweil 396 fancy 398 the broken heart 399 evenèn light 400 vields by watervalls 401 the wheel routs 402 nanny's new abode 403 leaves a-vallèn 404 lizzie 405 blessens a-left 406 fall time 407 fall 408 the zilver-weed 409 the widow's house 409 the child's greäve 410 went vrom hwome 412 the fancy feäir 412 things do come round 414 zummer thoughts in winter time 415 i'm out o' door 416 grief an' gladness 417 slidèn 418 lwonesomeness 420 a snowy night 421 the year-clock 421 not goo hwome to-night 424 the humstrum 426 shaftesbury feäir 427 the beäten path 429 ruth a-ridèn 430 beauty undecked 432 my love is good 432 heedless o' my love 434 the do'set militia 435 a do'set sale 437 don't ceäre 437 changes 439 kindness 440 withstanders 441 daniel dwithen 442 turnèn things off 444 the giants in treädes 445 the little worold 447 bad news 448 the turnstile 449 the better vor zeèn o' you 450 pity 451 john bloom in lon'on 453 a lot o' maïdens 456 poems of rural life. first collection. spring. the spring. when wintry weather's all a-done, an' brooks do sparkle in the zun, an' nâisy-buildèn rooks do vlee wi' sticks toward their elem tree; when birds do zing, an' we can zee upon the boughs the buds o' spring,- then i'm as happy as a king, a-vield wi' health an' zunsheen. vor then the cowslip's hangèn flow'r a-wetted in the zunny show'r, do grow wi' vi'lets, sweet o' smell, bezide the wood-screen'd grægle's bell; where drushes' aggs, wi' sky-blue shell, do lie in mossy nest among the thorns, while they do zing their zong at evenèn in the zunsheen. an' god do meäke his win' to blow an' raïn to vall vor high an' low, an' bid his mornèn zun to rise vor all alike, an' groun' an' skies ha' colors vor the poor man's eyes: an' in our trials he is near, to hear our mwoan an' zee our tear, an' turn our clouds to zunsheen. an' many times when i do vind things all goo wrong, an' vo'k unkind, to zee the happy veedèn herds, an' hear the zingèn o' the birds, do soothe my sorrow mwore than words; vor i do zee that 'tis our sin do meäke woone's soul so dark 'ithin, when god would gi'e woone zunsheen. the woodlands. o spread ageän your leaves an' flow'rs, lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands! here underneath the dewy show'rs o' warm-aïr'd spring-time, zunny woodlands! as when, in drong or open ground, wi' happy bwoyish heart i vound the twitt'rèn birds a-buildèn round your high-bough'd hedges, zunny woodlands. you gie'd me life, you gie'd me jaÿ, lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands you gie'd me health, as in my plaÿ i rambled through ye, zunny woodlands! you gie'd me freedom, vor to rove in aïry meäd or sheädy grove; you gie'd me smilèn fannèy's love, the best ov all o't, zunny woodlands! my vu'st shrill skylark whiver'd high, lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands! to zing below your deep-blue sky an' white spring-clouds, o zunny woodlands! an' boughs o' trees that woonce stood here, wer glossy green the happy year that gie'd me woone i lov'd so dear, an' now ha' lost, o zunny woodlands! o let me rove ageän unspied, lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands! along your green-bough'd hedges' zide, as then i rambled, zunny woodlands! an' where the missèn trees woonce stood, or tongues woonce rung among the wood, my memory shall meäke em good, though you've a-lost em, zunny woodlands! leady-day, an' ridden house. aye, back at leädy-day, you know, i come vrom gullybrook to stowe; at leädy-day i took my pack o' rottletraps, an' turn'd my back upon the weather-beäten door, that had a-screen'd, so long avore, the mwost that theäse zide o' the greäve, i'd live to have, or die to seäve! my childern, an' my vier-pleäce, where molly wi' her cheerful feäce, when i'd a-trod my wat'ry road vrom night-bedarken'd vields abrode, wi' nimble hands, at evenèn, blest wi' vire an' vood my hard-won rest; the while the little woones did clim', so sleek-skinn'd, up from lim' to lim', till, strugglèn hard an' clingèn tight, they reach'd at last my feäce's height. all tryèn which could soonest hold my mind wi' little teäles they twold. an' riddèn house is such a caddle, i shan't be over keen vor mwore [=o]'t, not yet a while, you mid be sure [=o]'t,- i'd rather keep to woone wold staddle. well, zoo, avore the east begun to redden wi' the comèn zun, we left the beds our mossy thatch wer never mwore to overstratch, an' borrow'd uncle's wold hoss _dragon_, to bring the slowly lumbrèn waggon, an' when he come, we vell a-packèn the bedsteads, wi' their rwopes an' zackèn; an' then put up the wold eärm-chair, an' cwoffer vull ov e'then-ware, an' vier-dogs, an' copper kittle, wi' crocks an' saucepans, big an' little; an' fryèn-pan, vor aggs to slide in butter round his hissèn zide, an' gridire's even bars, to bear the drippèn steäke above the gleäre o' brightly-glowèn coals. an' then, all up o' top o' them ageän the woaken bwoard, where we did eat our croust o' bread or bit o' meat,- an' when the bwoard wer up, we tied upon the reäves, along the zide, the woäken stools, his glossy meätes, bwoth when he's beäre, or when the pleätes do clatter loud wi' knives, below our merry feäces in a row. an' put between his lags, turn'd up'ard, the zalt-box an' the corner cupb'ard. an' then we laid the wold clock-ceäse, all dumb, athirt upon his feäce, vor we'd a-left, i needen tell ye, noo works 'ithin his head or belly. an' then we put upon the pack the settle, flat upon his back; an' after that, a-tied in pairs in woone another, all the chairs, an' bits o' lumber wo'th a ride, an' at the very top a-tied, the childern's little stools did lie, wi' lags a-turn'd towárd the sky: zoo there we lwoaded up our scroff, an' tied it vast, an' started off. an',--as the waggon cooden car all we had to teäke,--the butter-barrel an' cheese-wring, wi' his twinèn screw, an' all the païls an' veäts, an' blue wold milk leads, and a vew things mwore, wer all a-carr'd the day avore, and when the mwost ov our wold stuff wer brought outside o' thik brown ruf, i rambled roun' wi' narrow looks, in fusty holes an' darksome nooks, to gather all i still mid vind, o' rags or sticks a-left behind. an' there the unlatch'd doors did creak, a-swung by winds, a-streamèn weak drough empty rooms, an' meäkèn sad my heart, where me'th woonce meäde me glad. vor when a man do leäve the he'th an' ruf where vu'st he drew his breath, or where he had his bwoyhood's fun, an' things wer woonce a-zaid an' done that took his mind, do touch his heart a little bit, i'll answer vor't. zoo riddèn house is such a caddle, that i would rather keep my staddle. easter zunday. last easter jim put on his blue frock cwoat, the vu'st time--vier new; wi' yollow buttons all o' brass, that glitter'd in the zun lik' glass; an' pok'd 'ithin the button-hole a tutty he'd a-begg'd or stole. a span-new wes'co't, too, he wore, wi' yollow stripes all down avore; an' tied his breeches' lags below the knee, wi' ribbon in a bow; an' drow'd his kitty-boots azide, an' put his laggèns on, an' tied his shoes wi' strings two vingers wide, because 'twer easter zunday. an' after mornèn church wer out he come back hwome, an' stroll'd about all down the vields, an' drough the leäne, wi' sister kit an' cousin jeäne, a-turnèn proudly to their view his yollow breast an' back o' blue. the lambs did plaÿ, the grounds wer green, the trees did bud, the zun did sheen; the lark did zing below the sky, an' roads wer all a-blown so dry, as if the zummer wer begun; an' he had sich a bit o' fun! he meäde the maïdens squeäl an' run, because 'twer easter zunday. easter monday. an' zoo o' monday we got drough our work betimes, an ax'd a vew young vo'k vrom stowe an' coom, an' zome vrom uncle's down at grange, to come. an' they so spry, wi' merry smiles, did beät the path an' leäp the stiles, wi' two or dree young chaps bezide, to meet an' keep up easter tide: vor we'd a-zaid avore, we'd git zome friends to come, an' have a bit o' fun wi' me, an' jeäne, an' kit, because 'twer easter monday. an' there we plaÿ'd away at quaïts, an' weigh'd ourzelves wi' sceäles an' waïghts; an' jump'd to zee who jump'd the spryest, an' sprung the vurdest an' the highest; an' rung the bells vor vull an hour. an' plaÿ'd at vives ageän the tower. an' then we went an' had a taït, an' cousin sammy, wi' his waïght, broke off the bar, he wer so fat! an' toppled off, an' vell down flat upon his head, an' squot his hat, because 'twer easter monday. dock-leaves. the dock-leaves that do spread so wide up yonder zunny bank's green zide, do bring to mind what we did do at plaÿ wi' dock-leaves years agoo: how we,--when nettles had a-stung our little hands, when we wer young,- did rub em wi' a dock, an' zing "_out nettl', in dock. in dock, out sting._" an' when your feäce, in zummer's het, did sheen wi' tricklèn draps o' zweat, how you, a-zot bezide the bank, didst toss your little head, an' pank, an' teäke a dock-leaf in your han', an' whisk en lik' a leädy's fan; while i did hunt, 'ithin your zight, vor streaky cockle-shells to fight. in all our plaÿ-geämes we did bruise the dock-leaves wi' our nimble shoes; bwoth where we merry chaps did fling you maïdens in the orcha'd swing, an' by the zaw-pit's dousty bank, where we did taït upon a plank. --(d'ye mind how woonce, you cou'den zit the bwoard, an' vell off into pit?) an' when we hunted you about the grassy barken, in an' out among the ricks, your vlèe-èn frocks an' nimble veet did strik' the docks. an' zoo they docks, a-spread so wide up yonder zunny bank's green zide, do bring to mind what we did do, among the dock-leaves years agoo. the blackbird. ov all the birds upon the wing between the zunny show'rs o' spring,- vor all the lark, a-swingèn high, mid zing below a cloudless sky. an' sparrows, clust'rèn roun' the bough, mid chatter to the men at plough,- the blackbird, whisslèn in among the boughs, do zing the gaÿest zong. vor we do hear the blackbird zing his sweetest ditties in the spring, when nippèn win's noo mwore do blow vrom northern skies, wi' sleet or snow, but dr[=e]ve light doust along between the leäne-zide hedges, thick an' green; an' zoo the blackbird in among the boughs do zing the gaÿest zong. 'tis blithe, wi' newly-open'd eyes, to zee the mornèn's ruddy skies; or, out a-haulèn frith or lops vrom new-pl[=e]sh'd hedge or new-vell'd copse, to rest at noon in primrwose beds below the white-bark'd woak-trees' heads; but there's noo time, the whole däy long, lik' evenèn wi' the blackbird's zong. vor when my work is all a-done avore the zettèn o' the zun, then blushèn jeäne do walk along the hedge to meet me in the drong, an' staÿ till all is dim an' dark bezides the ashen tree's white bark; an' all bezides the blackbird's shrill an' runnèn evenèn-whissle's still. an' there in bwoyhood i did rove wi' pryèn eyes along the drove to vind the nest the blackbird meäde o' grass-stalks in the high bough's sheäde: or clim' aloft, wi' clingèn knees, vor crows' aggs up in swaÿèn trees, while frighten'd blackbirds down below did chatter o' their little foe. an' zoo there's noo pleäce lik' the drong, where i do hear the blackbird's zong. woodcom' feast. come, fanny, come! put on thy white, 'tis woodcom' feäst, good now! to-night. come! think noo mwore, you silly maïd, o' chickèn drown'd, or ducks a-straÿ'd; nor mwope to vind thy new frock's taïl a-tore by hitchèn in a naïl; nor grieve an' hang thy head azide, a-thinkèn o' thy lam' that died. the flag's a-vleèn wide an' high, an' ringèn bells do sheäke the sky; the fifes do play, the horns do roar, an' boughs be up at ev'ry door: they 'll be a-dancèn soon,--the drum 's a-rumblèn now. come, fanny, come! why father's gone, an' mother too. they went up leäne an hour agoo; an' at the green the young and wold do stan' so thick as sheep in vwold: the men do laugh, the bwoys do shout,- come out you mwopèn wench, come out, an' go wi' me, an' show at leäst bright eyes an' smiles at woodcom' feäst. come, let's goo out, an' fling our heels about in jigs an' vow'r-han' reels; while äll the stiff-lagg'd wolder vo'k, a-zittèn roun', do talk an' joke an' smile to zee their own wold rigs. a-show'd by our wild geämes an' jigs. vor ever since the vwold church speer vu'st prick'd the clouds, vrom year to year, when grass in meäd did reach woone's knees, an' blooth did kern in apple-trees, zome merry day 'v' a-broke to sheen above the dance at woodcom' green, an' all o' they that now do lie so low all roun' the speer so high, woonce, vrom the biggest to the leäst, had merry hearts at woodcom' feäst. zoo keep it up, an' gi'e it on to other vo'k when we be gone. come otit; vor when the zettèn zun do leäve in sheäde our harmless fun, the moon a-risèn in the east do gi'e us light at woodcom' feäst. come, fanny, come! put on thy white, 'tis merry woodcom' feäst to night: there's nothèn vor to mwope about,- come out, you leäzy jeäde, come out! an' thou wult be, to woone at leäst, the prettiest maïd at woodcom' feäst. the milk-maid o' the farm. o poll's the milk-maïd o' the farm! an' poll's so happy out in groun', wi' her white païl below her eärm as if she wore a goolden crown. an' poll don't zit up half the night, nor lie vor half the day a-bed; an' zoo her eyes be sparklèn bright, an' zoo her cheäks be bloomèn red. in zummer mornèns, when the lark do rouse the litty lad an' lass to work, then she's the vu'st to mark her steps along the dewy grass. an' in the evenèn, when the zun do sheen ageän the western brows o' hills, where bubblèn brooks do run, there she do zing bezide her cows. an' ev'ry cow of hers do stand, an' never overzet her païl; nor try to kick her nimble hand, nor switch her wi' her heavy taïl. noo leädy, wi' her muff an' vaïl, do walk wi' sich a steätely tread as she do, wi' her milkèn païl a-balanc'd on her comely head. an' she, at mornèn an' at night, do skim the yollow cream, an' mwold an' wring her cheeses red an' white, an' zee the butter vetch'd an' roll'd. an' in the barken or the ground, the chaps do always do their best to milk the vu'st their own cows round, an' then help her to milk the rest. zoo poll's the milk-maïd o' the farm! an' poll's so happy out in groun', wi' her white païl below her eärm, as if she wore a goolden crown. the girt woak tree that's in the dell. the girt woak tree that's in the dell! there's noo tree i do love so well; vor times an' times when i wer young, i there've a-climb'd, an' there've a-zwung, an' pick'd the eäcorns green, a-shed in wrestlèn storms vrom his broad head. an' down below's the cloty brook where i did vish with line an' hook, an' beät, in plaÿsome dips and zwims, the foamy stream, wi' white-skinn'd lim's. an' there my mother nimbly shot her knittèn-needles, as she zot at evenèn down below the wide woak's head, wi' father at her zide. an' i've a-plaÿed wi' many a bwoy, that's now a man an' gone awoy; zoo i do like noo tree so well 's the girt woak tree that's in the dell. an' there, in leäter years, i roved wi' thik poor maïd i fondly lov'd,- the maïd too feäir to die so soon,- when evenèn twilight, or the moon, cast light enough 'ithin the pleäce to show the smiles upon her feäce, wi' eyes so clear's the glassy pool, an' lips an' cheäks so soft as wool. there han' in han', wi' bosoms warm, wi' love that burn'd but thought noo harm, below the wide-bough'd tree we past the happy hours that went too vast; an' though she'll never be my wife, she's still my leäden star o' life. she's gone: an' she've a-left to me her mem'ry in the girt woak tree; zoo i do love noo tree so well 's the girt woak tree that's in the dell an' oh! mid never ax nor hook be brought to spweil his steätely look; nor ever roun' his ribby zides mid cattle rub ther heäiry hides; nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep his lwonesome sheäde vor harmless sheep; an' let en grow, an' let en spread, an' let en live when i be dead. but oh! if men should come an' vell the girt woak tree that's in the dell, an' build his planks 'ithin the zide o' zome girt ship to plough the tide, then, life or death! i'd goo to sea, a saïlèn wi' the girt woak tree: an' i upon his planks would stand, an' die a-fightèn vor the land,- the land so dear,--the land so free,- the land that bore the girt woak tree; vor i do love noo tree so well 's the girt woak tree that's in the dell. vellen o' the tree. aye, the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun' wer a-stannèn this mornèn, an' now's a-cut down. aye, the girt elem tree, so big roun' an' so high, where the mowers did goo to their drink, an' did lie in the sheäde ov his head, when the zun at his heighth had a-drove em vrom mowèn, wi' het an' wi' drîth, where the haÿ-meäkers put all their picks an' their reäkes, an' did squot down to snabble their cheese an' their ceäkes, an' did vill vrom their flaggons their cups wi' their eäle, an' did meäke theirzelves merry wi' joke an' wi' teäle. ees, we took up a rwope an' we tied en all round at the top o'n, wi' woone end a-hangèn to ground, an' we cut, near the ground, his girt stem a'most drough, an' we bent the wold head o'n wi' woone tug or two; an' he sway'd all his limbs, an' he nodded his head, till he vell away down like a pillar o' lead: an' as we did run vrom en, there; clwose at our backs, oh! his boughs come to groun' wi' sich whizzes an' cracks; an' his top wer so lofty that, now he is down, the stem o'n do reach a-most over the groun'. zoo the girt elem tree out in little hwome groun' wer a-stannèn this mornèn, an' now's a-cut down. bringen woone gwaïn[a] o' zundays. ah! john! how i do love to look at theäse green hollor, an' the brook among the withies that do hide the stream, a-growèn at the zide; an' at the road athirt the wide an' shallow vword, where we young bwoys did peärt, when we did goo half-woys, to bring ye gwaïn o' zundays. vor after church, when we got hwome, in evenèn you did always come to spend a happy hour or two wi' us, or we did goo to you; an' never let the comers goo back hwome alwone, but always took a stroll down wi' em to the brook to bring em gwaïn o' zundays. how we did scote all down the groun', a-pushèn woone another down! or challengèn o' zides in jumps down over bars, an' vuzz, an' humps; an' peärt at last wi' slaps an' thumps, an' run back up the hill to zee who'd get hwome soonest, you or we. that brought ye gwaïn o' zundays. o' leäter years, john, you've a-stood my friend, an' i've a-done you good; but tidden, john, vor all that you be now, that i do like ye zoo, but what you wer vor years agoo: zoo if you'd stir my heart-blood now. tell how we used to play, an' how you brought us gwaïn o' zundays. [footnote a: "to bring woone gwaïn,"--to bring one going; to bring one on his way.] evenèn twilight. ah! they vew zummers brought us round the happiest days that we've a-vound, when in the orcha'd, that did stratch to westward out avore the patch ov high-bough'd wood, an' shelve to catch the western zun-light, we did meet wi' merry tongues an' skippèn veet at evenèn in the twilight. the evenèn aïr did fan, in turn, the cheäks the midday zun did burn. an' zet the russlèn leaves at plaÿ, an' meäke the red-stemm'd brembles sway in bows below the snow-white maÿ; an' whirlèn roun' the trees, did sheäke jeäne's raven curls about her neck, they evenèns in the twilight. an' there the yollow light did rest upon the bank towárd the west, an' twitt'rèn birds did hop in drough the hedge, an' many a skippèn shoe did beät the flowers, wet wi' dew, as underneäth the tree's wide limb our merry sheäpes did jumpy, dim, they evenèns in the twilight. how sweet's the evenèn dusk to rove along wi' woone that we do love! when light enough is in the sky to sheäde the smile an' light the eye 'tis all but heaven to be by; an' bid, in whispers soft an' light 's the ruslèn ov a leaf, "good night," at evenèn in the twilight. an' happy be the young an' strong, that can but work the whole day long so merry as the birds in spring; an' have noo ho vor any thing another day mid teäke or bring; but meet, when all their work's a-done, in orcha'd vor their bit o' fun at evenèn in the twilight. evenèn in the village. now the light o' the west is a-turn'd to gloom, an' the men be at hwome vrom ground; an' the bells be a-zendèn all down the coombe from tower, their mwoansome sound. an' the wind is still, an' the house-dogs do bark, an' the rooks be a-vled to the elems high an' dark, an' the water do roar at mill. an' the flickerèn light drough the window-peäne vrom the candle's dull fleäme do shoot, an' young jemmy the smith is a-gone down leäne, a-plaÿèn his shrill-vaïced flute. an' the miller's man do zit down at his ease on the seat that is under the cluster o' trees. wi' his pipe an' his cider can. may. come out o' door, 'tis spring! 'tis maÿ the trees be green, the vields be gaÿ; the weather's warm, the winter blast, wi' all his traïn o' clouds, is past; the zun do rise while vo'k do sleep, to teäke a higher daily zweep, wi' cloudless feäce a-flingèn down his sparklèn light upon the groun'. the air's a-streamèn soft,--come drow the windor open; let it blow in drough the house, where vire, an' door a-shut, kept out the cwold avore. come, let the vew dull embers die, an' come below the open sky; an' wear your best, vor fear the groun' in colours gaÿ mid sheäme your gown: an' goo an' rig wi' me a mile or two up over geäte an' stile, drough zunny parrocks that do leäd, wi' crooked hedges, to the meäd, where elems high, in steätely ranks, do rise vrom yollow cowslip-banks, an' birds do twitter vrom the spraÿ o' bushes deck'd wi' snow-white maÿ; an' gil'cups, wi' the deäisy bed, be under ev'ry step you tread. we'll wind up roun' the hill, an' look all down the thickly-timber'd nook, out where the squier's house do show his grey-wall'd peaks up drough the row o' sheädy elems, where the rook do build her nest; an' where the brook do creep along the meäds, an' lie to catch the brightness o' the sky; an' cows, in water to theïr knees, do stan' a-whiskèn off the vlees. mother o' blossoms, and ov all that's feäir a-yield vrom spring till fall, the gookoo over white-weäv'd seas do come to zing in thy green trees, an' buttervlees, in giddy flight, do gleäm the mwost by thy gaÿ light oh! when, at last, my fleshly eyes shall shut upon the vields an' skies, mid zummer's zunny days be gone, an' winter's clouds be comèn on: nor mid i draw upon the e'th, o' thy sweet aïr my leätest breath; alassen i mid want to staÿ behine' for thee, o flow'ry may! bob the fiddler. oh! bob the fiddler is the pride o' chaps an' maïdens vur an' wide; they can't keep up a merry tide, but bob is in the middle. if merry bob do come avore ye, he'll zing a zong, or tell a story; but if you'd zee en in his glory, jist let en have a fiddle. aye, let en tuck a crowd below his chin, an' gi'e his vist a bow, he'll dreve his elbow to an' fro', an' plaÿ what you do please. at maypolèn, or feäst, or feäir, his eärm wull zet off twenty peäir, an' meäke em dance the groun' dirt-beäre, an' hop about lik' vlees. long life to bob! the very soul o' me'th at merry feäst an' pole; vor when the crowd do leäve his jowl, they'll all be in the dumps. zoo at the dance another year, at _shillinston_ or _hazelbur'_, mid bob be there to meäke em stir, in merry jigs, their stumps! hope in spring. in happy times a while agoo, my lively hope, that's now a-gone did stir my heart the whole year drough, but mwost when green-bough'd spring come on; when i did rove, wi' litty veet, drough deäisy-beds so white's a sheet, but still avore i us'd to meet the blushèn cheäks that bloom'd vor me! an' afterward, in lightsome youth, when zummer wer a-comèn on, an' all the trees wer white wi' blooth, an' dippèn zwallows skimm'd the pon'; sweet hope did vill my heart wi' jaÿ, an' tell me, though thik spring wer gaÿ, there still would come a brighter maÿ, wi' blushèn cheäks to bloom vor me! an' when, at last, the time come roun', an' brought a lofty zun to sheen upon my smilèn fanny, down drough n[=e]sh young leaves o' yollow green; how charmèn wer the het that glow'd, how charmèn wer the sheäde a-drow'd, how charmèn wer the win' that blow'd upon her cheäks that bloom'd vor me! but hardly did they times begin, avore i vound em short to staÿ: an' year by year do now come in, to peärt me wider vrom my jaÿ, vor what's to meet, or what's to peärt, wi' maïdens kind, or maïdens smart, when hope's noo longer in the heart, an' cheäks noo mwore do bloom vor me! but there's a worold still to bless the good, where zickness never rose; an' there's a year that's winterless, where glassy waters never vroze; an' there, if true but e'thly love do seem noo sin to god above, 's a smilèn still my harmless dove, so feäir as when she bloom'd vor me! the white road up athirt the hill. when hot-beam'd zuns do strik right down, an' burn our zweaty feäzen brown; an' zunny slopes, a-lyèn nigh, be back'd by hills so blue's the sky; then, while the bells do sweetly cheem upon the champèn high-neck'd team, how lively, wi' a friend, do seem the white road up athirt the hill. the zwellèn downs, wi' chalky tracks a-climmèn up their zunny backs, do hide green meäds an' zedgy brooks. an' clumps o' trees wi' glossy rooks, an' hearty vo'k to laugh an' zing, an' parish-churches in a string, wi' tow'rs o' merry bells to ring, an' white roads up athirt the hills. at feäst, when uncle's vo'k do come to spend the day wi' us at hwome, an' we do lay upon the bwoard the very best we can avvword, the wolder woones do talk an' smoke, an' younger woones do plaÿ an' joke, an' in the evenèn all our vo'k do bring em gwaïn athirt the hill. an' while the green do zwarm wi' wold an' young, so thick as sheep in vwold, the bellows in the blacksmith's shop, an' miller's moss-green wheel do stop, an' lwonesome in the wheelwright's shed 's a-left the wheelless waggon-bed; while zwarms o' comèn friends do tread the white road down athirt the hill. an' when the windèn road so white, a-climmèn up the hills in zight, do leäd to pleäzen, east or west, the vu'st a-known, an' lov'd the best, how touchèn in the zunsheen's glow, or in the sheädes that clouds do drow upon the zunburnt downs below, 's the white road up athirt the hill. what peaceful hollows here the long white roads do windy round among! wi' deäiry cows in woody nooks, an' haymeäkers among their pooks, an' housen that the trees do screen from zun an' zight by boughs o' green! young blushèn beauty's hwomes between the white roads up athirt the hills. the woody hollow. if mem'ry, when our hope's a-gone, could bring us dreams to cheat us on, ov happiness our hearts voun' true in years we come too quickly drough; what days should come to me, but you, that burn'd my youthvul cheäks wi' zuns o' zummer, in my plaÿsome runs about the woody hollow. when evenèn's risèn moon did peep down drough the hollow dark an' deep, where gigglèn sweethearts meäde their vows in whispers under waggèn boughs; when whisslèn bwoys, an' rott'lèn ploughs wer still, an' mothers, wi' their thin shrill vaïces, call'd their daughters in, from walkèn in the hollow; what souls should come avore my zight, but they that had your zummer light? the litsome younger woones that smil'd wi' comely feäzen now a-spweil'd; or wolder vo'k, so wise an' mild, that i do miss when i do goo to zee the pleäce, an' walk down drough the lwonesome woody hollow? when wrongs an' overbearèn words do prick my bleedèn heart lik' swords, then i do try, vor christes seäke, to think o' you, sweet days! an' meäke my soul as 'twer when you did weäke my childhood's eyes, an' when, if spite or grief did come, did die at night in sleep 'ithin the hollow. jenny's ribbons. jean ax'd what ribbon she should wear 'ithin her bonnet to the feäir? she had woone white, a-gi'ed her when she stood at meäry's chrissenèn; she had woone brown, she had woone red, a keepseäke vrom her brother dead, that she did like to wear, to goo to zee his greäve below the yew. she had woone green among her stock, that i'd a-bought to match her frock; she had woone blue to match her eyes, the colour o' the zummer skies, an' thik, though i do like the rest, is he that i do like the best, because she had en in her heäir when vu'st i walk'd wi' her at feäir. the brown, i zaid, would do to deck thy heäir; the white would match thy neck; the red would meäke thy red cheäk wan a-thinkèn o' the gi'er gone; the green would show thee to be true; but still i'd sooner zee the blue, because 'twer he that deck'd thy heäir when vu'st i walk'd wi' thee at feäir. zoo, when she had en on, i took her han' 'ithin my elbow's crook, an' off we went athirt the weir an' up the meäd toward the feäir; the while her mother, at the geäte, call'd out an' bid her not staÿ leäte, an' she, a-smilèn wi' her bow o' blue, look'd roun' and nodded, _no_. [gothic: eclogue.] the 'lotments. _john and richard._ john. zoo you be in your groun' then, i do zee, a-workèn and a-zingèn lik' a bee. how do it answer? what d'ye think about it? d'ye think 'tis better wi' it than without it? a-recknèn rent, an' time, an' zeed to stock it, d'ye think that you be any thing in pocket? richard. o', 'tis a goodish help to woone, i'm sure o't. if i had not a-got it, my poor bwones would now ha' eäch'd a-crackèn stwones upon the road; i wish i had zome mwore o't. john. i wish the girt woones had a-got the greäce to let out land lik' this in ouer pleäce; but i do fear there'll never be nwone vor us, an' i can't tell whatever we shall do: we be a-most starvèn, an' we'd goo to 'merica, if we'd enough to car us. richard. why 'twer the squire, good now! a worthy man, that vu'st brought into ouer pleäce the plan, he zaid he'd let a vew odd eäcres o' land to us poor leäb'rèn men; an', faïth, he had enough o' teäkers vor that, an' twice so much ageän. zoo i took zome here, near my hovel, to exercise my speäde an' shovel; an' what wi' dungèn, diggèn up, an' zeedèn, a-thinnèn, cleänèn, howèn up an' weedèn, i, an' the biggest o' the childern too, do always vind some useful jobs to do. john. aye, wi' a bit o' ground, if woone got any, woone's bwoys can soon get out an' eärn a penny; an' then, by workèn, they do learn the vaster the way to do things when they have a meäster; vor woone must know a deäl about the land bevore woone's fit to lend a useful hand, in geärden or a-vield upon a farm. richard. an' then the work do keep em out o' harm; vor vo'ks that don't do nothèn wull be vound soon doèn woorse than nothèn, i'll be bound. but as vor me, d'ye zee, with theäse here bit o' land, why i have ev'ry thing a'mwost: vor i can fatten vowels for the spit, or zell a good fat goose or two to rwoast; an' have my beäns or cabbage, greens or grass, or bit o' wheat, or, sich my happy feäte is, that i can keep a little cow, or ass, an' a vew pigs to eat the little teäties. john. an' when your pig's a-fatted pretty well wi' teäties, or wi' barley an' some bran, why you've a-got zome vlitches vor to zell, or hang in chimney-corner, if you can. richard. aye, that's the thing; an' when the pig do die, we got a lot ov offal for to fry, an' netlèns for to bwoil; or put the blood in, an' meäke a meal or two o' good black-pudden. john. i'd keep myzelf from parish, i'd be bound, if i could get a little patch o' ground. [gothic: eclogue.] a bit o' sly coorten. _john and fanny._ john. now, fanny, 'tis too bad, you teazèn maïd! how leäte you be a' come! where have ye staÿ'd? how long you have a-meäde me waït about! i thought you werden gwaïn to come ageän: i had a mind to goo back hwome ageän. this idden when you promis'd to come out. fanny. now 'tidden any good to meäke a row, upon my word, i cooden come till now. vor i've a-been kept in all day by mother, at work about woone little job an' t'other. if you do want to goo, though, don't ye staÿ vor me a minute longer, i do praÿ. john. i thought you mid be out wi' jemmy bleäke, fanny. an' why be out wi' him, vor goodness' seäke? john. you walk'd o' zunday evenèn wi'n, d'ye know, you went vrom church a-hitch'd up in his eärm. fanny. well, if i did, that werden any harm. lauk! that _is_ zome'at to teäke notice o'_. john. he took ye roun' the middle at the stile, an' kiss'd ye twice 'ithin the ha'f a mile. fanny. ees, at the stile, because i shoulden vall, he took me hold to help me down, that's all; an' i can't zee what very mighty harm he could ha' done a-lendèn me his eärm. an' as vor kissèn o' me, if he did, i didden ax en to, nor zay he mid: an' if he kiss'd me dree times, or a dozen, what harm wer it? why idden he my cousin? an' i can't zee, then, what there is amiss in cousin jem's jist gi'èn me a kiss. john. well, he shan't kiss ye, then; you shan't be kiss'd by his girt ugly chops, a lanky houn'! if i do zee'n, i'll jist wring up my vist an' knock en down. i'll squot his girt pug-nose, if i don't miss en; i'll warn i'll spweil his pretty lips vor kissèn! fanny. well, john, i'm sure i little thought to vind that you had ever sich a jealous mind. what then! i s'pose that i must be a dummy, an' mussen goo about nor wag my tongue to any soul, if he's a man, an' young; or else you'll work yourzelf up mad wi' passion, an' talk away o' gi'èn vo'k a drashèn, an' breakèn bwones, an' beäten heads to pummy! if you've a-got sich jealous ways about ye, i'm sure i should be better off 'ithout ye. john. well, if girt jemmy have a-won your heart, we'd better break the coortship off, an' peärt. fanny. he won my heart! there, john, don't talk sich stuff; don't talk noo mwore, vor you've a-zaid enough. if i'd a-lik'd another mwore than you, i'm sure i shoulden come to meet ye zoo; vor i've a-twold to father many a storry, an' took o' mother many a scwoldèn vor ye. [_weeping._] but 'twull be over now, vor you shan't zee me out wi' ye noo mwore, to pick a quarrel wi' me. john. well, fanny, i woon't zay noo mwore, my dear. let's meäke it up. come, wipe off thik there tear. let's goo an' zit o' top o' theäse here stile, an' rest, an' look about a little while. fanny. now goo away, you crabbed jealous chap! you shan't kiss me,--you shan't! i'll gi' ye a slap. john. then you look smilèn; don't you pout an' toss your head so much, an' look so very cross. fanny. now, john! don't squeeze me roun' the middle zoo. i woon't stop here noo longer, if you do. why, john! be quiet, wull ye? fie upon it! now zee how you've a-wrumpl'd up my bonnet! mother'ill zee it after i'm at hwome, an' gi'e a guess directly how it come. john. then don't you zay that i be jealous, fanny. fanny. i wull: vor you _be_ jealous, mister jahnny. there's zomebody a-comèn down the groun' towards the stile. who is it? come, get down i must run hwome, upon my word then, now; if i do staÿ, they'll kick up sich a row. good night. i can't staÿ now. john. then good night, fanny! come out a-bit to-morrow evenèn, can ye? summer. evenèn, an' maidens out at door. now the sheädes o' the elems do stratch mwore an' mwore, vrom the low-zinkèn zun in the west o' the sky; an' the maïdens do stand out in clusters avore the doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by. an' their cwombs be a-zet in their bunches o' heäir, an' their currels do hang roun' their necks lily-white, an' their cheäks they be rwosy, their shoulders be beäre, their looks they be merry, their limbs they be light. an' the times have a-been--but they cant be noo mwore- when i had my jaÿ under evenèn's dim sky, when my fanny did stan' out wi' others avore her door, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by. an' up there, in the green, is her own honey-zuck, that her brother traïn'd up roun' her window; an' there is the rwose an' the jessamy, where she did pluck a flow'r vor her bosom or bud vor her heäir. an' zoo smile, happy maïdens! vor every feäce, as the zummers do come, an' the years do roll by, will soon sadden, or goo vur away vrom the pleäce, or else, lik' my fanny, will wither an' die. but when you be a-lost vrom the parish, zome mwore will come on in your pleäzen to bloom an' to die; an' the zummer will always have maïdens avore their doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by. vor daughters ha' mornèn when mothers ha' night, an' there's beauty alive when the feäirest is dead; as when woone sparklèn weäve do zink down vrom the light, another do come up an' catch it instead. zoo smile on, happy maïdens! but i shall noo mwore zee the maïd i do miss under evenèn's dim sky; an' my heart is a-touch'd to zee you out avore the doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by. the shepherd o' the farm. oh! i be shepherd o' the farm, wi' tinklèn bells an' sheep-dog's bark, an' wi' my crook a-thirt my eärm, here i do rove below the lark. an' i do bide all day among the bleäten sheep, an' pitch their vwold; an' when the evenèn sheädes be long, do zee em all a-penn'd an' twold. an' i do zee the friskèn lam's, wi' swingèn taïls an' woolly lags, a-playèn roun' their veedèn dams an' pullèn o' their milky bags. an' i bezide a hawthorn tree, do' zit upon the zunny down, while sheädes o' zummer clouds do vlee wi' silent flight along the groun'. an' there, among the many cries o' sheep an' lambs, my dog do pass a zultry hour, wi' blinkèn eyes, an' nose a-stratch'd upon the grass; but, in a twinklèn, at my word, he's all awake, an' up, an' gone out roun' the sheep lik' any bird, to do what he's a-zent upon. an' i do goo to washèn pool, a-sousèn over head an' ears, the shaggy sheep, to cleän their wool an' meäke em ready vor the sheärs. an' when the shearèn time do come, then we do work vrom dawn till dark; where zome do shear the sheep, and zome do mark their zides wi' meästers mark. an' when the shearèn's all a-done, then we do eat, an' drink, an' zing, in meäster's kitchen till the tun wi' merry sounds do sheäke an' ring. oh! i be shepherd o' the farm, wi' tinklèn bells an' sheep dog's bark, an' wi' my crook a-thirt my eärm, here i do rove below the lark. vields in the light. woone's heart mid leäp wi' thoughts o' jaÿ in comèn manhood light an' gaÿ when we do teäke the worold on vrom our vore-elders dead an' gone; but days so feäir in hope's bright eyes do often come wi' zunless skies: woone's fancy can but be out-done, where trees do swaÿ an' brooks do run, by risèn moon or zettèn zun. vor when at evenèn i do look all down theäse hangèn on the brook, wi' weäves a-leäpèn clear an' bright, where boughs do swaÿ in yollow light; noo hills nor hollows, woods nor streams, a-voun' by daÿ or zeed in dreams, can ever seem so fit to be good angel's hwomes, though they do gi'e but païn an' tweil to such as we. an' when by moonlight darksome sheädes do lie in grass wi' dewy bleädes, an' worold-hushèn night do keep the proud an' angry vast asleep, when i can think, as i do rove, ov only souls that i do love; then who can dream a dream to show, or who can think o' moons to drow, a sweeter light to rove below? whitsuntide an' club walken. ees, last whit-monday, i an' meäry got up betimes to mind the deäiry; an' gi'ed the milkèn païls a scrub, an' dress'd, an' went to zee the club. vor up at public-house, by ten o'clock the pleäce wer vull o' men, a-dress'd to goo to church, an' dine, an' walk about the pleäce in line. zoo off they started, two an' two, wi' païnted poles an' knots o' blue, an' girt silk flags,--i wish my box 'd a-got em all in ceäpes an' frocks,- a-weävèn wide an' flappèn loud in plaÿsome winds above the crowd; while fifes did squeak an' drums did rumble, an' deep beäzzoons did grunt an' grumble, an' all the vo'k in gath'rèn crowds kick'd up the doust in smeechy clouds, that slowly rose an' spread abrode in streamèn aïr above the road. an' then at church there wer sich lots o' hats a-hangèn up wi' knots, an' poles a-stood so thick as iver, the rushes stood beside a river. an' mr goodman gi'ed em warnèn to spend their evenèn lik' their mornèn; an' not to praÿ wi' mornèn tongues, an' then to zwear wi' evenèn lungs: nor vu'st sheäke hands, to let the wrist lift up at last a bruisèn vist: vor clubs were all a-meän'd vor friends, he twold em, an' vor better ends than twitèn vo'k an' pickèn quarrels, an' tipplèn cups an' emptèn barrels,- vor meäkèn woone man do another in need the kindness ov a brother. an' after church they went to dine 'ithin the long-wall'd room behine the public-house, where you remember, we had our dance back last december. an' there they meäde sich stunnèn clatters wi' knives an' forks, an' pleätes an' platters; an' waïters ran, an' beer did pass vrom tap to jug, vrom jug to glass: an' when they took away the dishes, they drink'd good healths, an' wish'd good wishes, to all the girt vo'k o' the land, an' all good things vo'k took in hand; an' woone cried _hip, hip, hip!_ an' hollow'd, an' tothers all struck in, an' vollow'd; an' grabb'd their drink wi' eager clutches, an' swigg'd it wi' sich hearty glutches, as vo'k, stark mad wi' pweison stuff, that thought theirzelves not mad enough. an' after that they went all out in rank ageän, an' walk'd about, an' gi'ed zome parish vo'k a call; an', then went down to narley hall an' had zome beer, an' danc'd between the elem trees upon the green. an' down along the road they done all sorts o' mad-cap things vor fun; an' danc'd, a-pokèn out their poles, an' pushèn bwoys down into holes: an' sammy stubbs come out o' rank, an' kiss'd me up ageän the bank, a saucy chap; i ha'nt vor'gied en not yet,--in short, i han't a-zeed en. zoo in the dusk ov evenèn, zome went back to drink, an' zome went hwome. woodley. sweet woodley! oh! how fresh an' gaÿ thy leänes an' vields be now in maÿ, the while the broad-leav'd clotes do zwim in brooks wi' gil'cups at the brim; an' yollow cowslip-beds do grow by thorns in blooth so white as snow; an' win' do come vrom copse wi' smells o' grægles wi' their hangèn bells! though time do dreve me on, my mind do turn in love to thee behind, the seäme's a bulrush that's a-shook by wind a-blowèn up the brook: the curlèn stream would dreve en down, but plaÿsome aïr do turn en roun', an' meäke en seem to bend wi' love to zunny hollows up above. thy tower still do overlook the woody knaps an' windèn brook, an' leäne's wi' here an' there a hatch, an' house wi' elem-sheäded thatch, an' vields where chaps do vur outdo the zunday sky, wi' cwoats o' blue; an' maïdens' frocks do vur surpass the whitest deäsies in the grass. what peals to-day from thy wold tow'r do strike upon the zummer flow'r, as all the club, wi' dousty lags, do walk wi' poles an' flappèn flags, an' wind, to music, roun' between a zwarm o' vo'k upon the green! though time do dreve me on, my mind do turn wi' love to thee behind. the brook that ran by gramfer's. when snow-white clouds wer thin an' vew avore the zummer sky o' blue, an' i'd noo ho but how to vind zome plaÿ to entertaïn my mind; along the water, as did wind wi' zedgy shoal an' hollow crook, how i did ramble by the brook that ran all down vrom gramfer's. a-holdèn out my line beyond the clote-leaves, wi' my withy wand, how i did watch, wi' eager look, my zwimmèn cork, a-zunk or shook by minnows nibblèn at my hook, a-thinkèn i should catch a breäce o' perch, or at the leäst some deäce, a-zwimmèn down vrom gramfer's. then ten good deäries wer a-ved along that water's windèn bed, an' in the lewth o' hills an' wood a half a score farm-housen stood: but now,--count all o'm how you would, so many less do hold the land,- you'd vind but vive that still do stand, a-comèn down vrom gramfer's. there, in the midst ov all his land, the squier's ten-tunn'd house did stand, where he did meäke the water clim' a bank, an' sparkle under dim bridge arches, villèn to the brim his pon', an' leäpèn, white as snow, vrom rocks a-glitt'rèn in a bow, an' runnèn down to gramfer's. an' now woone wing is all you'd vind o' thik girt house a-left behind; an' only woone wold stwonen tun 's a-stannèn to the raïn an' zun,- an' all's undone that he'd a-done; the brook ha' now noo call to staÿ to vill his pon' or clim' his baÿ, a-runnèn down to gramfer's. when woonce, in heavy raïn, the road at grenley bridge wer overflow'd, poor sophy white, the pleäces pride, a-gwaïn vrom market, went to ride her pony droo to tother zide; but vound the strëam so deep an' strong, that took her off the road along the hollow down to gramfer's. 'twer dark, an' she went on too vast to catch hold any thing she pass'd; noo bough hung over to her hand, an' she could reach noo stwone nor land, where woonce her little voot could stand; noo ears wer out to hear her cries, nor wer she woonce a-zeen by eyes, till took up dead at gramfer's. sleep did come wi' the dew. o when our zun's a-zinkèn low, how soft's the light his feäce do drow upon the backward road our mind do turn an' zee a-left behind; when we, in childhood's days did vind our jaÿ among the gil'cup flow'rs, all drough the zummer's zunny hours; an' sleep did come wi' the dew. an' afterwards, when we did zweat a tweilèn in the zummer het, an' when our daily work wer done did meet to have our evenèn fun: till up above the zettèn zun the sky wer blushèn in the west, an' we laid down in peace to rest, an' sleep did come wi' the dew. ah! zome do turn--but tidden right- the night to day, an' day to night; but we do zee the vu'st red streak o' mornèn, when the day do break; zoo we don't grow up peäle an' weak, but we do work wi' health an' strength, vrom mornèn drough the whole day's length, an' sleep do come wi' the dew. an' when, at last, our e'thly light is jist a-drawèn in to night, we mid be sure that god above, if we be true when he do prove our stedvast faïth an' thankvul love, wull do vor us what mid be best, an' teäke us into endless rest, as sleep do come wi' the dew. sweet music in the wind. when evenèn is a-drawèn in, i'll steal vrom others' naïsy din; an' where the whirlèn brook do roll below the walnut-tree, i'll stroll an' think o' thee wi' all my soul, dear jenny; while the sound o' bells do vlee along wi' mwoansome zwells, sweet music in the wind! i'll think how in the rushy leäze o' zunny evenèns jis' lik' theäse, in happy times i us'd to zee thy comely sheäpe about the tree, wi' païl a-held avore thy knee; an' lissen'd to thy merry zong that at a distance come along, sweet music in the wind! an' when wi' me you walk'd about o' zundays, after church wer out. wi' hangèn eärm an' modest look; or zittèn in some woody nook we lissen'd to the leaves that shook upon the poplars straïght an' tall, or rottle o' the watervall, sweet music in the wind! an' when the plaÿvul aïr do vlee, o' moonlight nights, vrom tree to tree, or whirl upon the sheäkèn grass, or rottle at my window glass: do seem,--as i do hear it pass,- as if thy vaïce did come to tell me where thy happy soul do dwell, sweet music in the wind! uncle an' aunt. how happy uncle us'd to be o' zummer time, when aunt an' he o' zunday evenèns, eärm in eärm, did walk about their tiny farm, while birds did zing an' gnats did zwarm, drough grass a'most above their knees, an' roun' by hedges an' by trees wi' leafy boughs a-swaÿèn. his hat wer broad, his cwoat wer brown, wi' two long flaps a-hangèn down; an' vrom his knee went down a blue knit stockèn to his buckled shoe; an' aunt did pull her gown-taïl drough her pocket-hole, to keep en neat, as she mid walk, or teäke a seat by leafy boughs a-zwaÿèn. an' vu'st they'd goo to zee their lots o' pot-eärbs in the geärden plots; an' he, i'-may-be, by the hatch, would zee aunt's vowls upon a patch o' zeeds, an' vow if he could catch em wi' his gun, they shoudden vlee noo mwore into their roostèn tree, wi' leafy boughs a-swaÿèn. an' then vrom geärden they did pass drough orcha'd out to zee the grass, an' if the apple-blooth, so white, mid be at all a-touch'd wi' blight; an' uncle, happy at the zight, did guess what cider there mid be in all the orcha'd, tree wi' tree, wi' tutties all a-swaÿèn. an' then they stump'd along vrom there a-vield, to zee the cows an' meäre; an' she, when uncle come in zight, look'd up, an' prick'd her ears upright, an' whicker'd out wi' all her might; an' he, a-chucklèn, went to zee the cows below the sheädy tree, wi' leafy boughs a-swaÿen. an' last ov all, they went to know how vast the grass in meäd did grow an' then aunt zaid 'twer time to goo in hwome,--a-holdèn up her shoe, to show how wet he wer wi' dew. an' zoo they toddled hwome to rest, lik' doves a-vleèn to their nest in leafy boughs a-swaÿen. haven woones fortune a-twold. in leäne the gipsies, as we went a-milkèn, had a-pitch'd their tent, between the gravel-pit an' clump o' trees, upon the little hump: an' while upon the grassy groun' their smokèn vire did crack an' bleäze, their shaggy-cwoated hoss did greäze among the bushes vurder down. an' zoo, when we brought back our païls, the woman met us at the raïls, an' zaid she'd tell us, if we'd show our han's, what we should like to know. zoo poll zaid she'd a mind to try her skill a bit, if i would vu'st; though, to be sure, she didden trust to gipsies any mwore than i. well; i agreed, an' off all dree o's went behind an elem tree, an' after she'd a-zeed 'ithin my han' the wrinkles o' the skin, she twold me--an' she must a-know'd that dicky met me in the leäne,- that i'd a-walk'd, an' should ageän, wi' zomebody along thik road. an' then she twold me to bewar o' what the letter _m_ stood vor. an' as i walk'd, o' _m_onday night, drough _m_eäd wi' dicky overright the _m_ill, the _m_iller, at the stile, did stan' an' watch us teäke our stroll, an' then, a blabbèn dousty-poll! twold _m_other o't. well wo'th his while! an' poll too wer a-bid bewar o' what the letter _f_ stood vor; an' then, because she took, at _f_eäir, a bosom-pin o' jimmy heäre, young _f_ranky beät en black an' blue. 'tis _f_ vor _f_eäir; an' 'twer about a _f_earèn _f_rank an' jimmy foüght, zoo i do think she twold us true. in short, she twold us all about what had a-vell, or would vall out; an' whether we should spend our lives as maïdens, or as wedded wives; but when we went to bundle on, the gipsies' dog were at the raïls a-lappèn milk vrom ouer païls,- a pretty deäl o' poll's wer gone. jeane's wedden day in mornen. at last jeäne come down stairs, a-drest wi' weddèn knots upon her breast, a-blushèn, while a tear did lie upon her burnèn cheäk half dry; an' then her robert, drawèn nigh wi' tothers, took her han' wi' pride, to meäke her at the church his bride, her weddèn day in mornèn. wi' litty voot an' beätèn heart she stepp'd up in the new light cart, an' took her bridemaïd up to ride along wi' robert at her zide: an' uncle's meäre look'd roun' wi' pride to zee that, if the cart wer vull, 'twer jenny that he had to pull, her weddèn day in mornèn. an' aunt an' uncle stood stock-still, an' watch'd em trottèn down the hill; an' when they turn'd off out o' groun' down into leäne, two tears run down aunt's feäce; an' uncle, turnèn roun', sigh'd woonce, an' stump'd off wi' his stick, because did touch en to the quick to peärt wi' jeäne thik mornèn. "now jeäne's agone," tom mutter'd, "we shall mwope lik' owls 'ithin a tree; vor she did zet us all agog vor fun, avore the burnèn log." an' as he zot an' talk'd, the dog put up his nose athirt his thighs, but coulden meäke en turn his eyes, jeäne's weddèn day in mornèn. an' then the naïghbours round us, all by woones an' twos begun to call, to meet the young vo'k, when the meäre mid bring em back a married peäir: an' all o'm zaid, to robert's sheäre, there had a-vell the feärest feäce, an' kindest heart in all the pleäce, jeäne's weddèn day in mornèn. rivers don't gi'e out. the brook i left below the rank ov alders that do sheäde his bank, a-runnèn down to dreve the mill below the knap, 's a runnèn still; the creepèn days an' weeks do vill up years, an' meäke wold things o' new, an' vok' do come, an' live, an' goo, but rivers don't gi'e out, john. the leaves that in the spring do shoot zo green, in fall be under voot; maÿ flow'rs do grow vor june to burn, an' milk-white blooth o' trees do kern, an' ripen on, an' vall in turn; the miller's moss-green wheel mid rot, an' he mid die an' be vorgot, but rivers don't gi'e out, john. a vew short years do bring an' rear a maïd--as jeäne wer--young an' feäir, an' vewer zummer-ribbons, tied in zunday knots, do feäde bezide her cheäk avore her bloom ha' died: her youth won't staÿ,--her rwosy look 's a feädèn flow'r, but time's a brook to run an' not gi'e out, john. an' yet, while things do come an' goo, god's love is steadvast, john, an' true; if winter vrost do chill the ground, 'tis but to bring the zummer round, all's well a-lost where he's a-vound, vor if 'tis right, vor christes seäke he'll gi'e us mwore than he do teäke,- his goodness don't gi'e out, john. meaken up a miff. vorgi'e me, jenny, do! an' rise thy hangèn head an' teary eyes, an' speak, vor i've a-took in lies, an' i've a-done thee wrong; but i wer twold,--an' thought 'twer true,- that sammy down at coome an' you wer at the feäir, a-walkèn drough the pleäce the whole day long. an' tender thoughts did melt my heart, an' zwells o' viry pride did dart lik' lightnèn drough my blood; a-peärt ov your love i should scorn, an' zoo i vow'd, however sweet your looks mid be when we did meet, i'd trample ye down under veet, or let ye goo forlorn. but still thy neäme would always be the sweetest, an' my eyes would zee among all maïdens nwone lik' thee vor ever any mwore; zoo by the walks that we've a-took by flow'ry hedge an' zedgy brook, dear jenny, dry your eyes, an' look as you've a-look'd avore. look up, an' let the evenèn light but sparkle in thy eyes so bright, as they be open to the light o' zunzet in the west; an' let's stroll here vor half an hour, where hangèn boughs do meäke a bow'r above theäse bank, wi' eltrot flow'r an' robinhoods a-drest. hay-meaken. 'tis merry ov a zummer's day, where vo'k be out a-meäkèn haÿ; where men an' women, in a string, do ted or turn the grass, an' zing, wi' cheemèn vaïces, merry zongs, a-tossèn o' their sheenèn prongs wi' eärms a-zwangèn left an' right, in colour'd gowns an' shirtsleeves white; or, wider spread, a reäkèn round the rwosy hedges o' the ground, where sam do zee the speckled sneäke, an' try to kill en wi' his reäke; an' poll do jump about an' squall, to zee the twistèn slooworm crawl. 'tis merry where a gaÿ-tongued lot ov haÿ-meäkers be all a-squot, on lightly-russlèn haÿ, a-spread below an elem's lofty head, to rest their weary limbs an' munch their bit o' dinner, or their nunch; where teethy reäkes do lie all round by picks a-stuck up into ground. an' wi' their vittles in their laps, an' in their hornen cups their draps o' cider sweet, or frothy eäle, their tongues do run wi' joke an' teäle. an' when the zun, so low an' red, do sheen above the leafy head o' zome broad tree, a-rizèn high avore the vi'ry western sky, 'tis merry where all han's do goo athirt the groun', by two an' two, a-reäkèn, over humps an' hollors, the russlèn grass up into rollers. an' woone do row it into line, an' woone do clwose it up behine; an' after them the little bwoys do stride an' fling their eärms all woys, wi' busy picks, an' proud young looks a-meäkèn up their tiny pooks. an' zoo 'tis merry out among the vo'k in haÿ-vield all day long. hay-carren. 'tis merry ov a zummer's day, when vo'k be out a-haulèn haÿ, where boughs, a-spread upon the ground, do meäke the staddle big an' round; an' grass do stand in pook, or lie in long-back'd weäles or parsels, dry. there i do vind it stir my heart to hear the frothèn hosses snort, a-haulèn on, wi' sleek heäir'd hides, the red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides. aye; let me have woone cup o' drink, an' hear the linky harness clink, an' then my blood do run so warm, an' put sich strangth 'ithin my eärm, that i do long to toss a pick, a-pitchèn or a-meäkèn rick. the bwoy is at the hosse's head, an' up upon the waggon bed the lwoaders, strong o' eärm do stan', at head, an' back at taïl, a man, wi' skill to build the lwoad upright an' bind the vwolded corners tight; an' at each zide [=o]'m, sprack an' strong, a pitcher wi' his long-stem'd prong, avore the best two women now a-call'd to reäky after plough. when i do pitchy, 'tis my pride vor jenny hine to reäke my zide, an' zee her fling her reäke, an' reach so vur, an' teäke in sich a streech; an' i don't shatter haÿ, an' meäke mwore work than needs vor jenny's reäke. i'd sooner zee the weäles' high rows lik' hedges up above my nose, than have light work myzelf, an' vind poor jeäne a-beät an' left behind; vor she would sooner drop down dead. than let the pitchers get a-head. 'tis merry at the rick to zee how picks do wag, an' haÿ do vlee. while woone's unlwoadèn, woone do teäke the pitches in; an' zome do meäke the lofty rick upright an' roun', an' tread en hard, an' reäke en down, an' tip en, when the zun do zet, to shoot a sudden vall o' wet. an' zoo 'tis merry any day where vo'k be out a-carrèn hay. [gothic: eclogue.] the best man in the vield. _sam and bob._ sam. that's slowish work, bob. what'st a-been about? thy pookèn don't goo on not over sprack. why i've a-pook'd my weäle, lo'k zee, clear out, an' here i be ageän a-turnèn back. bob. i'll work wi' thee then, sammy, any day, at any work dost like to teäke me at, vor any money thou dost like to lay. now, mister sammy, what dost think o' that? my weäle is nearly twice so big as thine, or else, i warnt, i shouldden be behin'. sam. ah! hang thee, bob! don't tell sich whoppèn lies. _my_ weäle's the biggest, if do come to size. 'tis jist the seäme whatever bist about; why, when dost goo a-teddèn grass, you sloth, another hand's a-fwo'c'd to teäke thy zwath, an' ted a half way back to help thee out; an' then a-reäkèn rollers, bist so slack, dost keep the very bwoys an' women back. an' if dost think that thou canst challenge i at any thing,--then, bob, we'll teäke a pick a-piece, an' woonce theäse zummer, goo an' try to meäke a rick a-piece. a rick o' thine wull look a little funny, when thou'st a-done en, i'll bet any money. bob. you noggerhead! last year thou meäd'st a rick, an' then we had to trig en wi' a stick. an' what did john that tipp'd en zay? why zaid he stood a-top o'en all the while in dread, a-thinkèn that avore he should a-done en he'd tumble over slap wi' him upon en. sam. you yoppèn dog! i warnt i meäde my rick so well's thou meäd'st thy lwoad o' haÿ last week. they hadden got a hundred yards to haul en, an' then they vound 'twer best to have en boun', vor if they hadden, 'twould a-tumbl'd down; an' after that i zeed en all but vallèn, an' trigg'd en up wi' woone o'm's pitchèn pick, to zee if i could meäke en ride to rick; an' when they had the dumpy heap unboun', he vell to pieces flat upon the groun'. bob. do shut thy lyèn chops! what dosten mind thy pitchèn to me out in gully-plot, a-meäkèn o' me waït (wast zoo behind) a half an hour vor ev'ry pitch i got? an' how didst groun' thy pick? an' how didst quirk to get en up on end? why hadst hard work to rise a pitch that wer about so big 's a goodish crow's nest, or a wold man's wig! why bist so weak, dost know, as any roller: zome o' the women vo'k will beät thee hollor. sam. you snub-nos'd flopperchops! i pitch'd so quick, that thou dost know thou hadst a hardish job to teäke in all the pitches off my pick; an' dissèn zee me groun' en, nother, bob. an' thou bist stronger, thou dost think, than i? girt bandy-lags! i jist should like to try. we'll goo, if thou dost like, an' jist zee which can heave the mwost, or car the biggest nitch. bob. there, sam, do meäke me zick to hear thy braggèn! why bissen strong enough to car a flagon. sam. you grinnèn fool! why i'd zet thee a-blowèn, if thou wast wi' me vor a day a-mowèn. i'd wear my cwoat, an' thou midst pull thy rags off, an' then in half a zwath i'd mow thy lags off. bob. thee mow wi' me! why coossen keep up wi' me: why bissèn fit to goo a-vield to skimmy, or mow down docks an' thistles! why i'll bet a shillèn, samel, that thou cassen whet. sam. now don't thee zay much mwore than what'st a-zaid, or else i'll knock thee down, heels over head. bob. thou knock me down, indeed! why cassen gi'e a blow half hard enough to kill a bee. sam. well, thou shalt veel upon thy chops and snout. bob. come on, then, samel; jist let's have woone bout. where we did keep our flagon. when we in mornèn had a-drow'd the grass or russlèn haÿ abrode, the lit'some maïdens an' the chaps, wi' bits o' nunchèns in their laps, did all zit down upon the knaps up there, in under hedge, below the highest elem o' the row, where we did keep our flagon. there we could zee green vields at hand, avore a hunderd on beyand, an' rows o' trees in hedges roun' green meäds, an' zummerleäzes brown, an' thorns upon the zunny down, while aïer, vrom the rockèn zedge in brook, did come along the hedge, where we did keep our flagon. there laughèn chaps did try in plaÿ to bury maïdens up in haÿ, as gigglèn maïdens tried to roll the chaps down into zome deep hole, or sting wi' nettles woone o'm's poll; while john did hele out each his drap o' eäle or cider, in his lap where he did keep the flagon. woone day there spun a whirlwind by where jenny's clothes wer out to dry; an' off vled frocks, a'most a-catch'd by smock-frocks wi' their sleeves outstratch'd, an' caps a-frill'd an' eäperns patch'd; an' she a-steärèn in a fright, wer glad enough to zee em light where we did keep our flagon. an' when white clover wer a-sprung among the eegrass, green an' young, an' elder-flowers wer a-spread among the rwosen white an' red, an' honeyzucks wi' hangèn head,- o' zunday evenèns we did zit to look all roun' the grounds a bit, where we'd a-kept our flagon. week's end in zummer, in the wold vo'k's time. his aunt an' uncle,--ah! the kind wold souls be often in my mind: a better couple never stood in shoes, an' vew be voun' so good. _she_ cheer'd the work-vo'k in theïr tweils wi' timely bits an' draps, an' smiles; an' _he_ païd all o'm at week's end, their money down to goo an' spend. in zummer, when week's end come roun' the haÿ-meäkers did come vrom groun', an' all zit down, wi' weary bwones, within the yard a-peäved wi' stwones, along avore the peäles, between the yard a-steän'd an' open green. there women zot wi' bare-neck'd chaps, an' maïdens wi' their sleeves an' flaps to screen vrom het their eärms an' polls. an' men wi' beards so black as coals: girt stocky jim, an' lanky john, an' poor wold betty dead an' gone; an' cleän-grown tom so spry an' strong, an' liz the best to pitch a zong, that now ha' nearly half a score o' childern zwarmèn at her door; an' whindlen ann, that cried wi' fear to hear the thunder when 'twer near,- a zickly maïd, so peäle's the moon, that voun' her zun goo down at noon; an' blushèn jeäne so shy an' meek, that seldom let us hear her speak, that wer a-coorted an' undone by farmer woodley's woldest son; an' after she'd a-been vorzook, wer voun' a-drown'd in longmeäd brook. an' zoo, when _he_'d a-been all roun', an' païd em all their wages down, _she_ us'd to bring vor all, by teäle a cup o' cider or ov eäle, an' then a tutty meäde o' lots o' blossoms vrom her flower-nots, to wear in bands an' button-holes at church, an' in their evenèn strolls. the pea that rangled to the oves, an' columbines an' pinks an' cloves, sweet rwosen vrom the prickly tree, an' jilliflow'rs, an' jessamy; an' short-liv'd pinies, that do shed their leaves upon a eärly bed. she didden put in honeyzuck: she'd nwone, she zaïd, that she could pluck avore wild honeyzucks, a-vound in ev'ry hedge ov ev'ry ground. zoo maïd an' woman, bwoy an' man, went off, while zunzet aïr did fan their merry zunburnt feäzen; zome down leäne, an' zome drough parrocks hwome. ah! who can tell, that ha'nt a-vound, the sweets o' week's-end comèn round! when zadurday do bring woone's mind sweet thoughts o' zunday clwose behind; the day that's all our own to spend wi' god an' wi' an e'thly friend. the worold's girt vo'k, wi' the best o' worldly goods mid be a-blest; but zunday is the poor man's peärt, to seäve his soul an' cheer his heart. the mead a-mow'd. when sheädes do vall into ev'ry hollow, an' reach vrom trees half athirt the groun'; an' banks an' walls be a-lookèn yollow, that be a-turn'd to the zun gwaïn down; drough haÿ in cock, o, we all do vlock, o, along our road vrom the meäd a-mow'd. an' when the last swaÿèn lwoad's a-started up hill so slow to the lofty rick, then we so weary but merry-hearted, do shoulder each [=o]'s a reäke an' pick, wi' empty flagon, behind the waggon, to teäke our road vrom the meäd a-mow'd. when church is out, an' we all so slowly about the knap be a-spreadèn wide, how gaÿ the paths be where we do strolly along the leäne an' the hedge's zide; but nwone's a voun', o, up hill or down, o, so gaÿ's the road drough the meäd a-mow'd. an' when the visher do come, a-drowèn his flutt'ren line over bleädy zedge, drough groun's wi' red thissle-heads a-blowèn, an' watchèn o't by the water's edge; then he do love, o, the best to rove, o, along his road drough the meäd a-mow'd. the sky a-clearen. the drevèn scud that overcast the zummer sky is all a-past, an' softer aïr, a-blowèn drough the quiv'rèn boughs, do sheäke the vew last raïn drops off the leaves lik' dew; an' peäviers, now a-gettèn dry, do steam below the zunny sky that's now so vast a-cleärèn. the sheädes that wer a-lost below the stormy cloud, ageän do show their mockèn sheäpes below the light; an' house-walls be a-lookèn white, an' vo'k do stir woonce mwore in zight, an' busy birds upon the wing do whiver roun' the boughs an' zing, to zee the sky a-clearèn. below the hill's an ash; below the ash, white elder-flow'rs do blow: below the elder is a bed o' robinhoods o' blushèn red; an' there, wi' nunches all a-spread, the haÿ-meäkers, wi' each a cup o' drink, do smile to zee hold up the raïn, an' sky a-cleärèn. 'mid blushèn maïdens, wi' their zong, still draw their white-stemm'd reäkes among the long-back'd weäles an' new-meäde pooks, by brown-stemm'd trees an' cloty brooks; but have noo call to spweil their looks by work, that god could never meäke their weaker han's to underteäke, though skies mid be a-cleärèn. 'tis wrong vor women's han's to clips the zull an' reap-hook, speädes an' whips; an' men abroad, should leäve, by right, woone faïthful heart at hwome to light their bit o' vier up at night, an' hang upon the hedge to dry their snow-white linen, when the sky in winter is a-cleärèn. the evenèn star o' zummer. when vu'st along theäse road vrom mill, i zeed ye hwome all up the hill, the poplar tree, so straïght an' tall, did rustle by the watervall; an' in the leäze the cows wer all a-lyèn down to teäke their rest an' slowly zunk towárd the west the evenèn star o' zummer. in parrock there the haÿ did lie in weäle below the elems, dry; an' up in hwome-groun' jim, that know'd we all should come along thik road, d a-tied the grass in knots that drow'd poor poll, a-watchèn in the west woone brighter star than all the rest,- the evenèn star o' zummer. the stars that still do zet an' rise, did sheen in our forefather's eyes; they glitter'd to the vu'st men's zight, the last will have em in their night; but who can vind em half so bright as i thought thik peäle star above my smilèn jeäne, my zweet vu'st love, the evenèn star o' zummer. how sweet's the mornèn fresh an' new, wi' sparklèn brooks an' glitt'rèn dew; how sweet's the noon wi' sheädes a-drow'd upon the groun' but leätely mow'd, an' bloomèn flowers all abrode; but sweeter still, as i do clim', theäse woody hill in evenèn dim 's the evenèn star o' zummer. the clote. _(water-lily.)_ o zummer clote! when the brook's a-glidèn so slow an' smooth down his zedgy bed, upon thy broad leaves so seäfe a-ridèn the water's top wi' thy yollow head, by alder's heads, o, an' bulrush beds, o. thou then dost float, goolden zummer clote! the grey-bough'd withy's a-leänèn lowly above the water thy leaves do hide; the bendèn bulrush, a-swaÿèn slowly, do skirt in zummer thy river's zide; an' perch in shoals, o, do vill the holes, o, where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote! oh! when thy brook-drinkèn flow'r's a-blowèn, the burnèn zummer's a-zettèn in; the time o' greenness, the time o' mowèn, when in the haÿ-vield, wi' zunburnt skin, the vo'k do drink, o, upon the brink, o, where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote! wi' eärms a-spreadèn, an' cheäks a-blowèn, how proud wer i when i vu'st could zwim athirt the pleäce where thou bist a-growèn, wi' thy long more vrom the bottom dim; while cows, knee-high, o, in brook, wer nigh, o, where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote! ov all the brooks drough the meäds a-windèn, ov all the meäds by a river's brim, there's nwone so feäir o' my own heart's vindèn, as where the maïdens do zee thee swim, an' stan' to teäke, o, wi' long-stemm'd reäke, o, thy flow'r afloat, goolden zummer clote! i got two vields. i got two vields, an' i don't ceäre what squire mid have a bigger sheäre. my little zummer-leäze do stratch all down the hangèn, to a patch o' meäd between a hedge an' rank ov elems, an' a river bank. where yollow clotes, in spreadèn beds o' floatèn leaves, do lift their heads by bendèn bulrushes an' zedge a-swaÿèn at the water's edge, below the withy that do spread athirt the brook his grey-leav'd head. an' eltrot flowers, milky white, do catch the slantèn evenèn light; an' in the meäple boughs, along the hedge, do ring the blackbird's zong; or in the day, a-vleèn drough the leafy trees, the whoa'se gookoo do zing to mowers that do zet their zives on end, an' stan' to whet. from my wold house among the trees a leäne do goo along the leäze o' yollow gravel, down between two mossy banks vor ever green. an' trees, a-hangèn overhead, do hide a trinklèn gully-bed, a-cover'd by a bridge vor hoss or man a-voot to come across. zoo wi' my hwomestead, i don't ceäre what squire mid have a bigger sheäre! polly be-en upzides wi' tom. ah! yesterday, d'ye know, i voun' tom dumpy's cwoat an' smock-frock, down below the pollard out in groun'; an' zoo i slyly stole an' took the smock-frock up, an' tack'd the sleeves an' collar up, an' pack'd zome nice sharp stwones, all fresh a-crack'd 'ithin each pocket-hole. an' in the evenèn, when he shut off work, an' come an' donn'd his cwoat, their edges gi'ed en sich a cut, how we did stan' an' laugh! an' when the smock-frock i'd a-zow'd kept back his head an' hands, he drow'd hizzelf about, an' teäv'd, an' blow'd, lik' any up-tied calf. then in a veag away he flung his frock, an' after me he sprung, an' mutter'd out sich dreats, an' wrung his vist up sich a size! but i, a-runnèn, turn'd an' drow'd some doust, a-pick'd up vrom the road, back at en wi' the wind, that blow'd it right into his eyes. an' he did blink, an' vow he'd catch me zomehow yet, an' be my match. but i wer nearly down to hatch avore he got vur on; an' up in chammer, nearly dead wi' runnèn, lik' a cat i vled, an' out o' window put my head to zee if he wer gone. an' there he wer, a-prowlèn roun' upon the green; an' i look'd down an' told en that i hoped he voun' he mussen think to peck upon a body zoo, nor whip the meäre to drow me off, nor tip me out o' cart ageän, nor slip cut hoss-heäir down my neck. be'mi'ster. sweet be'mi'ster, that bist a-bound by green an' woody hills all round, wi' hedges, reachèn up between a thousan' vields o' zummer green, where elems' lofty heads do drow their sheädes vor haÿ-meakers below, an' wild hedge-flow'rs do charm the souls o' maïdens in their evenèn strolls. when i o' zunday nights wi' jeäne do saunter drough a vield or leäne, where elder-blossoms be a-spread above the eltrot's milk-white head, an' flow'rs o' blackberries do blow upon the brembles, white as snow, to be outdone avore my zight by jeän's gaÿ frock o' dazzlèn white; oh! then there's nothèn that's 'ithout thy hills that i do ho about,- noo bigger pleäce, noo gaÿer town, beyond thy sweet bells' dyèn soun', as they do ring, or strike the hour, at evenèn vrom thy wold red tow'r. no: shelter still my head, an' keep my bwones when i do vall asleep. thatchen o' the rick. as i wer out in meäd last week, a-thatchèn o' my little rick, there green young ee-grass, ankle-high, did sheen below the cloudless sky; an' over hedge in tother groun', among the bennets dry an' brown, my dun wold meäre, wi' neck a-freed vrom zummer work, did snort an' veed; an' in the sheäde o' leafy boughs, my vew wold ragged-cwoated cows did rub their zides upon the raïls, or switch em wi' their heäiry taïls. an' as the mornèn zun rose high above my mossy roof clwose by, the blue smoke curreled up between the lofty trees o' feädèn green: a zight that's touchèn when do show a busy wife is down below, a-workèn hard to cheer woone's tweil wi' her best feäre, an' better smile. mid women still in wedlock's yoke zend up, wi' love, their own blue smoke, an' husbands vind their bwoards a-spread by faïthvul hands when i be dead, an' noo good men in ouer land think lightly o' the weddèn band. true happiness do bide alwone wi' them that ha' their own he'th-stwone to gather wi' their childern roun', a-smilèn at the worold's frown. my bwoys, that brought me thatch an' spars, wer down a-taïtèn on the bars, or zot a-cuttèn wi' a knife, dry eltrot-roots to meäke a fife; or drevèn woone another round the rick upon the grassy ground. an', as the aïer vrom the west did fan my burnèn feäce an' breast, an' hoppèn birds, wi' twitt'rèn beaks, did show their sheenèn spots an' streaks, then, wi' my heart a-vill'd wi' love an' thankvulness to god above, i didden think ov anything that i begrudg'd o' lord or king; vor i ha' round me, vur or near, the mwost to love an' nwone to fear, an' zoo can walk in any pleäce, an' look the best man in the feäce. what good do come to eächèn heads, o' lièn down in silken beds? or what's a coach, if woone do pine to zee woone's naïghbour's twice so fine? contentment is a constant feäst, he's richest that do want the leäst. bees a-zwarmen. avore we went a-milkèn, vive or six o's here wer all alive a-teäkèn bees that zwarm'd vrom hive; an' we'd sich work to catch the hummèn rogues, they led us sich a dance all over hedge an' ditch; an' then at last where should they pitch, but up in uncle's thatch? dick rung a sheep-bell in his han'; liz beät a cannister, an' nan did bang the little fryèn-pan wi' thick an' thumpèn blows; an' tom went on, a-carrèn roun' a bee-pot up upon his crown, wi' all his edge a-reachèn down avore his eyes an' nose. an' woone girt bee, wi' spitevul hum, stung dicky's lip, an' meäde it come all up amost so big's a plum; an' zome, a-vleèn on, got all roun' liz, an' meäde her hop an' scream, a-twirlèn lik' a top, an' spring away right backward, flop down into barken pon': an' nan' gi'ed tom a roguish twitch upon a bank, an' meäde en pitch right down, head-voremost, into ditch,- tom coulden zee a wink. an' when the zwarm wer seäfe an' sound in mother's bit o' bee-pot ground, she meäde us up a treat all round o' sillibub to drink. readen ov a head-stwone. as i wer readèn ov a stwone in grenley church-yard all alwone, a little maïd ran up, wi' pride to zee me there, an' push'd a-zide a bunch o' bennets that did hide a verse her father, as she zaïd, put up above her mother's head, to tell how much he loved her: the verse wer short, but very good, i stood an' larn'd en where i stood:- "mid god, dear meäry, gi'e me greäce to vind, lik' thee, a better pleäce, where i woonce mwore mid zee thy feäce; an' bring thy childern up to know his word, that they mid come an' show thy soul how much i lov'd thee." "where's father, then," i zaid, "my chile?" "dead too," she answer'd wi' a smile; "an' i an' brother jim do bide at betty white's, o' tother zide o' road." "mid he, my chile," i cried, "that's father to the fatherless, become thy father now, an' bless, an' keep, an' leäd, an' love thee." though she've a-lost, i thought, so much, still he don't let the thoughts o't touch her litsome heart by day or night; an' zoo, if we could teäke it right, do show he'll meäke his burdens light to weaker souls, an' that his smile is sweet upon a harmless chile, when they be dead that lov'd it. zummer evenèn dance. come out to the parrock, come out to the tree, the maïdens an' chaps be a-waïtèn vor thee; there's jim wi' his fiddle to plaÿ us some reels, come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels. come, all the long grass is a-mow'd an' a-carr'd, an' the turf is so smooth as a bwoard an' so hard; there's a bank to zit down, when y'ave danced a reel drough, an' a tree over head vor to keep off the dew. there be rwoses an' honeyzucks hangèn among the bushes, to put in thy weäst; an' the zong o' the nightingeäle's heärd in the hedges all roun'; an' i'll get thee a glow-worm to stick in thy gown. there's meäry so modest, an' jenny so smart, an' mag that do love a good rompse to her heart; there's joe at the mill that do zing funny zongs, an' short-lagged dick, too, a-waggèn his prongs. zoo come to the parrock, come out to the tree, the maïdens an' chaps be a-waïtèn vor thee; there's jim wi' his fiddle to plaÿ us some reels,- come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels. [gothic: eclogue.] the veairies. _simon an' samel._ simon. there's what the vo'k do call a veäiry ring out there, lo'k zee. why, 'tis an oddish thing. samel. ah! zoo do seem. i wunder how do come! what is it that do meäke it, i do wonder? simon. be hang'd if i can tell, i'm sure! but zome do zay do come by lightnèn when do thunder; an' zome do say sich rings as thík ring there is, do grow in dancèn-tracks o' little veäiries, that in the nights o' zummer or o' spring do come by moonlight, when noo other veet do tread the dewy grass, but their's, an' meet an' dance away together in a ring. samel. an' who d'ye think do work the fiddlestick? a little veäiry too, or else wold nick! simon. why, they do zay, that at the veäiries' ball, there's nar a fiddle that's a-heär'd at all; but they do plaÿ upon a little pipe a-meäde o' kexes or o' straws, dead ripe, a-stuck in row (zome short an' longer zome) wi' slime o' snaïls, or bits o' plum-tree gum, an' meäke sich music that to hear it sound, you'd stick so still's a pollard to the ground. samel. what do em dance? 'tis plaïn by theäse green wheels, they don't frisk in an' out in dree-hand reels; vor else, instead o' theäse here girt round o, the'd cut us out a figure aïght (8), d'ye know. simon. oh! they ha' jigs to fit their little veet. they woulden dance, you know, at their fine ball, the dree an' vow'r han' reels that we do sprawl an' kick about in, when we men do meet. samel. an' zoo have zome vo'k, in their midnight rambles, a-catch'd the veäiries, then, in theäsem gambols. simon. why, yes; but they be off lik' any shot, so soon's a man's a-comèn near the spot samel. but in the day-time where do veäiries hide? where be their hwomes, then? where do veäiries bide? simon. oh! they do get awaÿ down under ground, in hollow pleäzen where they can't be vound. but still my gramfer, many years agoo, (he liv'd at grenley-farm, an milk'd a deäiry), if what the wolder vo'k do tell is true, woone mornèn eärly vound a veäiry. samel. an' did he stop, then, wi' the good wold bwoy? or did he soon contrive to slip awoy? simon. why, when the vo'k were all asleep, a-bed, the veäiries us'd to come, as 'tis a-zaid, avore the vire wer cwold, an' dance an hour or two at dead o' night upon the vloor; var they, by only utterèn a word or charm, can come down chimney lik' a bird; or draw their bodies out so long an' narrow, that they can vlee drough keyholes lik' an arrow. an' zoo woone midnight, when the moon did drow his light drough window, roun' the vloor below, an' crickets roun' the bricken he'th did zing, they come an' danced about the hall in ring; an' tapp'd, drough little holes noo eyes could spy, a kag o' poor aunt's meäd a-stannèn by. an' woone o'm drink'd so much, he coulden mind the word he wer to zay to meäke en small; he got a-dather'd zoo, that after all out tothers went an' left en back behind. an' after he'd a-beät about his head, ageän the keyhole till he wer half dead, he laid down all along upon the vloor till gramfer, comen down, unlocked the door: an' then he zeed en ('twer enough to frighten èn) bolt out o' door, an' down the road lik' lightenèn. fall. corn a-turnen yollow. the windless copse ha' sheädy boughs, wi' blackbirds' evenèn whistles; the hills ha' sheep upon their brows, the zummerleäze ha' thistles: the meäds be gaÿ in grassy maÿ, but, oh! vrom hill to hollow, let me look down upon a groun' o' corn a-turnèn yollow. an' pease do grow in tangled beds, an' beäns be sweet to snuff, o; the teäper woats do bend their heads, the barley's beard is rough, o. the turnip green is fresh between the corn in hill or hollow, but i'd look down upon a groun' o' wheat a-turnèn yollow. 'tis merry when the brawny men do come to reap it down, o, where glossy red the poppy head 's among the stalks so brown, o. 'tis merry while the wheat's in hile, or when, by hill or hollow, the leäzers thick do stoop to pick the ears so ripe an' yollow. a-haulen o' the corn. ah! yesterday, you know, we carr'd the piece o' corn in zidelèn plot, an' work'd about it pretty hard, an' vound the weather pretty hot. 'twer all a-tied an' zet upright in tidy hile o' monday night; zoo yesterday in afternoon we zet, in eärnest, ev'ry woone a-haulèn o' the corn. the hosses, wi' the het an' lwoad, did froth, an' zwang vrom zide to zide, a-gwaïn along the dousty road, an' seem'd as if they would a-died. an' wi' my collar all undone, an' neck a-burnèn wi' the zun, i got, wi' work, an' doust, an' het, so dry at last, i coulden spet, a-haulèn o' the corn. at uncle's orcha'd, gwaïn along, i begged some apples, vor to quench my drith, o' poll that wer among the trees: but she, a saucy wench, toss'd over hedge some crabs vor fun. i squaïl'd her, though, an' meäde her run; an' zoo she gie'd me, vor a treat, a lot o' stubberds vor to eat. a-haulèn o' the corn. an' up at rick, jeäne took the flagon, an' gi'ed us out zome eäle; an' then i carr'd her out upon the waggon, wi' bread an' cheese to gi'e the men. an' there, vor fun, we dress'd her head wi' noddèn poppies bright an' red, as we wer catchèn vrom our laps, below a woak, our bits an' draps, a-haulèn o' the corn. harvest hwome. _the vu'st peärt. the supper._ since we wer striplèns naïghbour john, the good wold merry times be gone: but we do like to think upon what we've a-zeed an' done. when i wer up a hardish lad, at harvest hwome the work-vo'k had sich suppers, they wer jumpèn mad wi' feästèn an' wi' fun. at uncle's, i do mind, woone year, i zeed a vill o' hearty cheer; fat beef an' puddèn, eäle an' beer, vor ev'ry workman's crop an' after they'd a-gie'd god thanks, they all zot down, in two long ranks, along a teäble-bwoard o' planks, wi' uncle at the top. an' there, in platters, big and brown, wer red fat beäcon, an' a roun' o' beef wi' gravy that would drown a little rwoastèn pig; wi' beäns an' teäties vull a zack, an' cabbage that would meäke a stack, an' puddèns brown, a-speckled black wi' figs, so big's my wig. an' uncle, wi' his elbows out, did carve, an' meäke the gravy spout; an' aunt did gi'e the mugs about a-frothèn to the brim. pleätes werden then ov e'then ware, they ate off pewter, that would bear a knock; or wooden trenchers, square, wi' zalt-holes at the rim. an' zoo they munch'd their hearty cheer, an' dipp'd their beards in frothy-beer, an' laugh'd, an' jok'd--they couldden hear what woone another zaid. an' all o'm drink'd, wi' woone accword, the wold vo'k's health: an' beät the bwoard, an' swung their eärms about, an' roar'd, enough to crack woone's head. harvest hwome. _second peärt. what they did after supper._ zoo after supper wer a-done, they clear'd the teäbles, an' begun to have a little bit o' fun, as long as they mid stop. the wold woones took their pipes to smoke, an' tell their teäles, an' laugh an' joke, a-lookèn at the younger vo'k, that got up vor a hop. woone screäp'd away, wi' merry grin, a fiddle stuck below his chin; an' woone o'm took the rollèn pin, an' beät the fryèn pan. an' tothers, dancèn to the soun', went in an' out, an' droo an' roun', an' kick'd, an' beät the tuèn down, a-laughèn, maïd an' man. an' then a maïd, all up tip-tooe, vell down; an' woone o'm wi' his shoe slit down her pocket-hole in two, vrom top a-most to bottom. an' when they had a-danc'd enough, they got a-plaÿèn blindman's buff, an' sard the maïdens pretty rough, when woonce they had a-got em. an' zome did drink, an' laugh, an' roar, an' lots o' teäles they had in store, o' things that happen'd years avore to them, or vo'k they know'd. an' zome did joke, an' zome did zing, an' meäke the girt wold kitchen ring; till uncle's cock, wi' flappèn wing, stratch'd out his neck an' crow'd. a zong ov harvest hwome. the ground is clear. there's nar a ear o' stannèn corn a-left out now, vor win' to blow or raïn to drow; 'tis all up seäfe in barn or mow. here's health to them that plough'd an' zow'd; here's health to them that reap'd an' mow'd, an' them that had to pitch an' lwoad, or tip the rick at harvest hwome. _the happy zight,--the merry night,_ _the men's delight,--the harvest hwome._ an' mid noo harm o' vire or storm beval the farmer or his corn; an' ev'ry zack o' zeed gi'e back a hunderd-vwold so much in barn. an' mid his meäker bless his store, his wife an' all that she've a-bore, an' keep all evil out o' door, vrom harvest hwome to harvest hwome. _the happy zight,--the merry night,_ _the men's delight,--the harvest hwome._ mid nothèn ill betide the mill, as day by day the miller's wheel do dreve his clacks, an' heist his zacks, an' vill his bins wi' show'rèn meal: mid's water never overflow his dousty mill, nor zink too low, vrom now till wheat ageän do grow, an' we've another harvest hwome. _the happy zight,--the merry night,_ _the men's delight,--the harvest hwome._ drough cisterns wet an' malt-kil's het, mid barley paÿ the malter's païns; an' mid noo hurt bevall the wort, a-bweilèn vrom the brewer's graïns. mid all his beer keep out o' harm vrom bu'sted hoop or thunder storm, that we mid have a mug to warm our merry hearts nex' harvest hwome. _the happy zight,--the merry night,_ _the men's delight,--the harvest hwome._ mid luck an' jaÿ the beäker paÿ, as he do hear his vier roar, or nimbly catch his hot white batch, a-reekèn vrom the oven door. an' mid it never be too high vor our vew zixpences to buy, when we do hear our childern cry vor bread, avore nex' harvest hwome. _the happy zight,--the merry night,_ _the men's delight,--the harvest hwome._ wi' jaÿ o' heart mid shooters start the whirrèn pa'tridges in vlocks; while shots do vlee drough bush an' tree, an' dogs do stan' so still as stocks. an' let em ramble round the farms wi' guns 'ithin their bended eärms, in goolden zunsheen free o' storms, rejaïcèn vor the harvest hwome. _the happy zight,--the merry night,_ _the men's delight,--the harvest hwome._ poll's jack-daw. ah! jimmy vow'd he'd have the law ov ouer cousin poll's jack-daw, that had by day his withy jaïl a-hangèn up upon a naïl, ageän the elem tree, avore the house, jist over-right the door, an' twitted vo'k a-passèn by a-most so plaïn as you or i; vor hardly any day did pass 'ithout tom's teachèn o'm zome sa'ce; till by-an'-by he call'd em all 'soft-polls' an' 'gawkeys,' girt an' small. an' zoo, as jim went down along the leäne a-whisslèn ov a zong, the saucy daw cried out by rote "girt soft-poll!" lik' to split his droat. jim stopp'd an' grabbled up a clot, an' zent en at en lik' a shot; an' down went daw an' cage avore the clot, up thump ageän the door. zoo out run poll an' tom, to zee what all the meänèn o't mid be; "now who did that?" zaid poll. "who whurr'd theäse clot?" "girt soft-poll!" cried the bird. an' when tom catch'd a glimpse o' jim, a-lookèn all so red an' slim, an' slinkèn on, he vled, red hot, down leäne to catch en, lik' a shot; but jim, that thought he'd better trust to lags than vistes, tried em vu'st. an' poll, that zeed tom woulden catch en, stood a-smilèn at the hatch. an' zoo he vollow'd en for two or dree stwones' drows, an' let en goo. the ivy. upon theäse knap i'd sooner be the ivy that do climb the tree, than bloom the gaÿest rwose a-tied an' trimm'd upon the house's zide. the rwose mid be the maïdens' pride, but still the ivy's wild an' free; an' what is all that life can gi'e, 'ithout a free light heart, john? the creepèn sheäde mid steal too soon upon the rwose in afternoon; but here the zun do drow his het vrom when do rise till when do zet, to dry the leaves the raïn do wet. an' evenèn aïr do bring along the merry deäiry-maïden's zong, the zong of free light hearts, john. oh! why do vo'k so often chaïn their pinèn minds vor love o' gaïn, an' gi'e their innocence to rise a little in the worold's eyes? if pride could lift us to the skies, what man do value god do slight, an' all is nothèn in his zight 'ithout an honest heart, john. an ugly feäce can't bribe the brooks to show it back young han'some looks, nor crooked vo'k intice the light to cast their zummer sheädes upright: noo goold can blind our meäker's zight. an' what's the odds what cloth do hide the bosom that do hold inside a free an' honest heart, john? the welshnut tree. when in the evenèn the zun's a-zinkèn, a drowèn sheädes vrom the yollow west, an' mother, weary, 's a-zot a thinkèn, wi' vwolded eärms by the vire at rest, then we do zwarm, o, wi' such a charm, o, so vull o' glee by the welshnut tree. a-leävèn father in-doors, a-leinèn' in his girt chair in his easy shoes, or in the settle so high behine en, while down bezide en the dog do snooze, our tongues do run, o, enough to stun, o, your head wi' glee by the welshnut tree. there we do plaÿ 'thread the woman's needle.' an' slap the maïdens a-dartèn drough: or try who'll ax em the hardest riddle, or soonest tell woone a-put us, true; or zit an' ring, o, the bells, ding, ding, o, upon our knee by the welshnut tree. an' zome do goo out, an' hide in orcha't, an' tothers, slily a-stealèn by, where there's a dark cunnèn pleäce, do sarch it, till they do zee em an' cry, "i spy," an' thik a-vound, o, do gi'e a bound, o, to get off free to the welshnut tree. poll went woone night, that we midden vind her, inzide a woak wi' a hollow moot, an' drough a hole near the groun' behind her, i pok'd a stick in, an' catch'd her voot; an' out she scream'd, o, an' jump'd, an' seem'd, o, a-móst to vlee to the welshnut tree. an' when, at last, at the drashel, mother do call us, smilèn, in-door to rest, then we do cluster by woone another, to zee hwome them we do love the best: an' then do sound, o, "good night," all round, o, to end our glee by the welshnut tree. jenny out vrom hwome. o wild-reävèn west winds; as you do roar on, the elems do rock an' the poplars do ply, an' weäve do dreve weäve in the dark-water'd pon',- oh! where do ye rise vrom, an' where do ye die? o wild-reävèn winds i do wish i could vlee wi' you, lik' a bird o' the clouds, up above the ridge o' the hill an' the top o' the tree, to where i do long vor, an' vo'k i do love. or else that in under theäse rock i could hear, in the soft-zwellèn sounds you do leäve in your road, zome words you mid bring me, vrom tongues that be dear, vrom friends that do love me, all scatter'd abrode. o wild-reävèn winds! if you ever do roar by the house an' the elems vrom where i'm a-come, breathe up at the window, or call at the door, an' tell you've a-voun' me a-thinkèn o' hwome. grenley water. the sheädeless darkness o' the night can never blind my mem'ry's zight; an' in the storm, my fancy's eyes can look upon their own blue skies. the laggèn moon mid faïl to rise, but when the daylight's blue an' green be gone, my fancy's zun do sheen at hwome at grenley water. as when the work-vo'k us'd to ride in waggon, by the hedge's zide, drough evenèn sheädes that trees cast down vrom lofty stems athirt the groun'; an' in at house the mug went roun', while ev'ry merry man praïs'd up the pretty maïd that vill'd his cup, the maïd o' grenley water. there i do seem ageän to ride the hosses to the water-zide, an' zee the visher fling his hook below the withies by the brook; or fanny, wi' her blushèn look, car on her païl, or come to dip wi' ceäreful step, her pitcher's lip down into grenley water. if i'd a farm wi' vower ploughs, an' vor my deäiry fifty cows; if grenley water winded down drough two good miles o' my own groun'; if half ov ashknowle hill wer brown wi' my own corn,--noo growèn pride should ever meäke me cast azide the maïd o' grenley water. the veairy veet that i do meet. when dewy fall's red leaves do vlee along the grass below the tree, or lie in yollow beds a-shook upon the shallow-water'd brook, or drove 'ithin a sheädy nook; then softly, in the evenèn, down the knap do steal along the groun' the veäiry veet that i do meet below the row o' beech trees. 'tis jist avore the candle-light do redden windows up at night, an' peäler stars do light the vogs a-risèn vrom the brooks an' bogs, an' when in barkens yoppèn dogs do bark at vo'k a-comèn near, or growl a-lis'enèn to hear the veäiry veet that i do meet below the row o' beech trees. dree times a-year do bless the road o' womanhood a-gwaïn abrode: when vu'st her litty veet do tread the eärly maÿ's white deäisy bed: when leaves be all a-scattered dead; an' when the winter's vrozen grass do glissen in the zun lik' glass vor veäiry veet that i do meet below the row o' beech trees. mornèn. when vu'st the breakèn day is red, an' grass is dewy wet, an' roun' the blackberry's a-spread the spider's gliss'nèn net, then i do dreve the cows across the brook that's in a vog, while they do trot, an' bleäre, an' toss their heads to hook the dog; vor the cock do gi'e me warnèn, an' light or dark, so brisk's a lark, i'm up at break o' mornèn. avore the maïden's sleep's a-broke by window-strikèn zun, avore the busy wife's vu'st smoke do curl above the tun, my day's begun. an' when the zun 's a-zinkèn in the west, the work the mornèn brought's a-done, an' i do goo to rest, till the cock do gi'e me warnèn; an' light or dark, so brisk's a lark, i'm up ageän nex' mornèn. we can't keep back the daily zun, the wind is never still, an' never ha' the streams a-done a-runnèn down at hill. zoo they that ha' their work to do, should do't so soon's they can; vor time an' tide will come an' goo, an' never waït vor man, as the cock do gi'e me warnèn; when, light or dark, so brisk's a lark, i'm up so rathe in mornèn. we've leäzes where the aïr do blow, an' meäds wi' deäiry cows, an' copse wi' lewth an' sheäde below the overhangèn boughs. an' when the zun, noo time can tire, 's a-quench'd below the west, then we've, avore the bleäzèn vire, a settle vor to rest,- to be up ageän nex' mornèn so brisk's a lark, when, light or dark, the cock do gi'e us warnèn. out a-nuttèn. last week, when we'd a haul'd the crops, we went a-nuttèn out in copse, wi' nuttèn-bags to bring hwome vull, an' beaky nuttèn-crooks to pull the bushes down; an' all o's wore wold clothes that wer in rags avore, an' look'd, as we did skip an' zing, lik' merry gipsies in a string, a-gwaïn a-nuttèn. zoo drough the stubble, over rudge an' vurrow, we begun to trudge; an' sal an' nan agreed to pick along wi' me, an' poll wi' dick; an' they went where the wold wood, high an' thick, did meet an' hide the sky; but we thought we mid vind zome good ripe nuts among the shorter wood, the best vor nuttèn. we voun' zome bushes that did feäce the downcast zunlight's highest pleäce, where clusters hung so ripe an' brown, that some slipp'd shell an' vell to groun'. but sal wi' me zoo hitch'd her lag in brembles, that she coulden wag; while poll kept clwose to dick, an' stole the nuts vrom's hinder pocket-hole, while he did nutty. an' nanny thought she zaw a sneäke, an' jump'd off into zome girt breäke, an' tore the bag where she'd a-put her sheäre, an' shatter'd ev'ry nut. an' out in vield we all zot roun' a white-stemm'd woak upon the groun', where yollor evenèn light did strik' drough yollow leaves, that still wer thick in time o' nuttèn, an' twold ov all the luck we had among the bushes, good an' bad! till all the maïdens left the bwoys, an' skipp'd about the leäze all woys vor musherooms, to car back zome, a treat vor father in at hwome. zoo off we trudg'd wi' clothes in slents an' libbets, jis' lik' jack-o'-lents, vrom copse a-nuttèn. teaken in apples. we took the apples in last week, an' got, by night, zome eächèn backs a-stoopèn down all day to pick so many up in mawns an' zacks. an' there wer liz so proud an' prim, an' dumpy nan, an' poll so sly; an' dapper tom, an' loppèn jim, an' little dick, an' fan, an' i. an' there the lwoaded tree bent low, behung wi' apples green an' red; an' springèn grass could hardly grow, drough windvalls down below his head. an' when the maïdens come in roun' the heavy boughs to vill their laps, we slily shook the apples down lik' haïl, an' gi'ed their backs some raps. an' zome big apple, jimmy flung to squaïl me, gi'ed me sich a crack; but very shortly his ear rung, wi' woone i zent to paÿ en back. an' after we'd a-had our squaïls, poor tom, a-jumpèn in a bag, wer pinch'd by all the maïden's naïls, an' rolled down into hwome-groun' quag. an' then they carr'd our fan all roun', 'ithin a mawn, till zome girt stump upset en over on the groun', an' drow'd her out along-straïght, plump. an' in the cider-house we zot upon the windlass poll an' nan, an' spun 'em roun' till they wer got so giddy that they coulden stan'. meaple leaves be yollow. come, let's stroll down so vur's the poun', avore the sparklèn zun is down: the zummer's gone, an' days so feäir as theäse be now a-gettèn reäre. the night, wi' mwore than daylight's sheäre o' wat'ry sky, do wet wi' dew the ee-grass up above woone's shoe, an' meäple leaves be yollow. the last hot doust, above the road, an' vu'st dead leaves ha' been a-blow'd by plaÿsome win's where spring did spread the blossoms that the zummer shed; an' near blue sloos an' conkers red the evenèn zun, a zettèn soon, do leäve a-quiv'rèn to the moon, the meäple leaves so yollow. zoo come along, an' let's injaÿ the last fine weather while do staÿ; while thou canst hang, wi' ribbons slack, thy bonnet down upon thy back, avore the winter, cwold an' black, do kill thy flowers, an' avore thy bird-cage is a-took in door, though meäple leaves be yollow. night a-zetten in. when leäzers wi' their laps o' corn noo longer be a-stoopèn, an' in the stubble, all vorlorn, noo poppies be a-droopèn; when theäse young harvest-moon do weäne, that now've his horns so thin, o, we'll leäve off walkèn in the leäne, while night's a zettèn in, o. when zummer doust is all a-laid below our litty shoes, o; when all the raïn-chill'd flow'rs be dead, that now do drink the dews, o; when beauty's neck, that's now a-show'd, 's a-muffled to the chin, o; we'll leäve off walkèn in the road, when night's a-zettèn in, o. but now, while barley by the road do hang upon the bough, o, a-pull'd by branches off the lwoad a-ridèn hwome to mow, o; while spiders roun' the flower-stalks ha' cobwebs yet to spin, o, we'll cool ourzelves in out-door walks, when night's a-zettèn in, o. while down at vword the brook so small, that leätely wer so high, o, wi' little tinklèn sounds do vall in roun' the stwones half dry, o; while twilight ha' sich aïr in store, to cool our zunburnt skin, o, we'll have a ramble out o' door, when night's a-zettèn in, o. the weather-beaten tree. the woaken tree, a-beät at night by stormy winds wi' all their spite, mid toss his lim's, an' ply, an' mwoan, wi' unknown struggles all alwone; an' when the day do show his head, a-stripp'd by winds at last a-laid, how vew mid think that didden zee, how night-time had a-tried thik tree. an' happy vo'k do seldom know how hard our unknown storms do blow, the while our heads do slowly bend below the trials god do zend, like shiv'rèn bennets, beäre to all the drevèn winds o' dark'nèn fall. an' zoo in tryèn hardships we be lik' the weather beäten tree. but he will never meäke our sheäre o' sorrow mwore than we can bear, but meäke us zee, if 'tis his will, that he can bring us good vrom ill; as after winter he do bring, in his good time, the zunny spring, an' leaves, an' young vo'k vull o' glee a-dancèn roun' the woaken tree. true love's the ivy that do twine unwith'rèn roun' his mossy rine, when winter's zickly zun do sheen upon its leaves o' glossy green, so patiently a-holdèn vast till storms an' cwold be all a-past, an' only livèn vor to be a-meäted to the woaken tree. shrodon feäir. _the vu'st peärt._ an' zoo's the day wer warm an' bright, an' nar a cloud wer up in zight, we wheedled father vor the meäre an' cart, to goo to shrodon feäir. an' poll an' nan run off up stairs, to shift their things, as wild as heäres; an' pull'd out, each o'm vrom her box, their snow-white leäce an' newest frocks, an' put their bonnets on, a-lined wi' blue, an' sashes tied behind; an' turn'd avore the glass their feäce an' back, to zee their things in pleäce; while dick an' i did brush our hats an' cwoats, an' cleän ourzelves lik' cats. at woone or two o'clock, we vound ourzelves at shrodon seäfe an' sound, a-struttèn in among the rows o' tilted stannèns an' o' shows, an' girt long booths wi' little bars chock-vull o' barrels, mugs, an' jars, an' meat a-cookèn out avore the vier at the upper door; where zellers bwold to buyers shy did hollow round us, "what d'ye buy?" an' scores o' merry tongues did speak at woonce, an' childern's pipes did squeak, an' horns did blow, an' drums did rumble, an' bawlèn merrymen did tumble; an' woone did all but want an edge to peärt the crowd wi', lik' a wedge. we zaw the dancers in a show dance up an' down, an' to an' fro, upon a rwope, wi' chalky zoles, so light as magpies up on poles; an' tumblers, wi' their streaks an' spots, that all but tied theirzelves in knots. an' then a conjurer burn'd off poll's han'kerchief so black's a snoff, an' het en, wi' a single blow, right back ageän so white as snow. an' after that, he fried a fat girt ceäke inzide o' my new hat; an' yet, vor all he did en brown, he didden even zweal the crown. shrodon feär. _the rest o't._ an' after that we met wi' zome o' mans'on vo'k, but jist a-come, an' had a raffle vor a treat all roun', o' gingerbread to eat; an' tom meäde leäst, wi' all his sheäkes, an' païd the money vor the ceäkes, but wer so lwoth to put it down as if a penny wer a poun'. then up come zidelèn sammy heäre, that's fond o' poll, an' she can't bear, a-holdèn out his girt scram vist, an' ax'd her, wi' a grin an' twist, to have zome nuts; an' she, to hide her laughèn, turn'd her head azide, an' answer'd that she'd rather not, but nancy mid. an' nan, so hot as vier, zaid 'twer quite enough vor poll to answer vor herzuf: she had a tongue, she zaid, an' wit enough to use en, when 'twer fit. an' in the dusk, a-ridèn round drough okford, who d'ye think we vound but sam ageän, a-gwäin vrom feäir astride his broken-winded meäre. an' zoo, a-hettèn her, he tried to keep up clwose by ouer zide: but when we come to haÿward-brudge, our poll gi'ed dick a meänèn nudge, an' wi' a little twitch our meäre flung out her lags so lights a heäre, an' left poor sammy's skin an' bwones behind, a-kickèn o' the stwones. martin's tide. come, bring a log o' cleft wood, jack, an' fling en on ageän the back, an' zee the outside door is vast,- the win' do blow a cwoldish blast. come, so's! come, pull your chairs in roun' avore the vire; an' let's zit down, an' keep up martin's-tide, vor i shall keep it up till i do die. 'twer martinmas, and ouer feäir, when jeäne an' i, a happy peäir, vu'st walk'd, a-keepèn up the tide, among the stan'ens, zide by zide; an' thik day twel'month, never faïlèn, she gi'ed me at the chancel raïlèn a heart--though i do sound her praise- as true as ever beät in staÿs. how vast the time do goo! do seem but yesterday,--'tis lik' a dream! ah, s[=o]'s! 'tis now zome years agoo you vu'st knew me, an' i knew you; an' we've a-had zome bits o' fun, by winter vire an' zummer zun. aye; we've a-prowl'd an' rigg'd about lik' cats, in harm's way mwore than out, an' busy wi' the tricks we plaÿ'd in fun, to outwit chap or maïd. an' out avore the bleäzèn he'th, our naïsy tongues, in winter me'th, 'v a-shook the warmèn-pan, a-hung bezide us, till his cover rung. there, 'twer but tother day thik chap, our robert, wer a child in lap; an' poll's two little lags hung down vrom thik wold chair a span vrom groun', an' now the saucy wench do stride about wi' steps o' dree veet wide. how time do goo! a life do seem as 'twer a year; 'tis lik' a dream! guy faux's night. guy faux's night, dost know, we chaps, a-putten on our woldest traps, went up the highest o' the knaps, an' meäde up such a vier! an' thou an' tom wer all we miss'd, vor if a sarpent had a-hiss'd among the rest in thy sprack vist, our fun 'd a-been the higher. we chaps at hwome, an' will our cousin, took up a half a lwoad o' vuzzen; an' burn'd a barrel wi' a dozen o' faggots, till above en the fleämes, arisèn up so high 's the tun, did snap, an' roar, an' ply, lik' vier in an' oven. an' zome wi' hissèn squibs did run, to paÿ off zome what they'd a-done, an' let em off so loud's a gun ageän their smokèn polls; an' zome did stir their nimble pags wi' crackers in between their lags, while zome did burn their cwoats to rags, or wes'cots out in holes. an' zome o'm's heads lost half their locks, an' zome o'm got their white smock-frocks jist fit to vill the tinder-box, wi' half the backs o'm off; an' dick, that all o'm vell upon, vound woone flap ov his cwoat-taïl gone, an' tother jist a-hangèn on, a-zweal'd so black's a snoff. [gothic: eclogue.] the common a-took in. _thomas an' john._ thomas. good morn t'ye, john. how b'ye? how b'ye? zoo you be gwaïn to market, i do zee. why, you be quite a-lwoaded wi' your geese. john. ees, thomas, ees. why, i'm a-gettèn rid ov ev'ry goose an' goslèn i've a-got: an' what is woose, i fear that i must zell my little cow. thomas. how zoo, then, john? why, what's the matter now? what, can't ye get along? b'ye run a-ground? an' can't paÿ twenty shillèns vor a pound? what can't ye put a lwoaf on shelf? john. ees, now; but i do fear i shan't 'ithout my cow. no; they do mëan to teäke the moor in, i do hear, an' 'twill be soon begun upon; zoo i must zell my bit o' stock to-year, because they woon't have any groun' to run upon. thomas. why, what d'ye tell o'? i be very zorry to hear what they be gwaïn about; but yet i s'pose there'll be a 'lotment vor ye, when they do come to mark it out. john. no; not vor me, i fear. an' if there should, why 'twoulden be so handy as 'tis now; vor 'tis the common that do do me good, the run for my vew geese, or vor my cow. thomas. ees, that's the job; why 'tis a handy thing to have a bit o' common, i do know, to put a little cow upon in spring, the while woone's bit ov orcha'd grass do grow. john. aye, that's the thing, you zee. now i do mow my bit o' grass, an' meäke a little rick; an' in the zummer, while do grow, my cow do run in common vor to pick a bleäde or two o' grass, if she can vind em, vor tother cattle don't leäve much behind em. zoo in the evenèn, we do put a lock o' nice fresh grass avore the wicket; an' she do come at vive or zix o'clock, as constant as the zun, to pick it. an' then, bezides the cow, why we do let our geese run out among the emmet hills; an' then when we do pluck em, we do get vor zeäle zome veathers an' zome quills; an' in the winter we do fat em well, an' car em to the market vor to zell to gentlevo'ks, vor we don't oft avvword to put a goose a-top ov ouer bwoard; but we do get our feäst,--vor we be eäble to clap the giblets up a-top o' teäble. thomas. an' i don't know o' many better things, than geese's heads and gizzards, lags an' wings. john. an' then, when i ha' nothèn else to do, why i can teäke my hook an' gloves, an' goo to cut a lot o' vuzz and briars vor hetèn ovens, or vor lightèn viers. an' when the childern be too young to eärn a penny, they can g'out in zunny weather, an' run about, an' get together a bag o' cow-dung vor to burn. thomas. 'tis handy to live near a common; but i've a-zeed, an' i've a-zaid, that if a poor man got a bit o' bread, they'll try to teäke it vrom en. but i wer twold back tother day, that they be got into a way o' lettèn bits o' groun' out to the poor. john. well, i do hope 'tis true, i'm sure; an' i do hope that they will do it here, or i must goo to workhouse, i do fear. [gothic: eclogue.] two farms in woone. _robert an' thomas._ robert. you'll lose your meäster soon, then, i do vind; he's gwaïn to leäve his farm, as i do larn, at miëlmas; an' i be zorry vor'n. what, is he then a little bit behind? thomas. o no! at miëlmas his time is up, an' thik there sly wold fellow, farmer tup, a-fearèn that he'd get a bit o' bread, 'v a-been an' took his farm here over's head. robert. how come the squire to treat your meäster zoo? thomas. why, he an' meäster had a word or two. robert. is farmer tup a-gwaïn to leäve his farm? he han't a-got noo young woones vor to zwarm. poor over-reachèn man! why to be sure he don't want all the farms in parish, do er? thomas. why ees, all ever he can come across, last year, you know, he got away the eäcre or two o' ground a-rented by the beäker, an' what the butcher had to keep his hoss; an' vo'k do beänhan' now, that meäster's lot will be a-drowd along wi' what he got. robert. that's it. in theäse here pleäce there used to be eight farms avore they wer a-drowd together, an' eight farm-housen. now how many be there? why after this, you know there'll be but dree. thomas. an' now they don't imploy so many men upon the land as work'd upon it then, vor all they midden crop it worse, nor stock it. the lan'lord, to be sure, is into pocket; vor half the housen beën down, 'tis clear, don't cost so much to keep em up, a-near. but then the jobs o' work in wood an' morter do come i 'spose, you know, a little shorter; an' many that wer little farmers then, be now a-come all down to leäb'rèn men; an' many leäb'rèn men, wi' empty hands, do live lik' drones upon the worker's lands. robert. aye, if a young chap, woonce, had any wit to try an' scrape together zome vew pound, to buy some cows an' teäke a bit o' ground, he mid become a farmer, bit by bit. but, hang it! now the farms be all so big, an' bits o' groun' so skeä'ce, woone got no scope; if woone could seäve a poun', woone couldden hope to keep noo live stock but a little pig. thomas. why here wer vourteen men, zome years agoo, a-kept a-drashèn half the winter drough; an' now, woone's drashels be'n't a bit o' good. they got machines to drashy wi', plague teäke em! an' he that vu'st vound out the way to meäke em, i'd drash his busy zides vor'n if i could! avore they took away our work, they ought to meäke us up the bread our leäbour bought. robert. they hadden need meäke poor men's leäbour less, vor work a'ready is uncommon skeä'ce. thomas. ah! robert! times be badish vor the poor; an' worse will come, i be a-fear'd, if moore in theäse year's almanick do tell us right. robert. why then we sartainly must starve. good night! winter the vrost. come, run up hwome wi' us to night, athirt the vield a-vroze so white, where vrosty sheädes do lie below the winter ricks a-tipp'd wi' snow, an' lively birds, wi' waggèn taïls, do hop upon the icy raïls, an' rime do whiten all the tops o' bush an' tree in hedge an' copse, in wind's a-cuttèn keen. come, maïdens, come: the groun's a-vroze too hard to-night to spweil your clothes. you got noo pools to waddle drough, nor clay a-pullèn off your shoe: an' we can trig ye at the zide, to keep ye up if you do slide: zoo while there's neither wet nor mud, 's the time to run an' warm your blood, in winds a-cuttèn keen. vor young men's hearts an' maïden's eyes don't vreeze below the cwoldest skies, while they in twice so keen a blast can wag their brisk lim's twice so vast! though vier-light, a-flick'rèn red drough vrosty window-peänes, do spread vrom wall to wall, vrom he'th to door, vor us to goo an' zit avore, vrom winds a-cuttèn keen. a bit o' fun. we thought you woulden leäve us quite so soon as what you did last night; our fun jist got up to a height as you about got hwome. the friskèn chaps did skip about, an' cou'se the maïdens in an' out, a-meäkèn such a randy-rout, you coulden hear a drum. an' tom, a-springèn after bet blind-vwolded, whizz'd along, an' het poor grammer's zide, an' overzet her chair, at blind-man's buff; an' she, poor soul, as she did vall, did show her snags o' teeth an' squall, an' what, she zaid, wer wo'se than all, she shatter'd all her snuff. an' bet, a-hoppèn back vor fear o' tom, struck uncle zomewhere near, an' meäde his han' spill all his beer right down her poll an' back; an' joe, in middle o' the din, slipt out a bit, an' soon come in wi' all below his dapper chin a-jumpèn in a zack. an' in a twinklèn tother chaps jist hung en to a crook wi' straps, an' meäde en bear the maïdens' slaps, an' prickens wi' a pin. an' jim, a-catchèn poll, poor chap, in back-house in the dark, vell slap athirt a tub o' barm,--a trap she set to catch en in. an' then we zot down out o' breath, an' meäde a circle roun' the he'th, a-keepèn up our harmless me'th, till supper wer a-come. an' after we'd a-had zome prog, all tother chaps begun to jog, wi' sticks to lick a thief or dog, to zee the maïdens hwome. fannys be'th-day. how merry, wi' the cider cup, we kept poor fanny's be'th-day up! an' how our busy tongues did run an' hands did wag, a-meäkèn fun! what plaÿsome anticks zome [=o]'s done! an' how, a-reelèn roun' an' roun', we beät the merry tuèn down, while music wer a-soundèn! the maïdens' eyes o' black an' blue did glisten lik' the mornèn dew; an' while the cider-mug did stand a-hissèn by the bleäzèn brand, an' uncle's pipe wer in his hand, how little he or we did think how peäle the zettèn stars did blink while music wer a-soundèn. an' fanny's last young _teen_ begun, poor maïd, wi' thik day's risèn zun, an' we all wish'd her many mwore long years wi' happiness in store; an' as she went an' stood avore the vier, by her father's zide, her mother dropp'd a tear o' pride while music wer a-soundèn. an' then we did all kinds o' tricks wi' han'kerchiefs, an' strings, an' sticks: an' woone did try to overmatch another wi' zome cunnèn catch, while tothers slyly tried to hatch zome geäme; but yet, by chap an' maïd. the dancèn wer the mwost injaÿ'd, while music wer a-soundèn. the briskest chap ov all the lot wer tom, that danc'd hizzelf so hot, he doff'd his cwoat an' jump'd about, wi' girt new shirt-sleeves all a-strout, among the maïdens screamèn out, a-thinkèn, wi' his strides an' stamps, he'd squot their veet wi' his girt clamps, while music wer a-soundèn. then up jump'd uncle vrom his chair, an' pull'd out aunt to meäke a peäir; an' off he zet upon his tooe, so light's the best that beät a shoe, wi' aunt a-crièn "let me goo:" while all ov us did laugh so loud, we drown'd the tuèn o' the croud, while music wer a-soundèn. a-comèn out o' passage, nan, wi' pipes an' cider in her han', an' watchèn uncle up so sprack, vorgot her veet, an' vell down smack athirt the house-dog's shaggy back, that wer in passage vor a snooze, beyond the reach o' dancers' shoes, while music wer a-soundèn. what dick an' i did. last week the browns ax'd nearly all the naïghbours to a randy, an' left us out o't, girt an' small, vor all we liv'd so handy; an' zoo i zaid to dick, "we'll trudge, when they be in their fun, min; an' car up zome'hat to the rudge, an' jis' stop up the tun, min." zoo, wi' the ladder vrom the rick, we stole towards the house, an' crope in roun' behind en, lik' a cat upon a mouse. then, lookèn roun', dick whisper'd "how is theäse job to be done, min: why we do want a faggot now, vor stoppèn up the tun, min." "stan' still," i answer'd; "i'll teäke ceäre o' that: why dussen zee the little grindèn stwone out there, below the apple-tree? put up the ladder; in a crack shalt zee that i wull run, min, an' teäke en up upon my back, an' soon stop up the tun, min." zoo up i clomb upon the thatch, an' clapp'd en on; an' slided right down ageän, an' run drough hatch, behind the hedge, an' hided. the vier that wer clear avore, begun to spweil their fun, min; the smoke all roll'd toward the door, vor i'd a-stopp'd the tun, min. the maïdens cough'd or stopp'd their breath, the men did hauk an' spet; the wold vo'k bundled out from he'th wi' eyes a-runnèn wet. "'t'ool choke us all," the wold man cried, "whatever's to be done, min? why zome'hat is a-vell inside o' chimney drough the tun, min." then out they scamper'd all, vull run, an' out cried tom, "i think the grindèn-stwone is up on tun, vor i can zee the wink. this is some kindness that the vo'k at woodley have a-done, min; i wish i had em here, i'd poke their numskulls down the tun, min." then off he zet, an' come so quick 's a lamplighter, an' brote the little ladder in vrom rick, to clear the chimney's droat. while i, a-chucklèn at the joke, a-slided down, to run, min, to hidelock, had a-left the vo'k as bad as na'r a tun, min. grammer's shoes. i do seem to zee grammer as she did use vor to show us, at chris'mas, her weddèn shoes, an' her flat spreadèn bonnet so big an' roun' as a girt pewter dish a-turn'd upside down; when we all did draw near in a cluster to hear o' the merry wold soul how she did use to walk an' to dance wi' her high-heel shoes. she'd a gown wi' girt flowers lik' hollyhocks, an' zome stockèns o' gramfer's a-knit wì' clocks, an' a token she kept under lock an' key,- a small lock ov his heäir off avore 't wer grey. an' her eyes wer red, an' she shook her head, when we'd all a-look'd at it, an' she did use to lock it away wi' her weddèn shoes. she could tell us such teäles about heavy snows, an' o' raïns an' o' floods when the waters rose all up into the housen, an' carr'd awoy all the bridge wi' a man an' his little bwoy; an' o' vog an' vrost, an' o' vo'k a-lost, an' o' peärties at chris'mas, when she did use vor to walk hwome wi' gramfer in high-heel shoes. ev'ry chris'mas she lik'd vor the bells to ring, an' to have in the zingers to heär em zing the wold carols she heärd many years a-gone, while she warm'd em zome cider avore the bron'; an' she'd look an' smile at our dancèn, while she did tell how her friends now a-gone did use to reely wi' her in their high-heel shoes. ah! an' how she did like vor to deck wi' red holly-berries the window an' wold clock's head, an' the clavy wi' boughs o' some bright green leaves, an' to meäke twoast an' eäle upon chris'mas eves; but she's now, drough greäce, in a better pleäce, though we'll never vorget her, poor soul, nor lose gramfer's token ov heäir, nor her weddèn shoes. zunsheen in the winter. the winter clouds, that long did hide the zun, be all a-blown azide, an' in the light, noo longer dim, do sheen the ivy that do clim' the tower's zide an' elem's stim; an' holmen bushes, in between the leafless thorns, be bright an' green to zunsheen o' the winter. the trees, that yesterday did twist in wind's a-drevèn raïn an' mist, do now drow sheädes out, long an' still; but roarèn watervals do vill their whirlèn pools below the hill, where, wi' her païl upon the stile, a-gwaïn a-milkèn jeäne do smile to zunsheen o' the winter. the birds do sheäke, wi' plaÿsome skips, the raïn-drops off the bushes' tips, a-chirripèn wi' merry sound; while over all the grassy ground the wind's a-whirlèn round an' round so softly, that the day do seem mwore lik' a zummer in a dream, than zunsheen in the winter. the wold vo'k now do meet abrode, an' tell o' winter's they've a-know'd; when snow wer long above the groun', or floods broke all the bridges down, or wind unheal'd a half the town,- the teäles o' wold times long a-gone, but ever dear to think upon, the zunsheen o' their winter. vor now to them noo brook can run, noo hill can feäce the winter zun, noo leaves can vall, noo flow'rs can feäde, noo snow can hide the grasses bleäde, noo vrost can whiten in the sheäde, noo day can come, but what do bring to mind ageän their early spring, that's now a-turn'd to winter. the weepen leady. when, leäte o' nights, above the green by thik wold house, the moon do sheen, a leädy there, a-hangèn low her head, 's a-walkèn to an' fro in robes so white's the driven snow, wi' woone eärm down, while woone do rest all lily-white athirt the breast o' thik poor weepèn leädy. the whirlèn wind an' whis'lèn squall do sheäke the ivy by the wall, an' meäke the plyèn tree-tops rock, but never ruffle her white frock; an' slammèn door an' rattlèn lock, that in thik empty house do sound, do never seem to meäke look round thik ever downcast leädy. a leädy, as the teäle do goo, that woonce liv'd there, an' lov'd too true, wer by a young man cast azide. a mother sad, but not a bride; an' then her father, in his pride an' anger, offer'd woone o' two vull bitter things to undergoo to thik poor weepèn leädy: that she herzelf should leäve his door, to darken it ageän noo mwore; or that her little plaÿsome chile, a-zent away a thousand mile, should never meet her eyes to smile an' plaÿ ageän; till she, in sheäme, should die an' leäve a tarnish'd neäme, a sad vorseäken leädy. "let me be lost," she cried, "the while i do but know vor my poor chile;" an' left the hwome ov all her pride, to wander drough the worold wide, wi' grief that vew but she ha' tried: an' lik' a flow'r a blow ha' broke, she wither'd wi' the deadly stroke, an' died a weepèn leädy. an' she do keep a-comèn on to zee her father dead an' gone, as if her soul could have noo rest avore her teäry cheäk's a-prest by his vorgivèn kiss. zoo blest be they that can but live in love, an' vind a pleäce o' rest above unlik' the weepèn leädy. the happy days when i wer young. in happy days when i wer young, an' had noo ho, an' laugh'd an' zung, the maïd wer merry by her cow, an' men wer merry wi' the plough; but never talk'd, at hwome or out o' doors, o' what's a-talk'd about by many now,--that to despise the laws o' god an' man is wise. wi' daïly health, an' daïly bread, an' thatch above their shelter'd head, they velt noo fear, an' had noo spite, to keep their eyes awake at night; but slept in peace wi' god on high an' man below, an' fit to die. o' grassy meäd an' woody nook, an' waters o' the windèn brook, that sprung below the vu'st dark sky that raïn'd, to run till seas be dry; an' hills a-stannèn on while all the works o' man do rise an' vall; an' trees the toddlèn child do vind at vu'st, an' leäve at last behind; i wish that you could now unvwold the peace an' jäy o' times o' wold; an' tell, when death do still my tongue, o' happy days when i wer young. vrom where wer all this venom brought, to kill our hope an' taïnt our thought? clear brook! thy water coulden bring such venom vrom thy rocky spring; nor could it come in zummer blights, or reävèn storms o' winter nights, or in the cloud an' viry stroke o' thunder that do split the woak. o valley dear! i wish that i 'd a-liv'd in former times, to die wi' all the happy souls that trod thy turf in peäce, an' died to god; or gone wi' them that laugh'd an' zung in happy days when i wer young! in the stillness o' the night. ov all the housen o' the pleäce, there's woone where i do like to call by day or night the best ov all, to zee my fanny's smilèn feäce; an' there the steätely trees do grow, a-rockèn as the win' do blow, while she do sweetly sleep below, in the stillness o' the night. an' there, at evenèn, i do goo a-hoppèn over geätes an' bars, by twinklèn light o' winter stars, when snow do clumper to my shoe; an' zometimes we do slyly catch a chat an hour upon the stratch, an' peärt wi' whispers at the hatch in the stillness o' the night. an' zometimes she do goo to zome young naïghbours' housen down the pleäce, an' i do get a clue to treäce her out, an' goo to zee her hwome; an' i do wish a vield a mile, as she do sweetly chat an' smile along the drove, or at the stile, in the stillness o' the night. the settle an' the girt wood vire. ah! naïghbour john, since i an' you wer youngsters, ev'ry thing is new. my father's vires wer all o' logs o' cleft-wood, down upon the dogs below our clavy, high, an' brode enough to teäke a cart an' lwoad, where big an' little all zot down at bwoth zides, an' bevore, all roun'. an' when i zot among em, i could zee all up ageän the sky drough chimney, where our vo'k did hitch the zalt-box an' the beäcon-vlitch, an' watch the smoke on out o' vier, all up an' out o' tun, an' higher. an' there wer beäcon up on rack, an' pleätes an' dishes on the tack; an' roun' the walls wer heärbs a-stowed in peäpern bags, an' blathers blowed. an' just above the clavy-bwoard wer father's spurs, an' gun, an' sword; an' there wer then, our girtest pride, the settle by the vier zide. ah! gi'e me, if i wer a squier, the settle an' the girt wood vier. but they've a-wall'd up now wi' bricks the vier pleäce vor dogs an' sticks, an' only left a little hole to teäke a little greäte o' coal, so small that only twos or drees can jist push in an' warm their knees. an' then the carpets they do use, b[=e]n't fit to tread wi' ouer shoes; an' chairs an' couches be so neat, you mussen teäke em vor a seat: they be so fine, that vo'k mus' pleäce all over em an' outer ceäse, an' then the cover, when 'tis on, is still too fine to loll upon. ah! gi'e me, if i wer a squier, the settle an' the girt wood vier. carpets, indeed! you coulden hurt the stwone-vloor wi' a little dirt; vor what wer brought in doors by men, the women soon mopp'd out ageän. zoo we did come vrom muck an' mire, an' walk in straïght avore the vier; but now, a man's a-kept at door at work a pirty while, avore he's screäp'd an' rubb'd, an' cleän and fit to goo in where his wife do zit. an' then if he should have a whiff in there, 'twould only breed a miff: he c[=a]nt smoke there, vor smoke woon't goo 'ithin the footy little flue. ah! gi'e me, if i wer a squier, the settle an' the girt wood vier. the carter. o, i be a carter, wi' my whip a-smackèn loud, as by my zide, up over hill, an' down the dip, the heavy lwoad do slowly ride. an' i do haul in all the crops, an' i do bring in vuzz vrom down; an' i do goo vor wood to copse, an' car the corn an' straw to town. an' i do goo vor lime, an' bring hwome cider wi' my sleek-heäir'd team, an' smack my limber whip an' zing, while all their bells do gaïly cheeme. an' i do always know the pleäce to gi'e the hosses breath, or drug; an' ev'ry hoss do know my feäce, an' mind my '_mether ho_! an' _whug_! an' merry haÿ-meäkers do ride vrom vield in zummer wi' their prongs, in my blue waggon, zide by zide upon the reäves, a-zingèn zongs. an' when the vrost do catch the stream, an' oves wi' icicles be hung, my pantèn hosses' breath do steam in white-grass'd vields, a-haulèn dung. an' mine's the waggon fit vor lwoads, an' mine be lwoads to cut a rout; an' mine's a team, in routy rwoads, to pull a lwoaded waggon out. a zull is nothèn when do come behind their lags; an' they do teäke a roller as they would a drum, an' harrow as they would a reäke. o! i be a carter, wi' my whip a-smackèn loud, as by my zide, up over hill, an' down the dip, the heavy lwoad do slowly ride. chris'mas invitation. come down to-morrow night; an' mind, don't leäve thy fiddle-bag behind; we'll sheäke a lag, an' drink a cup o' eäle, to keep wold chris'mas up. an' let thy sister teäke thy eärm, the walk won't do her any harm; there's noo dirt now to spweil her frock, the ground's a-vroze so hard's a rock. you won't meet any stranger's feäce, but only naïghbours o' the pleäce, an' stowe, an' combe; an' two or dree vrom uncle's up at rookery. an' thou wu'lt vind a rwosy feäce, an' peäir ov eyes so black as sloos, the prettiest woones in all the pleäce,- i'm sure i needen tell thee whose. we got a back-bran', dree girt logs so much as dree ov us can car; we'll put em up athirt the dogs, an' meäke a vier to the bar. an' ev'ry woone shall tell his teäle, an' ev'ry woone shall zing his zong, an' ev'ry woone wull drink his eäle to love an' frien'ship all night long. we'll snap the tongs, we'll have a ball, we'll sheäke the house, we'll lift the ruf, we'll romp an' meäke the maïdens squall, a catchèn o'm at blind-man's buff. zoo come to-morrow night; an' mind, don't leäve thy fiddle-bag behind; we'll sheäke a lag, an' drink a cup o' eäle, to keep wold chris'mas up. keepen up o' chris'mas. an' zoo you didden come athirt, to have zome fun last night: how wer't? vor we'd a-work'd wi' all our might to scour the iron things up bright, an' brush'd an' scrubb'd the house all drough; an' brought in vor a brand, a plock o' wood so big's an uppèn-stock, an' hung a bough o' misseltoo, an' ax'd a merry friend or two, to keepèn up o' chris'mas. an' there wer wold an' young; an' bill, soon after dark, stalk'd up vrom mill. an' when he wer a-comèn near, he whissled loud vor me to hear; then roun' my head my frock i roll'd, an' stood in orcha'd like a post, to meäke en think i wer a ghost. but he wer up to't, an' did scwold to vind me stannèn in the cwold, a keepèn up o' chris'mas. we plaÿ'd at forfeits, an' we spun the trencher roun', an' meäde such fun! an' had a geäme o' dree-ceärd loo, an' then begun to hunt the shoe. an' all the wold vo'k zittèn near, a-chattèn roun' the vier pleäce, did smile in woone another's feäce. an' sheäke right hands wi' hearty cheer, an' let their left hands spill their beer, a keepèn up o' chris'mas. zitten out the wold year. why, raïn or sheen, or blow or snow, i zaid, if i could stand so's, i'd come, vor all a friend or foe, to sheäke ye by the hand, so's; an' spend, wi' kinsvo'k near an' dear, a happy evenèn, woonce a year, a-zot wi' me'th avore the he'th to zee the new year in, so's. there's jim an' tom, a-grown the size o' men, girt lusty chaps, so's, an' fanny wi' her sloo-black eyes, her mother's very dap's, so's; an' little bill, so brown's a nut, an' poll a gigglèn little slut, i hope will shoot another voot the year that's comèn in, so's. an' there, upon his mother's knee, so peärt do look about, so's, the little woone ov all, to zee his vu'st wold year goo out, so's an' zoo mid god bless all o's still, gwaïn up or down along the hill, to meet in glee ageän to zee a happy new year in, so's. the wold clock's han' do softly steal up roun' the year's last hour, so's; zoo let the han'-bells ring a peal, lik' them a-hung in tow'r, so's. here, here be two vor tom, an' two vor fanny, an' a peäir vor you; we'll meäke em swing, an' meäke em ring, the merry new year in, so's. tom, mind your time there; you be wrong. come, let your bells all sound, so's: a little clwoser, poll; ding, dong! there, now 'tis right all round, so's. the clock's a-strikèn twelve, d'ye hear? ting, ting, ding, dong! farewell, wold year! 'tis gone, 'tis gone!- goo on, goo on, an' ring the new woone in, so's! woak wer good enough woonce. ees: now mahogany's the goo, an' good wold english woak won't do. i wish vo'k always mid avvword hot meals upon a woakèn bwoard, as good as thik that took my cup an' trencher all my growèn up. ah! i do mind en in the hall, a-reachèn all along the wall, wi' us at father's end, while tother did teäke the maïdens wi' their mother; an' while the risèn steam did spread in curlèn clouds up over head, our mouths did wag, an' tongues did run, to meäke the maïdens laugh o' fun. a woaken bedstead, black an' bright, did teäke my weary bwones at night, where i could stratch an' roll about wi' little fear o' vallèn out; an' up above my head a peäir ov ugly heads a-carv'd did steäre, an' grin avore a bright vull moon a'most enough to frighten woone. an' then we had, vor cwoats an' frocks, woak cwoffers wi' their rusty locks an' neämes in naïls, a-left behind by kinsvo'k dead an' out o' mind; zoo we did get on well enough wi' things a-meäde ov english stuff. but then, you know, a woaken stick wer cheap, vor woaken trees wer thick. when poor wold gramfer green wer young, he zaid a squirrel mid a-sprung along the dell, vrom tree to tree, vrom woodcomb all the way to lea; an' woak wer all vo'k did avvword, avore his time, vor bed or bwoard. lullaby. the rook's nest do rock on the tree-top where vew foes can stand; the martin's is high, an' is deep in the steep cliff o' zand. but thou, love, a-sleepèn where vootsteps mid come to thy bed, hast father an' mother to watch thee an' shelter thy head. lullaby, lilybrow. lie asleep; blest be thy rest. an' zome birds do keep under ruffèn their young vrom the storm, an' zome wi' nest-hoodèns o' moss and o' wool, do lie warm. an' we wull look well to the houseruf that o'er thee mid leäk, an' the blast that mid beät on thy winder shall not smite thy cheäk. lullaby, lilibrow. lie asleep; blest be thy rest. meary-ann's child. meary-ann wer alwone wi' her beäby in eärms, in her house wi' the trees over head, vor her husban' wer out in the night an' the storms, in his business a-tweilèn vor bread; an' she, as the wind in the elems did roar, did grievy vor robert all night out o' door. an' her kinsvo'k an' naï'bours did zay ov her chile, (under the high elem tree), that a prettier never did babble or smile up o' top ov a proud mother's knee; an' his mother did toss en, an' kiss en, an' call en her darlèn, an' life, an' her hope, an' her all. but she vound in the evenèn the chile werden well, (under the dark elem tree), an' she thought she could gi'e all the worold to tell, vor a truth what his aïlèn mid be; an' she thought o'en last in her praÿers at night, an' she look'd at en last as she put out the light. an' she vound en grow wo'se in the dead o' the night, (under the dark elem tree), an' she press'd en ageän her warm bosom so tight, an' she rock'd en so sorrowfully; an' there laid a-nestlèn the poor little bwoy, till his struggles grew weak, an' his cries died awoy. an' the moon wer a-sheenèn down into the pleäce, (under the dark elem tree), an' his mother could zee that his lips an' his feäce wer so white as cleän axen could be; an' her tongue wer a-tied an' her still heart did zwell, till her senses come back wi' the vu'st tear that vell. never mwore can she veel his warm feäce in her breast, (under the green elem tree), vor his eyes be a-shut, an' his hands be at rest, an' he's now vrom his païn a-zet free; vor his soul, we do know, is to heaven a-vled, where noo païn is a-known, an' noo tears be a-shed. [gothic: eclogue.] father come hwome. _john, wife, an' child._ child. o mother, mother! be the teäties done? here's father now a-comèn down the track, hes got his nitch o' wood upon his back, an' such a speäker in en! i'll be bound, he's long enough to reach vrom ground up to the top ov ouer tun; 'tis jist the very thing vor jack an' i to goo a-colepecksèn wi' by an' by. wife. the teäties must be ready pretty nigh; do teäke woone up upon the fork' an' try. the ceäke upon the vier, too, 's a-burnèn, i be afeärd: do run an' zee, an' turn en. john. well, mother! here i be woonce mwore, at hwome. wife. ah! i be very glad you be a-come. you be a-tired an' cwold enough, i s'pose; zit down an' rest your bwones, an' warm your nose. john. why i be nippy: what is there to eat? wife. your supper's nearly ready. i've a got some teäties here a-doèn in the pot; i wish wi' all my heart i had some meat. i got a little ceäke too, here, a-beäken o'n upon the vier. 'tis done by this time though. he's nice an' moist; vor when i wer a-meäken o'n i stuck some bits ov apple in the dough. child. well, father; what d'ye think? the pig got out this mornèn; an' avore we zeed or heärd en, he run about, an' got out into geärden, an' routed up the groun' zoo wi' his snout! john. now only think o' that! you must contrive to keep en in, or else he'll never thrive. child. an' father, what d'ye think? i voun' to-day the nest where thik wold hen ov our's do lay: 'twer out in orcha'd hedge, an' had vive aggs. wife. lo'k there: how wet you got your veet an' lags! how did ye get in such a pickle, jahn? john. i broke my hoss, an' been a-fwo'ced to stan' all's day in mud an' water vor to dig, an' meäde myzelf so wetshod as a pig. child. father, teäke off your shoes, then come, and i will bring your wold woones vor ye, nice an' dry. wife. an' have ye got much hedgèn mwore to do? john. enough to last vor dree weeks mwore or zoo. wife. an' when y'ave done the job you be about, d'ye think you'll have another vound ye out? john. o ees, there'll be some mwore: vor after that, i got a job o' trenchèn to goo at; an' then zome trees to shroud, an' wood to vell,- zoo i do hope to rub on pretty well till zummer time; an' then i be to cut the wood an' do the trenchèn by the tut. child. an' nex' week, father, i'm a-gwaïn to goo a-pickèn stwones, d'ye know, vor farmer true. wife. an' little jack, you know, 's a-gwaïn to eärn a penny too, a-keepèn birds off corn. john. o brave! what wages do 'e meän to gi'e? wife. she dreppence vor a day, an' twopence he. john. well, polly; thou must work a little spracker when thou bist out, or else thou wu'ten pick a dungpot lwoad o' stwones up very quick. child. oh! yes i shall. but jack do want a clacker: an' father, wull ye teäke an' cut a stick or two to meäke his hut. john. you wench! why you be always up a-baggèn. i be too tired now to-night, i'm sure, to zet a-doèn any mwore: zoo i shall goo up out o' the way o' the waggon. [gothic: eclogue.] a ghost. _jem an' dick._ jem. this is a darkish evenèn; b'ye a-feärd o' zights? theäse leäne's a-haunted, i've a heärd. dick. no, i be'nt much a-feär'd. if vo'k don't strive to over-reach me while they be alive, i don't much think the dead wull ha' the will to come back here to do me any ill. an' i've a-been about all night, d'ye know, vrom candle-lightèn till the cock did crow; but never met wi' nothèn bad enough to be much wo'se than what i be myzuf; though i, lik' others, have a-heärd vo'k zay the girt house is a-haunted, night an' day. jem. aye; i do mind woone winter 'twer a-zaid the farmer's vo'k could hardly sleep a-bed, they heärd at night such scuffèns an' such jumpèns, such ugly naïses an' such rottlèn thumpèns. dick. aye, i do mind i heärd his son, young sammy, tell how the chairs did dance an' doors did slammy; he stood to it--though zome vo'k woulden heed en- he didden only hear the ghost, but zeed en; an', hang me! if i han't a'most a-shook, to hear en tell what ugly sheäpes it took. did zometimes come vull six veet high, or higher, in white, he zaid, wi' eyes lik' coals o' vier; an' zometimes, wi' a feäce so peäle as milk, a smileless leädy, all a-deck'd in silk. his heäir, he zaid, did use to stand upright, so stiff's a bunch o' rushes, wi' his fright. jem. an' then you know that zome'hat is a-zeed down there in leäne, an' over in the meäd, a-comèn zometimes lik' a slinkèn hound, or rollèn lik' a vleece along the ground. an' woonce, when gramfer wi' his wold grey meäre wer ridèn down the leäne vrom shroton feäir, it roll'd so big's a pack ov wool across the road just under en, an' leäm'd his hoss. dick. aye; did ye ever hear--vo'k zaid 'twer true- o' what bevell jack hine zome years agoo? woone vrosty night, d'ye know, at chris'mas tide, jack, an' another chap or two bezide, 'd a-been out, zomewhere up at tother end o' parish, to a naïghbour's house to spend a merry hour, an' mid a-took a cup or two o' eäle a-keepèn chris'mas up; zoo i do lot 'twer leäte avore the peärty 'd a-burnt their bron out; i do lot, avore they thought o' turnèn out o' door 'twer mornèn, vor their friendship then wer hearty. well; clwose ageän the vootpath that do leäd vrom higher parish over withy-meäd, there's still a hollow, you do know: they tried there, in former times, to meäke a cattle-pit, but gie'd it up, because they coulden get the water any time to bide there. zoo when the merry fellows got just overright theäse lwonesome spot, jack zeed a girt big house-dog wi' a collar, a-stannèn down in thik there hollor. lo'k there, he zaïd, there's zome girt dog a-prowlèn: i'll just goo down an' gi'e'n a goodish lick or two wi' theäse here groun'-ash stick, an' zend the shaggy rascal hwome a-howlèn. zoo there he run, an' gi'ed en a good whack wi' his girt ashen stick a-thirt his back; an', all at woonce, his stick split right all down in vower pieces; an' the pieces vled out ov his hand all up above his head, an' pitch'd in vower corners o' the groun'. an' then he velt his han' get all so num', he coulden veel a vinger or a thum'; an' after that his eärm begun to zwell, an' in the night a-bed he vound the skin o't peelèn off all round. 'twer near a month avore he got it well. jem. that wer vor hettèn [=o]'n. he should a let en alwone d'ye zee: 'twer wicked vor to het en. sundry pieces. a zong. o jenny, don't sobby! vor i shall be true; noo might under heaven shall peärt me vrom you. my heart will be cwold, jenny, when i do slight the zwell o' thy bosom, thy eyes' sparklèn light. my kinsvo'k would faïn zee me teäke vor my meäte a maïd that ha' wealth, but a maïd i should heäte; but i'd sooner leäbour wi' thee vor my bride, than live lik' a squier wi' any bezide. vor all busy kinsvo'k, my love will be still a-zet upon thee lik' the vir in the hill; an' though they mid worry, an' dreaten, an' mock, my head's in the storm, but my root's in the rock. zoo, jenny, don't sobby! vor i shall be true; noo might under heaven shall peärt me vrom you. my heart will be cwold, jenny, when i do slight the zwell o' thy bosom, thy eyes' sparklèn light. the maid vor my bride. ah! don't tell o' maïdens! the woone vor my bride is little lik' too many maïdens bezide,- not brantèn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind to think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind. she's straïght an' she's slender, but not over tall, wi' lim's that be lightsome, but not over small; the goodness o' heaven do breathe in her feäce, an' a queen, to be steätely, must walk wi' her peäce. her frocks be a-meäde all becomèn an' plaïn, an' cleän as a blossom undimm'd by a staïn; her bonnet ha' got but two ribbons, a-tied up under her chin, or let down at the zide. when she do speak to woone, she don't steäre an' grin; there's sense in her looks, vrom her eyes to her chin, an' her words be so kind, an' her speech is so meek, as her eyes do look down a-beginnèn to speak. her skin is so white as a lily, an' each ov her cheäks is so downy an' red as a peach; she's pretty a-zittèn; but oh! how my love do watch her to madness when woonce she do move. an' when she do walk hwome vrom church drough the groun', wi' woone eärm in mine, an' wi' woone a-hung down, i do think, an' do veel mwore o' sheäme than o' pride, that do meäke me look ugly to walk by her zide. zoo don't talk o' maïden's! the woone vor my bride is but little lik' too many maïdens bezide,- not brantèn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she've a mind to think o' what's right, an' a heart to be kind. the hwomestead. if i had all the land my zight can overlook vrom chalwell hill, vrom sherborn left to blanvord right, why i could be but happy still. an' i be happy wi' my spot o' freehold ground an' mossy cot, an' shoulden get a better lot if i had all my will. my orcha'd's wide, my trees be young; an' they do bear such heavy crops, their boughs, lik' onion-rwopes a-hung, be all a-trigg'd to year, wi' props. i got some geärden groun' to dig, a parrock, an' a cow an' pig; i got zome cider vor to swig, an' eäle o' malt an' hops. i'm landlord o' my little farm, i'm king 'ithin my little pleäce; i don't break laws, an' don't do harm, an' bent a-feär'd o' noo man's feäce. when i'm a-cover'd wi' my thatch, noo man do deäre to lift my latch; where honest han's do shut the hatch, there fear do leäve the pleäce. my lofty elem trees do screen my brown-ruf'd house, an' here below, my geese do strut athirt the green, an' hiss an' flap their wings o' snow; as i do walk along a rank ov apple trees, or by a bank, or zit upon a bar or plank, to see how things do grow. the farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter. no, no! i ben't a-runnèn down the pretty maïden's o' the town, nor wishèn o'm noo harm; but she that i would marry vu'st, to sheäre my good luck or my crust, 's a-bred up at a farm. in town, a maïd do zee mwore life, an' i don't under-reäte her; but ten to woone the sprackest wife 's a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter. vor she do veed, wi' tender ceäre, the little woones, an' peärt their heäir, an' keep em neat an' pirty; an' keep the saucy little chaps o' bwoys in trim wi' dreats an' slaps, when they be wild an' dirty. zoo if you'd have a bus'lèn wife, an' childern well look'd after, the maïd to help ye all drough life 's a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter. an' she can iorn up an' vwold a book o' clothes wï' young or wold, an' zalt an' roll the butter; an' meäke brown bread, an' elder wine, an' zalt down meat in pans o' brine, an' do what you can put her. zoo if you've wherewi', an' would vind a wife wo'th lookèn [=a]'ter, goo an' get a farmer in the mind to gi'e ye his woldest d[=a]'ter. her heart's so innocent an' kind, she idden thoughtless, but do mind her mother an' her duty; an' livèn blushes, that do spread upon her healthy feäce o' red, do heighten all her beauty; so quick's a bird, so neat's a cat, so cheerful in her neätur, the best o' maïdens to come at 's a farmer's woldest d[=a]'ter. uncle out o' debt an' out o' danger. ees; uncle had thik small hwomestead, the leäzes an' the bits o' mead, besides the orcha'd in his prime, an' copse-wood vor the winter time. his wold black meäre, that draw'd his cart, an' he, wer seldom long apeärt; vor he work'd hard an' païd his woy, an' zung so litsom as a bwoy, as he toss'd an' work'd, an' blow'd an' quirk'd, "i'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, an' i can feäce a friend or stranger; i've a vist vor friends, an' i'll vind a peäir vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meäre." his meäre's long vlexy vetlocks grow'd down roun' her hoofs so black an' brode; her head hung low, her taïl reach'd down a-bobbèn nearly to the groun'. the cwoat that uncle mwostly wore wer long behind an' straïght avore, an' in his shoes he had girt buckles, an' breeches button'd round his huckles; an' he zung wi' pride, by's wold meäre's zide, "i'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, an' i can feäce a friend or stranger; i've a vist vor friends, an' i'll vind a peäir vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." an' he would work,--an' lwoad, an' shoot, an' spur his heaps o' dung or zoot; or car out haÿ, to sar his vew milch cows in corners dry an' lew; or dreve a zyve, or work a pick, to pitch or meäke his little rick; or thatch en up wi' straw or zedge, or stop a shard, or gap, in hedge; an' he work'd an' flung his eärms, an' zung "i'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, an' i can feäce a friend or stranger; i've a vist vor friends, an' i'll vind a peäir vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." an' when his meäre an' he'd a-done their work, an' tired ev'ry bwone, he zot avore the vire, to spend his evenèn wi' his wife or friend; an' wi' his lags out-stratch'd vor rest, an' woone hand in his wes'coat breast, while burnèn sticks did hiss an' crack, an' fleämes did bleäzy up the back, there he zung so proud in a bakky cloud, "i'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, an' i can feäce a friend or stranger; i've a vist vor friends, an' i'll vind a peäir vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." from market how he used to ride, wi' pot's a-bumpèn by his zide wi' things a-bought--but not vor trust, vor what he had he païd vor vu'st; an' when he trotted up the yard, the calves did bleäry to be sar'd, an' pigs did scoat all drough the muck, an' geese did hiss, an' hens did cluck; an' he zung aloud, so pleased an' proud, "i'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, an' i can feäce a friend or stranger; i've a vist vor friends, an' i'll vind a peäir vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." when he wer joggèn hwome woone night vrom market, after candle-light, (he mid a-took a drop o' beer, or midden, vor he had noo fear,) zome ugly, long-lagg'd, herrèn ribs, jump'd out an' ax'd en vor his dibs; but he soon gi'ed en such a mawlèn, that there he left en down a-sprawlèn, while he jogg'd along wi' his own wold zong, "i'm out o' debt an' out o' danger, an' i can feäce a friend or stranger; i've a vist vor friends, an' i'll vind a peäir vor the vu'st that do meddle wi' me or my meare." the church an' happy zunday. ah! ev'ry day mid bring a while o' eäse vrom all woone's ceäre an' tweil, the welcome evenèn, when 'tis sweet vor tired friends wi' weary veet, but litsome hearts o' love, to meet; an' yet while weekly times do roll, the best vor body an' vor soul 's the church an' happy zunday. vor then our loosen'd souls do rise wi' holy thoughts beyond the skies, as we do think o' _him_ that shed his blood vor us, an' still do spread his love upon the live an' dead; an' how he gi'ed a time an' pleäce to gather us, an' gi'e us greäce,- the church an' happy zunday. there, under leänen mossy stwones, do lie, vorgot, our fathers' bwones, that trod this groun' vor years agoo, when things that now be wold wer new; an' comely maïdens, mild an' true, that meäde their sweet-hearts happy brides, an' come to kneel down at their zides at church o' happy zundays. 'tis good to zee woone's naïghbours come out drough the churchyard, vlockèn hwome, as woone do nod, an' woone do smile, an' woone do toss another's chile; an' zome be sheäken han's, the while poll's uncle, chuckèn her below her chin, do tell her she do grow, at church o' happy zundays. zoo while our blood do run in vaïns o' livèn souls in theäsum plaïns, mid happy housen smoky round the church an' holy bit o' ground; an' while their weddèn bells do sound, oh! mid em have the meäns o' greäce, the holy day an' holy pleäce, the church an' happy zunday. the wold waggon. the girt wold waggon uncle had, when i wer up a hardish lad, did stand, a-screen'd vrom het an' wet, in zummer at the barken geäte, below the elems' spreädèn boughs, a-rubb'd by all the pigs an' cows. an' i've a-clom his head an' zides, a-riggèn up or jumpèn down a-plaÿèn, or in happy rides along the leäne or drough the groun', an' many souls be in their greäves, that rod' together on his reäves; an' he, an' all the hosses too, 'v a-ben a-done vor years agoo. upon his head an' taïl wer pinks, a-païnted all in tangled links; his two long zides wer blue,--his bed bent slightly upward at the head; his reäves rose upward in a bow above the slow hind-wheels below. vour hosses wer a-kept to pull the girt wold waggon when 'twer vull; the black meäre _smiler_, strong enough to pull a house down by herzuf, so big, as took my widest strides to straddle halfway down her zides; an' champèn _vi'let_, sprack an' light, that foam'd an' pull'd wi' all her might: an' _whitevoot_, leäzy in the treäce, wi' cunnèn looks an' show-white feäce; bezides a baÿ woone, short-taïl _jack_, that wer a treäce-hoss or a hack. how many lwoads o' vuzz, to scald the milk, thik waggon have a-haul'd! an' wood vrom copse, an' poles vor raïls. an' bayèns wi' their bushy taïls; an' loose-ear'd barley, hangèn down outzide the wheels a'móst to groun', an' lwoads o' haÿ so sweet an' dry, a-builded straïght, an' long, an' high; an' haÿ-meäkers, a-zittèn roun' the reäves, a-ridèn hwome vrom groun', when jim gi'ed jenny's lips a-smack, an' jealous dicky whipp'd his back, an' maïdens scream'd to veel the thumps a-gi'ed by trenches an' by humps. but he, an' all his hosses too, 'v a-ben a-done vor years agoo. the drèven o' the common.[b] in the common by our hwome there wer freely-open room, vor our litty veet to roam by the vuzzen out in bloom. that wi' prickles kept our lags vrom the skylark's nest ov aggs; while the peewit wheel'd around wi' his cry up over head, or he sped, though a-limpèn, o'er the ground. there we heärd the whickr'èn meäre wi' her vaïce a-quiv'rèn high; where the cow did loudly bleäre by the donkey's vallèn cry. while a-stoopèn man did zwing his bright hook at vuzz or ling free o' fear, wi' wellglov'd hands, o' the prickly vuzz he vell'd, then sweet-smell'd as it died in faggot bands. when the haÿward drove the stock in a herd to zome oone pleäce, thither vo'k begun to vlock, each to own his beästes feäce. while the geese, bezide the stream, zent vrom gapèn bills a scream, an' the cattle then avound, without right o' greäzen there, went to bleäre braÿ or whicker in the pound. [footnote b: the driving of the common was by the _hayward_ who, whenever he thought fit, would drive all the cattle into a corner and impound all heads belonging to owners without a right of commonage for them, so that they had to ransom them by a fine.] the common a-took in. oh! no, poll, no! since they've a-took the common in, our lew wold nook don't seem a-bit as used to look when we had runnèn room; girt banks do shut up ev'ry drong, an' stratch wi' thorny backs along where we did use to run among the vuzzen an' the broom. ees; while the ragged colts did crop the nibbled grass, i used to hop the emmet-buts, vrom top to top, so proud o' my spry jumps: wi' thee behind or at my zide, a-skippèn on so light an' wide 's thy little frock would let thee stride, among the vuzzy humps. ah while the lark up over head did twitter, i did search the red thick bunch o' broom, or yollow bed o' vuzzen vor a nest; an' thou di'st hunt about, to meet wi' strawberries so red an' sweet, or clogs or shoes off hosses veet, or wild thyme vor thy breast; or when the cows did run about a-stung, in zummer, by the stout, or when they plaÿ'd, or when they foüght, di'st stand a-lookèn on: an' where white geese, wi' long red bills, did veed among the emmet-hills, there we did goo to vind their quills alongzide o' the pon'. what fun there wer among us, when the haÿward come, wi' all his men, to drève the common, an' to pen strange cattle in the pound; the cows did bleäre, the men did shout an' toss their eärms an' sticks about, an' vo'ks, to own their stock, come out vrom all the housen round. a wold friend. oh! when the friends we us'd to know, 'v a-been a-lost vor years; an' when zome happy day do come, to show their feäzen to our eyes ageän, do meäke us look behind, john, do bring wold times to mind, john, do meäke hearts veel, if they be steel, all warm, an' soft, an' kind, john. when we do lose, still gaÿ an' young, a vaïce that us'd to call woone's neäme, an' after years ageän his tongue do sound upon our ears the seäme, do kindle love anew, john, do wet woone's eyes wi' dew, john, as we do sheäke, vor friendship's seäke, his vist an' vind en true, john. what tender thoughts do touch woone's soul, when we do zee a meäd or hill where we did work, or plaÿ, or stroll, an' talk wi' vaïces that be still; 'tis touchèn vor to treäce, john, wold times drough ev'ry pleäce, john; but that can't touch woone's heart so much, as zome wold long-lost feäce, john. the rwose that deck'd her breast. poor jenny wer her robert's bride two happy years, an' then he died; an' zoo the wold vo'k meäde her come, vorseäken, to her maïden hwome. but jenny's merry tongue wer dum'; an' round her comely neck she wore a murnèn kerchif, where avore the rwose did deck her breast. she walk'd alwone, wi' eye-balls wet, to zee the flow'rs that she'd a-zet; the lilies, white's her maïden frocks, the spike, to put 'ithin her box, wi' columbines an' hollyhocks; the jilliflow'r an' noddèn pink, an' rwose that touch'd her soul to think ov woone that deck'd her breast. vor at her weddèn, just avore her maïden hand had yet a-wore a wife's goold ring, wi' hangèn head she walk'd along thik flower-bed, where stocks did grow, a-staïned wi' red, an' meärygoolds did skirt the walk, an' gather'd vrom the rwose's stalk a bud to deck her breast. an' then her cheäk, wi' youthvul blood wer bloomèn as the rwoses bud; but now, as she wi' grief do pine, 'tis peäle's the milk-white jessamine. but robert have a-left behine a little beäby wi' his feäce, to smile, an' nessle in the pleäce where the rwose did deck her breast. nanny's cow. ov all the cows, among the rest wer woone that nanny lik'd the best; an' after milkèn us'd to stan' a-veedèn o' her, vrom her han', wi' grass or haÿ; an' she know'd ann, an' in the evenèn she did come the vu'st, a-beätèn üp roun' hwome vor ann to come an' milk her. her back wer hollor as a bow, her lags wer short, her body low; her head wer small, her horns turn'd in avore her feäce so sharp's a pin: her eyes wer vull, her ears wer thin, an' she wer red vrom head to taïl, an' didden start nor kick the païl, when nanny zot to milk her. but losses zoon begun to vall on nanny's fàther, that wi' all his tweil he voun', wi' breakèn heart, that he mus' leäve his ground, an' peärt wi' all his beäst an' hoss an' cart; an', what did touch en mwost, to zell the red cow nanny lik'd so well, an' lik'd vor her to milk her. zalt tears did run vrom nanny's eyes, to hear her restless father's sighs. but as vor me, she mid be sure i wont vorzeäke her now she's poor, vor i do love her mwore an' mwore; an' if i can but get a cow an' parrock, i'll vulvil my vow, an' she shall come an' milk her. the shep'erd bwoy. when the warm zummer breeze do blow over the hill, an' the vlock's a-spread over the ground; when the vaïce o' the busy wold sheep dog is still, an' the sheep-bells do tinkle all round; where noo tree vor a sheäde but the thorn is a-vound, there, a zingèn a zong, or a-whislèn among the sheep, the young shep'erd do bide all day long. when the storm do come up wi' a thundery cloud that do shut out the zunlight, an' high over head the wild thunder do rumble so loud, an' the lightnèn do flash vrom the sky, where noo shelter's a-vound but his hut, that is nigh, there out ov all harm, in the dry an' the warm, the poor little shep'erd do smile at the storm. when the cwold winter win' do blow over the hill, an' the hore-vrost do whiten the grass, an' the breath o' the no'th is so cwold, as to chill the warm blood ov woone's heart as do pass; when the ice o' the pond is so slipp'ry as glass, there, a-zingèn a zong, or a-whislèn among the sheep, the poor shep'erd do bide all day long. when the shearèn's a-come, an' the shearers do pull in the sheep, hangèn back a-gwaïn in, wi' their roun' zides a-heavèn in under their wool, to come out all a-clipp'd to the skin; when the feästèn, an' zingèn, an fun do begin, vor to help em, an' sheäre all their me'th an' good feäre, the poor little shep'erd is sure to be there. hope a-left behind. don't try to win a maïden's heart, to leäve her in her love,--'tis wrong: 'tis bitter to her soul to peärt wi' woone that is her sweetheart long. a maïd's vu'st love is always strong; an' if do faïl, she'll linger on, wi' all her best o' pleasure gone, an' hope a-left behind her. thy poor lost jenny wer a-grow'd so kind an' thoughtvul vor her years, when she did meet wi' vo'k a-know'd the best, her love did speak in tears. she walk'd wi' thee, an' had noo fears o' thy unkindness, till she zeed herzelf a-cast off lik' a weed, an' hope a-left behind her. thy slight turn'd peäle her cherry lip; her sorrow, not a-zeed by eyes, wer lik' the mildew, that do nip a bud by darksome midnight skies. the day mid come, the zun mid rise, but there's noo hope o' day nor zun; the storm ha' blow'd, the harm's a-done, an' hope's a-left behind her. the time will come when thou wouldst gi'e the worold vor to have her smile, or meet her by the parrock tree, or catch her jumpèn off the stile; thy life's avore thee vor a while, but thou wilt turn thy mind in time, an' zee the deèd as 'tis,--a crime, an' hope a-left behind thee. zoo never win a maïden's heart, but her's that is to be thy bride, an' plaÿ drough life a manly peärt, an' if she's true when time ha' tried her mind, then teäke her by thy zide. true love will meäke thy hardships light, true love will meäke the worold bright, when hope's a-left behind thee. a good father. no; mind thy father. when his tongue is keen, he's still thy friend, john, vor wolder vo'k should warn the young how wickedness will end, john; an' he do know a wicked youth would be thy manhood's beäne, an' zoo would bring thee back ageän 'ithin the ways o' truth. an' mind en still when in the end his leäbour's all a-done, john, an' let en vind a steadvast friend in thee his thoughtvul son, john; vor he did win what thou didst lack avore couldst work or stand, an' zoo, when time do num' his hand, then pay his leäbour back. an' when his bwones be in the dust, then honour still his neäme, john; an' as his godly soul wer just, let thine be voun' the seäme, john. be true, as he wer true, to men, an' love the laws o' god; still tread the road that he've a-trod, an' live wi' him ageän. the beam in grenley church. in church at grenley woone mid zee a beam vrom wall to wall; a tree that's longer than the church is wide, an' zoo woone end o'n's drough outside,- not cut off short, but bound all round wi' lead, to keep en seäfe an' sound. back when the builders vu'st begun the church,--as still the teäle do run,- a man work'd wi' em; no man knew who 'twer, nor whither he did goo. he wer as harmless as a chile, an' work'd 'ithout a frown or smile, till any woaths or strife did rise to overcast his sparklèn eyes: an' then he'd call their minds vrom strife, to think upon another life. he wer so strong, that all alwone he lifted beams an' blocks o' stwone, that others, with the girtest païns, could hardly wag wi' bars an' chaïns; an' yet he never used to staÿ o' zaturdays, to teäke his paÿ. woone day the men wer out o' heart, to have a beam a-cut too short; an' in the evenèn, when they shut off work, they left en where 'twer put; an' while dumb night went softly by towárds the vi'ry western sky, a-lullèn birds, an' shuttèn up the deäisy an' the butter cup, they went to lay their heavy heads an' weary bwones upon their beds. an' when the dewy mornèn broke, an' show'd the worold, fresh awoke, their godly work ageän, they vound the beam they left upon the ground a-put in pleäce, where still do bide, an' long enough to reach outzide. but he unknown to tother men wer never there at work ageän: zoo whether he mid be a man or angel, wi' a helpèn han', or whether all o't wer a dream, they didden deäre to cut the beam. the vaïces that be gone. when evenèn sheädes o' trees do hide a body by the hedge's zide, an' twitt'rèn birds, wi' plaÿsome flight, do vlee to roost at comèn night, then i do saunter out o' zight in orcha'd, where the pleäce woonce rung wi' laughs a-laugh'd an' zongs a-zung by vaïces that be gone. there's still the tree that bore our swing, an' others where the birds did zing; but long-leav'd docks do overgrow the groun' we trampled heäre below, wi' merry skippèns to an' fro bezide the banks, where jim did zit a-plaÿèn o' the clarinit to vaïces that be gone. how mother, when we us'd to stun her head wi' all our naïsy fun, did wish us all a-gone vrom hwome: an' now that zome be dead, an' zome a-gone, an' all the pleäce is dum', how she do wish, wi' useless tears, to have ageän about her ears the vaïces that be gone. vor all the maïdens an' the bwoys but i, be marri'd off all woys, or dead an' gone; but i do bide at hwome, alwone, at mother's zide, an' often, at the evenèn-tide, i still do saunter out, wi' tears, down drough the orcha'd, where my ears do miss the vaïces gone. poll. when out below the trees, that drow'd their scraggy lim's athirt the road, while evenèn zuns, a'móst a-zet, gi'ed goolden light, but little het, the merry chaps an' maïdens met, an' look'd to zomebody to neäme their bit o' fun, a dance or geäme, 'twer poll they cluster'd round. an' after they'd a-had enough o' snappèn tongs, or blind-man's buff, o' winter nights, an' went an' stood avore the vire o' bleäzen wood, though there wer maïdens kind an' good, though there wer maïdens feäir an' tall, 'twer poll that wer the queen o'm all, an' poll they cluster'd round. an' when the childern used to catch a glimpse o' poll avore the hatch, the little things did run to meet their friend wi' skippèn tott'rèn veet an' thought noo other kiss so sweet as hers; an' nwone could vind em out such geämes to meäke em jump an' shout, as poll they cluster'd round. an' now, since she've a-left em, all the pleäce do miss her, girt an' small. in vaïn vor them the zun do sheen upon the lwonesome rwoad an' green; their zwing do hang vorgot between the leänen trees, vor they've a-lost the best o' maïdens, to their cost, the maïd they cluster'd round. looks a-know'd avore. while zome, a-gwaïn from pleäce to pleäce, do daily meet wi' zome new feäce, when my day's work is at an end, let me zit down at hwome, an' spend a happy hour wi' zome wold friend, an' by my own vire-zide rejaïce in zome wold naïghbour's welcome vaïce, an' looks i know'd avore, john. why is it, friends that we've a-met by zuns that now ha' long a-zet, or winter vires that bleäzed for wold an' young vo'k, now vor ever cwold, be met wi' jaÿ that can't be twold? why, 'tis because they friends have all our youthvul spring ha' left our fall,- the looks we know'd avore, john. 'tis lively at a feäir, among the chattèn, laughèn, shiften drong, when wold an' young, an' high an' low, do streamy round, an' to an' fro; but what new feäce that we don't know, can ever meäke woone's warm heart dance among ten thousan', lik' a glance o' looks we know'd avore, john. how of'en have the wind a-shook the leaves off into yonder brook, since vu'st we two, in youthvul strolls, did ramble roun' them bubblèn shoals! an' oh! that zome o' them young souls, that we, in jaÿ, did plaÿ wi' then could come back now, an' bring ageän the looks we know'd avore, john. so soon's the barley's dead an' down, the clover-leaf do rise vrom groun', an' wolder feäzen do but goo to be a-vollow'd still by new; but souls that be a-tried an' true shall meet ageän beyond the skies, an' bring to woone another's eyes the looks they know'd avore, john. the music o' the dead. when music, in a heart that's true, do kindle up wold loves anew, an' dim wet eyes, in feäirest lights, do zee but inward fancy's zights; when creepèn years, wi' with'rèn blights, 'v a-took off them that wer so dear, how touchèn 'tis if we do hear the tuèns o' the dead, john. when i, a-stannèn in the lew o' trees a storm's a-beätèn drough, do zee the slantèn mist a-drove by spitevul winds along the grove, an' hear their hollow sounds above my shelter'd head, do seem, as i do think o' zunny days gone by. lik' music vor the dead, john. last night, as i wer gwaïn along the brook, i heärd the milk-maïd's zong a-ringèn out so clear an' shrill along the meäds an' roun' the hill. i catch'd the tuèn, an' stood still to hear 't; 'twer woone that jeäne did zing a-vield a-milkèn in the spring,- sweet music o' the dead, john. don't tell o' zongs that be a-zung by young chaps now, wi' sheämeless tongue: zing me wold ditties, that would start the maïden's tears, or stir my heart to teäke in life a manly peärt,- the wold vo'k's zongs that twold a teäle, an' vollow'd round their mugs o' eäle, the music o' the dead, john. the pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'. why tidden vields an' runnèn brooks, nor trees in spring or fall; an' tidden woody slopes an' nooks, do touch us mwost ov all; an' tidden ivy that do cling by housen big an' wold, o, but this is, after all, the thing,- the pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'. at burn, where mother's young friends know'd the vu'st her maïden neäme, the zunny knaps, the narrow road an' green, be still the seäme; the squier's house, an' ev'ry ground that now his son ha' zwold, o, an' ev'ry wood he hunted round 's a pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'. the maïd a-lov'd to our heart's core, the dearest of our kin, do meäke us like the very door where they went out an' in. 'tis zome'hat touchèn that bevel poor flesh an' blood o' wold, o, do meäke us like to zee so well the pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'. when blushèn jenny vu'st did come to zee our poll o' nights, an' had to goo back leätish hwome, where vo'k did zee the zights, a-chattèn loud below the sky so dark, an' winds so cwold, o, how proud wer i to zee her by the pleäce the teäle's a-twold o'. zoo whether 'tis the humpy ground that wer a battle viel', or mossy house, all ivy-bound, an' vallèn down piece-meal; or if 'tis but a scraggy tree, where beauty smil'd o' wold, o, how dearly i do like to zee the pleäce a teäle's a-twold o'. aunt's tantrums. why ees, aunt anne's a little staïd, but kind an' merry, poor wold maïd! if we don't cut her heart wi' slights, she'll zit an' put our things to rights, upon a hard day's work, o' nights; but zet her up, she's jis' lik' vier, an' woe betide the woone that's nigh 'er. when she is in her tantrums. she'll toss her head, a-steppèn out such strides, an' fling the païls about; an' slam the doors as she do goo, an' kick the cat out wi' her shoe, enough to het her off in two. the bwoys do bundle out o' house, a-lassen they should get a towse, when aunt is in her tantrums. she whurr'd, woone day, the wooden bowl in such a veag at my poor poll; it brush'd the heäir above my crown, an' whizz'd on down upon the groun', an' knock'd the bantam cock right down, but up he sprung, a-teäkèn flight wi' tothers, cluckèn in a fright, vrom aunt in such a tantrum! but dick stole in, an' reach'd en down the biggest blather to be voun', an' crope an' put en out o' zight avore the vire, an' plimm'd en tight an crack'd en wi' the slice thereright she scream'd, an' bundled out o' house, an' got so quiet as a mouse,- it frighten'd off her tantrum. the stwonèn pworch. a new house! ees, indeed! a small straïght, upstart thing, that, after all, do teäke in only half the groun' the wold woone did avore 'twer down; wi' little windows straïght an' flat, not big enough to zun a-cat, an' dealèn door a-meäde so thin, a puff o' wind would blow en in, where woone do vind a thing to knock so small's the hammer ov a clock, that wull but meäke a little click about so loud's a clock do tick! gi'e me the wold house, wi' the wide an' lofty-lo'ted rooms inside; an' wi' the stwonèn pworch avore the naïl-bestudded woaken door, that had a knocker very little less to handle than a bittle, that het a blow that vled so loud drough house as thunder drough a cloud. an' meäde the dog behind the door growl out so deep's a bull do roar. in all the house, o' young an' wold, there werden woone but could a-twold when he'd noo wish to seek abrode mwore jaÿ than thik wold pworch bestow'd! for there, when yollow evenèn shed his light ageän the elem's head, an' gnots did whiver in the zun, an' uncle's work wer all a-done, his whiffs o' meltèn smoke did roll above his bendèn pipe's white bowl, while he did chat, or, zittèn dumb, injaÿ his thoughts as they did come. an' jimmy, wi' his crowd below his chin, did dreve his nimble bow in tuèns vor to meäke us spring a-reelèn, or in zongs to zing, an' there, between the dark an' light, zot poll by willy's zide at night a-whisp'rèn, while her eyes did zwim in jaÿ avore the twilight dim; an' when (to know if she wer near) aunt call'd, did cry, "ees, mother; here." no, no; i woulden gi'e thee thanks vor fine white walls an' vloors o' planks, nor doors a-päinted up so fine. if i'd a wold grey house o' mine, gi'e me vor all it should be small, a stwonèn pworch instead [=o]'t all. farmer's sons. ov all the chaps a-burnt so brown by zunny hills an' hollors, ov all the whindlèn chaps in town wi' backs so weak as rollers, there's narn that's half so light o' heart, (i'll bet, if thou't zay "done," min,) an' narn that's half so strong an' smart, 's a merry farmer's son, min. he'll fling a stwone so true's a shot, he'll jump so light's a cat; he'll heave a waïght up that would squot a weakly fellow flat. he wont gi'e up when things don't faÿ, but turn em into fun, min; an' what's hard work to zome, is plaÿ avore a farmer's son, min. his bwony eärm an' knuckly vist ('tis best to meäke a friend o't) would het a fellow, that's a-miss'd, half backward wi' the wind o't. wi' such a chap at hand, a maïd would never goo a nun, min; she'd have noo call to be afraïd bezide a farmer's son, min. he'll turn a vurrow, drough his langth, so straïght as eyes can look, or pitch all day, wi' half his strangth, at ev'ry pitch a pook; an' then goo vower mile, or vive, to vind his friends in fun, min, vor maïden's be but dead alive 'ithout a farmer's son, min. zoo jaÿ be in his heart so light, an' manly feäce so brown; an' health goo wi' en hwome at night, vrom meäd, or wood, or down. o' rich an' poor, o' high an' low, when all's a-said an' done, min, the smartest chap that i do know, 's a workèn farmer's son, min. jeäne. we now mid hope vor better cheer, my smilèn wife o' twice vive year. let others frown, if thou bist near wi' hope upon thy brow, jeäne; vor i vu'st lov'd thee when thy light young sheäpe vu'st grew to woman's height; i loved thee near, an' out o' zight, an' i do love thee now, jeäne. an' we've a-trod the sheenèn bleäde ov eegrass in the zummer sheäde, an' when the leäves begun to feäde wi' zummer in the weäne, jeäne; an' we've a-wander'd drough the groun' o' swayèn wheat a-turnèn brown, an' we've a-stroll'd together roun' the brook an' drough the leäne, jeane. an' nwone but i can ever tell ov all thy tears that have a-vell when trials meäde thy bosom zwell, an' nwone but thou o' mine, jeäne; an' now my heart, that heav'd wi' pride back then to have thee at my zide, do love thee mwore as years do slide, an' leäve them times behine, jeäne. the dree woaks. by the brow o' thik hangèn i spent all my youth, in the house that did peep out between the dree woaks, that in winter avworded their lewth, an' in zummer their sheäde to the green; an' there, as in zummer we play'd at our geämes, we [=e]ach own'd a tree, vor we wer but dree, an' zoo the dree woaks wer a-call'd by our neämes. an' two did grow scraggy out over the road, an' they wer call'd jimmy's an' mine; an' tother wer jeännet's, much kindlier grow'd, wi' a knotless an' white ribbèd rine. an' there, o' fine nights avore gwäin in to rest, we did dance, vull o' life, to the sound o' the fife, or plaÿ at some geäme that poor jeännet lik'd best. zoo happy wer we by the woaks o' the green, till we lost sister jeännet, our pride; vor when she wer come to her last blushèn _teen_, she suddenly zicken'd an' died. an' avore the green leaves in the fall wer gone by, the lightnèn struck dead her woaken tree's head, an' left en a-stripp'd to the wintery sky. but woone ov his eäcorns, a-zet in the fall, come up the spring after, below the trees at her head-stwone 'ithin the church-wall, an' mother, to see how did grow, shed a tear; an' when father an' she wer bwoth dead, there they wer laid deep, wi' their jeännet, to sleep, wi' her at his zide, an' her tree at her head. an' vo'k do still call the wold house the dree woaks, vor thik is a-reckon'd that's down, as mother, a-neämèn her childern to vo'ks, meäde dree when but two wer a-voun'; an' zaid that hereafter she knew she should zee why god, that's above, vound fit in his love to strike wi' his han' the poor maïd an' her tree. the hwomestead a-vell into hand. the house where i wer born an' bred, did own his woaken door, john, when vu'st he shelter'd father's head, an' gramfer's long avore, john. an' many a ramblèn happy chile, an' chap so strong an' bwold, an' bloomèn maïd wi' plaÿsome smile, did call their hwome o' wold thik ruf so warm, a kept vrom harm by elem trees that broke the storm. an' in the orcha'd out behind, the apple-trees in row, john, did swaÿ wi' moss about their rind their heads a-noddèn low, john. an' there, bezide zome groun' vor corn, two strips did skirt the road; in woone the cow did toss her horn, while tother wer a-mow'd, in june, below the lofty row ov trees that in the hedge did grow. a-workèn in our little patch o' parrock, rathe or leäte, john, we little ho'd how vur mid stratch the squier's wide esteäte, john. our hearts, so honest an' so true, had little vor to fear; vor we could pay up all their due an' gi'e a friend good cheer at hwome, below the lofty row o' trees a-swaÿèn to an' fro. an' there in het, an' there in wet, we tweil'd wi' busy hands, john; vor ev'ry stroke o' work we het, did better our own lands, john. but after me, ov all my kin, not woone can hold em on; vor we can't get a life put in vor mine, when i'm a-gone vrom thik wold brown thatch ruf, a-boun' by elem trees a-growèn roun'. ov eight good hwomes, where, i can mind vo'k liv'd upon their land, john, but dree be now a-left behind; the rest ha' vell in hand, john, an' all the happy souls they ved be scatter'd vur an' wide. an' zome o'm be a-wantèn bread, zome, better off, ha' died, noo mwore to ho, vor homes below the trees a-swaÿen to an' fro. an' i could leäd ye now all round the parish, if i would, john, an' show ye still the very ground where vive good housen stood, john in broken orcha'ds near the spot, a vew wold trees do stand; but dew do vall where vo'k woonce zot about the burnèn brand in housen warm, a-kept vrom harm by elems that did break the storm. the guide post. why thik wold post so long kept out, upon the knap, his eärms astrout, a-zendèn on the weary veet by where the dree cross roads do meet; an' i've a-come so much thik woy, wi' happy heart, a man or bwoy, that i'd a-meäde, at last, a'móst a friend o' thik wold guidèn post. an' there, wi' woone white eärm he show'd, down over bridge, the leyton road; wi' woone, the leäne a-leädèn roun' by bradlinch hill, an' on to town; an' wi' the last, the way to turn drough common down to rushiburn,- the road i lik'd to goo the mwost ov all upon the guidèn post. the leyton road ha' lofty ranks ov elem trees upon his banks; the woone athirt the hill do show us miles o' hedgy meäds below; an' he to rushiburn is wide wi' strips o' green along his zide, an' ouer brown-ruf'd house a-móst in zight o' thik wold guidèn post. an' when the haÿ-meäkers did zwarm o' zummer evenèns out vrom farm. the merry maïdens an' the chaps, a-peärtèn there wi' jokes an' slaps, did goo, zome woone way off, an' zome another, all a-zingèn hwome; vor vew o'm had to goo, at mwost, a mile beyond the guidèn post. poor nanny brown, woone darkish night, when he'd a-been a-païnted white, wer frighten'd, near the gravel pits, so dead's a hammer into fits, a-thinkèn 'twer the ghost she know'd did come an' haunt the leyton road; though, after all, poor nanny's ghost turn'd out to be the guidèn post. gwain to feäir. to morrow stir so brisk's you can, an' get your work up under han'; vor i an' jim, an' poll's young man, shall goo to feäir; an' zoo, if you wull let us gi'e ye a eärm along the road, or in the zwarm o' vo'k, we'll keep ye out o' harm, an' gi'e ye a feäirèn too. we won't stay leäte there, i'll be boun'; we'll bring our sheädes off out o' town a mile, avore the zun is down, if he's a sheenèn clear. zoo when your work is all a-done, your mother can't but let ye run an' zee a little o' the fun, there's nothèn there to fear. jeäne o' grenley mill. when in happy times we met, then by look an' deed i show'd, how my love wer all a-zet in the smiles that she bestow'd. she mid have, o' left an' right, maïdens feäirest to the zight; i'd a-chose among em still, pretty jeäne o' grenley mill. she wer feäirer, by her cows in her work-day frock a-drest, than the rest wi' scornvul brows all a-flantèn in their best. gaÿ did seem, at feäst or feäir, zights that i had her to sheäre; gaÿ would be my own heart still, but vor jeäne o' grenley mill. jeäne--a-checkèn ov her love- leän'd to woone that, as she guess'd, stood in worldly wealth above me she know'd she lik'd the best. he wer wild, an' soon run drough all that he'd a-come into, heartlessly a-treatèn ill pretty jeäne o' grenley mill. oh! poor jenny! thou'st a tore hopèn love vrom my poor heart, losèn vrom thy own small store, all the better, sweeter peärt. hearts a-slighted must vorseäke slighters, though a-doom'd to break; i must scorn, but love thee still, pretty jeäne o' grenley mill. oh! if ever thy soft eyes could ha' turn'd vrom outward show, to a lover born to rise when a higher woone wer low; if thy love, when zoo a-tried, could ha' stood ageän thy pride, how should i ha' lov'd thee still, pretty jeäne o' grenley mill. the bells ov alderburnham. while now upon the win' do zwell the church-bells' evenèn peal, o, along the bottom, who can tell how touch'd my heart do veel, o. to hear ageän, as woonce they rung in holidays when i wer young, wi' merry sound a-ringèn round, the bells ov alderburnham. vor when they rung their gaÿest peals o' zome sweet day o' rest, o, we all did ramble drough the viels, a-dress'd in all our best, o; an' at the bridge or roarèn weir, or in the wood, or in the gleäre ov open ground, did hear ring round the bells ov alderburnham. they bells, that now do ring above the young brides at church-door, o, woonce rung to bless their mother's love, when they were brides avore, o. an' sons in tow'r do still ring on the merry peals o' fathers gone, noo mwore to sound, or hear ring round, the bells ov alderburnham. ov happy peäirs, how soon be zome a-wedded an' a-peärted! vor woone ov jaÿ, what peals mid come to zome o's broken-hearted! the stronger mid the sooner die, the gaÿer mid the sooner sigh; an' who do know what grief's below the bells ov alderburnham! but still 'tis happiness to know that there's a god above us; an' he, by day an' night, do ho vor all ov us, an' love us, an' call us to his house, to heal our hearts, by his own zunday peal ov bells a-rung vor wold an' young, the bells ov alderburnham. the girt wold house o' mossy stwone. the girt wold house o' mossy stwone, up there upon the knap alwone, had woonce a bleäzèn kitchèn-vier, that cook'd vor poor-vo'k an' a squier. the very last ov all the reäce that liv'd the squier o' the pleäce, died off when father wer a-born, an' now his kin be all vorlorn vor ever,--vor he left noo son to teäke the house o' mossy stwone. an' zoo he vell to other hands, an' gramfer took en wi' the lands: an' there when he, poor man, wer dead, my father shelter'd my young head. an' if i wer a squier, i should like to spend my life, an' die in thik wold house o' mossy stwone, up there upon the knap alwone. don't talk ov housen all o' brick, wi' rockèn walls nine inches thick, a-trigg'd together zide by zide in streets, wi' fronts a straddle wide, wi' yards a-sprinkled wi' a mop, too little vor a vrog to hop; but let me live an' die where i can zee the ground, an' trees, an' sky. the girt wold house o' mossy stwone had wings vor either sheäde or zun: woone where the zun did glitter drough, when vu'st he struck the mornèn dew; woone feäced the evenèn sky, an' woone push'd out a pworch to zweaty noon: zoo woone stood out to break the storm, an' meäde another lew an' warm. an' there the timber'd copse rose high, where birds did build an' heäres did lie, an' beds o' grægles in the lew, did deck in maÿ the ground wi' blue. an' there wer hills an' slopèn grounds, that they did ride about wi' hounds; an' drough the meäd did creep the brook wi' bushy bank an' rushy nook, where perch did lie in sheädy holes below the alder trees, an' shoals o' gudgeon darted by, to hide theirzelves in hollows by the zide. an' there by leänes a-windèn deep, wer mossy banks a-risèn steep; an' stwonèn steps, so smooth an' wide, to stiles an' vootpaths at the zide. an' there, so big's a little ground, the geärden wer a-wall'd all round: an' up upon the wall wer bars a-sheäped all out in wheels an' stars, vor vo'k to walk, an' look out drough vrom trees o' green to hills o' blue. an' there wer walks o' peävement, broad enough to meäke a carriage-road, where steätely leädies woonce did use to walk wi' hoops an' high-heel shoes, when yonder hollow woak wer sound, avore the walls wer ivy-bound, avore the elems met above the road between em, where they drove their coach all up or down the road a-comèn hwome or gwaïn abroad. the zummer aïr o' theäse green hill 'v a-heav'd in bosoms now all still, an' all their hopes an' all their tears be unknown things ov other years. but if, in heaven, souls be free to come back here; or there can be an e'thly pleäce to meäke em come to zee it vrom a better hwome,- then what's a-twold us mid be right, that still, at dead o' tongueless night, their gauzy sheäpes do come an' glide by vootways o' their youthvul pride. an' while the trees do stan' that grow'd vor them, or walls or steps they know'd do bide in pleäce, they'll always come to look upon their e'thly hwome. zoo i would always let alwone the girt wold house o' mossy stwone: i woulden pull a wing o'n down, to meäke ther speechless sheädes to frown; vor when our souls, mid woonce become lik' their's, all bodiless an' dumb, how good to think that we mid vind zome thought vrom them we left behind, an' that zome love mid still unite the hearts o' blood wi' souls o' light. zoo, if 'twer mine, i'd let alwone the girt wold house o' mossy stwone. a witch. there's thik wold hag, moll brown, look zee, jus' past! i wish the ugly sly wold witch would tumble over into ditch; i woulden pull her out not very vast. no, no. i don't think she's a bit belied, no, she's a witch, aye, molly's evil-eyed. vor i do know o' many a-withrèn blight a-cast on vo'k by molly's mutter'd spite; she did, woone time, a dreadvul deäl o' harm to farmer gruff's vo'k, down at lower farm. vor there, woone day, they happened to offend her, an' not a little to their sorrow, because they woulden gi'e or lend her zome'hat she come to bag or borrow; an' zoo, they soon began to vind that she'd agone an' left behind her evil wish that had such pow'r, that she did meäke their milk an' eäle turn zour, an' addle all the aggs their vowls did lay; they coulden vetch the butter in the churn, an' all the cheese begun to turn all back ageän to curds an' whey; the little pigs, a-runnèn wi' the zow, did zicken, zomehow, noobody know'd how, an' vall, an' turn their snouts towárd the sky. an' only gi'e woone little grunt, and die; an' all the little ducks an' chickèn wer death-struck out in yard a-pickèn their bits o' food, an' vell upon their head, an' flapp'd their little wings an' drapp'd down dead. they coulden fat the calves, they woulden thrive; they coulden seäve their lambs alive; their sheep wer all a-coath'd, or gi'ed noo wool; the hosses vell away to skin an' bwones, an' got so weak they coulden pull a half a peck o' stwones: the dog got dead-alive an' drowsy, the cat vell zick an' woulden mousy; an' every time the vo'k went up to bed, they wer a-hag-rod till they wer half dead. they us'd to keep her out o' house, 'tis true, a-naïlèn up at door a hosses shoe; an' i've a-heärd the farmer's wife did try to dawk a needle or a pin in drough her wold hard wither'd skin, an' draw her blood, a-comèn by: but she could never vetch a drap, for pins would ply an' needless snap ageän her skin; an' that, in coo'se, did meäke the hag bewitch em woo'se. [gothic: eclogue.] the times. _john an' tom._ john. well, tom, how be'st? zoo thou'st a-got thy neäme among the leaguers, then, as i've a heärd. tom. aye, john, i have, john; an' i ben't afeärd to own it. why, who woulden do the seäme? we shant goo on lik' this long, i can tell ye. bread is so high an' wages be so low, that, after workèn lik' a hoss, you know, a man can't eärn enough to vill his belly. john. ah! well! now there, d'ye know, if i wer sure that theäsem men would gi'e me work to do all drough the year, an' always pay me mwore than i'm a-eärnèn now, i'd jein em too. if i wer sure they'd bring down things so cheap, that what mid buy a pound o' mutton now would buy the hinder quarters, or the sheep, or what wull buy a pig would buy a cow: in short, if they could meäke a shillèn goo in market just so vur as two, why then, d'ye know, i'd be their man; but, hang it! i don't think they can. tom. why ees they can, though you don't know't, an' theäsem men can meäke it clear. why vu'st they'd zend up members ev'ry year to parli'ment, an' ev'ry man would vote; vor if a fellow midden be a squier, he mid be just so fit to vote, an' goo to meäke the laws at lon'on, too, as many that do hold their noses higher. why shoulden fellows meäke good laws an' speeches a-dressed in fusti'n cwoats an' cord'roy breeches? or why should hooks an' shovels, zives an' axes, keep any man vrom votèn o' the taxes? an' when the poor've a-got a sheäre in meäkèn laws, they'll teäke good ceäre to meäke some good woones vor the poor. do stan' by reason, john; because the men that be to meäke the laws, will meäke em vor theirzelves, you mid be sure. john. ees, that they wull. the men that you mid trust to help you, tom, would help their own zelves vu'st. tom. aye, aye. but we would have a better plan o' votèn, than the woone we got. a man, as things be now, d'ye know, can't goo an' vote ageän another man, but he must know't. we'll have a box an' balls, vor votèn men to pop their hands 'ithin, d'ye know; an' then, if woone don't happen vor to lik' a man, he'll drop a little black ball vrom his han', an' zend en hwome ageän. he woon't be led to choose a man to teäke away his bread. john. but if a man you midden like to 'front, should chance to call upon ye, tom, zome day, an' ax ye vor your vote, what could ye zay? why if you woulden answer, or should grunt or bark, he'd know you'd meän "i won't." to promise woone a vote an' not to gi'e't, is but to be a liar an' a cheat. an' then, bezides, when he did count the balls, an' vind white promises a-turn'd half black; why then he'd think the voters all a pack o' rogues together,--ev'ry woone o'm false. an' if he had the power, very soon perhaps he'd vall upon em, ev'ry woone. the times be pinchèn me, so well as you, but i can't tell what ever they can do. tom. why meäke the farmers gi'e their leäbourèn men mwore wages,--half or twice so much ageän as what they got. john. but, thomas, you can't meäke a man pay mwore away than he can teäke. if you do meäke en gi'e, to till a vield, so much ageän as what the groun' do yield, he'll shut out farmèn--or he'll be a goose- an' goo an' put his money out to use. wages be low because the hands be plenty; they mid be higher if the hands wer skenty. leäbour, the seäme's the produce o' the yield, do zell at market price--jist what 'till yield. thou wouldsten gi'e a zixpence, i do guess, vor zix fresh aggs, if zix did zell for less. if theäsem vo'k could come an' meäke mwore lands, if they could teäke wold england in their hands an' stratch it out jist twice so big ageän, they'd be a-doèn some'hat vor us then. tom. but if they wer a-zent to parli'ment to meäke the laws, dost know, as i've a-zaid, they'd knock the corn-laws on the head; an' then the landlards must let down their rent, an' we should very soon have cheaper bread: farmers would gi'e less money vor their lands. john. aye, zoo they mid, an' prices mid be low'r vor what their land would yield; an' zoo their hands would be jist where they wer avore. an' if theäse men wer all to hold together, they coulden meäke new laws to change the weather! they ben't so mighty as to think o' frightenèn the vrost an' raïn, the thunder an' the lightenèn! an' as vor me, i don't know what to think o' them there fine, big-talkèn, cunnèn, strange men, a-comèn down vrom lon'on. why they don't stint theirzelves, but eat an' drink the best at public-house where they do staÿ; they don't work gratis, they do get their paÿ. they woulden pinch theirzelves to do us good, nor gi'e their money vor to buy us food. d'ye think, if we should meet em in the street zome day in lon'on, they would stand a treat? tom. they be a-païd, because they be a-zent by corn-law vo'k that be the poor man's friends, to tell us all how we mid gaïn our ends, a-zendèn peäpers up to parli'ment. john. ah! teäke ceäre how dost trust em. dost thou know the funny feäble o' the pig an' crow? woone time a crow begun to strut an' hop about some groun' that men'd a-been a-drillèn wi' barley or some wheat, in hopes o' villèn wi' good fresh corn his empty crop. but lik' a thief, he didden like the païns o' workèn hard to get en a vew graïns; zoo while the sleeky rogue wer there a-huntèn, wi' little luck, vor corns that mid be vound a-peckèn vor, he heärd a pig a-gruntèn just tother zide o' hedge, in tother ground. "ah!" thought the cunnèn rogue, an' gi'ed a hop, "ah! that's the way vor me to vill my crop; aye, that's the plan, if nothèn don't defeät it. if i can get thik pig to bring his snout in here a bit an' turn the barley out, why, hang it! i shall only have to eat it." wi' that he vled up straïght upon a woak, an' bowèn, lik' a man at hustèns, spoke: "my friend," zaid he, "that's poorish livèn vor ye in thik there leäze. why i be very zorry to zee how they hard-hearted vo'k do sarve ye. you can't live there. why! do they meän to starve ye?" "ees," zaid the pig, a-gruntèn, "ees; what wi' the hosses an' the geese, there's only docks an' thissles here to chaw. instead o' livèn well on good warm straw, i got to grub out here, where i can't pick enough to meäke me half an ounce o' flick." "well," zaid the crow, "d'ye know, if you'll stan' that, you mussen think, my friend, o' gettèn fat. d'ye want some better keep? vor if you do, why, as a friend, i be a-come to tell ye, that if you'll come an' jus' get drough theäse gap up here, why you mid vill your belly. why, they've a-been a-drillèn corn, d'ye know, in theäse here piece o' groun' below; an' if you'll just put in your snout, an' run en up along a drill, why, hang it! you mid grub it out, an' eat, an' eat your vill. their idden any fear that vo'k mid come, vor all the men be jist a-gone in hwome." the pig, believèn ev'ry single word that wer a-twold en by the cunnèn bird wer only vor his good, an' that 'twer true, just gi'ed a grunt, an' bundled drough, an' het his nose, wi' all his might an' maïn, right up a drill, a-routèn up the graïn; an' as the cunnèn crow did gi'e a caw a-praisèn [=o]'n, oh! he did veel so proud! an' work'd, an' blow'd, an' toss'd, an' ploughed the while the cunnèn crow did vill his maw. an' after workèn till his bwones did eäche, he soon begun to veel that he should never get a meal, unless he dined on dirt an' stwones. "well," zaid the crow, "why don't ye eat?" "eat what, i wonder!" zaid the heäiry plougher. a-brislèn up an' lookèn rather zour; "i don't think dirt an' flints be any treat." "well," zaid the crow, "why you be blind. what! don't ye zee how thick the corn do lie among the dirt? an' don't ye zee how i do pick up all that you do leäve behind? i'm zorry that your bill should be so snubby." "no," zaid the pig, "methinks that i do zee my bill will do uncommon well vor thee, vor thine wull peck, an' mine wull grubby." an' just wi' this a-zaid by mister flick to mister crow, wold john the farmer's man come up, a-zwingèn in his han' a good long knotty stick, an' laid it on, wi' all his might, the poor pig's vlitches, left an' right; while mister crow, that talk'd so fine o' friendship, left the pig behine, an' vled away upon a distant tree, vor pigs can only grub, but crows can vlee. tom. aye, thik there teäle mid do vor childern's books: but you wull vind it hardish for ye to frighten me, john, wi' a storry o' silly pigs an' cunnèn rooks. if we be grubbèn pigs, why then, i s'pose, the farmers an' the girt woones be the crows. john. 'tis very odd there idden any friend to poor-vo'k hereabout, but men mus' come to do us good away from tother end ov england! han't we any frien's near hwome? i mus' zay, thomas, that 'tis rather odd that strangers should become so very civil,- that ouer vo'k be childern o' the devil, an' other vo'k be all the vo'k o' god! if we've a-got a friend at all, why who can tell--i'm sure thou cassen- but that the squier, or the pa'son, mid be our friend, tom, after all? the times be hard, 'tis true! an' they that got his blessèns, shoulden let theirzelves vorget how 'tis where the vo'k do never zet a bit o' meat within their rusty pot. the man a-zittèn in his easy chair to flesh, an' vowl, an' vish, should try to speäre the poor theäse times, a little vrom his store; an' if he don't, why sin is at his door. tom. ah! we won't look to that; we'll have our right,- if not by feäir meäns, then we wull by might. we'll meäke times better vor us; we'll be free ov other vo'k an' others' charity. john. ah! i do think you mid as well be quiet; you'll meäke things wo'se, i'-ma'-be, by a riot. you'll get into a mess, tom, i'm afeärd; you'll goo vor wool, an' then come hwome a-sheär'd. poems of rural life. second collection. blackmwore maidens. the primrwose in the sheäde do blow, the cowslip in the zun, the thyme upon the down do grow, the clote where streams do run; an' where do pretty maïdens grow an' blow, but where the tow'r do rise among the bricken tuns, in blackmwore by the stour. if you could zee their comely gaït, an' prettÿ feäces' smiles, a-trippèn on so light o' waïght, an' steppèn off the stiles; a-gwaïn to church, as bells do swing an' ring 'ithin the tow'r, you'd own the pretty maïdens' pleäce is blackmwore by the stour. if you vrom wimborne took your road, to stower or paladore, an' all the farmers' housen show'd their daughters at the door; you'd cry to bachelors at hwome- "here, come: 'ithin an hour you'll vind ten maïdens to your mind, in blackmwore by the stour." an' if you look'd 'ithin their door, to zee em in their pleäce, a-doèn housework up avore their smilèn mother's feäce; you'd cry--"why, if a man would wive an' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r, then let en look en out a wife in blackmwore by the stour." as i upon my road did pass a school-house back in maÿ, there out upon the beäten grass wer maïdens at their plaÿ; an' as the pretty souls did tweil an' smile, i cried, "the flow'r o' beauty, then, is still in bud in blackmwore by the stour." my orcha'd in linden lea. 'ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleäded, by the woak tree's mossy moot, the sheenèn grass-bleädes, timber-sheäded, now do quiver under voot; an' birds do whissle over head, an' water's bubblèn in its bed, an' there vor me the apple tree do leän down low in linden lea. when leaves that leätely wer a-springèn now do feäde 'ithin the copse, an' païnted birds do hush their zingèn up upon the timber's tops; an' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnèn red, in cloudless zunsheen, over head, wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree do leän down low in linden lea. let other vo'k meäke money vaster in the aïr o' dark-room'd towns, i don't dread a peevish meäster; though noo man do heed my frowns, i be free to goo abrode, or teäke ageän my hwomeward road to where, vor me, the apple tree do leän down low in linden lea. bishop's caundle. at peace day, who but we should goo to caundle vor an' hour or two: as gaÿ a day as ever broke above the heads o' caundle vo'k, vor peace, a-come vor all, did come to them wi' two new friends at hwome. zoo while we kept, wi' nimble peäce, the wold dun tow'r avore our feäce, the aïr, at last, begun to come wi' drubbèns ov a beäten drum; an' then we heärd the horns' loud droats plaÿ off a tuen's upper notes; an' then ageän a-risèn cheärm vrom tongues o' people in a zwarm: an' zoo, at last, we stood among the merry feäces o' the drong. an' there, wi' garlands all a-tied in wreaths an' bows on every zide, an' color'd flags, a fluttrèn high an' bright avore the sheenèn sky, the very guide-post wer a-drest wi' posies on his eärms an' breast. at last, the vo'k zwarm'd in by scores an' hundreds droo the high barn-doors, to dine on english feäre, in ranks, a-zot on chairs, or stools, or planks, by bwoards a-reachèn, row an' row, 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; an' slowly-zwingèn flags did spread their hangèn colors over head. an' then the vo'k, wi' jaÿ an' pride, 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 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 stood up to gi'e em all a twoast, that they did drink, wi' shouts o' glee, an' whirlèn eärms to dree times dree. an' when the bwoards at last wer beäre ov all the cloths an' goodly feäre, an' froth noo longer rose to zwim within the beer-mugs sheenèn rim, the vo'k, a-streamèn drough the door, went out to geämes they had in store an' on the blue-reäv'd waggon's bed, above his vower wheels o' red, musicians zot in rows, an' plaÿ'd their tuèns up to chap an' maïd, that beät, wi' plaÿsome tooes an' heels, the level ground in nimble reels. an' zome ageän, a-zet in line, an' startèn at a given sign, wi' outreach'd breast, a-breathèn quick droo op'nèn lips, did nearly kick their polls, a-runnèn sich a peäce, wi' streamèn heäir, to win the reäce. an' in the house, an' on the green, an' in the shrubb'ry's leafy screen, on ev'ry zide we met sich lots o' smilèn friends in happy knots, that i do think, that drough the feäst in caundle, vor a day at leäst, you woudden vind a scowlèn feäce or dumpy heart in all the pleäce. hay meaken--nunchen time. _anne an' john a-ta'kèn o't._ a. back here, but now, the jobber john come by, an' cried, "well done, zing on, i thought as i come down the hill, an' heärd your zongs a-ringèn sh'ill, 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 by lwoaders, yards above his head, 't'ud meäke en wipe his drippèn brow. a. or else a-reäken after plow. j. or workèn, wi' his nimble pick, a-stiffled wi' the haÿ, at rick. a. our company would suit en best, when we do teäke our bit o' rest, at nunch, a-gather'd here below the sheäde theäse wide-bough'd woak do drow, where hissèn froth mid rise, an' float in horns o' eäle, to wet his droat. j. aye, if his zwellèn han' could drag a meat-slice vrom his dinner bag. 't'ud meäke the busy little chap look rather glum, to zee his lap wi' all his meal ov woone dry croust, an' vinny cheese so dry as doust. a. well, i don't grumble at my food, 'tis wholesome, john, an' zoo 'tis good. j. whose reäke is that a-lyèn there? do look a bit the woo'se vor wear. a. oh! i mus' get the man to meäke a tooth or two vor thik wold reäke, 'tis leäbour lost to strik a stroke wi' him, wi' half his teeth a-broke. 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 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 a-broke by simon's clumsy shoe, an' when i gi'ed his poll a poke, vor better luck, another broke. in what a veag have you a-swung your pick, though, john? his stem's a-sprung. j. when i an' simon had a het o' pookèn, yonder, vor a bet, the prongs o'n gi'ed a tump a poke, an' then i vound the stem a-broke, bût they do meäke the stems o' picks o' stuff so brittle as a kicks. a. there's poor wold jeäne, wi' wrinkled skin, a-tellèn, wi' her peakèd chin, zome teäle ov her young days, poor soul. do meäke the young-woones smile. 'tis droll. what is it? stop, an' let's goo near. i do like theäse wold teäles. let's hear. a father out, an' mother hwome. the snow-white clouds did float on high in shoals avore the sheenèn sky, an' runnèn weäves in pon' did cheäse each other on the water's feäce, as hufflèn win' did blow between the new-leav'd boughs o' sheenèn green. an' there, the while i walked along the path, drough leäze, above the drong, a little maïd, wi' bloomèn feäce, went on up hill wi' nimble peäce, a-leänèn to the right-han' zide, to car a basket that did ride, a-hangèn down, wi' all his heft, 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 ashèn poles, a-castèn straïght, on primrwose beds, their langthy waïght; below the yollow light, a-shed drough boughs upon the vi'let's head, by climèn ivy, that did reach, a sheenèn roun' the dead-leav'd beech. an' there her father zot, an' meäde his hwomely meal bezide a gleäde; while she, a-croopèn down to ground, did pull the flowers, where she vound the droopèn vi'let out in blooth, or yollow primrwose in the lewth, that she mid car em proudly back, an' zet em on her mother's tack; 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 pray'd they mid be speär'd the little maïd. riddles. _anne an' joey a-ta'ken._ a. a plague! theäse cow wont stand a bit, 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. a. goo in, ah! _liplap_, where's your taïl! j. he's off, then up athirt the raïl. your cow there, anne's a-come to hand a goodish milcher. a. if she'd stand, but then she'll steäre an' start wi' fright to zee a dumbledore in flight. last week she het the païl a flought, 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? j. hee! hee! well now he's out o' trim wi' only half a bottom to en; could you still vill en' to the brim an' yit not let the milk run drough en? a. aye, as for nonsense, joe, your head do hold it all so tight's a blather, but if 'tis any good, do shed it all so leäky as a lather. 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 inside o' bigger woones a-vill'd. a. la! that _is_ zome'hat vor to hatch! here answer me theäse little catch. down under water an' o' top o't 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. a. aye i do hear your chucklèn droat when i athirt the brudge did bring zome water on my head vrom spring. then under water an' o' top o't, wer i an' didden touch a drop o't. j. o lauk! what thik wold riddle still, why that's as wold as duncliffe hill; "a two-lagg'd thing do run avore an' run behind a man, an' never run upon his lags though on his lags do stan'." what's that? i don't think you do know. there idden sich a thing to show. not know? why yonder by the stall 's a wheel-barrow bezide the wall, don't he stand on his lags so trim, an' run on nothèn but his wheels wold rim. a. there's _horn_ vor goodman's eye-zight seäke; there's _horn_ vor goodman's mouth to teäke; there's _horn_ vor goodman's ears, as well as _horn_ vor goodman's nose to smell- what _horns_ be they, then? do your hat hold wit enough to tell us that? j. oh! _horns_! but no, i'll tell ye what, my cow is hornless, an' she's _knot_. a. _horn_ vor the _mouth's_ a hornèn cup. j. an' eäle's good stuff to vill en up. a. an' _horn_ vor _eyes_ is horn vor light, vrom goodman's lantern after night; _horn_ vor the _ears_ is woone to sound vor hunters out wi' ho'se an' hound; but _horn_ that vo'k do buy to smell o' is _hart's-horn_. j. is it? what d'ye tell o' how proud we be, vor ben't we smart? aye, _horn_ is _horn_, an' hart is hart. well here then, anne, while we be at it, 's a ball vor you if you can bat it. on dree-lags, two-lags, by the zide o' vower-lags, woonce did zit wi' pride, when vower-lags, that velt a prick, vrom zix-lags, het two lags a kick. an' two an' dree-lags vell, all vive, slap down, zome dead an' zome alive. a. teeh! heeh! what have ye now then, joe, at last, to meäke a riddle o'? j. your dree-lagg'd stool woone night did bear up you a milkèn wi' a peäir; an' there a zix-lagg'd stout did prick your vow'r-lagg'd cow, an meäke her kick, a-hettèn, wi' a pretty pat, your stool an' you so flat's a mat. you scrambled up a little dirty, but i do hope it didden hurt ye. a. you hope, indeed! a likely ceäse, wi' thik broad grin athirt your feäce you saucy good-vor-nothèn chap, i'll gi'e your grinnèn feäce a slap, your drawlèn tongue can only run to turn a body into fun. j. oh! i woont do 't ageän. oh dear! till next time, anny. oh my ear! oh! anne, why you've a-het my hat 'ithin the milk, now look at that. a. do sar ye right, then, i don't ceäre. i'll thump your noddle,--there--there--there. day's work a-done. and oh! the jaÿ our rest did yield, at evenèn by the mossy wall, when we'd a-work'd all day a-vield, while zummer zuns did rise an' vall; as there a-lettèn goo all frettèn, an' vorgettèn all our tweils, we zot among our childern's smiles. an' under skies that glitter'd white, the while our smoke, arisèn blue, did melt in aiër, out o' zight, above the trees that kept us lew; wer birds a-zingèn, tongues a-ringèn, childern springèn, vull o' jaÿ, a-finishèn the day in plaÿ. an' back behind, a-stannèn tall, the cliff did sheen to western light; an' while avore the water-vall, a-rottlèn loud, an' foamèn white. the leaves did quiver, gnots did whiver, by the river, where the pool, in evenèn aïr did glissen cool. an' childern there, a-runnèn wide, did plaÿ their geämes along the grove, vor though to us 'twer jaÿ to bide at rest, to them 'twer jaÿ to move. the while my smilèn jeäne, beguilèn, all my tweilèn, wi' her ceäre, did call me to my evenèn feäre. light or sheäde. a maÿtide's evenèn wer a-dyèn, under moonsheen, into night, wi' a streamèn wind a-sighèn by the thorns a-bloomèn white. where in sheäde, a-zinkèn deeply, wer a nook, all dark but lew, by a bank, arisèn steeply, not to let the win' come drough. should my love goo out, a-showèn all her smiles, in open light; or, in lewth, wi' wind a-blowèn, staÿ in darkness, dim to zight? staÿ in sheäde o' bank or wallèn, in the warmth, if not in light; words alwone vrom her a-vallèn, would be jaÿ vor all the night. the waggon a-stooded. _dree o'm a-ta'kèn o't._ (1) well, here we be, then, wi' the vu'st poor lwoad o' vuzz we brought, a-stoodèd in the road. (2) the road, george, no. there's na'r a road. that's wrong. if we'd a road, we mid ha' got along. (1) noo road! ees 'tis, the road that we do goo. (2) do goo, george, no. the pleäce we can't get drough. (1) well, there, the vu'st lwoad we've a-haul'd to day is here a-stoodèd in theäse bed o' clay. here's rotten groun'! an' how the wheels do cut! the little woone's a-zunk up to the nut. (3) an' yeet this rotten groun' don't reach a lug. (1) well, come, then, gi'e the plow another tug. (2) they meäres wull never pull the waggon out, a-lwoaded, an' a-stoodèd in thik rout. (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, an' overstraïn the meäres. 'twoon't wag, 'tis clear. (1) that's your work, william. no, in coo'se, 'twoon't wag. why did ye dr[=e]ve en into theäse here quag? 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. if you be sich a dr[=e]ver, an' do know't, you dr[=e]ve the plow, then; but you'll overdrow 't. (1) i dr[=e]ve the plow, indeed! oh! ees, what, now the wheels woont wag, then, _i_ mid dr[=e]ve the plow! we'd better dig away the groun' below the wheels. (2) there's na'r a speäde to dig wi'. (1) an' teäke an' cut a lock o' frith, an' drow upon the clay. (2) nor hook to cut a twig wi'. (1) oh! here's a bwoy a-comèn. here, my lad, dost know vor a'r a speäde, that can be had? (b) at father's. (1) well, where's that? (bwoy) at sam'el riddick's. (1) well run, an' ax vor woone. fling up your heels, an' mind: a speäde to dig out theäsem wheels, an' hook to cut a little lock o' widdicks. (3) why, we shall want zix ho'ses, or a dozen, to pull the waggon out, wi' all theäse vuzzen. (1) well, we mus' lighten en; come, jeämes, then, hop upon the lwoad, an' jus' fling off the top. (2) if i can clim' en; but 'tis my consaït, that i shall overzet en wi' my waïght. (1) you overzet en! no, jeämes, he won't vall, the lwoad's a-built so firm as any wall. (2) here! lend a hand or shoulder vor my knee or voot. i'll scramble to the top an' zee what i can do. well, here i be, among the fakkets, vor a bit, but not vor long. heigh, george! ha! ha! why this wull never stand. your firm 's a wall, is all so loose as zand; 'tis all a-come to pieces. oh! teäke ceäre! ho! i'm a-vallèn, vuzz an' all! haë! there! (1) lo'k there, thik fellor is a-vell lik' lead, an' half the fuzzen wi 'n, heels over head! there's all the vuzz a-lyèn lik' a staddle, an' he a-deäb'd wi' mud. oh! here's a caddle! (3) an' zoo you soon got down zome vuzzen, jimmy. (2) ees, i do know 'tis down. i brought it wi' me. (3) your lwoad, george, wer a rather slick-built thing, but there, 'twer prickly vor the hands! did sting? (1) oh! ees, d'ye teäke me vor a nincompoop, no, no. the lwoad wer up so firm's a rock, but two o' theäsem emmet-butts would knock the tightest barrel nearly out o' hoop. (3) oh! now then, here 's the bwoy a-bringèn back the speäde. well done, my man. that idder slack. (2) well done, my lad, sha't have a ho'se to ride when thou'st a meäre. (bwoy) next never's-tide. (3) now let's dig out a spit or two o' clay, a-vore the little wheels; oh! so's, i can't pull up my heels, i be a-stogg'd up over shoe. (1) come, william, dig away! why you do spuddle a'most so weak's a child. how you do muddle! gi'e me the speäde a-bit. a pig would rout it out a'most so nimbly wi' his snout. (3) oh! so's, d'ye hear it, then. how we can thunder! how big we be, then george! what next i wonder? (1) now, william, gi'e the waggon woone mwore twitch, the wheels be free, an' 'tis a lighter nitch. (3) come, _smiler_, gee! c'up, _white-voot_. (1) that wull do. (2) do wag. (1) do goo at last. (3) well done. 'tis drough. (1) now, william, till you have mwore ho'ses' lags, don't dr[=e]ve the waggon into theäsem quags. (3) you build your lwoads up tight enough to ride. (1) i can't do less, d'ye know, wi' you vor guide. gwaïn down the steps vor water. 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; 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, but that by john o' woodleys zide, there's now a-blushèn vor his bride, a pretty maïd that vu'st he spied, gwaïn down the steps vor water. 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, so sprack 's a bee when zummer's bright; an' if i've luck, i woont be slow to teäke off woone that i do know, a-trippèn gaïly to an' fro, upon the steps vor water. her father idden poor--but vew 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, 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 wi' bachelors, the husband's he'th; 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. ellen brine ov allenburn. 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; a-workèn while her strangth held on, an' guidèn housework, when 'twer gone. vor ellen brine ov allenburn, oh! there be souls to murn. 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, 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, 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 their father rod his hwomeward road. 'tis true he brought zome feärèns back, 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. the motherless child. the zun'd a-zet back tother night, but in the zettèn pleäce the clouds, a-redden'd by his light, 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 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. the leädy's tower. an' then we went along the gleädes o' zunny turf, in quiv'rèn sheädes, a-windèn off, vrom hand to hand, along a path o' yollow zand, an' clomb a stickle slope, an' vound 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, 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 wi' gifts that mwost do teäke vor best; the lofty-pinion'd rufs do rise 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, his lofty head where he do guide; but still his e'thly jaÿ's a-vled, his woone true friend, his wife, is dead. zoo now her happy soul's a-gone, an' he in grief's a-ling'rèn on, do do his heart zome good to show his love to flesh an' blood below. an' zoo he rear'd, wi' smitten soul, theäse leädy's tower upon the knowl. 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 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, 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, 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. an' roun' the windèn steäirs do spring aïght stwonèn pillars in a ring, a-reachèn up their heavy strangth drough forty veet o' slender langth, to end wi' carvèd heads below the broad-vloor'd landèn's aïry bow. aïght zides, as you do zee, do bound the lower buildèn on the ground, an' there in woone, a two-leav'd door do zwing above the marble vloor: an' aÿe, as luck do zoo betide our comèn, wi' can goo inside. the door is oben now. an' zoo the keeper kindly let us drough. there as we softly trod the vloor o' marble stwone, 'ithin the door, the echoes ov our vootsteps vled out roun' the wall, and over head; an' there a-païnted, zide by zide, in memory o' the squier's bride, in zeven païntèns, true to life, wer zeven zights o' wedded life." then meäster collins twold me all the teäles a-païntèd roun' the wall; an' vu'st the bride did stan' to plight her weddèn vow, below the light a-shootèn down, so bright's a fleäme, in drough a churches window freäme. an' near the bride, on either hand, you'd zee her comely bridemaïds stand, wi' eyelashes a-bent in streäks o' brown above their bloomèn cheäks: an' sheenèn feäir, in mellow light, wi' flowèn heäir, an' frocks o' white. "an' here," good meäster collins cried, "you'll zee a creädle at her zide, an' there's her child, a-lyèn deep 'ithin it, an' a-gone to sleep, wi' little eyelashes a-met in fellow streäks, as black as jet; the while her needle, over head, do nimbly leäd the snow-white thread, to zew a robe her love do meäke wi' happy leäbor vor his seäke. "an' here a-geän's another pleäce, where she do zit wi' smilèn feäce, an' while her bwoy do leän, wi' pride, ageän her lap, below her zide, her vinger tip do leäd his look to zome good words o' god's own book. "an' next you'll zee her in her pleäce, avore her happy husband's feäce, as he do zit, at evenèn-tide, a-restèn by the vier-zide. an' there the childern's heads do rise wi' laughèn lips, an' beamèn eyes, above the bwoard, where she do lay her sheenèn tacklèn, wi' the tea. "an' here another zide do show her vinger in her scizzars' bow avore two daughters, that do stand, wi' leärnsome minds, to watch her hand a-sheäpèn out, wi' skill an' ceäre, a frock vor them to zew an' wear. "then next you'll zee her bend her head above her aïlèn husband's bed, a-fannèn, wi' an inward praÿ'r, his burnèn brow wi' beäten aïr; the while the clock, by candle light, do show that 'tis the dead o' night. "an' here ageän upon the wall, where we do zee her last ov all, her husband's head's a-hangèn low, 'ithin his hands in deepest woe. an' she, an angel ov his god, do cheer his soul below the rod, a-liftèn up her han' to call his eyes to writèn on the wall, as white as is her spotless robe, 'hast thou rememberèd my servant job?' "an' zoo the squier, in grief o' soul, built up the tower upon the knowl." fatherhood. let en zit, wi' his dog an' his cat, wi' their noses a-turn'd to the vier, an' have all that a man should desire; but there idden much reädship in that. whether vo'k mid have childern or no, wou'dden meäke mighty odds in the maïn; they do bring us mwore jaÿ wi' mwore ho, an' wi' nwone we've less jaÿ wi' less païn we be all lik' a zull's idle sheäre out, 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 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; 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 o'm do cry, why the rest o'm mid laugh 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', an' my veet wer so lumpy as logs, an' my ears wer so red's a cock's cwom'; 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. vor the vu'st that i happen'd to meet come to pull my girtcwoat vrom my eärm, 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; an' they all come so busy an' thick as the bees vlee-èn into their hive, 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, an' coll me so cwold. as i zot wi' my teacup, at rest, there i pull'd out the taÿs i did bring; men a-kickèn, a-wagg'd wi' a string, an' goggle-ey'd dolls to be drest; an' oh! vrom the childern there sprung such a charm when they handled their taÿs, that vor pleasure the bigger woones wrung their two hands at the zight o' their jaÿs; as the bwoys' bigger vaïces vell in wi' the maïdens a-titterèn thin, an' their dancèn an' prancèn, an' little mouth's laughs. though 'tis hard stripes to breed em all up, if i'm only a-blest vrom above, they'll meäke me amends wi' their love, vor their pillow, their pleäte, an' their cup; though i shall be never a-spweil'd wi' the sarvice that money can buy; still the hands ov a wife an' a child be the blessèns ov low or ov high; an' if there be mouths to be ved, he that zent em can zend me their bread, an' will smile on the chile that's a-new on the knee. the maid o' newton. in zummer, when the knaps wer bright 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, 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; 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, 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, 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, where, down athirt the little stream, 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, down where the elèms, stem by stem, 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, to meet the maïd o' newton. childhood. aye, at that time our days wer but vew, 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, an' veelèns now feeble wer strong, 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, 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 that zome hands or others mus' do; like the low-headed shrubs that be warm, in the lewth o' the trees up above em, a-screen'd vrom the cwold blowèn storm that the timber avore em must rue. meäry's smile. 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, 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, oh! let the candle's ruddy gleäre but brighten up her sheenèn heäir; or else, as she do walk abroad, 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, 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 to turn the hardest work to plaÿ. my meäry's smile, o' morey's mill, my rwose o' mowy lea. meäry wedded. the zun can zink, the stars mid rise, an' woods be green to sheenèn skies; the cock mid crow to mornèn light, an' workvo'k zing to vallèn night; 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 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, the cheerless vier do drow a gleäre 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, 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, though sad, wer kept a day o' me'th, 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, but woone, the smartest for the roäd, that pull'd away the dearest lwoad- young meäry meäd o' merry mood, that wer a-woo'd an' wedded. the stwonen bwoy upon the pillar. wi' smokeless tuns an' empty halls, an' moss a-clingèn to the walls, in ev'ry wind the lofty tow'rs do teäke the zun, an' bear the show'rs; an' there, 'ithin a geät a-hung, but vasten'd up, an' never swung, upon the pillar, all alwone, do stan' the little bwoy o' stwone; 's a poppy bud mid linger on, vorseäken, when the wheat's a-gone. an' there, then, wi' his bow let slack, an' little quiver at his back, drough het an' wet, the little chile vrom day to day do stan' an' smile. when vu'st the light, a-risèn weak, at break o' day, do smite his cheäk, or while, at noon, the leafy bough do cast a sheäde a-thirt his brow, or when at night the warm-breath'd cows do sleep by moon-belighted boughs; an' there the while the rooks do bring their scroff to build their nest in spring, or zwallows in the zummer day do cling their little huts o' clay, 'ithin the raïnless sheädes, below the steadvast arches' mossy bow. or when, in fall, the woak do shed the leaves, a-wither'd, vrom his head, an' western win's, a-blowèn cool, do dreve em out athirt the pool, or winter's clouds do gather dark an' wet, wi' raïn, the elem's bark, you'll zee his pretty smile betwixt his little sheäde-mark'd lips a-fix'd; as there his little sheäpe do bide drough day an' night, an' time an' tide, an' never change his size or dress, nor overgrow his prettiness. but, oh! thik child, that we do vind in childhood still, do call to mind a little bwoy a-call'd by death, long years agoo, vrom our sad he'th; an' i, in thought, can zee en dim the seäme in feäce, the seäme in lim', my heäir mid whiten as the snow, my limbs grow weak, my step wear slow, my droopèn head mid slowly vall above the han'-staff's glossy ball, an' yeet, vor all a wid'nèn span ov years, mid change a livèn man, my little child do still appear to me wi' all his childhood's gear, 'ithout a beard upon his chin, 'ithout a wrinkle in his skin, a-livèn on, a child the seäme in look, an' sheäpe, an' size, an' neäme. the young that died in beauty. if souls should only sheen so bright in heaven as in e'thly light, an' nothèn better wer the ceäse, how comely still, in sheäpe an' feäce, would many reach thik happy pleäce,- 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 a-tweilèn drough a lifetime's langth, an' over cheäks a-growèn wold the slowly-weästen years ha' rolled, the deep'nèn wrinkle's hollow vwold; when life is ripe, then death do call vor less ov thought, than when do vall on young vo'ks in their beauty. 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, the husband when his bride ha' laid her head at rest, noo mwore to turn, have all a-vound the time to murn vor youth that died in beauty. an' yeet the church, where praÿer do rise vrom thoughtvul souls, wi' downcast eyes. an' village greens, a-beät half beäre by dancers that do meet, an' weär such merry looks at feäst an' feäir, do gather under leàtest 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. 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. fair emily ov yarrow mill. dear yarrowham, 'twer many miles vrom thy green meäds that, in my walk, i met a maïd wi' winnèn smiles, that talk'd as vo'k at hwome do talk; an' who at last should she be vound, ov all the souls the sky do bound, but woone that trod at vu'st thy groun' fair emily ov yarrow mill. but thy wold house an' elmy nook, an' wall-screen'd geärden's mossy zides, thy grassy meäds an' zedgy brook, an' high-bank'd leänes, wi' sheädy rides, wer all a-known to me by light ov eärly days, a-quench'd by night, avore they met the younger zight ov emily ov yarrow mill. an' now my heart do leäp to think o' times that i've a-spent in plaÿ, bezide thy river's rushy brink, upon a deäizybed o' maÿ; i lov'd the friends thy land ha' bore, an' i do love the paths they wore, an' i do love thee all the mwore, vor emily ov yarrow mill. when bright above the e'th below the moon do spread abroad his light, an' aïr o' zummer nights do blow athirt the vields in plaÿsome flight, 'tis then delightsome under all the sheädes o' boughs by path or wall, but mwostly thine when they do vall on emily ov yarrow mill. the scud. aye, aye, the leäne wi' flow'ry zides a-kept so lew, by hazzle-wrides, wi' beds o' graegles out in bloom, below the timber's windless gloon an' geäte that i've a-swung, an' rod as he's a-hung, 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, below the woak-trees in the lew, 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, the raïn drops low, upon the ground. i linger'd there an' miss'd the naïse; i linger'd there an' miss'd our jaÿs; i miss'd woone soul beyond the rest; 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. vor zome vo'k out abroad ha' me'th, but nwone at hwome bezide the he'th; 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. an' when the evenèn sky wer peäle, we heärd the warblèn nightèngeäle, a-drawèn out his lwonesome zong, in windèn music down the drong; an' jenny vrom her he'th, come out, though not in me'th, 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," i thought, "but when he's dum, her vaïce will come, wi' sweeter sound." minden house. 'twer when the vo'k wer out to hawl 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 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, 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 a-knock'd upon the rumblèn door, an' laid azide her work, an' rose, an' walk'd out feäir, athirt the vloor; an' there, a-holdèn in his hand his bridled meäre, a youth did stand, 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; an' zoo she ax'd en if he'd ride out where her father mid be vound, bezide the plow, in cowslip ground; 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 an' boughs did swaÿ above the cliff; vor time had now a-show'd en dim the jaÿ it had in store vor him; an' when he went thik road ageän 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, an' zoo mus' bid the house farewell; the bees mid hum, the clock mid call the lwonesome hours 'ithin the hall, but in behind the woaken door, there's now noo mwore a fanny deäne. the lovely maïd ov elwell meäd. a maïd wi' many gifts o' greäce, a maïd wi' ever-smilèn feäce, a child o' yours my chilhood's pleäce, o leänèn lawns ov allen; 's a-walkèn where your stream do flow, a-blushèn where your flowers do blow, a-smilèn where your zun do glow, o leänèn lawns ov allen. an' good, however good's a-waïgh'd, 's the lovely maïd ov elwell meäd. an' oh! if i could teäme an' guide the winds above the e'th, an' ride as light as shootèn stars do glide, o leänèn lawns ov allen, to you i'd teäke my daily flight, drough dark'nèn aïr in evenèn's light, an' bid her every night "good night," o leänèn lawns ov allen. vor good, however good's a-waïgh'd, 's the lovely maïd ov elwell meäd. an' when your hedges' slooes be blue, by blackberries o' dark'nèn hue, an' spiders' webs behung wi' dew, o leänèn lawns ov allen avore the winter aïr's a-chill'd, avore your winter brook's a-vill'd avore your zummer flow'rs be kill'd, o leänèn lawns ov allen; i there would meet, in white arraÿ'd, the lovely maïd ov elwell meäd. for when the zun, as birds do rise, do cast their sheädes vrom autum' skies, a-sparklèn in her dewy eyes, o leänèn lawns ov allen then all your mossy paths below the trees, wi' leaves a-vallèn slow, like zinkèn fleäkes o' yollow snow, o leänèn lawns ov allen. would be mwore teäkèn where they straÿ'd the lovely maïd ov elwell meäd. our fathers' works. ah! i do think, as i do tread theäse path, wi' elems overhead, a-climèn slowly up vrom bridge, by easy steps, to broadwoak ridge, that all theäse roads that we do bruise wi' hosses' shoes, or heavy lwoads; an' hedges' bands, where trees in row do rise an' grow aroun' the lands, be works that we've a-vound a-wrought by our vorefathers' ceäre an' thought. they clear'd the groun' vor grass to teäke the pleäce that bore the bremble breäke, an' draïn'd the fen, where water spread, a-lyèn dead, a beäne to men; an' built the mill, where still the wheel do grind our meal, below the hill; an' turn'd the bridge, wi' arch a-spread, below a road, vor us to tread. they vound a pleäce, where we mid seek the gifts o' greäce vrom week to week; an' built wi' stwone, upon the hill, a tow'r we still do call our own; with bells to use, an' meäke rejaïce, wi' giant vaïce, at our good news: an' lifted stwones an' beams to keep the raïn an' cwold vrom us asleep. zoo now mid nwone ov us vorget the pattern our vorefathers zet; but each be fäin to underteäke some work to meäke vor others' gaïn, that we mid leäve mwore good to sheäre, less ills to bear, less souls to grieve, an' when our hands do vall to rest, it mid be vrom a work a-blest. the wold vo'k dead. my days, wi' wold vo'k all but gone, an' childern now a-comèn on, do bring me still my mother's smiles in light that now do show my chile's; an' i've a-sheär'd the wold vo'ks' me'th, avore the burnèn chris'mas he'th, at friendly bwoards, where feäce by feäce, did, year by year, gi'e up its pleäce, an' leäve me here, behind, to tread the ground a-trod by wold vo'k dead. but wold things be a-lost vor new, an' zome do come, while zome do goo: as wither'd beech-tree leaves do cling among the nesh young buds o' spring; an' frettèn worms ha' slowly wound, droo beams the wold vo'k lifted sound, an' trees they planted little slips ha' stems that noo two eärms can clips; an' grey an' yollow moss do spread on buildèns new to wold vo'k dead. the backs of all our zilv'ry hills, the brook that still do dreve our mills, the roads a-climèn up the brows o' knaps, a-screen'd by meäple boughs, wer all a-mark'd in sheäde an' light avore our wolder fathers' zight, in zunny days, a-gied their hands for happy work, a-tillèn lands, that now do yield their childern bread till they do rest wi' wold vo'k dead. but livèn vo'k, a-grievèn on, wi' lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone, do zee their goodness, but do vind all else a-stealèn out o' mind; as air do meäke the vurthest land look feäirer than the vield at hand, an' zoo, as time do slowly pass, so still's a sheäde upon the grass, its wid'nèn speäce do slowly shed a glory roun' the wold vo'k dead. an' what if good vo'ks' life o' breath is zoo a-hallow'd after death, that they mid only know above, their times o' faïth, an' jaÿ, an' love, while all the evil time ha' brought 's a-lost vor ever out o' thought; as all the moon that idden bright, 's a-lost in darkness out o' zight; and all the godly life they led is glory to the wold vo'k dead. if things be zoo, an' souls above can only mind our e'thly love, why then they'll veel our kindness drown the thoughts ov all that meäde em frown. an' jaÿ o' jaÿs will dry the tear o' sadness that do trickle here, an' nothèn mwore o' life than love, an' peace, will then be know'd above. do good, vor that, when life's a-vled, is still a pleasure to the dead. culver dell and the squire. there's noo pleäce i do like so well, as elem knap in culver dell, where timber trees, wi' lofty shouds, did rise avore the western clouds; an' stan' ageän, wi' veathery tops, a-swayèn up in north-hill copse. an' on the east the mornèn broke above a dewy grove o' woak: 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 the good wold squire o' culver dell, that used to ramble drough the sheädes o' timber, or the burnèn gleädes, an' come at evenèn up the leäze wi' red-eär'd dogs bezide his knees. an' hold his gun, a-hangèn drough his eärmpit, out above his tooe. wi' kindly words upon his tongue, vor vo'k that met en, wold an' young, 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; 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 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 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; 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. but we must bid a long farewell to days an' tides in culver dell. our be'thplace. how dear's the door a latch do shut, an' geärden that a hatch do shut, where vu'st our bloomèn cheäks ha' prest the pillor ov our childhood's rest; or where, wi' little tooes, we wore 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. a lwonesome grove o' woak did rise, to screen our house, where smoke did rise, a-twistèn blue, while yeet the zun 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, the long-neck'd gander's ruddy bill to snow-white geese did cackle sh'ill; 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 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, drough green-bough'd day, an' dark-tree'd night; 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. the window freäm'd wi' stwone. when pentridge house wer still the nest o' souls that now ha' better rest, avore the viër burnt to ground his beams an' walls, that then wer sound, 'ithin a naïl-bestudded door, an' passage wi' a stwonèn vloor, there spread the hall, where zun-light shone in drough a window freäm'd wi' stwone. a clavy-beam o' sheenèn woak did span the he'th wi' twistèn smoke, where fleämes did shoot in yollow streaks, above the brands, their flashèn peaks; an' aunt did pull, as she did stand o'-tip-tooe, wi' her lifted hand, a curtain feäded wi' the zun, avore the window freäm'd wi' stwone. when hwome-ground grass, below the moon, wer damp wi' evenèn dew in june, an' aunt did call the maïdens in vrom walkèn, wi' their shoes too thin, they zot to rest their litty veet upon the window's woaken seat, an' chatted there, in light that shone in drough the window freäm'd wi' stwone. an' as the seasons, in a ring, roll'd slowly roun' vrom spring to spring, an' brought em on zome holy-tide, when they did cast their tools azide; how glad it meäde em all to spy in stwonylands their friends draw nigh, as they did know em all by neäme out drough the window's stwonèn freäme. o evenèn zun, a-ridèn drough the sky, vrom sh'oton hill o' blue, to leäve the night a-broodèn dark at stalbridge, wi' its grey-wall'd park; small jaÿ to me the vields do bring, vor all their zummer birds do zing, since now thy beams noo mwore do fleäme in drough the window's stwonèn freäme. the water-spring in the leane. 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. 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 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. 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; that lined en wi' a stwonèn wall, an' steän'd so cleän his wat'ry zide? we behind en, now can't vind en, but do mind en, an' do thank his meäker vor his little tank. the poplars. if theäse day's work an' burnèn sky 'v'a-zent hwome you so tired as i, let's zit an' rest 'ithin the screen o' my wold bow'r upon the green; where i do goo myself an' let the evenèn aiër cool my het, when dew do wet the grasses bleädes, a-quiv'rèn in the dusky sheädes. there yonder poplar trees do plaÿ soft music, as their heads do swaÿ, while wind, a-rustlèn soft or loud, do stream ageän their lofty sh'oud; an' seem to heal the ranklèn zore my mind do meet wi' out o' door, when i've a-bore, in downcast mood, zome evil where i look'd vor good. o' they two poplars that do rise so high avore our naïghbours' eyes, a-zet by gramfer, hand by hand, wi' grammer, in their bit o' land; the woone upon the western zide wer his, an' woone wer grammer's pride, an' since they died, we all do teäke mwore ceäre o'm vor the wold vo'k's seäke. an' there, wi' stems a-growèn tall avore the houses mossy wall, the while the moon ha' slowly past the leafy window, they've a-cast their sheädes 'ithin the window peäne; while childern have a-grown to men, an' then ageän ha' left their beds, to bear their childern's heavy heads. the linden on the lawn. no! jenny, there's noo pleäce to charm my mind lik' yours at woakland farm, a-peärted vrom the busy town, by longsome miles ov aïry down, where woonce the meshy wall did gird 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 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, nor low-bough'd woak bezide the hedge, nor withy up above the zedge, so dear's thik linden on the lawn. vor there, o' zummer nights, below the wall, we zot when aïr did blow, an' sheäke the dewy rwose a-tied up roun' the window's stwonèn zide. an' while the carter rod' along a-zingèn, down the dusky drong, 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, the nightèngeäle's sh'ill zong, that broke the stillness ov the dewy woak, rung clear along the grove, an' smote to sudden stillness ev'ry droat; 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, 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" 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, an' noo vaïce zung, in dusky night, below the linden on the lawn. an' zoo, if you should ever vind 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. our abode in arby wood. though ice do hang upon the willows out bezide the vrozen brook, an' storms do roar above our pillows, drough the night, 'ithin our nook; our evenèn he'th's a-glowèn warm, drough wringèn vrost, an' roarèn storm, though winds mid meäke the wold beams sheäke, in our abode in arby wood. an' there, though we mid hear the timber creake avore the windy raïn; an' climèn ivy quiver, limber, up ageän the window peäne; our merry vaïces then do sound, in rollèn glee, or dree-vaïce round; though wind mid roar, 'ithout the door, ov our abode in arby wood. slow to come, quick agone. ah! there's a house that i do know besouth o' yonder trees, where northern winds can hardly blow but in a softest breeze. an' there woonce sounded zongs an' teäles vrom vaïce o' maïd or youth, an' sweeter than the nightèngeäle's above the copses lewth. how swiftly there did run the brooks, how swift wer winds in flight, how swiftly to their roost the rooks did vlee o'er head at night. though slow did seem to us the peäce o' comèn days a-head, that now do seem as in a reäce wi' aïr-birds to ha' vled. the vier-zide. 'tis zome vo'ks jaÿ to teäke the road, an' goo abro'd, a-wand'rèn wide, vrom shere to shere, vrom pleäce to pleäce, the swiftest peäce that vo'k can ride. but i've a jaÿ 'ithin the door, wi' friends avore the vier-zide. an' zoo, when winter skies do lour, an' when the stour's a-rollèn wide, drough bridge-voot raïls, a-païnted white, to be at night the traveller's guide, gi'e me a pleäce that's warm an' dry, a-zittèn nigh my vier-zide. vor where do love o' kith an' kin, at vu'st begin, or grow an' wride, till souls a-lov'd so young, be wold, though never cwold, drough time nor tide but where in me'th their gather'd veet 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 would leäd noo mwore where he did bide an' where i heärd his vaïces sound, in me'th around the vier-zide. as i've a-zeed how vast do vall the mwold'rèn hall, the wold vo'ks pride, where merry hearts wer woonce a-ved 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 to ouer he'th, but if we tried to gather all that woonce did wear 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, to cheer us wi' his het an' light, while vrosty night, so starry-skied, go gather souls that time do speäre to zit an' sheäre our vier-zide. knowlwood. i don't want to sleep abrode, john, i do like my hwomeward road, john; an' like the sound o' knowlwood bells the best. zome would rove vrom pleäce to pleäce, john, zome would goo from feäce to feäce, john, but i be happy in my hwomely nest; an' slight's the hope vor any pleäce bezide, to leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide. where the shelvèn knap do vall, john, under trees a-springèn tall, john; 'tis there my house do show his sheenèn zide, wi' his walls vor ever green, john, under ivy that's a screen, john, vrom wet an' het, an' ev'ry changèn tide, an' i do little ho vor goold or pride, to leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide. there the bendèn stream do flow, john, by the mossy bridge's bow, john; an' there the road do wind below the hill; there the miller, white wi' meal, john, deafen'd wi' his foamy wheel, john, do stan' o' times a-lookèn out o' mill: the while 'ithin his lightly-sheäken door. his wheatèn flour do whitèn all his floor. when my daily work's a-done, john, at the zettèn o' the zun, john, an' i all day 've a-plaÿ'd a good man's peärt, i do vind my ease a-blest, john, while my conscience is at rest, john; an' while noo worm's a-left to fret my heart; an' who vor finer hwomes o' restless pride, would pass the plaïn abode where peace do bide? by a windor in the west, john, there upon my fiddle's breast, john, the strings do sound below my bow's white heäir; while a zingèn drush do swaÿ, john, up an' down upon a spraÿ, john, an' cast his sheäde upon the window square; vor birds do know their friends, an' build their nest, an' love to roost, where they can live at rest. out o' town the win' do bring, john, peals o' bells when they do ring, john, an' roun' me here, at hand, my ear can catch the maïd a-zingèn by the stream, john, or carter whislèn wi' his team, john, or zingèn birds, or water at the hatch; an' zoo wi' sounds o' vaïce, an' bird an' bell, noo hour is dull 'ithin our rwosy dell. an' when the darksome night do hide, john, land an' wood on ev'ry zide, john; an' when the light's a-burnèn on my bwoard, then vor pleasures out o' door, john, i've enough upon my vloor, john: my jenny's lovèn deed, an' look, an' word, an' we be lwoth, lik' culvers zide by zide, to leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide. hallowed pleäces. at woodcombe farm, wi' ground an' tree hallow'd by times o' youthvul glee, at chris'mas time i spent a night wi' feäces dearest to my zight; an' took my wife to tread, woonce mwore, her maïden hwome's vorseäken vloor, an' under stars that slowly wheel'd aloft, above the keen-aïr'd vield, while night bedimm'd the rus'lèn copse, an' darken'd all the ridges' tops, the hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young. there, on the he'th's well-hetted ground, hallow'd by times o' zittèn round, the brimvul mug o' cider stood an' hiss'd avore the bleäzèn wood; an' zome, a-zittèn knee by knee, did tell their teäles wi' hearty glee, an' others gamboll'd in a roar o' laughter on the stwonèn vloor; an' while the moss o' winter-tide clung chilly roun' the house's zide, the hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young. there, on the pworches bench o' stwone, hallow'd by times o' youthvul fun, we laugh'd an' sigh'd to think o' neämes that rung there woonce, in evenèn geämes; an' while the swaÿèn cypress bow'd, in chilly wind, his darksome sh'oud an' honeyzuckles, beäre o' leäves, still reach'd the window-sheädèn eaves up where the clematis did trim the stwonèn arches mossy rim, the hall, a-hung wi' holly, rung wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young. there, in the geärden's wall-bound square, hallow'd by times o' strollèn there, the winter wind, a-hufflèn loud, did swaÿ the pear-tree's leafless sh'oud, an' beät the bush that woonce did bear the damask rwose vor jenny's heäir; an' there the walk o' peävèn stwone that burn'd below the zummer zun, struck icy-cwold drough shoes a-wore by maïdens vrom the hetted vloor in hall, a-hung wi' holm, where rung vull many a tongue o' wold an' young. there at the geäte that woonce wer blue hallow'd by times o' passèn drough, light strawmotes rose in flaggèn flight, a-floated by the winds o' night, where leafy ivy-stems did crawl in moonlight on the windblown wall, an' merry maïdens' vaïces vled in echoes sh'ill, vrom wall to shed, as shiv'rèn in their frocks o' white they come to bid us there "good night," vrom hall, a-hung wi' holm, that rung wi' many a tongue o' wold an' young. there in the narrow leäne an' drong hallow'd by times o' gwaïn along, the lofty ashes' leafless sh'ouds rose dark avore the clear-edged clouds, the while the moon, at girtest height, bespread the pooly brook wi' light, an' as our child, in loose-limb'd rest, lay peäle upon her mother's breast, her waxen eyelids seal'd her eyes vrom darksome trees, an' sheenèn skies, an' halls a-hung wi' holm, that rung wi' many a tongue, o' wold an' young. the wold wall. here, jeäne, we vu'st did meet below 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 gleam'd among the reeds in aïr a-steälèn 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, 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 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. bleäke's house in blackmwore. john bleäke he had a bit o' ground come to en by his mother's zide; 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. "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. an' woone did mark it on the groun', an' woone did think, an' scratch his crown, an' reckon work, an' write it down: "zoo, zoo,"--woone treädesman cried, "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, 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, 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 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 his house, an' they, a goodish batch, did come alwone, or eärm in eärm, all roads, a-meäkèn vor his hatch: an' there below the clavy beam 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." then john, a-praïs'd, flung up his crown, all back a-laughèn in a roar. they praïs'd his wife, an' she look'd down a-simperèn towards the vloor. then up they sprung a-dancèn reels, an' up went tooes, an' up went heels, a-windèn roun' in knots an' wheels. "brisk, brisk,"--the maïdens cried; "frisk, frisk,"--the men replied; "quick, quick,--there wi' your fiddle-stick," cried merry bleäke o' blackmwore. an' when the morrow's zun did sheen, john bleäke beheld, wi' jaÿ an' pride, his brickèn house, an' pworch, an' green, above the stour's rushy zide. the zwallows left the lwonesome groves, to build below the thatchèn oves, an' robins come vor crumbs o' lwoaves: "tweet, tweet,"--the birds all cried; "sweet, sweet,"--john's wife replied; "dad, dad,"--the childern cried so glad, to merry bleäke o' blackmwore. john bleäke at hwome at night. no: where the woak do overspread, the grass begloom'd below his head, an' water, under bowèn zedge, a-springèn vrom the river's edge, do ripple, as the win' do blow, an' sparkle, as the sky do glow; an' grey-leav'd withy-boughs do cool, wi' darksome sheädes, the clear-feäced pool, my chimny smoke, 'ithin the lew o' trees is there arisèn blue; avore the night do dim our zight, or candle-light, a-sheenèn bright, do sparkle drough the window. when crumpled leaves o' fall do bound avore the wind, along the ground, an' wither'd bennet-stems do stand a-quiv'rèn on the chilly land; the while the zun, wi' zettèn rim, do leäve the workman's pathway dim; an' sweet-breath'd childern's hangèn heads be laid wi' kisses, on their beds; then i do seek my woodland nest, an' zit bezide my vier at rest, while night's a-spread, where day's a-vled, an' lights do shed their beams o' red, a-sparklèn drough the window. if winter's whistlèn winds do vreeze the snow a-gather'd on the trees, an' sheädes o' poplar stems do vall in moonlight up athirt the wall; an' icicles do hang below the oves, a-glitt'rèn in a row, an' risèn stars do slowly ride above the ruf's upslantèn zide; then i do lay my weary head asleep upon my peaceful bed, when middle-night ha' quench'd the light ov embers bright, an' candles white a-beamèn drough the window. milken time. 'twer when the busy birds did vlee, wi' sheenèn wings, vrom tree to tree, to build upon the mossy lim', their hollow nestes' rounded rim; the while the zun, a-zinkèn low, did roll along his evenèn bow, i come along where wide-horn'd cows, 'ithin a nook, a-screen'd by boughs, did stan' an' flip the white-hoop'd païls wi' heäiry tufts o' swingèn taïls; an' there wer jenny coom a-gone along the path a vew steps on. a-beärèn on her head, upstraïght, her païl, wi' slowly-ridèn waïght, an' hoops a-sheenèn, lily-white, ageän the evenèn's slantèn light; an' zo i took her païl, an' left her neck a-freed vrom all his heft; an' she a-lookèn up an' down, wi' sheäpely head an' glossy crown, then took my zide, an' kept my peäce a-talkèn on wi' smilèn feäce, an' zettèn things in sich a light, i'd faïn ha' heär'd her talk all night; an' when i brought her milk avore the geäte, she took it in to door, an' if her païl had but allow'd her head to vall, she would ha' bow'd, an' still, as 'twer, i had the zight ov her sweet smile droughout the night. when birds be still. vor all the zun do leäve the sky, an' all the sounds o' day do die, an' noo mwore veet do walk the dim vield-path to clim' the stiel's bars, yeet out below the rizèn stars, the dark'nèn day mid leäve behind woone tongue that i shall always vind, a-whisperèn kind, when birds be still. zoo let the day come on to spread his kindly light above my head, wi' zights to zee, an' sounds to hear, that still do cheer my thoughtvul mind; or let en goo, an' leäve behind an' hour to stroll along the gleädes, where night do drown the beeches' sheädes, on grasses' bleädes, when birds be still. vor when the night do lull the sound o' cows a-bleärèn out in ground, the sh'ill-vaïc'd dog do stan' an' bark 'ithin the dark, bezide the road; an' when noo cracklèn waggon's lwoad is in the leäne, the wind do bring the merry peals that bells do ring o ding-dong-ding, when birds be still. zoo teäke, vor me, the town a-drown'd, 'ithin a storm o' rumblèn sound, an' gi'e me vaïces that do speak so soft an' meek, to souls alwone; the brook a-gurglèn round a stwone, an' birds o' day a-zingèn clear, an' leaves, that i mid zit an' hear a-rustlèn near, when birds be still. riden hwome at night. oh! no, i quite injaÿ'd the ride behind wold dobbin's heavy heels, wi' jeäne a-prattlèn at my zide, above our peäir o' spinnèn wheels, as grey-rin'd ashes' swaÿèn tops did creak in moonlight in the copse, above the quiv'rèn grass, a-beät by wind a-blowèn drough the geät. if weary souls did want their sleep, they had a-zent vor sleep the night; vor vo'k that had a call to keep awake, lik' us, there still wer light. an' he that shut the sleepers' eyes, a-waïtèn vor the zun to rise, ha' too much love to let em know the ling'rèn night did goo so slow. but if my wife did catch a zight o' zome queer pollard, or a post, poor soul! she took en in her fright to be a robber or a ghost. a two-stump'd withy, wi' a head, mus' be a man wi' eärms a-spread; an' foam o' water, round a rock, wer then a drownèn leädy's frock. zome staddle stwones to bear a mow, wer dancèn veäries on the lag; an' then a snow-white sheeted cow could only be, she thought, their flag, an owl a-vleèn drough the wood wer men on watch vor little good; an' geätes a slam'd by wind, did goo, she thought, to let a robber drough. but after all, she lik'd the zight o' cows asleep in glitt'rèn dew; an' brooks that gleam'd below the light, an' dim vield paths 'ithout a shoe. an' gaïly talk'd bezide my ears, a-laughèn off her needless fears: or had the childern uppermost in mind, instead o' thief or ghost. an' when our house, wi' open door, did rumble hollow round our heads, she heästen'd up to tother vloor, to zee the childern in their beds; an' vound woone little head awry, wi' woone a-turn'd toward the sky; an' wrung her hands ageän her breast, a-smilèn at their happy rest. zun-zet. where the western zun, unclouded, up above the grey hill-tops, did sheen drough ashes, lofty sh'ouded on the turf bezide the copse, in zummer weather, we together, sorrow-slightèn, work-vorgettèn. gambol'd wi' the zun a-zetten. there, by flow'ry bows o' bramble, under hedge, in ash-tree sheädes, the dun-heaïr'd ho'se did slowly ramble on the grasses' dewy bleädes, zet free o' lwoads, an' stwony rwoads, vorgetvul o' the lashes frettèn, grazèn wi' the zun a-zettèn. there wer rooks a-beätèn by us drough the aïr, in a vlock, an' there the lively blackbird, nigh us, on the meäple bough did rock, wi' ringèn droat, where zunlight smote the yollow boughs o' zunny hedges over western hills' blue edges. waters, drough the meäds a-purlèn, glissen'd in the evenèn's light, an' smoke, above the town a-curlèn, melted slowly out o' zight; an' there, in glooms ov unzunn'd rooms, to zome, wi' idle sorrows frettèn, zuns did set avore their zettèn. we were out in geämes and reäces, loud a-laughèn, wild in me'th, wi' windblown heäir, an' zunbrown'd feäces, leäpen on the high-sky'd e'th, avore the lights wer tin'd o' nights, an' while the gossamer's light nettèn sparkled to the zun a-zettèn. spring. 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. housèn, in the open brightness, now do sheen in spots o' whiteness; 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, errand-lwoaded; jenny, though her cloak is thin, do wish en hwome upon the pin. zoo come along, noo longer heedvul ov the viër, leätely needvul, over grass o' slopèn leäzes, zingèn zongs in zunny breezes; out to work in copse, a-mootèn, where the primrwose is a-shootèn, an in gladness, free o' sadness, in the warmth o' spring vorget leafless winter's cwold an' wet. the zummer hedge. as light do gleäre in ev'ry ground, wi' boughy hedges out a-round a-climmèn up the slopèn brows o' hills, in rows o' sheädy boughs: the while the hawthorn buds do blow as thick as stars, an' white as snow; or cream-white blossoms be a-spread about the guelder-rwoses' head; how cool's the sheäde, or warm's the lewth, bezide a zummer hedge in blooth. when we've a-work'd drough longsome hours, till dew's a-dried vrom dazzlèn flow'rs, the while the climmèn zun ha' glow'd drough mwore than half his daily road: then where the sheädes do slily pass athirt our veet upon the grass, as we do rest by lofty ranks ov elems on the flow'ry banks; how cool's the sheäde, or warm's the lewth, bezide a zummer hedge in blooth. but oh! below woone hedge's zide our jaÿ do come a-most to pride; out where the high-stemm'd trees do stand, in row bezide our own free land, an' where the wide-leav'd clote mid zwim 'ithin our water's rushy rim: an' raïn do vall, an' zuns do burn, an' each in season, and in turn, to cool the sheäde or warm the lewth ov our own zummer hedge in blooth. how soft do sheäke the zummer hedge- how soft do sway the zummer zedge- how bright be zummer skies an' zun- how bright the zummer brook do run; an' feäir the flow'rs do bloom, to feäde behind the swaÿen mower's bleäde; an' sweet be merry looks o' jaÿ, by weäles an' pooks o' june's new haÿ, wi' smilèn age, an laughèn youth, bezide the zummer hedge in blooth. the water crowvoot. 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 on darksome pools o' stwoneless stour, when sof'ly-rizèn aïrs do cool the water in the sheenèn pool, 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, 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; an' quiv'rèn water-gleams do mock the weäves, upon the sheäded rock; an' up athirt the copèn stwone the laïtren bwoy do leän alwone, a-watchèn, wi' a stedvast look, the vallèn waters in the brook, 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, 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 slay thee even in thy bloom, fair small-feäced flower o' the frome. the lilac. dear lilac-tree, a-spreadèn wide thy purple blooth on ev'ry zide, as if the hollow sky did shed its blue upon thy flow'ry head; oh! whether i mid sheäre wi' thee thy open aïr, my bloomèn tree, or zee thy blossoms vrom the gloom, 'ithin my zunless workèn-room, my heart do leäp, but leäp wi' sighs, at zight o' thee avore my eyes, for when thy grey-blue head do swaÿ in cloudless light, 'tis spring, 'tis maÿ. 'tis spring, 'tis maÿ, as maÿ woonce shed his glowèn light above thy head- when thy green boughs, wi' bloomy tips, did sheäde my childern's laughèn lips; a-screenèn vrom the noonday gleäre their rwosy cheäks an' glossy heäir; the while their mother's needle sped, too quick vor zight, the snow-white thread, unless her han', wi' lovèn ceäre, did smooth their little heads o' heäir; or wi' a sheäke, tie up anew vor zome wild voot, a slippèn shoe; an' i did leän bezide thy mound ageän the deäsy-dappled ground, the while the woaken clock did tick my hour o' rest away too quick, an' call me off to work anew, wi' slowly-ringèn strokes, woone, two. zoo let me zee noo darksome cloud bedim to-day thy flow'ry sh'oud, but let en bloom on ev'ry spraÿ, drough all the days o' zunny maÿ. the blackbird. 'twer out at penley i'd a-past a zummer day that went too vast, an' when the zettèn zun did spread on western clouds a vi'ry red; the elems' leafy limbs wer still above the gravel-bedded rill, an' under en did warble sh'ill, avore the dusk, the blackbird. an' there, in sheädes o' darksome yews, did vlee the maïdens on their tooes, a-laughèn sh'ill wi' merry feäce when we did vind their hidèn pleäce. 'ithin the loose-bough'd ivys gloom, or lofty lilac, vull in bloom, or hazzle-wrides that gi'ed em room below the zingèn blackbird. above our heads the rooks did vlee to reach their nested elem-tree, an' splashèn vish did rise to catch the wheelèn gnots above the hatch; an' there the miller went along, a-smilèn, up the sheädy drong, but yeet too deaf to hear the zong a-zung us by the blackbird. an' there the sh'illy-bubblèn brook did leäve behind his rocky nook, to run drough meäds a-chill'd wi' dew, vrom hour to hour the whole night drough; but still his murmurs wer a-drown'd by vaïces that mid never sound ageän together on that ground, wi' whislèns o' the blackbird. the slantèn light o' fall. ah! jeäne, my maïd, i stood to you, when you wer christen'd, small an' light, wi' tiny eärms o' red an' blue, 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, an' gather'd clouds, but brought noo storms, an' you did nessle warm enough, 'ithin your smilèn mother's eärms. the whindlèn grass did quiver light, among the stubble, feäded white, an' if at times the zunlight broke upon the ground, or on the vo'k, 'twer slantèn light o' fall. an' when we brought ye drough the door 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- 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; an' now, ageän, we brought ye drough the doorway, wi' your surneäme new, in slantèn light o' fall. an' zoo vur, jeäne, your life is feäir, an' god ha' been your steadvast friend, an' mid ye have mwore jaÿ than ceäre, 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. thissledown. the thissledown by wind's a-roll'd in fall along the zunny plaïn, did catch the grass, but lose its hold, or cling to bennets, but in vaïn. 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, ov all the trials vo'k do rue, than have a deadness o' the heart, wi' nothèn mwore to veel or do. the may-tree. i've a-come by the maÿ-tree all times o' the year, when leaves wer a-springèn, when vrost wer a-stingèn, when cool-winded mornèn did show the hills clear, when night wer bedimmèn the vields vur an' near. when, in zummer, his head wer as white as a sheet, wi' white buds a-zwellèn, an' blossom, sweet-smellèn, while leaves wi' green leaves on his bough-zides did meet, a-sheädèn the deäisies down under our veet. when the zun, in the fall, wer a-wanderèn wan, an' haws on his head did sprinkle en red, or bright drops o' raïn wer a-hung loosely on, to the tips o' the sprigs when the scud wer a-gone. an' when, in the winter, the zun did goo low, an' keen win' did huffle, but never could ruffle the hard vrozen feäce o' the water below, his limbs wer a-fringed wi' the vrost or the snow. lydlinch bells. when skies wer peäle wi' twinklèn stars, an' whislèn aïr a-risèn keen; an' birds did leäve the icy bars to vind, in woods, their mossy screen; when vrozen grass, so white's a sheet, did scrunchy sharp below our veet, an' water, that did sparkle red at zunzet, wer a-vrozen dead; the ringers then did spend an hour a-ringèn changes up in tow'r; vor lydlinch bells be good vor sound, an' liked by all the naïghbours round. an' while along the leafless boughs o' ruslèn hedges, win's did pass, an' orts ov haÿ, a-left by cows, did russle on the vrozen grass, an' maïdens' païls, wi' all their work a-done, did hang upon their vurk, an' they, avore the fleämèn brand, did teäke their needle-work in hand, the men did cheer their heart an hour a-ringèn changes up in tow'r; vor lydlinch bells be good vor sound, an' liked by all the naïghbours round. there sons did pull the bells that rung their mothers' weddèn peals avore, the while their fathers led em young an' blushèn vrom the churches door, an' still did cheem, wi' happy sound, as time did bring the zundays round, an' call em to the holy pleäce vor heav'nly gifts o' peace an' greäce; an' vo'k did come, a-streamèn slow along below the trees in row, while they, in merry peals, did sound the bells vor all the naïghbours round. an' when the bells, wi' changèn peal, did smite their own vo'ks window-peänes, their sof'en'd sound did often steal wi' west winds drough the bagber leänes; or, as the win' did shift, mid goo where woody stock do nessle lew, or where the risèn moon did light the walls o' thornhill on the height; an' zoo, whatever time mid bring to meäke their vive clear vaïces zing, still lydlinch bells wer good vor sound, an' liked by all the naïghbours round. the stage coach. ah! when the wold vo'k went abroad they thought it vast enough, if vow'r good ho'ses beät the road avore the coach's ruf; an' there they zot, 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; 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: 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, 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, they'd stop to teäke a warmèn glass by the sign above the door; an' did laugh an' joke an' ax the vo'k 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, when zummer light did vall on woods in leaf, or trees in blooth, or girt vo'ks parkzide wall. an' they thought they past the pleäces vast, along the dousty groun', when the whip did smack on the ho'ses' back, an' the wheels spun swiftly roun'. them days the wheels spun swiftly roun'. wayfearen. the sky wer clear, the zunsheen glow'd on droopèn flowers drough the day, as i did beät the dousty road vrom hinder hills, a-feädèn gray; drough hollows up the hills, vrom knaps along by mills, vrom mills by churches tow'rs, wi' bells that twold the hours to woody dells. an' when the windèn road do guide the thirsty vootman where mid flow the water vrom a rock bezide his vootsteps, in a sheenèn bow; the hand a-hollow'd up do beät a goolden cup, to catch an' drink it, bright an' cool, a-vallèn light 'ithin the pool. zoo when, at last, i hung my head wi' thirsty lips a-burnèn dry, i come bezide a river-bed where water flow'd so blue's the sky; an' there i meäde me up o' coltsvoot leaf a cup, where water vrom his lip o' gray, wer sweet to sip thik burnèn day. but when our work is right, a jaÿ do come to bless us in its traïn, an' hardships ha' zome good to paÿ the thoughtvul soul vor all their päin: the het do sweetèn sheäde, an' weary lim's ha' meäde a bed o' slumber, still an' sound, by woody hill or grassy mound. an' while i zot in sweet delay below an elem on a hill, where boughs a-halfway up did swaÿ in sheädes o' lim's above em still, an' blue sky show'd between the flutt'rèn leäves o' green; i woulden gi'e that gloom an' sheäde vor any room that weälth ha' meäde. but oh! that vo'k that have the roads where weary-vooted souls do pass, would leäve bezide the stwone vor lwoads, a little strip vor zummer grass; that when the stwones do bruise an' burn an' gall our tooes, we then mid cool our veet on beds o' wild-thyme sweet, or deäisy-heads. the leane. they do zay that a travellèn chap have a-put in the newspeäper now, that the bit o' green ground on the knap should be all a-took in vor the plough. he do fancy 'tis easy to show that we can be but stunpolls at best, vor to leäve a green spot where a flower can grow, or a voot-weary walker mid rest. tis hedge-grubbèn, thomas, an' ledge-grubbèn, never a-done while a sov'rèn mwore's to be won. the road, he do zay, is so wide as 'tis wanted vor travellers' wheels, as if all that did travel did ride an' did never get galls on their heels. he would leäve sich a thin strip o' groun', that, if a man's veet in his shoes wer a-burnèn an' zore, why he coulden zit down but the wheels would run over his tooes. vor 'tis meäke money, thomas, an' teäke money, what's zwold an' bought is all that is worthy o' thought. years agoo the leäne-zides did bear grass, vor to pull wi' the geeses' red bills, that did hiss at the vo'k that did pass, or the bwoys that pick'd up their white quills. but shortly, if vower or vive ov our goslèns do creep vrom the agg, they must mwope in the geärden, mwore dead than alive, in a coop, or a-tied by the lag. vor to catch at land, thomas, an' snatch at land, now is the plan; meäke money wherever you can. the childern wull soon have noo pleäce vor to plaÿ in, an' if they do grow, they wull have a thin musheroom feäce, wi' their bodies so sumple as dough. but a man is a-meäde ov a child, an' his limbs do grow worksome by plaÿ; an' if the young child's little body's a-spweil'd, why, the man's wull the sooner decaÿ. but wealth is wo'th now mwore than health is wo'th; let it all goo, if't 'ull bring but a sov'rèn or two. vor to breed the young fox or the heäre, we can gi'e up whole eäcres o' ground, but the greens be a-grudg'd, vor to rear our young childern up healthy an' sound, why, there woont be a-left the next age a green spot where their veet can goo free; an' the goocoo wull soon be committed to cage vor a trespass in zomebody's tree. vor 'tis lockèn up, thomas, an' blockèn up, stranger or brother, men mussen come nigh woone another. woone day i went in at a geäte, wi' my child, where an echo did sound, an' the owner come up, an' did reäte me as if i would car off his ground. but his vield an' the grass wer a-let, an' the damage that he could a-took wer at mwost that the while i did open the geäte i did rub roun' the eye on the hook. but 'tis drevèn out, thomas, an' hevèn out. trample noo grounds, unless you be after the hounds. ah! the squiër o' culver-dell hall wer as diff'rent as light is vrom dark, wi' zome vo'k that, as evenèn did vall, had a-broke drough long grass in his park; vor he went, wi' a smile, vor to meet wi' the trespassers while they did pass, an' he zaid, "i do fear you'll catch cwold in your veet, you've a-walk'd drough so much o' my grass." his mild words, thomas, cut em like swords, thomas, newly a-whet, an' went vurder wi' them than a dreat. the railroad. 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 below em on the zunny grass. an' as i zot, an' look'd abrode on leänen land an' windèn road, the ground a-spread along our flight did vlee behind us out o' zight; the while the zun, our heav'nly guide, did ride on wi' us, zide by zide. an' zoo, while time, vrom stage to stage, do car us on vrom youth to age, the e'thly pleasures we do vind 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. the railroad. an' while i went 'ithin a traïn, a-ridèn on athirt the plaïn, a-cleären swifter than a hound, on twin-laid rails, the zwimmèn ground; i cast my eyes 'ithin a park, upon a woak wi' grey-white bark, an' while i kept his head my mark, the rest did wheel around en. 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; zoo while our life do last, mid nought but what is good an' feäir be sought, in word or deed, or heart or thought, an' all the rest wheel round it. seats. when starbright maïdens be to zit in silken frocks, that they do wear, the room mid have, as 'tis but fit, a han'some seat vor vo'k so feäir; but we, in zun-dried vield an' wood, ha' seats as good's a goolden chair. vor here, 'ithin the woody drong, a ribbèd elem-stem do lie, a-vell'd in spring, an' stratch'd along a bed o' grægles up knee-high, a sheädy seat to rest, an' let the burnèn het o' noon goo by. or if you'd look, wi' wider scope, out where the gray-tree'd plaïn do spread, the ash bezide the zunny slope, do sheäde a cool-aïr'd deäisy bed, an' grassy seat, wi' spreadèn eaves o' rus'lèn leaves, above your head. an' there the traïn mid come in zight, too vur to hear a-rollèn by, a-breathèn quick, in heästy flight, his breath o' tweil, avore the sky, the while the waggon, wi' his lwoad, do crawl the rwoad a-windèn nigh. or now theäse happy holiday do let vo'k rest their weäry lim's, an' lwoaded hay's a-hangèn gray, above the waggon-wheels' dry rims, the meäd ha' seats in weäles or pooks, by windèn brooks, wi' crumblèn brims. or if you'd gi'e your thoughtvul mind to yonder long-vorseäken hall, then teäke a stwonèn seat behind the ivy on the broken wall, an' learn how e'thly wealth an' might mid clim' their height, an' then mid vall. sound o' water. i born in town! oh no, my dawn o' life broke here beside theäse lawn; not where pent aïr do roll along, in darkness drough the wall-bound drong, an' never bring the goo-coo's zong, nor sweets o' blossoms in the hedge, or bendèn rush, or sheenèn zedge, or sounds o' flowèn water. the aïr that i've a-breath'd did sheäke the draps o' raïn upon the breäke, an' bear aloft the swingèn lark, an' huffle roun' the elem's bark, in boughy grove, an' woody park, an' brought us down the dewy dells, the high-wound zongs o' nightingeäles. an' sounds o' flowèn water. an' when the zun, wi' vi'ry rim, 's a-zinkèn low, an' wearèn dim, here i, a-most too tired to stand, do leäve my work that's under hand in pathless wood or oben land, to rest 'ithin my thatchèn oves, wi' ruslèn win's in leafy groves, an' sounds o' flowèn water. trees be company. when zummer's burnèn het's a-shed upon the droopèn grasses head, a-drevèn under sheädy leaves the workvo'k in their snow-white sleeves, we then mid yearn to clim' the height, where thorns be white, above the vern; an' aïr do turn the zunsheen's might to softer light too weak to burn- on woodless downs we mid be free, but lowland trees be company. though downs mid show a wider view o' green a-reachèn into blue than roads a-windèn in the glen, an' ringèn wi' the sounds o' men; the thissle's crown o' red an' blue in fall's cwold dew do wither brown, an' larks come down 'ithin the lew, as storms do brew, an' skies do frown- an' though the down do let us free, the lowland trees be company. where birds do zing, below the zun, in trees above the blue-smok'd tun, an' sheädes o' stems do overstratch the mossy path 'ithin the hatch; if leaves be bright up over head, when maÿ do shed its glitt'rèn light; or, in the blight o' fall, do spread a yollow bed avore our zight- whatever season it mid be, the trees be always company. when dusky night do nearly hide the path along the hedge's zide, an' dailight's hwomely sounds be still but sounds o' water at the mill; then if noo feäce we long'd to greet could come to meet our lwonesome treäce or if noo peäce o' weary veet, however fleet, could reach its pleäce- however lwonesome we mid be, the trees would still be company. a pleäce in zight. 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 vrom dawn till night, the mwost ov all. an' there, in maÿ, 'ithin the lewth o' boughs in blooth, be sheädy walks, 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 an hour or two wi' zome vo'k there. 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, upon the gray wold house's wall. an' i can zee avore the sky a-risèn high the churches speer, 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. gwain to brookwell. at easter, though the wind wer high, we vound we had a zunny sky, an' zoo wold dobbin had to trudge his dousty road by knap an' brudge, an' jog, wi' hangèn vetterlocks a-sheäkèn roun' his heavy hocks, an' us, a lwoad not much too small, a-ridèn out to brookwell hall; an' there in doust vrom dobbin's heels, an' green light-waggon's vower wheels, our merry laughs did loudly sound, in rollèn winds athirt the ground; while sheenèn-ribbons' color'd streäks did flutter roun' the maïdens' cheäks, as they did zit, wi' smilèn lips, a-reachèn out their vinger-tips toward zome teäkèn pleäce or zight that they did shew us, left or right; an' woonce, when jimmy tried to pleäce a kiss on cousin polly's feäce, she push'd his hat, wi' wicked leers, right off above his two red ears, an' there he roll'd along the groun' wi' spreadèn brim an' rounded crown, an' vound, at last, a cowpon's brim, an' launch'd hizzelf, to teäke a zwim; an' there, as jim did run to catch his neäked noddle's bit o' thatch, to zee his straïnèns an' his strides, we laugh'd enough to split our zides. at harwood farm we pass'd the land that father's father had in hand, an' there, in oben light did spread, the very groun's his cows did tread, an' there above the stwonèn tun avore the dazzlèn mornèn zun, wer still the rollèn smoke, the breath a-breath'd vrom his wold house's he'th; an' there did lie below the door, the drashol' that his vootsteps wore; but there his meäte an' he bwoth died, wi' hand in hand, an' zide by zide; between the seäme two peals a-rung, two zundays, though they wer but young, an' laid in sleep, their worksome hands, at rest vrom tweil wi' house or lands. then vower childern laid their heads at night upon their little beds, an' never rose ageän below a mother's love, or father's ho: dree little maïdens, small in feäce, an' woone small bwoy, the fourth in pleäce zoo when their heedvul father died, he call'd his brother to his zide, to meäke en stand, in hiz own stead, his childern's guide, when he wer dead; but still avore zix years brought round the woodland goo-coo's zummer sound, he weästed all their little store, an' hardship drove em out o' door, to tweil till tweilsome life should end. 'ithout a single e'thly friend. but soon wi' harwood back behind, an' out o' zight an' out o' mind, we went a-rottlèn on, an' meäde our way along to brookwell sleäde; an' then we vound ourselves draw nigh the leädy's tow'r that rose on high, an' seem'd a-comèn on to meet, wi' growèn height, wold dobbin's veet. brookwell. well, i do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while to beät the doust a good six mile to zee the pleäce the squier plann'd at brookwell, now a-meäde by hand; wi' oben lawn, an' grove, an' pon', an' gravel-walks as cleän as bron; an' grass a'most so soft to tread as velvet-pile o' silken thread; an' mounds wi' mæsh, an' rocks wi' flow'rs, an' ivy-sheäded zummer bow'rs, an' dribblèn water down below the stwonèn archès lofty bow. an' there do sound the watervall below a cavern's maeshy wall, where peäle-green light do struggle down a leafy crevice at the crown. an' there do gush the foamy bow o' water, white as driven snow: an' there, a zittèn all alwone, a little maïd o' marble stwone do leän her little cheäk azide upon her lily han', an' bide bezide the vallèn stream to zee her pitcher vill'd avore her knee. an' then the brook, a-rollèn dark below a leänèn yew-tree's bark, wi' plaÿsome ripples that do run a-flashèn to the western zun, do shoot, at last, wi' foamy shocks, athirt a ledge o' craggy rocks, a-castèn in his heästy flight, upon the stwones a robe o' white; an' then ageän do goo an' vall below a bridge's archèd wall, where vo'k agwaïn athirt do pass vow'r little bwoys a-cast in brass; an' woone do hold an angler's wand, wi' steady hand, above the pond; an' woone, a-pweïntèn to the stream his little vinger-tip, do seem a-showèn to his playmeätes' eyes, where he do zee the vishes rise; an' woone ageän, wi' smilèn lips, do put a vish his han' do clips 'ithin a basket, loosely tied about his shoulder at his zide: an' after that the fourth do stand a-holdèn back his pretty hand behind his little ear, to drow a stwone upon the stream below. an' then the housèn, that be all sich pretty hwomes, vrom big to small, a-lookèn south, do cluster round a zunny ledge o' risèn ground, avore a wood, a-nestled warm, in lewth ageän the northern storm, where smoke, a-wreathèn blue, do spread above the tuns o' dusky red, an' window-peänes do glitter bright wi' burnèn streams o' zummer light, below the vine, a-traïn'd to hem their zides 'ithin his leafy stem, an' rangle on, wi' flutt'rèn leaves, below the houses' thatchen eaves. an' drough a lawn a-spread avore the windows, an' the pworchèd door, a path do wind 'ithin a hatch, a-vastèn'd wi' a clickèn latch, an' there up over ruf an' tun, do stan' the smooth-wall'd church o' stwone, wi' carvèd windows, thin an' tall, a-reachèn up the lofty wall; an' battlements, a-stannèn round the tower, ninety veet vrom ground, vrom where a teäp'rèn speer do spring so high's the mornèn lark do zing. zoo i do zay 'tis wo'th woone's while to beät the doust a good six mile, to zee the pleäce the squier plann'd at brookwell, now a-meäde by hand. the shy man. ah! good meäster gwillet, that you mid ha' know'd, wer a-bred up at coomb, an' went little abroad: an' if he got in among strangers, he velt his poor heart in a twitter, an' ready to melt; or if, by ill luck, in his rambles, he met wi' zome maïdens a-titt'rèn, he burn'd wi' a het, that shot all drough the lim's o'n, an' left a cwold zweat, the poor little chap wer so shy, he wer ready to drap, an' to die. but at last 'twer the lot o' the poor little man to vall deeply in love, as the best ov us can; an' 'twer noo easy task vor a shy man to tell sich a dazzlèn feäir maïd that he loved her so well; an' woone day when he met her, his knees nearly smote woone another, an' then wi' a struggle he bro't a vew vords to his tongue, wi' some mwore in his droat. but she, 'ithout doubt, could soon vind vrom two words that come out, zix behind. zoo at langth, when he vound her so smilèn an' kind, why he wrote her zome laïns, vor to tell her his mind, though 'twer then a hard task vor a man that wer shy, to be married in church, wi' a crowd stannèn by. but he twold her woone day, "i have housen an' lands, we could marry by licence, if you don't like banns," an' he cover'd his eyes up wi' woone ov his han's, vor his head seem'd to zwim as he spoke, an' the aïr look'd so dim as a smoke. well! he vound a good naïghbour to goo in his pleäce vor to buy the goold ring, vor he hadden the feäce. an' when he went up vor to put in the banns, he did sheäke in his lags, an' did sheäke in his han's. then they ax'd vor her neäme, an' her parish or town, an' he gi'ed em a leaf, wi' her neäme a-wrote down; vor he coulden ha' twold em outright, vor a poun', vor his tongue wer so weak an' so loose, when he wanted to speak 'twer noo use. zoo they went to be married, an' when they got there all the vo'k wer a-gather'd as if 'twer a feäir, an' he thought, though his pleäce mid be pleazèn to zome, he could all but ha' wish'd that he hadden a-come. the bride wer a-smilèn as fresh as a rwose, an' when he come wi' her, an' show'd his poor nose. all the little bwoys shouted, an' cried "there he goes," "there he goes." oh! vor his peärt he velt as if the poor heart o'n would melt. an' when they stood up by the chancel together, oh! a man mid ha' knock'd en right down wi' a veather, he did veel zoo asheäm'd that he thought he would rather he wërden the bridegroom, but only the father. but, though 'tis so funny to zee en so shy, yeet his mind is so lowly, his aïms be so high, that to do a meän deed, or to tell woone a lie, you'd vind that he'd shun mwore by half, than to stan' vor vo'ks fun, or their laugh. the winter's willow. there liddy zot bezide her cow, 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, bezide the winter's willow. she idden woone a-rear'd in town 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, 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 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, she don't begrudge to speäre, o, to zomebody, a little while, the empty woaken chair, o; 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. an' i've a cow or two in leäze, 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 athirt upon the woody nook where vu'st i zeed her by the brook bezide the winter's willow. zoo, who would heed the treeless down, a-beät by all the storms, o, or who would heed the busy town, where vo'k do goo in zwarms, o; if he wer in my house below the elems, where the vier did glow in liddy's feäce, though winds did blow ageän the winter's willow. i know who. aye, aye, vull rathe the zun mus' rise to meäke us tired o' zunny skies, a-sheenèn on the whole day drough, from mornèn's dawn till evenèn's dew. when trees be brown an' meäds be green, an' skies be blue, an' streams do sheen, 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, 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, an' hangèn vern's a-sheäkèn dead, 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, in me'th at night, wi'--i know who. jessie lee. above the timber's bendèn sh'ouds, the western wind did softly blow; an' up avore the knap, the clouds 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. 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-waikèn 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 did meäke a-walkèn slowly by: but i went east, wi' beätèn 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; zwim on, o clouds; o waters vall, down mæshy rocks, vrom mill to mill; 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. true love. as evenèn aïr, in green-treed spring, do sheäke the new-sprung pa'sley bed, an' wither'd ash-tree keys do swing an' vall a-flutt'rèn roun' our head: there, while the birds do zing their zong in bushes down the ash-tree drong, come jessie lee, vor sweet's the pleäce your vaïce an' feäce can meäke vor me. below the buddèn ashes' height we there can linger in the lew, while boughs, a-gilded by the light, do sheen avore the sky o' blue: but there by zettèn zun, or moon a-risèn, time wull vlee too soon wi' jessie lee, vor sweet's the pleäce her vaïce an' feäce can meäke vor me. down where the darksome brook do flow, below the bridge's archèd wall, wi' alders dark, a-leanèn low, above the gloomy watervall; there i've a-led ye hwome at night, wi' noo feäce else 'ithin my zight but yours so feäir, an' sweet's the pleäce your vaïce an' feäce ha' meäde me there. an' oh! when other years do come, an' zettèn zuns, wi' yollow gleäre, drough western window-peänes, at hwome, do light upon my evenèn chair: while day do weäne, an' dew do vall, be wi' me then, or else in call, as time do vlee, vor sweet's the pleäce your vaïce an' feäce do meäke vor me. ah! you do smile, a-thinkèn light o' my true words, but never mind; smile on, smile on, but still your flight would leäve me little jaÿ behind: but let me not be zoo a-tried wi' you a-lost where i do bide, o jessie lee, in any pleäce your vaïce an' feäce ha' blest vor me. i'm sure that when a soul's a-brought to this our life ov aïr an' land, woone mwore's a-mark'd in god's good thought, to help, wi' love, his heart an' hand. an' oh! if there should be in store an angel here vor my poor door, 'tis jessie lee, vor sweet's the pleäce her vaïce an' feace can meäke vor me. the bean vield. 'twer where the zun did warm the lewth, an' win' did whiver in the sheäde, the sweet-aïr'd beäns were out in blooth, down there 'ithin the elem gleäde; a yollow-banded bee did come, an' softly-pitch, wi' hushèn hum, upon a beän, an' there did sip, upon a swaÿèn blossom's lip: an' there cried he, "aye, i can zee, this blossom's all a-zent vor me." a-jilted up an' down, astride upon a lofty ho'se a-trot, the meäster then come by wi' pride, to zee the beäns that he'd a-got; an' as he zot upon his ho'se, the ho'se ageän did snort an' toss his high-ear'd head, an' at the zight ov all the blossom, black an' white: "ah! ah!" thought he, the seäme's the bee, "theäse beäns be all a-zent vor me." zoo let the worold's riches breed a strife o' claïms, wi' weak and strong, vor now what cause have i to heed who's in the right, or in the wrong; since there do come drough yonder hatch, an' bloom below the house's thatch, the best o' maïdens, an' do own that she is mine, an' mine alwone: zoo i can zee that love do gi'e the best ov all good gifts to me. vor whose be all the crops an' land a-won an' lost, an' bought, an zwold or whose, a-roll'd vrom hand to hand, the highest money that's a-twold? vrom man to man a passèn on, 'tis here to-day, to-morrow gone. but there's a blessèn high above it all--a soul o' stedvast love: zoo let it vlee, if god do gi'e sweet jessie vor a gift to me. wold friends a-met. aye, vull my heart's blood now do roll, an' gaÿ do rise my happy soul, an' well they mid, vor here our veet avore woone vier ageän do meet; vor you've avoun' my feäce, to greet wi' welcome words my startlèn ear. an' who be you, but john o' weer, an' i, but william wellburn. here, light a candle up, to shed mwore light upon a wold friend's head, an' show the smile, his feäce woonce mwore ha' brought us vrom another shore. an' i'll heave on a brand avore the vier back, to meäke good cheer, o' roarèn fleämes, vor john o' weer to chat wi' william wellburn. aye, aye, it mid be true that zome, when they do wander out vrom hwome, do leäve their nearest friends behind, bwoth out o' zight, an' out o' mind; but john an' i ha' ties to bind our souls together, vur or near, for, who is he but john o' weer. an' i, but william wellburn. look, there he is, with twinklèn eyes, an' elbows down upon his thighs. a-chucklèn low, wi' merry grin. though time ha' roughen'd up his chin, 'tis still the seäme true soul 'ithin, as woonce i know'd, when year by year, thik very chap, thik john o' weer, did plaÿ wi' william wellburn. come, john, come; don't be dead-alive here, reach us out your clust'r o' vive. oh! you be happy. ees, but that woon't do till you can laugh an' chat. don't blinky, lik' a purrèn cat, but leäp an' laugh, an' let vo'k hear what's happen'd, min, that john o' weer ha' met wi' william wellburn. vor zome, wi' selfishness too strong vor love, do do each other wrong; an' zome do wrangle an' divide in hets ov anger, bred o' pride; but who do think that time or tide can breed ill-will in friends so dear, as william wer to john o' weer, an' john to william wellburn? if other vo'ks do gleen to zee how lovèn an' how glad we be, what, then, poor souls, they had but vew sich happy days, so long agoo, as they that i've a-spent wi' you; but they'd hold woone another dear, if woone o' them wer john o' weer, an' tother william wellburn. fifehead. '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, above the vo'k, wi' heavy heads, 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. all he'ths wer cwold but woone, where we wer gaÿ, 'tis true, but gaÿ an' wise, an' laugh'd in light o' maïden's 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. but jeäne, that there, below a gleam o' light, watch'd woone o's out o' zight; 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, rose dim 'ithout a breath o' sound, the wold abode o' squiers a-gone, though while they lay a-sleepèn on, their stars wer still awake, john. ivy hall. if i've a-stream'd below a storm, an' not a-velt the raïn, an' if i ever velt me warm, in snow upon the plaïn, 'twer when, as evenèn skies wer dim, an' vields below my eyes wer dim, i went alwone at evenèn-fall, athirt the vields to ivy hall. i voun' the wind upon the hill, last night, a-roarèn loud, an' rubbèn boughs a-creakèn sh'ill upon the ashes' sh'oud; but oh! the reelèn copse mid groan; an' timber's lofty tops mid groan; the hufflèn winds be music all, bezide my road to ivy hall. a sheädy grove o' ribbèd woaks, is wootton's shelter'd nest, an' woaks do keep the winter's strokes vrom knapton's evenèn rest. an' woaks ageän wi' bossy stems, an' elems wi' their mossy stems, do rise to screen the leafy wall an' stwonèn ruf ov ivy hall. the darksome clouds mid fling their sleet. an' vrost mid pinch me blue, or snow mid cling below my veet, an' hide my road vrom view. the winter's only jaÿ ov heart, an' storms do meäke me gaÿ ov heart, when i do rest, at evenèn-fall, bezide the he'th ov ivy hall. there leafy stems do clim' around the mossy stwonèn eaves; an' there be window-zides a-bound wi' quiv'rèn ivy-leaves. but though the sky is dim 'ithout, an' feäces mid be grim 'ithout, still i ha' smiles when i do call, at evenèn-tide, at ivy hall. false friends-like. when i wer still a bwoy, an' mother's pride, a bigger bwoy spoke up to me so kind-like, "if you do like, i'll treat ye wi' a ride in theäse wheel-barrow here." zoo i wer blind-like to what he had a-workèn in his mind-like, an' mounted vor a passenger inside; an' comèn to a puddle, perty wide, he tipp'd me in, a-grinnèn back behind-like. zoo when a man do come to me so thick-like, an' sheäke my hand, where woonce he pass'd me by, an' tell me he would do me this or that, i can't help thinkèn o' the big bwoy's trick-like. an' then, vor all i can but wag my hat an' thank en, i do veel a little shy. the bachelor. no! i don't begrudge en his life, nor his goold, nor his housen, nor lands; teäke all o't, an' gi'e me my wife, 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, to mend ev'ry stitch that do tear, an' keep ev'ry button in pleäce? crack a-tore! brack a-tore! back a-tore! buttons a-vled! 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, 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 each husban' do leäd hwome his bride, then he do slink hwome to his he'th, wi' his eärm a-hung down his cwold zide. 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, do grin vor to see en so glum. 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. married peäir's love walk. 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. come, esther, teäke, vor wold time's seäke, your hooded cloke, that's on the pin, an' wrap up warm, an' teäke my eärm, you'll vind it better out than in. come, etty dear; come out o' door, an' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore. 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, 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 the crumpled leaves did vlee an' spin, 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, 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. a wife a-praïs'd. 'twer maÿ, but ev'ry leaf wer dry all day below a sheenèn sky; the zun did glow wi' yollow gleäre, an' cowslips blow wi' yollow gleäre, wi' grægles' bells a-droopèn low, an' bremble boughs a-stoopèn low; while culvers in the trees did coo above the vallèn dew. 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, 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, 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, an' win' do blow along so vast, an' streams do flow along so vast; ageän the storms so rough abroad, 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, in search ov honey in the spring: the dawn-red sky do meet ye up; the birds vu'st cry do meet ye up; an' wi' your feäce a-smilèn on, an' busy hands a-tweilèn on, you'll vind zome useful work to do until the vallèn dew. the wife a-lost. 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, i'll goo alwone where mist do ride, drough trees a-drippèn wet: 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 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 said vaïce vor greäce 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. the thorns in the geäte. ah! meäster collins overtook our knot o' vo'k a-stannèn still, last zunday, up on ivy hill, to zee how strong the corn did look. an' he stay'd back awhile an' spoke a vew kind words to all the vo'k, vor good or joke, an' wi' a smile begun a-plaÿèn wi' a chile. the zull, wi' iron zide awry, had long a-vurrow'd up the vield; the heavy roller had a-wheel'd it smooth vor showers vrom the sky; the bird-bwoy's cry, a-risèn sh'ill, an' clacker, had a-left the hill, all bright but still, vor time alwone to speed the work that we'd a-done. down drough the wind, a-blowèn keen, did gleäre the nearly cloudless sky, an' corn in bleäde, up ancle-high, 'lthin the geäte did quiver green; an' in the geäte a-lock'd there stood a prickly row o' thornèn wood vor vo'k vor food had done their best, an' left to spring to do the rest. "the geäte," he cried, "a-seal'd wi' thorn vrom harmvul veet's a-left to hold the bleäde a-springèn vrom the mwold, while god do ripen it to corn. an' zoo in life let us vulvil whatever is our meäker's will, an' then bide still, wi' peacevul breast, while he do manage all the rest." angels by the door. oh! there be angels evermwore, a-passèn onward by the door, a-zent to teäke our jaÿs, or come to bring us zome--o meärianne. though doors be shut, an' bars be stout, noo bolted door can keep em out; but they wull leäve us ev'ry thing they have to bring--my meärianne. an' zoo the days a-stealèn by, wi' zuns a-ridèn drough the sky, do bring us things to leäve us sad, or meäke us glad--o meärianne. the day that's mild, the day that's stern, do teäke, in stillness, each his turn; an' evils at their worst mid mend, or even end--my meärianne. but still, if we can only bear wi' faïth an' love, our païn an' ceäre, we shan't vind missèn jaÿs a-lost, though we be crost--o meärianne. but all a-took to heav'n, an' stow'd where we can't weäste em on the road, as we do wander to an' fro, down here below--my meärianne. but there be jaÿs i'd soonest choose to keep, vrom them that i must lose; your workzome hands to help my tweil, your cheerful smile--o meärianne. the zunday bells o' yonder tow'r, the moonlight sheädes o' my own bow'r, an' rest avore our vier-zide, at evenèn-tide--my meärianne. vo'k a-comèn into church. the church do zeem a touchèn zight, when vo'k, a-comèn in at door, do softly tread the long-aïl'd vloor below the pillar'd arches' height, wi' bells a-pealèn, vo'k a-kneelèn, hearts a-healèn, wi' the love an' peäce a-zent em vrom above. an' there, wi' mild an' thoughtvul feäce, wi' downcast eyes, an' vaïces dum', the wold an' young do slowly come, an' teäke in stillness each his pleäce, a-zinkèn slowly, kneelèn lowly, seekèn holy thoughts alwone, in praÿ'r avore their meäker's throne. an' there be sons in youthvul pride, an' fathers weak wi' years an' païn, an' daughters in their mother's traïn. the tall wi' smaller at their zide; heads in murnèn never turnèn, cheäks a-burnèn, wi' the het o' youth, an' eyes noo tears do wet. there friends do settle, zide by zide, the knower speechless to the known; their vaïce is there vor god alwone to flesh an' blood their tongues be tied. grief a-wringèn, jaÿ a-zingèn, pray'r a-bringèn welcome rest so softly to the troubled breast. woone rule. an' while i zot, wi' thoughtvul mind, 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 our waÿ drough life, to reach our end, our god ha' gi'ed us, vrom our youth, woone rule to be our guide--his truth. an' zoo wi' that, though we mid teäke wide rambles vor our callèns' seäke, what is, is best, we needen fear, an' we shall steer to happy rest. good meäster collins. aye, meäster collins wer a-blest wi' greäce, an' now's a-gone to rest; an' though his heart did beät so meek 's a little child's, when he did speak, the godly wisdom ov his tongue wer dew o' greäce to wold an' young. 'twer woonce, upon a zummer's tide, i zot at brookwell by his zide, avore the leäke, upon the rocks, above the water's idle shocks, as little plaÿsome weäves did zwim ageän the water's windy brim, out where the lofty tower o' stwone did stan' to years o' wind an' zun; an' where the zwellèn pillars bore a pworch above the heavy door, wi' sister sheädes a-reachèn cool athirt the stwones an' sparklèn pool. i spoke zome word that meäde en smile, o' girt vo'k's wealth an' poor vo'k's tweil, as if i pin'd, vor want ov greäce, to have a lord's or squier's pleäce. "no, no," he zaid, "what god do zend is best vor all o's in the end, an' all that we do need the mwost do come to us wi' leäst o' cost;- why, who could live upon the e'th 'ithout god's gïft ov aïr vor breath? or who could bide below the zun if water didden rise an' run? an' who could work below the skies if zun an' moon did never rise? zoo aïr an' water, an' the light, be higher gifts, a-reckon'd right, than all the goold the darksome claÿ can ever yield to zunny daÿ: but then the aïr is roun' our heads, abroad by day, or on our beds; where land do gi'e us room to bide, or seas do spread vor ships to ride; an' he do zend his waters free, vrom clouds to lands, vrom lands to sea: an' mornèn light do blush an' glow, 'ithout our tweil--'ithout our ho. "zoo let us never pine, in sin, vor gifts that ben't the best to win; the heaps o' goold that zome mid pile, wi' sleepless nights an' peaceless tweil; or manor that mid reach so wide as blackmwore is vrom zide to zide, or kingly swaÿ, wi' life or death, vor helpless childern ov the e'th: vor theäse ben't gifts, as he do know, that he in love should vu'st bestow; or else we should have had our sheäre o'm all wi' little tweil or ceäre. "ov all his choicest gifts, his cry is, 'come, ye moneyless, and buy.' zoo blest is he that can but lift his prayer vor a happy gift." herrenston. zoo then the leädy an' the squier, at chris'mas, gather'd girt an' small, vor me'th, avore their roarèn vier, an! roun' their bwoard, 'ithin the hall; an' there, in glitt'rèn rows, between the roun'-rimm'd pleätes, our knives did sheen, wi' frothy eäle, an' cup an' can, 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 did tire, an' meäke but little show; an' after we'd a-took our seat, an' greäce had been a-zaid vor meat, we zet to work, an' zoo begun 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, thik merry night, at herrenston. an' then the band, wi' each his leaf o' notes, above us at the zide, play'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. an' then the clerk, avore the vier, begun to lead, wi' smilèn feäce, a carol, wi' the monkton quire, that rung drough all the crowded pleäce. an' dins' o' words an' laughter broke in merry peals drough clouds o' smoke; vor hardly wer there woone that spoke, 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. 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, when they can stoop, wi' kindly smile, an' teäke a poor man by the hand, an' cheer en in his daily tweil. an' oh! mid he that's vur above the highest here, reward their love, an' gi'e their happy souls, drough greäce, a higher pleäce than herrenston. out at plough. though cool avore the sheenèn sky do vall the sheädes below the copse, the timber-trees, a-reachèn high, ha' zunsheen on their lofty tops, where yonder land's a-lyèn plow'd, an' red, below the snow-white cloud, an' vlocks o' pitchèn rooks do vwold their wings to walk upon the mwold. while floods be low, an' buds do grow, an' aïr do blow, a-broad, o. 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; 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, or smiles be glad, or times be bad, at hwome, o an' there the zunny land do lie below the hangèn, in the lew, wi' vurrows now a-crumblèn dry, below the plowman's dousty shoe; an' there the bwoy do whissel sh'ill, below the skylark's merry bill, where primrwose beds do deck the zides o' banks below the meäple wrides. as trees be bright wi' bees in flight, an' weather's bright, abroad, o. an' there, as sheenèn wheels do spin vull speed along the dousty rwoad, he can but stan', an' wish 'ithin his mind to be their happy lwoad, that he mid gaïly ride, an' goo to towns the rwoad mid teäke en drough, an' zee, for woonce, the zights behind 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; vor he'd be glad to zee the zun a-zettèn, wi' his work a-done, that he, at hwome, mid still injaÿ his happy bit ov evenèn plaÿ, so light's a lark till night is dark, while dogs do bark, at hwome, o. the bwoat. where cows did slowly seek the brink o' _stour_, drough zunburnt grass, to drink; wi' vishèn float, that there did zink an' rise, i zot as in a dream. the dazzlèn zun did cast his light on hedge-row blossom, snowy white, though nothèn yet did come in zight, a-stirrèn on the straÿèn stream; till, out by sheädy rocks there show'd, a bwoat along his foamy road, wi' thik feäir maïd at mill, a-row'd wi' jeäne behind her brother's oars. an' steätely as a queen o' vo'k, she zot wi' floatèn scarlet cloak, an' comèn on, at ev'ry stroke, between my withy-sheäded shores. the broken stream did idly try to show her sheäpe a-ridèn by, the rushes brown-bloom'd stems did ply, as if they bow'd to her by will. the rings o' water, wi' a sock, did break upon the mossy rock, an' gi'e my beätèn heart a shock, above my float's up-leapèn quill. then, lik' a cloud below the skies, a-drifted off, wi' less'nèn size, an' lost, she floated vrom my eyes, where down below the stream did wind; an' left the quiet weäves woonce mwore to zink to rest, a sky-blue'd vloor, wi' all so still's the clote they bore, aye, all but my own ruffled mind. the pleäce our own ageän. 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. an' there the brook, a-windèn round the parrick zide, do run below the grey-stwon'd bridge wi' gurglèn sound, a-sheäded by the arches' bow; where former days the wold brown meäre, wi' father on her back, did wear wi' heavy shoes the grav'ly leäne, an' sheäke her meäne o' yollor heäir. an' many zummers there ha' glow'd, to shrink the brook in bubblèn shoals, an' warm the doust upon the road, below the trav'ller's burnèn zoles. an' zome ha' zent us to our bed in grief, an' zome in jaÿ ha' vled; but vew ha' come wi' happier light 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 ov hindrances we ought to slight? a hearty will, wi' god our friend, will gaïn its end, if 'tis but right. [gothic: eclogue.] _john an' thomas._ thomas. how b'ye, then, john, to-night; an' how be times a-waggèn on w' ye now? i can't help slackenèn my peäce when i do come along your pleäce, to zee what crops your bit o' groun' do bear ye all the zummer roun'. 'tis true you don't get fruit nor blooth, 'ithin the glassèn houses' lewth; but if a man can rear a crop where win' do blow an' raïn can drop, do seem to come, below your hand, as fine as any in the land. john. well, there, the geärden stuff an' flow'rs don't leäve me many idle hours; but still, though i mid plant or zow, 'tis woone above do meäke it grow. thomas. aye, aye, that's true, but still your strip o' groun' do show good workmanship: you've onions there nine inches round, an' turmits that would waïgh a pound; an' cabbage wi' its hard white head, an' teäties in their dousty bed, an' carrots big an' straïght enough vor any show o' geärden stuff; an' trees ov apples, red-skinn'd balls an' purple plums upon the walls, an' peas an' beäns; bezides a store o' heärbs vor ev'ry païn an' zore. john. an' over hedge the win's a-heärd, a ruslèn drough my barley's beard; an' swaÿen wheat do overspread zix ridges in a sheet o' red; an' then there's woone thing i do call the girtest handiness ov all: my ground is here at hand, avore my eyes, as i do stand at door; an' zoo i've never any need to goo a mile to pull a weed. thomas. no, sure, a miël shoulden stratch between woone's geärden an' woone's hatch. a man would like his house to stand bezide his little bit o' land. john. ees. when woone's groun' vor geärden stuff is roun' below the house's ruf, then woone can spend upon woone's land odd minutes that mid lie on hand, the while, wi' night a-comèn on, the red west sky's a-wearèn wan; or while woone's wife, wi' busy hands, avore her vier o' burnèn brands, do put, as best she can avword, her bit o' dinner on the bwoard. an' here, when i do teäke my road, at breakfast-time, agwaïn abrode, why, i can zee if any plot o' groun' do want a hand or not; an' bid my childern, when there's need, to draw a reäke or pull a weed, or heal young beäns or peas in line, or tie em up wi' rods an' twine, or peel a kindly withy white to hold a droopèn flow'r upright. thomas. no. bits o' time can zeldom come to much on groun' a mile vrom hwome. a man at hwome should have in view the jobs his childern's hands can do, an' groun' abrode mid teäke em all beyond their mother's zight an' call, to get a zoakèn in a storm, or vall, i' may be, into harm. john. ees. geärden groun', as i've a-zed, is better near woone's bwoard an' bed. pentridge by the river. pentridge!--oh! my heart's a-zwellèn vull o' jaÿ wi' vo'k a-tellèn any news o' thik wold pleäce, 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? vor if a tree wer dear to me, oh! 'twer thik aspen by the river. there, in eegrass new a-shootèn, i did run on even vootèn, happy, over new-mow'd land; or did zing wi' zingèn drushes while i plaïted, out o' rushes, little baskets vor my hand; bezide the clote that there did float, wi' yollow blossoms, on the river. when the western zun's a vallèn, what sh'ill vaïce is now a-callèn hwome the deäiry to the païls; who do dreve em on, a-flingèn wide-bow'd horns, or slowly zwingèn right an' left their tufty taïls? as they do goo a-huddled drough the geäte a-leädèn up vrom river. bleäded grass is now a-shootèn where the vloor wer woonce our vootèn, while the hall wer still in pleäce. stwones be looser in the wallèn; hollow trees be nearer vallèn; ev'ry thing ha' chang'd its feäce. but still the neäme do bide the seäme- 'tis pentridge--pentridge by the river. wheat. in brown-leav'd fall the wheat a-left 'ithin its darksome bed, where all the creakèn roller's heft seal'd down its lowly head, sprung sheäkèn drough the crumblèn mwold, green-yollow, vrom below, an' bent its bleädes, a-glitt'rèn cwold, at last in winter snow. zoo luck betide the upland zide, where wheat do wride, in corn-vields wide, by crowns o' do'set downs, o. an' while the screamèn bird-bwoy shook wi' little zun-burnt hand, his clacker at the bright-wing'd rook, about the zeeded land; his meäster there did come an' stop his bridle-champèn meäre, wi' thankvul heart, to zee his crop a-comèn up so feäir. as there awhile by geäte or stile, he gi'ed the chile a cheerèn smile, by crowns o' do'set downs, o. at last, wi' eärs o' darksome red, the yollow stalks did ply, a-swaÿèn slow, so heavy 's lead, in aïr a-blowèn by; an' then the busy reapers laid in row their russlèn grips, an' sheäves, a-leänèn head by head, did meäke the stitches tips. zoo food's a-vound, a-comèn round, vrom zeed in ground, to sheaves a-bound, by crowns o' do'set downs, o. an' now the wheat, in lofty lwoads, above the meäres' broad backs, do ride along the cracklèn rwoads, or dousty waggon-tracks. an' there, mid every busy pick, ha' work enough to do; an' where, avore, we built woone rick, mid theäse year gi'e us two; wi' god our friend, an' wealth to spend, vor zome good end, that times mid mend, in towns, an' do'set downs, o. zoo let the merry thatcher veel fine weather on his brow, as he, in happy work, do kneel up roun' the new-built mow, that now do zwell in sich a size, an' rise to sich a height, that, oh! the miller's wistful eyes do sparkle at the zight an' long mid stand, a happy band, to till the land, wi' head an' hand, by crowns o' do'set downs, o. the meäd in june. 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; or trickle thin in zummer-tide; among the mossy stwones half dried; but still, below the zun or moon, the feàrest 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 feaïr, an' gil'cups wi' their yollow gleäre, be all a-match'd avore my zight by wheelèn buttervlees in flight, the while the burnèn zun at noon do sheen upon my meäd in june. 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. 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, in afternoon, a-liftèn high our reäkes avore the viery sky, a-reäken up the hay a-dried by day, in lwongsome weäles, to bide 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, 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, the zwimmèn clote-leaves be a-spread, the angler is a-zot at noon upon the flow'ry bank in june. vor all the aiër that do bring my little meäd the breath o' spring, by day an' night's a-flowèn wide above all other vields bezide; vor all the zun above my ground 's a-zent vor all the naïghbours round, an' raïn do vall, an' streams do flow, vor lands above, an' lands below, my bit o' meäd is god's own boon, to me alwone, vrom june to june. early risèn. the aïr to gi'e your cheäks a hue 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, 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. zellen woone's honey to buy zome'hat sweet. why, his heart's lik' a popple, so hard as a stwone, vor 'tis money, an' money's his ho, an' to handle an' reckon it up vor his own, is the best o' the jaÿs he do know. why, vor money he'd gi'e up his lags an' be leäme, or would peärt wi' his zight an' be blind, or would lose vo'k's good will, vor to have a bad neäme, or his peace, an' have trouble o' mind. but wi' ev'ry good thing that his meänness mid bring, he'd paÿ vor his money, an' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet. he did whisper to me, "you do know that you stood by the squier, wi' the vote that you had, you could ax en to help ye to zome'hat as good, or to vind a good pleäce vor your lad." "aye, aye, but if i wer beholdèn vor bread to another," i zaid, "i should bind all my body an' soul to the nod of his head, an' gi'e up all my freedom o' mind." an' then, if my païn wer a-zet wi' my gaïn, i should paÿ vor my money, an' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet. then, if my bit o' brook that do wind so vur round, wer but his, why, he'd straïghten his bed, an' the wold stunpole woak that do stan' in my ground, shoudden long sheäde the grass wi' his head. but if i do vind jaÿ where the leaves be a-shook on the limbs, wi' their sheädes on the grass, or below, in the bow o' the withy-bound nook, that the rock-washèn water do pass, then wi' they jaÿs a-vled an' zome goold in their stead, i should pay vor my money, an' only zell honey to buy zome'hat sweet. no, be my lot good work, wi' the lungs well in plaÿ, an' good rest when the body do tire, vor the mind a good conscience, wi' hope or wi' jaÿ, vor the body, good lewth, an' good vire, there's noo good o' goold, but to buy what 'ull meäke vor our happiness here among men; an' who would gi'e happiness up vor the seäke o' zome money to buy it ageän? vor 'twould seem to the eyes ov a man that is wise, lik' money vor money, or zellèn woone's honey to buy zome'hat sweet. dobbin dead. _thomas_ (1) _an' john_ (2) _a-ta'èn o't._ 2. i do veel vor ye, thomas, vor i be a-feär'd you've a-lost your wold meäre then, by what i've a-heärd. 1. ees, my meäre is a-gone, an' the cart's in the shed wi' his wheelbonds a-rustèn, an' i'm out o' bread; vor what be my han's vor to eärn me a croust, wi' noo meäre's vower legs vor to trample the doust. 2. well, how did it happen? he vell vrom the brim ov a cliff, as the teäle is, an' broke ev'ry lim'. 1. why, i gi'ed en his run, an' he shook his wold meäne, an' he rambled a-veedèn in westergap leäne; an' there he must needs goo a-riggèn, an' crope vor a vew bleädes o' grass up the wo'st o' the slope; though i should ha' thought his wold head would ha' know'd that vor stiff lags, lik' his, the best pleäce wer the road. 2. an' you hadden a-kept en so short, he must clim', lik' a gwoat, vor a bleäde, at the risk ov a lim'. 1. noo, but there, i'm a-twold, he did clim' an' did slide, an' did screäpe, an' did slip, on the shelvèn bank-zide, an' at langth lost his vootèn, an' roll'd vrom the top, down, thump, kick, an' higgledly, piggledly, flop. 2. dear me, that is bad! i do veel vor your loss, vor a vew years agoo, thomas, i lost my ho'se. 1. how wer't? if i heärd it, i now ha' vorgot; wer the poor thing bewitch'd or a-pweison'd, or what? 2. he wer out, an' a-meäkèn his way to the brink o' the stream at the end o' church leäne, vor to drink; an' he met wi' zome yew-twigs the men had a-cast vrom the yew-tree, in churchyard, the road that he past. he wer pweison'd. (1.) o dear, 'tis a hard loss to bear, vor a tranter's whole bread is a-lost wi' his meäre; but ov all churches' yew-trees, i never zet eyes on a tree that would come up to thik woone vor size. 2. noo, 'tis long years agone, but do linger as clear in my mind though as if i'd a-heärd it to year. when king george wer in do'set, an' show'd us his feäce by our very own doors, at our very own pleäce, that he look'd at thik yew-tree, an' nodded his head, an' he zaid,--an' i'll tell ye the words that he zaid:- "i'll be bound, if you'll sarch my dominions all drough. that you woon't vind the fellow to thik there wold yew." happiness. ah! you do seem to think the ground, where happiness is best a-vound, is where the high-peäl'd park do reach wi' elem-rows, or clumps o' beech; or where the coach do stand avore the twelve-tunn'd house's lofty door, or men can ride behin' their hounds vor miles athirt their own wide grounds, an' seldom wi' the lowly; upon the green that we do tread, below the welsh-nut's wide-limb'd head, or grass where apple trees do spread? no, so's; no, no: not high nor low: 'tis where the heart is holy. 'tis true its veet mid tread the vloor, 'ithin the marble-pillar'd door, where day do cast, in high-ruf'd halls. his light drough lofty window'd walls; 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: or mid be wi' the lowly, where turf's a-smwolderèn avore the back, to warm the stwonèn vloor 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; or goo in drough the iron-geäte 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, 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. gruffmoody grim. aye, a sad life his wife must ha' led, vor so snappish he's leätely a-come, that there's nothèn but anger or dread where he is, abroad or at hwome; he do wreak all his spite on the bwones o' whatever do vlee, or do crawl; he do quarrel wi' stocks, an' wi' stwones, an' the raïn, if do hold up or vall; there is nothèn vrom mornèn till night do come right to gruffmoody grim. woone night, in his anger, he zwore at the vier, that didden burn free: an' he het zome o't out on the vloor, vor a vlanker it cast on his knee. then he kicked it vor burnèn the child, an' het it among the cat's heaïrs; an' then beät the cat, a-run wild, wi' a spark on her back up the steaïrs: vor even the vier an' fleäme be to bleäme wi' gruffmoody grim. then he snarl'd at the tea in his cup, vor 'twer all a-got cwold in the pot, but 'twer woo'se when his wife vill'd it up vrom the vier, vor 'twer then scaldèn hot; then he growl'd that the bread wer sich stuff as noo hammer in parish could crack, an' flung down the knife in a huff; vor the edge o'n wer thicker'n the back. vor beäkers an' meäkers o' tools be all fools wi' gruffmoody grim. oone day as he vish'd at the brook, he flung up, wi' a quick-handed knack, his long line, an' his high-vleèn hook wer a-hitch'd in zome briars at his back. then he zwore at the brembles, an' prick'd his beäre hand, as he pull'd the hook free; an' ageän, in a rage, as he kick'd at the briars, wer a-scratch'd on the knee. an' he wish'd ev'ry bremble an' briar wer o' vier, did gruffmoody grim. oh! he's welcome, vor me, to breed dread wherever his sheäde mid alight, an' to live wi' noo me'th round his head, an' noo feäce wi' a smile in his zight; but let vo'k be all merry an' zing at the he'th where my own logs do burn, an' let anger's wild vist never swing in where i have a door on his durn; vor i'll be a happier man, while i can, than gruffmoody grim. to zit down by the vier at night, is my jaÿ--vor i woon't call it pride,- wi' a brand on the bricks, all alight, an' a pile o' zome mwore at the zide. then tell me o' zome'hat that's droll, an' i'll laugh till my two zides do eäche or o' naïghbours in sorrow o' soul, an' i'll tweil all the night vor their seäke; an' show that to teäke things amiss idden bliss, to gruffmoody grim. an' then let my child clim' my lag, an' i'll lift en, wi' love, to my chin; or my maïd come an' coax me to bag vor a frock, an' a frock she shall win; or, then if my wife do meäke light o' whatever the bwoys mid ha' broke, it wull seem but so small in my zight, as a leaf a-het down vrom a woak an' not meäke me ceäper an' froth vull o' wrath, lik' gruffmoody grim. the turn o' the days. 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, 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 o' the tree at the turn o' the days. then the boomèn wold clock in the tower did mark 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, 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, 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, did hie over vields, wi' a light-vooted peäce, to friends where the tow'r did betoken a pleäce among trees, at the turn o' the days. the sparrow club. last night the merry farmers' sons, vrom biggest down to leäst, min, gi'ed in the work of all their guns, an' had their sparrow feäst, min. an' who vor woone good merry soul should goo to sheäre their me'th, min, but gammon gaÿ, a chap so droll, he'd meäke ye laugh to death, min. vor heads o' sparrows they've a-shot they'll have a prize in cwein, min, that is, if they can meäke their scot, or else they'll paÿ a fine, min. an' all the money they can teäke 's a-gather'd up there-right, min, an' spent in meat an' drink, to meäke a supper vor the night, min. zoo when they took away the cloth, in middle of their din, min, an' cups o' eäle begun to froth, below their merry chin, min. an' when the zong, by turn or chaïce, went roun' vrom tongue to tongue, min, then gammon pitch'd his merry vaïce, an' here's the zong he zung, min. _zong._ if you'll but let your clackers rest vrom jabberèn an' hootèn, i'll teäke my turn, an' do my best, to zing o' sparrow shootèn. since every woone mus' pitch his key, an' zing a zong, in coo'se, lads, why sparrow heads shall be to-day the heads o' my discoo'se, lads. we'll zend abroad our viery haïl till ev'ry foe's a-vled, lads, an' though the rogues mid all turn taïl, we'll quickly show their head, lads. in corn, or out on oben ground, in bush, or up in tree, lads, if we don't kill em, i'll be bound, we'll meäke their veathers vlee, lads. zoo let the belted spwortsmen brag when they've a-won a neäme, so's, that they do vind, or they do bag, zoo many head o' geäme, so's; vor when our cwein is woonce a-won, by heads o' sundry sizes, why, who can slight what we've a-done? we've all a-won _head_ prizes. then teäke a drap vor harmless fun, but not enough to quarrel; though where a man do like the gun, he can't but need the barrel. o' goodly feäre, avore we'll start, we'll zit an' teäke our vill, min; our supper-bill can be but short, 'tis but a sparrow-bill, min. gammony ga[:y]. oh! thik gammony gaÿ is so droll, that if he's at hwome by the he'th, or wi' vo'k out o' door, he's the soul o' the meetèn vor antics an' me'th; 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: 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- wi' a brim all a-strout roun' his heäir, an' his glissenèn eyes down below't; an' a cwoat wi' broad skirts that do vlee in the wind ov his walk, round his knee; an' a peäir o' girt pockets lik' bags, that do swing an' do bob at his lags: while me'th do walk out drough the pleäce, 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, an' round en so quick as a bird's; an' if he do vall in wi' vo'k, why, tidden vor want ov a joke, 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 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; an' then you mid zee, 'etween whiles, his feäce all alive wi' his smiles, an' his gaÿ-breathèn bozom do rise, an' his me'th do sheen out ov his eyes: an' at last to have praïse or have bleäme, is the seäme to gammony gaÿ. when he drove his wold cart out, an' broke the nut o' the wheel at a butt. there wer "woo'se things," he cried, wi' a joke. "to grieve at than crackèn a nut." an' when he tipp'd over a lwoad ov his reed-sheaves woone day on the rwoad, then he spet in his han's, out o' sleeves, an' whissel'd, an' flung up his sheaves, as very vew others can wag, eärm or lag, but gammony gaÿ. he wer wi' us woone night when the band wer a-come vor to gi'e us a hop, an' he pull'd grammer out by the hand all down drough the dance vrom the top; an' grammer did hobble an' squall, wi' gammon a-leädèn the ball; while gammon did sheäke up his knee an' his voot, an' zing "diddle-ee-dee!" an' we laugh'd ourzelves all out o' breath at the me'th o' gammony gaÿ. when our tun wer' o' vier he rod out to help us, an' meäde us sich fun, vor he clomb up to dreve in a wad o' wet thorns, to the he'th, vrom the tun; an' there he did stamp wi' his voot, to push down the thorns an' the zoot, till at last down the chimney's black wall went the wad, an' poor gammon an' all: an' seäfe on the he'th, wi' a grin on his chin pitch'd gammony gaÿ. all the house-dogs do waggle their taïls, if they do but catch zight ov his feäce; an' the ho'ses do look over raïls, an' do whicker to zee'n at the pleäce; an' he'll always bestow a good word on a cat or a whisselèn bird; an' even if culvers do coo, or an owl is a-cryèn "hoo, hoo," where he is, there's always a joke to be spoke, by gammony gaÿ. the heare. (_dree o'm a-ta'kèn o't._) (1) there be the greyhounds! lo'k! an' there's the heäre! (2) what houn's, the squier's, thomas? where, then, where? (1) why, out in ash hill, near the barn, behind thik tree. (3) the pollard? (1) pollard! no, b'ye blind? (2) there, i do zee em over-right thik cow. (3) the red woone? (1) no, a mile beyand her now. (3) oh! there's the heäre, a-meäkèn for the drong. (2) my goodness! how the dogs do zweep along, a-pokèn out their pweinted noses' tips. (3) he can't allow hizzelf much time vor slips! (1) they'll hab'en, after all, i'll bet a crown. (2) done vor a crown. they woon't! he's gwäin to groun'. (3) he is! (1) he idden! (3) ah! 'tis well his tooes ha' got noo corns, inside o' hobnaïl shoes. (1) he's geäme a runnèn too. why, he do mwore than eärn his life. (3) his life wer his avore. (1) there, now the dogs wull turn en. (2) no! he's right. (1) he idden! (2) ees he is! (3) he's out o' zight. (1) aye, aye. his mettle wull be well a-tried agwaïn down verny hill, o' tother zide. they'll have en there. (3) o no! a vew good hops wull teäke en on to knapton lower copse. (2) an' that's a meesh that he've a-took avore. (3) ees, that's his hwome. (1) he'll never reach his door. (2) he wull. (1) he woon't. (3) now, hark, d'ye heär em now? (2) o! here's a bwoy a-come athirt the brow o' knapton hill. we'll ax en. (1) here, my bwoy! can'st tell us where's the heäre? (4) he's got awoy. (2) ees, got awoy, in coo'se, i never zeed a heäre a-scotèn on wi' half his speed. (1) why, there, the dogs be wold, an' half a-done. they can't catch anything wi' lags to run. (2) vrom vu'st to last they had but little chance o' catchèn o'n. (3) they had a perty dance. (1) no, catch en, no! i little thought they would; he know'd his road too well to knapton wood. (3) no! no! i wish the squier would let me feäre on rabbits till his hounds do catch thik heäre. nanny gill. ah! they wer times, when nanny gill went so'jerèn ageänst her will, back when the king come down to view his ho'se an' voot, in red an' blue, an' they did march in rows, an' wheel in lines an' bows, below the king's own nose; an' guns did pwoint, an' swords did gleäre, a-fightèn foes that werden there. poor nanny gill did goo to zell in town her glitt'rèn macarel, a-pack'd wi' ceäre, in even lots, a-ho'seback in a peäir o' pots. an' zoo when she did ride 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, an' had, to prick en into rank, a so'jer's spurs ageän his flank; an' zoo, when he got zight o' swords a-gleamèn bright, an' men agwaïn to fight, he set his eyes athirt the ground, an' prick'd his ears to catch the sound. then nanny gi'ed his zide a kick, an' het en wi' her limber stick; 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. but no! he went away vull bound, as vast as he could tear the ground, an' took, in line, a so'jer's pleäce, vor nanny's cloke an' frighten'd feäce; while vo'k did laugh an' shout 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. moonlight on the door. a-swaÿèn slow, the poplar's head, above the slopèn thatch did ply, the while the midnight moon did shed his light below the spangled sky. an' there the road did reach avore the hatch, all vootless down the hill; an' hands, a-tired by day, wer still, wi' moonlight on the door. a-boomèn deep, did slowly sound the bell, a-tellèn middle night; the while the quiv'rèn ivy, round the tree, did sheäke in softest light. but vootless wer the stwone avore the house where i, the maïdens guest, at evenèn, woonce did zit at rest by moonlight on the door. though till the dawn, where night's a-meäde the day, the laughèn crowds be gaÿ, let evenèn zink wi' quiet sheäde, where i do hold my little swaÿ. an' childern dear to my heart's core, a-sleep wi' little heavèn breast, that pank'd by day in plaÿ, do rest wi' moonlight on the door. but still 'tis good, woonce now an' then to rove where moonlight on the land do show in vaïn, vor heedless men, the road, the vield, the work in hand. when curtains be a-hung avore the glitt'rèn windows, snowy white, an' vine-leaf sheädes do sheäke in light o' moonlight on the door. my love's guardian angel. as in the cool-aïr'd road i come by, --in the night, under the moon-clim'd height o' the sky, --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, --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, --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 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 --in the night." leeburn mill, ov all the meäds wi' shoals an' pools, where streams did sheäke the limber zedge, an' milkèn vo'k did teäke their stools, in evenèn zun-light under hedge: ov all the wears the brook did vill, or all the hatches where a sheet o' foam did leäp below woone's veet, the pleäce vor me wer leeburn mill. an' while below the mossy wheel all day the foamèn stream did roar, an' up in mill the floatèn meal did pitch upon the sheäkèn vloor. we then could vind but vew han's still, or veet a-restèn off the ground, an' seldom hear the merry sound o' geämes a-play'd at leeburn mill. but when they let the stream goo free, bezide the drippèn wheel at rest, an' leaves upon the poplar-tree wer dark avore the glowèn west; an' when the clock, a-ringèn sh'ill, did slowly beät zome evenèn hour, oh! then 'ithin the leafy bow'r our tongues did run at leeburn mill. an' when november's win' did blow, wi' hufflèn storms along the plaïn, an' blacken'd leaves did lie below the neäked tree, a-zoak'd wi' raïn, i werden at a loss to vill the darkest hour o' raïny skies, if i did vind avore my eyes the feäces down at leeburn mill. praise o' do'set. we do'set, though we mid be hwomely, be'nt asheäm'd to own our pleäce; an' we've zome women not uncomely; nor asheäm'd to show their feäce: we've a meäd or two wo'th mowèn, we've an ox or two we'th showèn, in the village, at the tillage, come along an' you shall vind that do'set men don't sheäme their kind. friend an' wife, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, happy, happy, be their life! vor do'set dear, then gi'e woone cheer; d'ye hear? woone cheer! if you in do'set be a-roamèn, an' ha' business at a farm, then woont ye zee your eäle a-foamèn! or your cider down to warm? woont ye have brown bread a-put ye, an' some vinny cheese a-cut ye? butter?--rolls o't! cream?--why bowls o't! woont ye have, in short, your vill, a-gi'ed wi' a right good will? friend an' wife, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers. happy, happy, be their life! vor do'set dear, then gi'e woone cheer; d'ye hear? woone cheer! an' woont ye have vor ev'ry shillèn, shillèn's wo'th at any shop, though do'set chaps be up to zellèn, an' can meäke a tidy swop? use em well, they'll use you better; in good turns they woont be debtor. an' so comely, an' so hwomely, be the maïdens, if your son took woone o'm, then you'd cry "well done!" friend an' wife, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, happy, happy, be their life! vor do'set dear, then gi'e woone cheer; d'ye hear? woone cheer! if you do zee our good men travel, down a-voot, or on their meäres, along the windèn leänes o' gravel, to the markets or the feäirs,- though their ho'ses cwoats be ragged, though the men be muddy-laggèd, be they roughish, be they gruffish, they be sound, an' they will stand by what is right wi' heart an' hand. friend an' wife, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, happy, happy, be their life! vor do'set dear, then gi'e woone cheer; d'ye hear? woone cheer! poems of rural life. third collection. woone smile mwore. o! meäry, when the zun went down, woone night in spring, wi' vi'ry rim, behind thik nap wi' woody crown, 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 drough window-peänes, that i could zee,- 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 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, a-gettèn supper out in hall, an' cast her sheäde, a-whiv'rèn black avore the vier, upon the wall; your brother come, wi' easy peäce, in drough the slammèn geäte, along the path, wi' healthy-bloomèn feäce, a-whis'lèn shrill his last new zong; 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 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 what's needvul free o' pinchèn need: an' vind that you ha' still in store, my evenèn meal, an' woone smile mwore. the echo. about the tow'r an' churchyard wall, out nearly overright our door, a tongue ov wind did always call whatever we did call avore. the vaïce did mock our neämes, our cheers, our merry laughs, our hands' loud claps, an' mother's call "come, come, my dears" --_my dears_; or "do as i do bid, bad chaps" --_bad chaps_. an' when o' zundays on the green, in frocks an' cwoats as gaÿ as new, we walk'd wi' shoes a-meäde to sheen so black an' bright's a vull-ripe slooe we then did hear the tongue ov aïr a-mockèn mother's vaïce so thin, "come, now the bell do goo vor praÿ'r" --_vor pray'r_; "'tis time to goo to church; come in" --_come in_. the night when little anne, that died, begun to zickèn, back in maÿ, an' she, at dusk ov evenèn-tide, wer out wi' others at their plaÿ, within the churchyard that do keep her little bed, the vaïce o' thin dark aïr, mock'd mother's call "to sleep" --_to sleep_; "'tis bed time now, my love, come in" --_come in_. an' when our jeäne come out so smart a-married, an' we help'd her in to henry's newly-païnted cart, the while the wheels begun to spin, an' her gaÿ nods, vor all she smil'd, did sheäke a tear-drop vrom each eye, the vaïce mock'd mother's call, "dear child" --_dear child_; "god bless ye evermwore; good bye" --_good bye_. vull a man. no, i'm a man, i'm vull a man, you beät my manhood, if you can. you'll be a man if you can teäke all steätes that household life do meäke. the love-toss'd child, a-croodlèn loud, the bwoy a-screamèn wild in plaÿ, the tall grown youth a-steppèn proud, the father staïd, the house's staÿ. no; i can boast if others can, i'm vull a man. a young-cheäk'd mother's tears mid vall, when woone a-lost, not half man-tall, vrom little hand, a-called vrom plaÿ, do leäve noo tool, but drop a taÿ, an' die avore he's father-free to sheäpe his life by his own plan; an' vull an angel he shall be, but here on e'th not vull a man, no; i could boast if others can, i'm vull a man. i woonce, a child, wer father-fed, an' i've a vound my childern bread; my eärm, a sister's trusty crook, is now a faïthvul wife's own hook; an' i've a-gone where vo'k did zend, an' gone upon my own free mind, an' of'en at my own wits' end. a-led o' god while i wer blind. no; i could boast if others can i'm vull a man. an' still, ov all my tweil ha' won, my lovèn maïd an' merry son, though each in turn's a jaÿ an' ceäre, 've a-had, an' still shall have, their sheäre: an' then, if god should bless their lives, why i mid zend vrom son to son my life, right on drough men an' wives, as long, good now, as time do run. no; i could boast if others can, i'm vull a man. naighbour pla[:y]meätes. o jaÿ betide the dear wold mill, 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 below the grey-leav'd withy tree, while clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour, wi' whirlèn stwone, an' streamèn flour, did goo the mill by cloty stour. an' there in geämes by evenèn skies, when meäry zot her down to rest, the broach upon her pankèn breast, 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, along the geärdèn wall do show in maÿ, an' cherry boughs do blow, wi' bloomèn tutties, snowy white, where rollèn round, wi' rumblèn sound, the wheel woonce drown'd the vaïce so dear to me. i faïn would goo to hear the clack, clack, clack, vor woone short hour, 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? or zee dark locks by such a brow, or het o' plaÿ on such a feäce? no! she's now staïd, 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 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. the lark. as i, below the mornèn sky, wer out a workèn in the lew o' black-stemm'd thorns, a-springèn high, avore the worold-boundèn blue, a-reäkèn, under woak tree boughs, the orts a-left behin' by cows. above the grey-grow'd thistle rings, an' deäisy-buds, the lark, in flight, did zing a-loft, wi' flappèn wings, tho' mwore in heärèn than in zight; the while my bwoys, in plaÿvul me'th, did run till they wer out o' breath. then woone, wi' han'-besheäded eyes, a-stoppèn still, as he did run, look'd up to zee the lark arise a-zingèn to the high-gone zun; the while his brother look'd below vor what the groun' mid have to show zoo woone did watch above his head the bird his hands could never teäke; an' woone, below, where he did tread, vound out the nest within the breäke; but, aggs be only woonce a-vound, an' uncaught larks ageän mid sound. the two churches. a happy day, a happy year. a zummer zunday, dazzlèn clear, i went athirt vrom lea to noke. to goo to church wi' fanny's vo'k: the sky o' blue did only show a cloud or two, so white as snow, an' aïr did swaÿ, wi' softest strokes, the eltrot roun' the dark-bough'd woaks. o day o' rest when bells do toll! o day a-blest to ev'ry soul! how sweet the zwells o' zunday bells. an' on the cowslip-knap at creech, below the grove o' steätely beech, i heärd two tow'rs a-cheemèn clear, vrom woone i went, to woone drew near, as they did call, by flow'ry ground, the bright-shod veet vrom housen round, a-drownèn wi' their holy call, the goocoo an' the water-vall. die off, o bells o' my dear pleäce, ring out, o bells avore my feäce, vull sweet your zwells, o ding-dong bells. ah! then vor things that time did bring my kinsvo'k, _lea_ had bells to ring; an' then, ageän, vor what bevell my wife's, why _noke_ church had a bell; but soon wi' hopevul lives a-bound in woone, we had woone tower's sound, vor our high jaÿs all vive bells rung our losses had woone iron tongue. oh! ring all round, an' never mwoän so deep an' slow woone bell alwone, vor sweet your swells o' vive clear bells. woak hill. when sycamore leaves wer a-spreadèn, green-ruddy, in hedges, bezide the red doust o' the ridges, a-dried at woak hill; i packed up my goods all a-sheenèn wi' long years o' handlèn, on dousty red wheels ov a waggon, to ride at woak hill. the brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellèn, i then wer a-leävèn, had shelter'd the sleek head o' meäry, my bride at woak hill. but now vor zome years, her light voot-vall 's a-lost vrom the vloorèn. too soon vor my jaÿ an' my childern, she died at woak hill. but still i do think that, in soul, she do hover about us; to ho vor her motherless childern, her pride at woak hill. zoo--lest she should tell me hereafter i stole off 'ithout her, an' left her, uncall'd at house-riddèn, to bide at woak hill- i call'd her so fondly, wi' lippèns all soundless to others, an' took her wi' aïr-reachèn hand, to my zide at woak hill. on the road i did look round, a-talkèn to light at my shoulder, an' then led her in at the door-way, miles wide vrom woak hill. an' that's why vo'k thought, vor a season, my mind wer a-wandrèn wi' sorrow, when i wer so sorely a-tried at woak hill. but no; that my meäry mid never behold herzelf slighted, i wanted to think that i guided my guide vrom woak hill. the hedger. upon the hedge theäse bank did bear, wi' lwonesome thought untwold in words, i woonce did work, wi' noo sound there 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 the aïr, an' hook an' axe wer stïll. along the wold town-path vo'k went, an' met unknown, or friend wi' friend, the maïd her busy mother zent, 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 wï' down-cast head, 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, an' meäple stems o' ribby brown; an' in the lewth o' theäse tree heads, wer primrwose beds a-sprung in blooth, an' here a geäte, a-slammèn to, did let the slow-wheel'd plough roll drough. 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; but woone, my wife, so litty-stepp'd, that have a-kept my path o' life, wi' her vew errands on the road, where woonce she bore her mother's lwoad. in the spring. my love is the maïd ov all maïdens, though all mid be comely, her skin's lik' the jessamy blossom 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 väice ov her talkèn, or bring vrom her veet the light doust, she do tread in the spring. o zun, meäke the gil'cups all glitter, 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, o zing, swingèn lark, now the clouds, be a-vled in the spring. an' who, you mid ax, be my praïses a-meäkèn so much o', an' oh! 'tis the maïd i'm a-hopèn to wed in the spring. the flood in spring. last night below the elem in the lew bright the sky did gleam on water blue, while aïr did softly blow on the flowèn stream, an' there wer gil'cups' buds untwold, an' deäisies that begun to vwold their low-stemm'd blossoms vrom my zight ageän the night, an' evenèn's cwold. but, oh! so cwold below the darksome cloud soon the night-wind roar'd, wi' raïny storms that zent the zwollèn streams over ev'ry vword. the while the drippèn tow'r did tell the hour, wi' storm-be-smother'd bell, an' over ev'ry flower's bud roll'd on the flood, 'ithin the dell. but when the zun arose, an' lik' a rwose shone the mornèn sky; an' roun' the woak, the wind a-blowèn weak, softly whiver'd by. though drown'd wer still the deaïsy bed below the flood, its feäce instead o' flow'ry grown', below our shoes show'd feäirest views o' skies o'er head. an' zoo to try if all our faïth is true jaÿ mid end in tears, an' hope, woonce feäir, mid saddèn into fear, here in e'thly years. but he that tried our soul do know to meäke us good amends, an' show instead o' things a-took awaÿ, some higher jaÿ that he'll bestow. comen hwome. as clouds did ride wi' heästy flight. an' woods did swäy upon the height, an' bleädes o' grass did sheäke, below the hedge-row bremble's swingèn bow, i come back hwome where winds did zwell, in whirls along the woody gleädes, on primrwose beds, in windy sheädes, to burnley's dark-tree'd dell. there hills do screen the timber's bough, the trees do screen the leäze's brow, the timber-sheäded leäze do bear a beäten path that we do wear. the path do stripe the leäze's zide, to willows at the river's edge. where hufflèn winds did sheäke the zedge an' sparklèn weäves did glide. an' where the river, bend by bend, do dräin our meäd, an' mark its end, the hangèn leäze do teäke our cows, an' trees do sheäde em wi' their boughs, an' i the quicker beät the road, to zee a-comèn into view, still greener vrom the sky-line's blue, wold burnley our abode. grammer a-crippled. "the zunny copse ha' birds to zing, the leäze ha' cows to low, the elem trees ha' rooks on wing, the meäds a brook to flow, but i can walk noo mwore, to pass the drashel out abrode, to wear a path in theäse year's grass or tread the wheelworn road," cried grammer, "then adieu, o runnèn brooks, an' vleèn rooks, i can't come out to you. if 'tis god's will, why then 'tis well, that i should bide 'ithin a wall." an' then the childern, wild wi' fun, an' loud wi' jaÿvul sounds, sprung in an' cried, "we had a run, a-plaÿèn heäre an' hounds; but oh! the cowslips where we stopt in maÿcreech, on the knap!" an' vrom their little han's each dropt some cowslips in her lap. cried grammer, "only zee! i can't teäke strolls, an' little souls would bring the vields to me. since 'tis god's will, an' mus' be well that i should bide 'ithin a wall." "oh! there be prison walls to hold the han's o' lawless crimes, an' there be walls arear'd vor wold an' zick in tryèn times; but oh! though low mid slant my ruf, though hard my lot mid be, though dry mid come my daily lwoaf, mid mercy leäve me free!" cried grammer, "or adieu to jaÿ; o grounds, an' bird's gaÿ sounds if i mus' gi'e up you, although 'tis well, in god's good will, that i should bide 'ithin a wall." "oh! then," we answer'd, "never fret, if we shall be a-blest, we'll work vull hard drough het an' wet to keep your heart at rest: to woaken chair's vor you to vill, for you shall glow the coal, an' when the win' do whissle sh'ill we'll screen it vrom your poll." cried grammer, "god is true. i can't but feel he smote to heal my wounded heart in you; an' zoo 'tis well, if 'tis his will, that i be here 'ithin a wall." the castle ruins. a happy day at whitsuntide, as soon's the zun begun to vall, we all stroll'd up the steep hill-zide to meldon, girt an' small; out where the castle wall stood high a-mwoldrèn to the zunny sky. an' there wi' jenny took a stroll her youngest sister, poll, so gaÿ, bezide john hind, ah! merry soul, an' mid her wedlock faÿ; an' at our zides did play an' run my little maïd an' smaller son. above the beäten mwold upsprung the driven doust, a-spreadën light, an' on the new-leav'd thorn, a-hung, wer wool a-quiv'rèn white; an' corn, a sheenèn bright, did bow, on slopèn meldon's zunny brow. there, down the rufless wall did glow the zun upon the grassy vloor, an' weakly-wandrèn winds did blow, unhinder'd by a door; an' smokeless now avore the zun did stan' the ivy-girded tun. my bwoy did watch the daws' bright wings a-flappèn vrom their ivy bow'rs; my wife did watch my maïd's light springs, out here an' there vor flow'rs; and john did zee noo tow'rs, the pleäce vor him had only polly's feäce. an' there, of all that pried about the walls, i overlook'd em best, an' what o' that? why, i meäde out noo mwore than all the rest: that there wer woonce the nest of zome that wer a-gone avore we come. when woonce above the tun the smoke did wreathy blue among the trees, an' down below, the livèn vo'k, did tweil as brisk as bees; or zit wi' weary knees, the while the sky wer lightless to their tweil. [gothic: eclogue.] john, jealous at shroton feäir. _jeäne; her brother; john, her sweetheart; and racketèn joe_ jeäne. i'm thankvul i be out o' that thick crowd, an' not asquot quite flat. that ever we should plunge in where the vo'k do drunge so tight's the cheese-wring on the veät! i've sca'ce a thing a-left in pleäce. 'tis all a-tore vrom pin an' leäce. my bonnet's like a wad, a-beät up to a dod, an' all my heäir's about my feäce. her brother. here, come an' zit out here a bit, an' put yourzelf to rights. john. no, jeäne; no, no! now you don't show the very wo'st o' plights. her brother. come, come, there's little harm adone; your hoops be out so roun's the zun. john. an' there's your bonnet back in sheäpe. her brother. an' there's your pin, and there's your ceäpe. john. an' there your curls do match, an' there 's the vittiest maïd in all the feäir. jeäne. now look, an' tell us who's a-spied vrom sturminster, or manston zide. her brother. there's rantèn joe! how he do stalk, an' zwang his whip, an' laugh, an' talk! john. an' how his head do wag, avore his steppèn lag. jist like a pigeon's in a walk! her brother. heigh! there, then, joey, ben't we proud jeäne. he can't hear you among the crowd. her brother. why, no, the thunder peals do drown the sound o' wheels. his own pipe is a-pitched too loud. what, you here too? racketèn joe. yes, sir, to you. all o' me that's a-left. jeäne. a body plump's a goodish lump where reämes ha' such a heft. john. who lost his crown a-racèn? racketèn joe. who? zome silly chap abackèn you. well, now, an' how do vo'k treat jeäne? jeäne. why not wi' feärèns. racketèn joe. what d'ye meän, when i've a-brought ye such a bunch o' theäse nice ginger-nuts to crunch? an' here, john, here! you teäke a vew. john. no, keep em all vor jeäne an' you! racketèn joe. well, jeäne, an' when d'ye meän to come an' call on me, then, up at hwome. you han't a-come athirt, since i'd my voot a-hurt, a-slippèn vrom the tree i clomb. jeäne. well, if so be that you be stout on voot ageän, you'll vind me out. john. aye, better chaps woont goo, not many steps vor you, if you do hawk yourzelf about. racketèn joe. wull john, come too? john. no, thanks to you. two's company, dree's nwone. her brother. there don't be stung by his mad tongue, 'tis nothèn else but fun. jeäne. there, what d'ye think o' my new ceäpe? john. why, think that 'tis an ugly sheäpe. jeäne. then you should buy me, now theäse feäir, a mwore becomèn woone to wear. john. i buy your ceäpe! no; joe wull screäpe up dibs enough to buy your ceäpe. as things do look, to meäke you fine is long joe's business mwore than mine. jeäne. lauk, john, the mwore that you do pout the mwore he'll gl[=e]ne. john. a yelpèn lout. early pla[:y]meäte. after many long years had a-run, the while i wer a-gone vrom the pleäce, i come back to the vields, where the zun ov her childhood did show me her feäce. there her father, years wolder, did stoop. an' her brother, wer now a-grow'd staïd, an' the apple tree lower did droop. out in the orcha'd where we had a-plaÿ'd, there wer zome things a-seemèn the seäme, but meäry's a-married awaÿ. there wer two little childern a-zent, wi' a message to me, oh! so feaïr as the mother that they did zoo ment, when in childhood she plaÿ'd wi' me there. zoo they twold me that if i would come down to coomb, i should zee a wold friend, vor a plaÿmeäte o' mine wer at hwome, an' would staÿ till another week's end. at the dear pworchèd door, could i dare to zee meäry a-married awaÿ! on the flower-not, now all a-trod stwony hard, the green grass wer a-spread, an' the long-slighted woodbine did nod vrom the wall, wi' a loose-hangèn head. an' the martin's clay nest wer a-hung up below the brown oves, in the dry, an' the rooks had a-rock'd broods o' young on the elems below the maÿ sky; but the bud on the bed, coulden bide, wi' young meäry a-married awaÿ. there the copse-wood, a-grow'd to a height, wer a-vell'd, an' the primrwose in blooth, among chips on the ground a-turn'd white, wer a-quiv'rèn, all beäre ov his lewth. the green moss wer a-spread on the thatch, that i left yollow reed, an' avore the small green, there did swing a new hatch, vor to let me walk into the door. oh! the rook did still rock o'er the rick, but wi' meäry a-married awaÿ. picken o' scroff. oh! the wood wer a-vell'd in the copse, an' the moss-bedded primrwose did blow; an' vrom tall-stemmèd trees' leafless tops, there did lie but slight sheädes down below. an' the sky wer a-showèn, in drough 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, where the waggon 'd a-haul'd the wood by, there did reach the deep wheelrouts, a-dried. 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 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 little childern a-pickèn o' scroff. there wer woone bloomèn child wi' a cloak 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, 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, an' goo out in the worold, all wide vrom the copse, an' the zummerleäze woak, 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 night. while down the meäds wound slow, water vor green-wheel'd mills, over the streams bright bow, win' come vrom dark-back'd hills. birds on the win' shot along down steep slopes, wi' a swift-swung zweep. dim weän'd the red streak'd west lim'-weary souls "good rest." up on the plough'd hill brow, still wer the zull's wheel'd beam, still wer the red-wheel'd plough, free o' the strong limb'd team, still wer the shop that the smith meäde ring, dark where the sparks did spring; low shot the zun's last beams. lim'-weary souls "good dreams." where i vrom dark bank-sheädes turn'd up the west hill road, where all the green grass bleädes under the zunlight glow'd. startled i met, as the zunbeams play'd light, wi' a zunsmote maïd, come vor my day's last zight, zun-brighten'd maïd "good night." went hwome. upon the slope, the hedge did bound the yield 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, brought gil'cup meal upon the shoe; or went on where the road did leäd, wi' smeechy doust from heel to tooe. 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 wold meldon, where i still ha' zome, that bid me speed as i come out, 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 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. the hollow woak. the woaken tree, so hollow now, to souls ov other times wer sound, an' reach'd on ev'ry zide a bough above their heads, a-gather'd round, but zome light veet that here did meet in friendship sweet, vor rest or jaÿ, shall be a-miss'd another maÿ. my childern here, in plaÿvul pride did zit 'ithin his wooden walls, a-mentèn steätely vo'k inside o' castle towers an' lofty halls. but now the vloor an' mossy door that woonce they wore would be too small to teäke em in, so big an' tall. theäse year do show, wi' snow-white cloud, an' deäsies in a sprinkled bed, an' green-bough birds a-whislèn loud, the looks o' zummer days a-vled; an' grass do grow, an' men do mow, an' all do show the wold times' feäce wi' new things in the wold things' pleäce. childern's childern. oh! if my ling'rèn life should run, drough years a-reckoned ten by ten, 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? when zunday then, a-weänèn dim, as theäse that now's a-clwosèn still, mid lose the zun's down-zinkèn rim, in light behind the vier-bound hill; an' when the bells' last peal's a-rung, an' i mid zee the wold an' young 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, an' livèn gifts o' youth do vall, vrom girt to small, but never die: an' should i view, what god mid do, wi' jaÿ or païn, wi' païn or jaÿ? the rwose in the dark. in zummer, leäte at evenèn tide, i zot to spend a moonless hour 'ithin the window, wi' the zide a-bound wi' rwoses out in flow'r, bezide the bow'r, vorsook o' birds, an' listen'd to my true-love's words. a-risèn to her comely height, she push'd the swingèn ceäsement round; and i could hear, beyond my zight, the win'-blow'd beech-tree softly sound, on higher ground, a-swayèn slow, on drough my happy hour below. an' tho' the darkness then did hide the dewy rwose's blushèn bloom, he still did cast sweet aïr inside to jeäne, a-chattèn in the room; an' though the gloom did hide her feäce, her words did bind me to the pleäce. an' there, while she, wi' runnèn tongue, did talk unzeen 'ithin the hall, i thought her like the rwose that flung his sweetness vrom his darken'd ball, 'ithout the wall, an' sweet's the zight ov her bright feäce by mornèn light. come. wull ye come in eärly spring, come at easter, or in maÿ? or when whitsuntide mid bring longer light to show your waÿ? wull ye come, if you be true, vor to quicken love anew. wull ye call in spring or fall? come now soon by zun or moon? wull ye come? come wi' vaïce to vaïce the while all their words be sweet to hear; come that feäce to feäce mid smile, while their smiles do seem so dear; come within the year to seek woone you have sought woonce a week? come while flow'rs be on the bow'rs. and the bird o' zong's a-heärd. wull ye come? ees come _to_ ye, an' come _vor_ ye, is my word, i wull come. zummer winds. let me work, but mid noo tie hold me vrom the oben sky, when zummer winds, in plaÿsome flight, do blow on vields in noon-day light, or ruslèn trees, in twilight night. sweet's a stroll, by flow'ry knowl, or blue-feäcèd pool that zummer win's do ruffle cool. when the moon's broad light do vill plaïns, a-sheenèn down the hill; a-glitterèn on window glass, o then, while zummer win's do pass the rippled brook, an' swaÿèn grass, sweet's a walk, where we do talk, wi' feäces bright, in whispers in the peacevul night. when the swaÿèn men do mow flow'ry grass, wi' zweepèn blow, in het a-most enough to dry the flat-spread clote-leaf that do lie upon the stream a-stealèn by, sweet's their rest, upon the breast o' knap or mound out where the goocoo's vaïce do sound. where the sleek-heäir'd maïd do zit out o' door to zew or knit, below the elem where the spring 's a-runnèn, an' the road do bring the people by to hear her zing, on the green, where she's a-zeen, an' she can zee, o gaÿ is she below the tree. come, o zummer wind, an' bring sounds o' birds as they do zing, an' bring the smell o' bloomèn maÿ, an' bring the smell o' new-mow'd haÿ; come fan my feäce as i do straÿ, fan the heäir o' jessie feäir; fan her cool, by the weäves o' stream or pool. the neäme letters. 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 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. an' when the vields o' wheat did spread vrom hedge to hedge in sheets o' red. an' bennets wer a-sheäkèn brown. 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 each half-hid letter's zunken rim, by leädy's-vingers that did spread 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 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 my waggon vull, at meldonley; an' small-hoof'd sheep, in vleeces white, wi' quickly-pankèn zides, do bite my thymy grass, a-mark'd vor me in black, t. d., at meldonley. the new house a-gettèn wold. ah! when our wedded life begun, theäse clean-wall'd house of ours wer new; wi' thatch as yollor as the zun avore the cloudless sky o' blue; the sky o' blue that then did bound the blue-hilled worold's flow'ry ground. an' we've a-vound it weather-brown'd, as spring-tide blossoms oben'd white, or fall did shed, on zunburnt ground, red apples from their leafy height: their leafy height, that winter soon left leafless to the cool-feäced moon. an' raïn-bred moss ha' staïn'd wi' green the smooth-feäced wall's white-morter'd streaks, the while our childern zot between our seats avore the fleäme's red peaks: the fleäme's red peaks, till axan white did quench em vor the long-sleep'd night. the bloom that woonce did overspread your rounded cheäk, as time went by, a-shrinkèn to a patch o' red, did feäde so soft's the evenèn sky: the evenèn sky, my faithful wife, o' days as feäir's our happy life. zunday. in zummer, when the sheädes do creep below the zunday steeple, round the mossy stwones, that love cut deep wi' neämes that tongues noo mwore do sound, the leäne do lose the stalkèn team, an' dry-rimm'd waggon-wheels be still, an' hills do roll their down-shot stream below the restèn wheel at mill. o holy day, when tweil do ceäse, sweet day o' rest an' greäce an' peäce! the eegrass, vor a while unwrung by hoof or shoe, 's a sheenèn bright, an' clover flowers be a-sprung on new-mow'd knaps in beds o' white, an' sweet wild rwoses, up among the hedge-row boughs, do yield their smells. to aïer that do bear along the loud-rung peals o' zunday bells, upon the day o' days the best, the day o' greäce an' peäce an' rest. by brightshod veet, in peäir an' peäir, wi' comely steps the road's a-took to church, an' work-free han's do beär woone's walkèn stick or sister's book; an' there the bloomèn niece do come to zee her aunt, in all her best; or married daughter do bring hwome her vu'st sweet child upon her breast, as she do seek the holy pleäce, the day o' rest an' peäce an' greäce. the pillar'd geäte. as i come by, zome years agoo, a-burnt below a sky o' blue, 'ithin the pillar'd geäte there zung a vaïce a-soundèn sweet an' young, that meäde me veel awhile to zwim in weäves o' jaÿ to hear its hymn; vor all the zinger, angel-bright, wer then a-hidden vrom my zight, an' i wer then too low to seek a meäte to match my steäte 'ithin the lofty-pillar'd geäte, wi' stwonèn balls upon the walls: oh, no! my heart, no, no. another time as i come by the house, below a dark-blue sky, the pillar'd geäte wer oben wide, an' who should be a-show'd inside, but she, the comely maïd whose hymn woonce meäde my giddy braïn to zwim, a-zittèn in the sheäde to zew, a-clad in robes as white as snow. what then? could i so low look out a meäte ov higher steäte so gaÿ 'ithin a pillar'd geäte, wi' high walls round the smooth-mow'd ground? oh, no! my heart, no, no. long years stole by, a-glidèn slow, wi' winter cwold an' zummer glow, an' she wer then a widow, clad in grey; but comely, though so sad; her husband, heartless to his bride, spent all her store an' wealth, an' died, though she noo mwore could now rejaïce, yet sweet did sound her zongless vaïce. but had she, in her woe, the higher steäte she had o' leäte 'ithin the lofty pillar'd geäte, wi' stwonèn balls upon the walls? oh, no! my heart, no, no. but while she vell, my meäker's greäce led me to teäke a higher pleäce, an' lighten'd up my mind wi' lore, an' bless'd me wi' a worldly store; but still noo winsome feäce or vaïce, had ever been my wedded chaïce; an' then i thought, why do i mwope alwone without a jaÿ or hope? would she still think me low? or scorn a meäte, in my feäir steäte, in here 'ithin a pillar'd geäte, a happy pleäce wi' her kind feäce? oh, no! my hope, no, no. i don't stand out 'tis only feäte do gi'e to each his wedded meäte; but eet there's woone above the rest, that every soul can like the best. an' my wold love's a-kindled new, an' my wold dream's a-come out true; but while i had noo soul to sheäre my good an' ill, an' jäy an ceäre, should i have bliss below, in gleämèn pleäte an' lofty steäte 'ithin the lofty pillar'd geäte, wi' feäirest flow'rs, an' ponds an' tow'rs? oh, no! my heart, no, no. zummer stream. 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. the light o' weäves, a-runnèn there, did plaÿ on leaves up over head, an' vishes sceäly zides did gleäre, 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, 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, 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. vrom yonder window, in the thatch, did sound the maïdens' merry words, as i did stand, by zingèn birds, bezide the elem-sheäded hatch. '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. as streams do glide by green mead-grass, my zummer-brighten'd years do pass. linda deäne. the bright-tunn'd house, a-risèn proud, stood high avore a zummer cloud, an' windy sheädes o' tow'rs did vall upon the many-window'd wall; an' on the grassy terrace, bright wi' white-bloom'd zummer's deaïsy beds, an' snow-white lilies noddèn heads, sweet linda deäne did walk in white; but ah! avore too high a door, wer linda deäne ov ellendon. when sparklèn brooks an' grassy ground, by keen-aïr'd winter's vrost wer bound, an' star-bright snow did streak the forms o' beäre-lim'd trees in darksome storms, sweet linda deäne did lightly glide, wi' snow-white robe an' rwosy feäce, upon the smooth-vloor'd hall, to treäce the merry dance o' chris'mas tide; but oh! not mine be balls so fine as linda deäne's at ellendon. sweet linda deäne do match the skies wi' sheenèn blue o' glisnèn eyes, an' feaïrest blossoms do but show her forehead's white, an' feäce's glow; but there's a winsome jaÿ above, the brightest hues ov e'th an' skies. the dearest zight o' many eyes, would be the smile o' linda's love; but high above my lowly love is linda deäne ov ellendon. [gothic: eclogue.] come and zee us in the zummer. _john; william; william's bwoy; and william's maïd at feäir._ john. zoo here be your childern, a-sheärèn your feäir-day, an' each wi' a feäirèn. william. aye, well, there's noo peace 'ithout comèn to stannèn an' show, in the zummer. john. an' how is your jeäne? still as merry as ever, wi' cheäks lik' a cherry? william. still merry, but beauty's as feädesome 's the raïn's glowèn bow in the zummer. john. well now, i do hope we shall vind ye come soon, wi' your childern behind ye, to stowe, while o' bwoth zides o' hedges, the zunsheen do glow in the zummer. william. well, aye, when the mowèn is over, an' ee-grass do whiten wi' clover. a man's a-tired out, vor much walken, the while he do mow in the zummer. william's bwoy. i'll goo, an' we'll zet up a wicket, an' have a good innèns at cricket; an' teäke a good plounce in the water. where clote-leaves do grow in the zummer. william's maid. i'll goo, an' we'll play "thread the needle" or "huntèn the slipper," or wheedle young jemmy to fiddle, an' reely so brisk to an' fro in the zummer. john. an' jeäne. mind you don't come 'ithout her, my wife is a-thinkèn about her; at our house she'll find she's as welcome 's the rwose that do blow in the zummer. lindenore. at lindenore upon the steep, bezide the trees a-reachèn high, the while their lower limbs do zweep the river-stream a-flowèn by; by grægle bells in beds o' blue, below the tree-stems in the lew, calm aïr do vind the rwose-bound door, ov ellen dare o' lindenore. an' there noo foam do hiss avore swift bwoats, wi' water-plowèn keels, an' there noo broad high-road's a-wore by vur-brought trav'lers' cracklèn wheels; noo crowd's a-passèn to and fro, upon the bridge's high-sprung bow: an' vew but i do seek the door ov ellen dare o' lindenore. vor there the town, wi' zun-bright walls, do sheen vur off, by hills o' grey, an' town-vo'k ha' but seldom calls o' business there, from day to day: but ellen didden leäve her ruf to be admir'd, an' that's enough- vor i've a-vound 'ithin her door, feäir ellen dare o' lindenore. me'th below the tree. o when theäse elems' crooked boughs, a'most too thin to sheäde the cows, did slowly swing above the grass as winds o' spring did softly pass, an' zunlight show'd the shiftèn sheäde, while youthful me'th wi' laughter loud, did twist his lim's among the crowd down there below; up there above wer bright-ey'd me'th below the tree. down there the merry vo'k did vill the stwonèn doorway, now so still; an' zome did joke, wi' ceäsement wide, wi' other vo'k a-stood outside, wi' words that head by head did heed. below blue sky an' blue-smok'd tun, 'twer jaÿ to zee an' hear their fun, but sweeter jaÿ up here above wi' bright-ey'd me'th below the tree. now unknown veet do beät the vloor, an' unknown han's do shut the door, an' unknown men do ride abrode, an' hwome ageän on thik wold road, drough geätes all now a-hung anew. noo mind but mine ageän can call wold feäces back around the wall, down there below, or here above, wi' bright-ey'd me'th below the tree. aye, pride mid seek the crowded pleäce to show his head an' frownèn feäce, an' pleasure vlee, wi' goold in hand, vor zights to zee vrom land to land, where winds do blow on seas o' blue:- noo wealth wer mine to travel wide vor jaÿ, wi' pleasure or wi' pride: my happiness wer here above the feäst, wi' me'th below the tree. the wild rwose now do hang in zight, to mornèn zun an' evenèn light, the bird do whissle in the gloom, avore the thissle out in bloom, but here alwone the tree do leän. the twig that woonce did whiver there is now a limb a-wither'd beäre: zoo i do miss the sheäde above my head, an' me'th below the tree. treat well your wife. no, no, good meäster collins cried, why you've a good wife at your zide; zoo do believe the heart is true that gi'ed up all bezide vor you, an' still beheäve as you begun to seek the love that you've a-won when woonce in dewy june, 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 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', a-thinkèn on her, back at hwome, the while grey axan gather'd thick, on dyèn embers, on the brick; an' how her mother look'd abrode, drough window, down the moon-bright road, thik cloudless night o' june, 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 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 the feädèn cheäk that woonce did burn, a-bloomèn to the moon. the child an' the mowers. o, aye! they had woone child bezide, an' a finer your eyes never met, 'twer a dear little fellow that died in the zummer that come wi' such het; 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, wi' their eärms in white sleeves, left an' right; an' out there, as they rested at noon, o! they drench'd en vrom eäle-horns too deep, till his thoughts wer a-drown'd in a swoon; aye! his life wer a-smother'd in sleep. then they laid en there-right on the ground, 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: lik' the mown-grass a-dried by the day,- aye! the zwath-flow'r's a-killed by the zun. the love child. where the bridge out at woodley did stride, wi' his wide arches' cool sheäded bow, up above the clear brook that did slide by the popples, befoam'd white as snow: as the gilcups did quiver among 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 her the way it would turn an' would leäd: "goo along by the beech in the nook, where the childern do play 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, "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, "oh! they zent me away to be born,--[c] 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 away to be born!- aye, to hide her where others be shown! [footnote c: words once spoken to the writer.] hawthorn down. all up the down's cool brow i work'd in noontide's gleäre, on where the slow-wheel'd plow 'd a-wore the grass half bare. an' gil'cups quiver'd quick, as aïr did pass, an' deäisies huddled thick among the grass. the while my eärms did swing 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, did meäke em run. the south zide o' the hill, my own tun-smoke rose blue,- in north coomb, near the mill, my mother's wer in view- where woonce her vier vor all ov us did burn, as i have childern small round mine in turn. an' zoo i still wull cheer 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, an' then zit down below my own wi' jaÿ. oben vields. well, you mid keep the town an' street, wi' grassless stwones to beät your veet, an' zunless windows where your brows be never cooled by swaÿèn boughs; an' let me end, as i begun, my days in oben aïr an' zun, where zummer win's a-blowèn sweet, wi' blooth o' trees as white's a sheet; or swaÿèn boughs, a-bendèn low wi' rip'nèn apples in a row, an' we a-risèn rathe do meet the bright'nèn dawn wi' dewy veet, an' leäve, at night, the vootless groves, to rest 'ithin our thatchen oves. an' here our childern still do bruise the deäisy buds wi' tiny shoes, as we did meet avore em, free vrom ceäre, in play below the tree. an' there in me'th their lively eyes do glissen to the zunny skies, as aïr do blow, wi' leäzy peäce to cool, in sheäde, their burnèn feäce. where leaves o' spreadèn docks do hide the zawpit's timber-lwoaded zide, an' trees do lie, wi' scraggy limbs, among the deäisy's crimson rims. an' they, so proud, wi' eärms a-spread to keep their balance good, do tread wi' ceäreful steps o' tiny zoles the narrow zides o' trees an' poles. an' zoo i'll leäve vor your light veet the peävement o' the zunless street, while i do end, as i begun, my days in oben aïr an' zun. what john wer a-tellèn his mis'ess out in the corn ground. ah! mam! you woonce come here the while the zun, long years agoo, did shed his het upon the wheat in hile, wi' yollow hau'm an' ears o' red, wi' little shoes too thin vor walks upon the scratchèn stubble-stalks; you hardly reach'd wi' glossy head, the vore wheel's top o' dousty red. how time's a-vled! how years do vlee! an' there you went an' zot inzide a hile, in aïr a-streamèn cool, as if 'ithin a room, vull wide an' high, you zot to guide an' rule. you leäz'd about the stubbly land, an' soon vill'd up your small left hand wi' ruddy ears your right hand vound, an' traïl'd the stalks along the ground. how time's a-gone! how years do goo! then in the waggon you did teäke a ride, an' as the wheels vell down vrom ridge to vurrow, they did sheäke on your small head your poppy crown, an' now your little maïd, a dear, your childhood's very daps, is here, zoo let her staÿ, that her young feäce mid put a former year in pleäce. how time do run! how years do roll! sheädes. come here an' zit a while below theäse tower, grey and ivy-bound, in sheäde, the while the zun do glow so hot upon the flow'ry ground; an' winds in flight, do briskly smite the blossoms bright, upon the gleäde, but never stir the sleepèn sheäde. as when you stood upon the brink o' yonder brook, wi' back-zunn'd head, your zunny-grounded sheäde did zink upon the water's grav'lly bed, where weäves could zweep away, or keep, the gravel heap that they'd a-meäde, but never wash away the sheäde. an' zoo, when you can woonce vulvil what's feäir, a-tried by heaven's light, why never fear that evil will can meäke a wrong o' your good right. the right wull stand, vor all man's hand, till streams on zand, an' wind in gleädes, can zweep awaÿ the zuncast sheädes. times o' year. here did swäy the eltrot flow'rs, when the hours o' night wer vew, an' the zun, wi' eärly beams brighten'd streams, an' dried the dew, an' the goocoo there did greet passers by wi' dousty veet. there the milkmaïd hung her brow by the cow, a-sheenèn red; an' the dog, wi' upward looks, watch'd the rooks above his head, an' the brook, vrom bow to bow, here went swift, an' there wer slow. now the cwolder-blowèn blast, here do cast vrom elems' heads feäded leaves, a-whirlèn round, down to ground, in yollow beds, ruslèn under milkers' shoes, when the day do dry the dews. soon shall grass, a-vrosted bright, glisten white instead o' green, an' the wind shall smite the cows, where the boughs be now their screen. things do change as years do vlee; what ha' years in store vor me? [gothic: eclogue.] racketèn joe. _racketèn joe; his sister; his cousin fanny; and the dog._ racketèn joe. heigh! heigh! here. who's about? his sister. oh! lauk! here's joe, a rantèn lout, a-meäkèn his wild randy-rout. racketèn joe. heigh! fanny! how d'ye do? (_slaps her._) fanny. oh! fie; why all the woo'se vor you a-slappèn o' me, black an' blue, my back! his sister. a whack! you loose-eärm'd chap, to gi'e your cousin sich a slap! fanny. i'll pull the heäir o'n, i do vow; his sister. i'll pull the ears o'n. there. the dog. wowh! wow! fanny. a-comèn up the drong, how he did smack his leather thong, a-zingèn, as he thought, a zong; his sister. an' there the pigs did scote azide, in fright, wi' squeakèn droat, wi' geese a pitchèn up a note. look there. fanny. his chair! his sister. he thump'd en down, as if he'd het en into ground. racketèn joe. heigh! heigh! look here! the vier is out. his sister. how he do knock the tongs about! fanny. now theäre's his whip-nob, plum upon the teäble vor a drum; his sister. an' there's a dent so big's your thumb. racketèn joe. my hat's awore so quaer. his sister. 'tis quaer enough, but not wi' wear; but dabs an' dashes he do bear. racketèn joe. the zow! his sister. what now? racketèn joe. she's in the plot. a-routèn up the flower knot. ho! towzer! here, rout out the zow, heigh! here, hie at her. tiss! the dog. wowh! wow! his sister. how he do rant and roar, an' stump an' stamp about the vloor, an' swing, an' slap, an' slam the door! he don't put down a thing, but he do dab, an' dash, an' ding it down, till all the house do ring. racketèn joe. she's out. fanny. noo doubt. his sister. athirt the bank, look! how the dog an' he do pank. fanny. staÿ out, an' heed her now an' then, to zee she don't come in ageän. zummer an' winter. when i led by zummer streams the pride o' lea, as naïghbours thought her, while the zun, wi' evenèn beams, did cast our sheädes athirt the water; winds a-blowèn, streams a-flowèn, skies a-glowèn, tokens ov my jaÿ zoo fleetèn, heighten'd it, that happy meetèn. then, when maïd an' man took pleäces, gaÿ in winter's chris'mas dances, showèn in their merry feäces kindly smiles an' glisnèn glances; stars a-winkèn, day a-shrinkèn, sheädes a-zinkèn, brought anew the happy meetèn, that did meake the night too fleetèn. to me. at night, as drough the meäd i took my waÿ, 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, 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 maid, as eet unknown to me. high over head the white-rimm'd clouds went on, wi' woone a-comèn up, vor woone a-gone; 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, but zent noo vaïce, athirt the ground, to me. an' then a buttervlee, in zultry light, a-wheelèn on about me, vier-bright, 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 sound, 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. two an' two. the zun, o jessie, while his feäce do rise in vi'ry skies, a-sheddèn out his light on yollow corn a-weävèn down below his yollow glow, is gaÿ avore the zight. by two an' two, how goodly things do goo, a-matchèn woone another to fulvill the goodness ov their meäkèr's will. how bright the spreadèn water in the lew do catch the blue, a-sheenèn vrom the sky; how true the grass do teäke the dewy bead that it do need, while dousty roads be dry. by peäir an' peäir each thing's a-meäde to sheäre the good another can bestow, in wisdom's work down here below. the lowest lim's o' trees do seldom grow a-spread too low to gi'e the cows a sheäde; the aïr's to bear the bird, the bird's to rise; vor light the eyes, vor eyes the light's a-meäde. 'tis gi'e an' teäke, an' woone vor others' seäke; in peäirs a-workèn out their ends, though men be foes that should be friends. the lew o' the rick. at eventide the wind wer loud by trees an' tuns above woone's head, an' all the sky wer woone dark cloud, vor all it had noo raïn to shed; an' as the darkness gather'd thick, i zot me down below a rick, where straws upon the win' did ride wi' giddy flights, along my zide, though unmolestèn me a-restèn, where i laÿ 'ithin the lew. my wife's bright vier indoors did cast its fleäme upon the window peänes that screen'd her teäble, while the blast vled on in music down the leänes; an' as i zot in vaïceless thought ov other zummer-tides, that brought the sheenèn grass below the lark, or left their ricks a-wearèn dark, my childern voun' me, an' come roun' me, where i lay 'ithin the lew. the rick that then did keep me lew would be a-gone another fall, an' i, in zome years, in a vew, mid leäve the childern, big or small; but he that meäde the wind, an' meäde the lewth, an' zent wi' het the sheäde, can keep my childern, all alwone o' under me, an' though vull grown or little lispers, wi' their whispers, there a-lyèn in the lew. the wind in woone's feäce. there lovely jenny past, while the blast did blow on over ashknowle hill to the mill below; a-blinkèn quick, wi' lashes long, above her cheäks o' red, ageän the wind, a-beätèn strong, upon her droopèn head. oh! let dry win' blow bleäk, on her cheäk so heäle, but let noo raïn-shot chill meäke her ill an' peäle; vor healthy is the breath the blast upon the hill do yield, an' healthy is the light a cast vrom lofty sky to vield. an' mid noo sorrow-pang ever hang a tear upon the dark lash-heäir ov my feäirest dear; an' mid noo unkind deed o' mine spweil what my love mid gaïn, nor meäke my merry jenny pine at last wi' dim-ey'd païn. tokens. green mwold on zummer bars do show that they've a-dripp'd in winter wet; the hoof-worn ring o' groun' below the tree, do tell o' storms or het; the trees in rank along a ledge do show where woonce did bloom a hedge; an' where the vurrow-marks do stripe the down, the wheat woonce rustled ripe. each mark ov things a-gone vrom view- to eyezight's woone, to soulzight two. the grass ageän the mwoldrèn door 's a tóken sad o' vo'k a-gone, an' where the house, bwoth wall an' vloor, 's a-lost, the well mid linger on. what tokens, then, could meäry gi'e thät she'd a-liv'd, an' liv'd vor me, but things a-done vor thought an' view? good things that nwone ageän can do, an' every work her love ha' wrought, to eyezight's woone, but two to thought. tweil. the rick ov our last zummer's haulèn now vrom grey's a-feäded dark, an' off the barken raïl's a-vallèn, day by day, the rottèn bark.- but short's the time our works do stand, so feäir's we put em out ov hand, vor time a-passèn, wet an' dry, do spweïl em wi' his changèn sky, the while wi' strivèn hope, we men, though a-ruèn time's undoèn, still do tweil an' tweil ageän. in wall-zide sheädes, by leafy bowers, underneath the swayèn tree, o' leäte, as round the bloomèn flowers, lowly humm'd the giddy bee, my childern's small left voot did smite their tiny speäde, the while the right did trample on a deäisy head, bezïde the flower's dousty bed, an' though their work wer idle then, they a-smilèn, an' a-tweilèn, still did work an' work ageän. now their little limbs be stronger, deeper now their vaïce do sound; an' their little veet be longer, an' do tread on other ground; an' rust is on the little bleädes ov all the broken-hafted speädes, an' flow'rs that wer my hope an' pride ha' long agoo a-bloom'd an' died, but still as i did leäbor then vor love ov all them childern small, zoo now i'll tweil an' tweil ageän. when the smokeless tun's a-growèn cwold as dew below the stars, an' when the vier noo mwore's a-glowèn red between the window bars, we then do lay our weary heads in peace upon their nightly beds, an' gi'e woone sock, wi' heavèn breast, an' then breathe soft the breath o' rest, till day do call the sons o' men vrom night-sleep's blackness, vull o' sprackness, out abroad to tweil ageän. where the vaïce o' the winds is mildest, in the plaïn, their stroke is keen; where their dreatnèn vaïce is wildest, in the grove, the grove's our screen. an' where the worold in their strife do dreatèn mwost our tweilsome life, why there almighty ceäre mid cast a better screen ageän the blast. zoo i woon't live in fear o' men, but, man-neglected, god-directed, still wull tweil an' tweil ageän. fancy. in stillness we ha' words to hear, an' sheäpes to zee in darkest night, an' tongues a-lost can haïl us near, an' souls a-gone can smile in zight; when fancy now do wander back to years a-spent, an' bring to mind zome happy tide a-left behind in' weästèn life's slow-beatèn track. when feädèn leaves do drip wi' raïn, our thoughts can ramble in the dry; when winter win' do zweep the plaïn we still can have a zunny sky. vor though our limbs be winter-wrung, we still can zee, wi' fancy's eyes, the brightest looks ov e'th an' skies, that we did know when we wer young. in païn our thoughts can pass to eäse, in work our souls can be at plaÿ, an' leäve behind the chilly leäse vor warm-aïr'd meäds o' new mow'd haÿ. when we do vlee in fancy's flight vrom daily ills avore our feäce, an' linger in zome happy pleäce ov mè'th an' smiles, an' warmth an' light. the broken heart. news o' grief had overteäken dark-ey'd fanny, now vorseäken; there she zot, wi' breast a-heavèn, while vrom zide to zide, wi' grievèn, vell her head, wi' tears a-creepèn down her cheäks, in bitter weepèn. there wer still the ribbon-bow she tied avore her hour ov woe, an' there wer still the han's that tied it hangèn white, or wringèn tight, in ceäre that drown'd all ceäre bezide it. when a man, wi' heartless slightèn, mid become a maïden's blightèn, he mid ceärlessly vorseäke her, but must answer to her meäker; he mid slight, wi' selfish blindness, all her deeds o' lovèn-kindness, god wull waïgh em wi' the slightèn that mid be her love's requitèn; he do look on each deceiver, he do know what weight o' woe do breäk the heart ov ev'ry griever. evenèn light. the while i took my bit o' rest, below my house's eastern sheäde, the things that stood in vield an' gleäde wer bright in zunsheen vrom the west. there bright wer east-ward mound an' wall, an' bright wer trees, arisèn tall, an' bright did break 'ithin the brook, down rocks, the watervall. there deep 'ithin my pworches bow did hang my heavy woaken door, an' in beyond en, on the vloor, the evenèn dusk did gather slow; but bright did gleäre the twinklèn spwokes o' runnèn carriage wheels, as vo'ks out east did ride along the road, bezide the low-bough'd woaks, an' i'd a-lost the zun vrom view, until ageän his feäce mid rise, a-sheenèn vrom the eastern skies to brighten up the rwose-borne dew; but still his lingrèn light did gi'e my heart a touchèn jaÿ, to zee his beams a-shed, wi' stratchèn sheäde, on east-ward wall an' tree. when jaÿ, a-zent me vrom above, vrom my sad heart is now agone, an' others be a-walkèn on, amid the light ov heavèn's love, oh! then vor lovèn-kindness seäke, mid i rejäice that zome do teäke my hopes a-gone, until ageän my happy dawn do breäk. vields by watervalls. when our downcast looks be smileless, under others' wrongs an' slightèns, when our daily deeds be guileless, an' do meet unkind requitèns, you can meäke us zome amends vor wrongs o' foes, an' slights o' friends;- o flow'ry-gleäded, timber-sheäded vields by flowèn watervalls! here be softest aïrs a-blowèn drough the boughs, wi' zingèn drushes, up above the streams, a-flowèn under willows, on by rushes. here below the bright-zunn'd sky the dew-bespangled flow'rs do dry, in woody-zided, stream-divided vields by flowèn watervalls. waters, wi' their giddy rollèns; breezes wi' their plaÿsome wooèns; here do heal, in soft consolèns, hearts a-wrung wi' man's wrong doèns. day do come to us as gaÿ as to a king ov widest swaÿ, in deäisy-whitèn'd, gil'cup-brightèn'd vields by flowèn watervalls. zome feäir buds mid outlive blightèns, zome sweet hopes mid outlive sorrow. after days of wrongs an' slightèns there mid break a happy morrow. we mid have noo e'thly love; but god's love-tokens vrom above here mid meet us, here mid greet us, in the vields by watervalls. the wheel routs. 'tis true i brought noo fortune hwome wi' jenny, vor her honey-moon, but still a goodish hansel come behind her perty soon, vor stick, an' dish, an' spoon, all vell to jeäne, vrom aunt o' camwy dell. zoo all the lot o' stuff a-tied upon the plow, a tidy tod, on gravel-crunchèn wheels did ride, wi' ho'ses, iron-shod, that, as their heads did nod, my whip did guide along wi' lightsome flip. an' there it rod 'ithin the rwope, astraïn'd athirt, an' straïn'd along, down thornhay's evenèn-lighted slope an' up the beech-tree drong; where wheels a-bound so strong, cut out on either zide a deep-zunk rout. an' when at fall the trees wer brown, above the bennet-bearèn land, when beech-leaves slowly whiver'd down. by evenèn winds a-fann'd; the routs wer each a band o' red, a-vill'd by drifted beech-leaves dead. an' when, in winter's leafless light, the keener eastern wind did blow. an' scatter down, avore my zight, a chilly cwoat o' snow; the routs ageän did show vull bright, in two long streaks o' glitt'rèn white. but when, upon our weddèn night, the cart's light wheels, a-rollèn round, brought jenny hwome, they run too light to mark the yieldèn ground; or welcome would be vound a peäir o' green-vill'd routs a-runnèn there. zoo let me never bring 'ithin my dwellèn what's a-won by wrong, an' can't come in 'ithout a sin; vor only zee how long the waggon marks in drong, did show wï' leaves, wi' grass, wi' groun' wi' snow. nanny's new abode. now day by day, at lofty height, o zummer noons, the burnèn zun 've a-show'd avore our eastward zight, the sky-blue zide ov hameldon, an' shone ageän, on new-mow'd ground, wi' haÿ a-piled up grey in pook, an' down on leäzes, bennet-brown'd, an' wheat a-vell avore the hook; till, under elems tall, the leaves do lie on leänèn lands, in leäter light o' fall. an' last year, we did zee the red o' dawn vrom ash-knap's thatchen oves, an' walk on crumpled leaves a-laid in grassy rook-trees' timber'd groves, now, here, the cooler days do shrink to vewer hours o' zunny sky, while zedge, a-weävèn by the brink o' shallow brooks, do slowly die. an' on the timber tall, the boughs, half beäre, do bend above the bulgèn banks in fall. there, we'd a spring o' water near, here, water's deep in wink-draïn'd wells, the church 'tis true, is nigh out here, too nigh wi' vive loud-boomèn bells. there, naïghbours wer vull wide a-spread, but vo'k be here too clwose a-stow'd. vor childern now do stun woone's head, wi' naïsy plaÿ bezide the road, where big so well as small, the little lad, an' lump'rèn lout, do leäp an' laugh theäse fall. leaves a-vallèn. 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. woone year wolder, woone year dearer, till when they do leave my he'th, i shall be noo mwore a hearer o' their vaïces or their me'th. 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 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. lizzie. o lizzie is so mild o' mind, vor ever kind, an' ever true; a-smilèn, while her lids do rise to show her eyes as bright as dew. an' comely do she look at night, a-dancèn in her skirt o' white, an' blushèn wi' a rwose o' red bezide her glossy head. feäir is the rwose o' blushèn hue, behung wi' dew, in mornèn's hour, feäir is the rwose, so sweet below the noontide glow, bezide the bow'r. vull feäir, an' eet i'd rather zee the rwose a-gather'd off the tree, an' bloomèn still with blossom red, by lizzie's glossy head. mid peace droughout her e'thly day, betide her way, to happy rest, an' mid she, all her weanèn life, or maïd or wife, be loved and blest. though i mid never zing anew to neäme the maïd so feäir an' true, a-blushèn, wi' a rwose o' red, bezide her glossy head. blessens a-left. lik' souls a-toss'd at sea i bore sad strokes o' trial, shock by shock, an' now, lik' souls a-cast ashore to rest upon the beäten rock, i still do seem to hear the sound o' weäves that drove me vrom my track, an' zee my strugglèn hopes a-drown'd, an' all my jaÿs a-floated back. by storms a-toss'd, i'll gi'e god praïse, wi' much a-lost i still ha' jaÿs. my peace is rest, my faïth is hope, an' freedom's my unbounded scope. vor faïth mid blunt the sting o' fear, an' peace the pangs ov ills a-vound, an' freedom vlee vrom evils near, wi' wings to vwold on other ground, wi' much a-lost, my loss is small, vor though ov e'thly goods bereft, a thousand times well worth em all be they good blessèns now a-left. what e'th do own, to e'th mid vall, but what's my own my own i'll call, my faïth, an' peäce, the gifts o' greäce, an' freedom still to shift my pleäce. when i've a-had a tree to screen my meal-rest vrom the high zunn'd-sky, or ivy-holdèn wall between my head an' win's a-rustlèn by, i had noo call vor han's to bring their seäv'ry daïnties at my nod, but stoop'd a-drinkèn vrom the spring, an' took my meal, wi' thanks to god, wi' faïth to keep me free o' dread, an' peäce to sleep wi' steadvast head, an' freedom's hands, an' veet unbound to woone man's work, or woone seäme ground. fall time. the gather'd clouds, a-hangèn low, do meäke the woody ridge look dim; an' raïn-vill'd streams do brisker flow, arisèn higher to their brim. in the tree, vrom lim' to lim', leaves do drop vrom the top, all slowly down, yollow, to the gloomy groun'. the rick's a-tipp'd an' weather-brown'd, an' thatch'd wi' zedge a-dried an' dead; an' orcha'd apples, red half round, have all a-happer'd down, a-shed underneath the trees' wide head. ladders long, rong by rong, to clim' the tall trees, be hung upon the wall. the crumpled leaves be now a-shed in mornèn winds a-blowèn keen; when they wer green the moss wer dead, now they be dead the moss is green. low the evenèn zun do sheen by the boughs, where the cows do swing their taïls over the merry milkers' païls. fall. now the yollow zun, a-runnèn daily round a smaller bow, still wi' cloudless sky's a-zunnèn all the sheenèn land below. vewer blossoms now do blow, but the fruit's a-showèn reds an' blues, an' purple hues, by the leaves a-glowèn. now the childern be a-pryèn roun' the berried bremble-bow, zome a-laughèn, woone a-cryèn vor the slent her frock do show. bwoys be out a-pullèn low slooe-boughs, or a-runnèn where, on zides of hazzle-wrides, nuts do hang a-zunnèn. where do reach roun' wheat-ricks yollow oves o' thatch, in long-drawn ring, there, by stubbly hump an' hollow, russet-dappled dogs do spring. soon my apple-trees wull fling bloomèn balls below em, that shall hide, on ev'ry zide ground where we do drow em. the zilver-weed. the zilver-weed upon the green, out where my sons an' daughters play'd, had never time to bloom between the litty steps o' bwoy an' maïd. but rwose-trees down along the wall, that then wer all the maïden's ceäre, an' all a-trimm'd an' traïn'd, did bear their bloomèn buds vrom spring to fall. but now the zilver leaves do show to zummer day their goolden crown, wi' noo swift shoe-zoles' litty blow, in merry plaÿ to beät em down. an' where vor years zome busy hand did traïn the rwoses wide an' high; now woone by woone the trees do die, an' vew of all the row do stand. the widow's house. i went hwome in the dead o' the night, when the vields wer all empty o' vo'k, an' the tuns at their cool-winded height wer all dark, an' all cwold 'ithout smoke; an' the heads o' the trees that i pass'd wer a-swayèn wi' low-ruslèn sound, an' the doust wer a-whirl'd wi' the blast, aye, a smeech wi' the wind on the ground. then i come by the young widow's hatch, down below the wold elem's tall head, but noo vinger did lift up the latch, vor the vo'k wer so still as the dead; but inside, to a tree a-meäde vast, wer the childern's light swing, a-hung low, an' a-rock'd by the brisk-blowèn blast, aye, a-swung by the win' to an' fro. vor the childern, wi' pillow-borne head, had vorgotten their swing on the lawn, an' their father, asleep wi' the dead, had vorgotten his work at the dawn; an' their mother, a vew stilly hours, had vorgotten where he sleept so sound, where the wind wer a-sheäkèn the flow'rs, aye, the blast the feäir buds on the ground. oh! the moon, wi' his peäle lighted skies, have his sorrowless sleepers below. but by day to the zun they must rise to their true lives o' tweil an' ov ho. then the childern wull rise to their fun, an' their mother mwore sorrow to veel, while the aïr is a-warm'd by the zun, aye, the win' by the day's vi'ry wheel. the child's greäve. avore the time when zuns went down on zummer's green a-turn'd to brown, when sheädes o' swaÿèn wheat-eärs vell upon the scarlet pimpernel; the while you still mid goo, an' vind 'ithin the geärden's mossy wall, sweet blossoms, low or risèn tall, to meäke a tutty to your mind, in churchyard heav'd, wi' grassy breast, the greäve-mound ov a beäby's rest. an' when a high day broke, to call a throng 'ithin the churchyard wall, the mother brought, wi' thoughtvul mind, the feäirest buds her eyes could vind, to trim the little greäve, an' show to other souls her love an' loss, an' meäde a seävior's little cross o' brightest flow'rs that then did blow, a-droppèn tears a-sheenèn bright, among the dew, in mornèn light an' woone sweet bud her han' did pleäce up where did droop the seävior's feäce; an' two she zet a-bloomèn bright, where reach'd his hands o' left an' right; two mwore feäir blossoms, crimson dyed, did mark the pleäces ov his veet, an' woone did lie, a-smellèn sweet, up where the spear did wound the zide ov him that is the life ov all greäve sleepers, whether big or small. the mother that in faïth could zee the seävior on the high cross tree mid be a-vound a-grievèn sore, but not to grieve vor evermwore, vor he shall show her faïthvul mind, his chaïce is all that she should choose, an' love that here do grieve to lose, shall be, above, a jaÿ to vind, wi' him that evermwore shall keep the souls that he do lay asleep. went vrom hwome. the stream-be-wander'd dell did spread vrom height to woody height, an' meäds did lie, a grassy bed, vor elem-sheädèn light. the milkmaïd by her white-horn'd cow, wi' païl so white as snow, did zing below the elem bough a-swaÿèn to an' fro. an' there the evenèn's low-shot light did smite the high tree-tops, an' rabbits vrom the grass, in fright, did leäp 'ithin the copse. an' there the shepherd wi' his crook. an' dog bezide his knee, went whisslèn by, in aïr that shook the ivy on the tree. an' on the hill, ahead, wer bars a-showèn dark on high, avore, as eet, the evenèn stars did twinkle in the sky, an' then the last sweet evenèn-tide that my long sheäde vell there, i went down brindon's thymy zide, to my last sleep at ware. the fancy feäir at maïden newton. the frome, wi' ever-water'd brink, do run where shelvèn hills do zink wi' housen all a-cluster'd roun' the parish tow'rs below the down. an' now, vor woonce, at leäst, ov all the pleäcen where the stream do vall, there's woone that zome to-day mid vind, wi' things a-suited to their mind. an' that's out where the fancy feäir is on at maïden newton. an' vo'k, a-smarten'd up, wull hop out here, as ev'ry traïn do stop, vrom up the line, a longish ride, an' down along the river-zide. an' zome do beät, wi' heels an' tooes, the leänes an' paths, in nimble shoes, an' bring, bezides, a biggish knot, ov all their childern that can trot, a-vlockèn where the fancy feäir is here at maïden newton. if you should goo, to-day, avore a _chilfrome_ house or _downfrome_ door, or _frampton's_ park-zide row, or look drough quiet _wraxall's_ slopy nook, or elbow-streeted _catt'stock_, down by _castlehill's_ cwold-winded crown, an' zee if vo'k be all at hwome, you'd vind em out--they be a-come out hither, where the fancy feäir is on at maïden newton. come, young men, come, an' here you'll vind a gift to please a maïden's mind; come, husbands, here be gifts to please your wives, an' meäke em smile vor days; come, so's, an' buy at fancy feäir a keepseäke vor your friends elsewhere; you can't but stop an' spend a cwein wi' leädies that ha' goods so fine; an' all to meake, vor childern's seäke, the school at maïden newton. things do come round. above the leafless hazzle-wride the wind-drove raïn did quickly vall, an' on the meäple's ribby zide did hang the raïn-drops quiv'rèn ball; out where the brook o' foamy yollow roll'd along the meäd's deep hollow, an' noo birds wer out to beät, wi' flappèn wings, the vleèn wet o' zunless clouds on flow'rless ground. how time do bring the seasons round! the moss, a-beät vrom trees, did lie upon the ground in ashen droves, an' western wind did huffle high, above the sheds' quick-drippèn oves. an' where the ruslèn straw did sound so dry, a-shelter'd in the lew, i staïed alwone, an' weather-bound, an' thought on times, long years agoo, wi' water-floods on flow'rless ground. how time do bring the seasons round! we then, in childhood plaÿ, did seem in work o' men to teäke a peärt, a-drevèn on our wild bwoy team, or lwoadèn o' the tiny cart. or, on our little refters, spread the zedgen ruf above our head, but coulden tell, as now we can, where each would goo to tweil a man. o jaÿs a-lost, an' jaÿs a-vound, how providence do bring things round! where woonce along the sky o' blue the zun went roun' his longsome bow, an' brighten'd, to my soul, the view about our little farm below. there i did plaÿ the merry geäme, wi' childern ev'ry holitide, but coulden tell the vaïce or neäme that time would vind to be my bride. o hwome a-left, o wife a-vound, how providence do bring things round! an' when i took my manhood's pleäce, a husband to a wife's true vow, i never thought by neäme or feäce o' childern that be round me now. an' now they all do grow vrom small, drough life's feäir sheäpes to big an' tall, i still be blind to god's good plan, to pleäce em out as wife, or man. o thread o' love by god unwound, how he in time do bring things round; zummer thoughts in winter time. well, aye, last evenèn, as i shook my locks ov haÿ by leecombe brook. the yollow zun did weakly glance upon the winter meäd askance, a-castèn out my narrow sheäde athirt the brook, an' on the meäd. the while ageän my lwonesome ears did russle weatherbeäten spears, below the withy's leafless head that overhung the river's bed; i there did think o' days that dried the new-mow'd grass o' zummer-tide, when white-sleev'd mowers' whetted bleädes rung sh'ill along the green-bough'd gleädes, an' maïdens gaÿ, wi' plaÿsome chaps, a-zot wi' dinners in their laps, did talk wi' merry words that rung around the ring, vrom tongue to tongue; an' welcome, when the leaves ha' died, be zummer thoughts in winter-tide. i'm out o' door. i'm out, when, in the winter's blast, the zun, a-runnèn lowly round, do mark the sheädes the hedge do cast at noon, in hoarvrost, on the ground, i'm out when snow's a-lyèn white in keen-aïr'd vields that i do pass, an' moonbeams, vrom above, do smite on ice an' sleeper's window-glass. i'm out o' door, when win' do zweep, by hangèn steep, or hollow deep, at lindenore. o welcome is the lewth a-vound by rustlèn copse, or ivied bank, or by the haÿ-rick, weather-brown'd by barken-grass, a-springèn rank; or where the waggon, vrom the team a-freed, is well a-housed vrom wet, an' on the dousty cart-house beam do hang the cobweb's white-lin'd net. while storms do roar, an' win' do zweep, by hangèn steep, or hollow deep, at lindenore. an' when a good day's work's a-done an' i do rest, the while a squall do rumble in the hollow tun, an' ivy-stems do whip the wall. then in the house do sound about my ears, dear vaïces vull or thin, a praÿèn vor the souls vur out at sea, an' cry wi' bibb'rèn chin- oh! shut the door. what soul can sleep, upon the deep, when storms do zweep at lindenore. grief an' gladness. "can all be still, when win's do blow? look down the grove an' zee the boughs a-swingèn on the tree, an' beäten weäves below. zee how the tweilèn vo'k do bend upon their windward track, wi' ev'ry string, an' garment's end, a-flutt'rèn at their back." i cried, wi' sorrow sore a-tried, an' hung, wi' jenny at my zide, my head upon my breast. wi' strokes o' grief so hard to bear, 'tis hard vor souls to rest. can all be dull, when zuns do glow? oh! no; look down the grove, where zides o' trees be bright above; an' weäves do sheen below; an' neäked stems o' wood in hedge do gleäm in streäks o' light, an' rocks do gleäre upon the ledge o' yonder zunny height, "no, jeäne, wi' trials now withdrawn, lik' darkness at a happy dawn." i cried, "noo mwore despair; wi' our lost peace ageän a-vound, 'tis wrong to harbour ceäre." slidèn. when wind wer keen, where ivy-green did clwosely wind roun' woak-tree rind, 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 a spankèn lag, to win good speed, when we, straïght-knee'd, wi' foreright tooes, 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, 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 their little hands, a-got red-cwold, or slide on ice o' two veet wide. by leafless copse, an' beäre tree-tops, 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, the glitt'rèn ice to meäke a slide, as we had our slide, years agone. lwonesomeness. as i do zew, wi' nimble hand, in here avore the window's light, how still do all the housegear stand around my lwonesome zight. how still do all the housegear stand since willie now 've a-left the land. the rwose-tree's window-sheädèn bow do hang in leaf, an' win'-blow'd flow'rs, avore my lwonesome eyes do show theäse bright november hours. avore my lwonesome eyes do show wi' nwone but i to zee em blow. the sheädes o' leafy buds, avore the peänes, do sheäke upon the glass, an' stir in light upon the vloor, where now vew veet do pass, an' stir in light upon the vloor, where there's a-stirrèn nothèn mwore. this win' mid dreve upon the maïn, my brother's ship, a-plowèn foam, but not bring mother, cwold, nor raïn, at her now happy hwome. but not bring mother, cwold, nor raïn, where she is out o' pain. zoo now that i'm a-mwopèn dumb, a-keepèn father's house, do you come of'en wi' your work vrom hwome, vor company. now do. come of'en wi' your work vrom hwome, up here a-while. do come. a snowy night. 'twer at night, an' a keen win' did blow vrom the east under peäle-twinklèn stars, all a-zweepèn along the white snow; on the groun', on the trees, on the bars, vrom the hedge where the win' russled drough, there a light-russlèn snow-doust did vall; an' noo pleäce wer a-vound that wer lew, but the shed, or the ivy-hung wall. then i knock'd at the wold passage door wi' the win'-driven snow on my locks; till, a-comèn along the cwold vloor, there my jenny soon answer'd my knocks. then the wind, by the door a-swung wide, flung some snow in her clear-bloomèn feäce, an' she blink'd wi' her head all a-zide, an' a-chucklèn, went back to her pleäce. an' in there, as we zot roun' the brands, though the talkers wer maïnly the men, bloomèn jeäne, wi' her work in her hands, did put in a good word now an' then. an' when i took my leave, though so bleäk wer the weather, she went to the door, wi' a smile, an' a blush on the cheäk that the snow had a-smitten avore. the year-clock. we zot bezide the leäfy wall, upon the bench at evenfall, while aunt led off our minds vrom ceäre wi' veäiry teäles, i can't tell where: an' vound us woone among her stock o' feäbles, o' the girt year-clock. 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, did guide along the vallow lands the heavy zull, wi' bright-sheär'd beam, avore the weäry oxen team, wi' spring a-gone there come behind sweet zummer, jaÿ ov ev'ry mind, wi' feäce a-beamèn to beguile our weäry 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 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, wi' sheäpes o' buttervlees in flight. when zummer went, the next ov all did come the sheäpe o' brown-feäc'd fall, a-smilèn in a comely gown o' green, a-shot wi' yellow-brown, a-border'd wi' a goolden stripe o' fringe, a-meäde o' corn-ears ripe, an' up ageän her comely zide, upon her rounded eärm, did ride a perty basket, all a-twin'd o' slender stems wi' leaves an' rind, a-vill'd wi' fruit the trees did shed, all ripe, in purple, goold, an' red; an' busy leäbor there did come a-zingèn zongs ov harvest hwome, an' red-ear'd dogs did briskly run roun' cheervul leisure wi' his gun, or stan' an' mark, wi' stedvast zight, the speckled pa'tridge rise in flight. an' next ageän to mild-feäc'd fall did come peäle winter, last ov all, a-bendèn down, in thoughtvul mood, her head 'ithin a snow-white hood a-deck'd wi' icy-jewels, bright an' cwold as twinklèn stars o' night; an' there wer weary leäbor, slack o' veet to keep her vrozen track, a-lookèn off, wi' wistful eyes, to reefs o' smoke, that there did rise a-meltèn to the peäle-feäc'd zun, above the houses' lofty tun. an' there the girt year-clock did goo by day an' night, vor ever true, wi' mighty wheels a-rollèn round 'ithout a beät, 'ithout a sound. not goo hwome to-night. no, no, why you've noo wife at hwome abidèn up till you do come, zoo leäve your hat upon the pin, vor i'm your waïter. here's your inn, wi' chair to rest, an' bed to roost; you have but little work to do this vrosty time at hwome in mill, your vrozen wheel's a-stannèn still, the sleepèn ice woont grind vor you. no, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, good robin white, o' craglin mill. as i come by, to-day, where stood wi' neäked trees, the purple wood, the scarlet hunter's ho'ses veet tore up the sheäkèn ground, wind-fleet, wi' reachèn heads, an' pankèn hides; the while the flat-wing'd rooks in vlock. did zwim a-sheenèn at their height; but your good river, since last night, wer all a-vroze so still's a rock. no, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, good robin white, o' craglin mill. zee how the hufflèn win' do blow, a-whirlèn down the giddy snow: zee how the sky's a-weärèn dim, behind the elem's neäked lim'. that there do leän above the leäne: zoo teäke your pleäce bezide the dogs, an' sip a drop o' hwome-brew'd eäle, an' zing your zong or tell your teäle, while i do baït the vier wi' logs. no, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, good robin white, o' craglin mill. your meäre's in steäble wi' her hocks in straw above her vetterlocks, a-reachèn up her meäney neck, an' pullèn down good hay vrom reck, a-meäkèn slight o' snow an' sleet; she don't want you upon her back, to vall upon the slippery stwones on hollyhül, an' break your bwones, or miss, in snow, her hidden track. no, no, you woont goo hwome to-night, good robin white, o' craglin mill. here, jenny, come pull out your key an' hansel, wi' zome tidy tea, the zilver pot that we do owe to your prize butter at the show, an' put zome bread upon the bwoard. ah! he do smile; now that 'ull do, he'll stay. here, polly, bring a light, we'll have a happy hour to-night, i'm thankvul we be in the lew. no, no, he woont goo hwome to-night, not robin white, o' craglin mill. the humstrum. why woonce, at chris'mas-tide, avore the wold year wer a-reckon'd out, 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, 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, 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. the mis'ess there, vor wold time's seäke, had gifts to gi'e, and smiles to show, 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, wi' wold brown pence, a-rottlèn in, their zwangèn bags did soon begin, wi' brocks an' scraps, to plim well out. the childern all did run an' poke their heads vrom hatch or door, an' shout a-runnèn back to wolder vo'k. why, here! the humstrums be about! as _ing-an-ing_ did ring the string, as _ang-an-ang_ the wires did clang. shaftesbury feäir. when hillborne paladore did show so bright to me down miles below. as woonce the zun, a-rollèn west, did brighten up his hill's high breast. wi' walls a-lookèn dazzlèn white, or yollow, on the grey-topp'd height of paladore, as peäle day wore awaÿ so feäir. oh! how i wish'd that i wer there. the pleäce wer too vur off to spy the livèn vo'k a-passèn by; the vo'k too vur vor aïr to bring the words that they did speak or zing. all dum' to me wer each abode, an' empty wer the down-hill road vrom paladore, as peäle day wore awaÿ so feäir; but how i wish'd that i wer there. but when i clomb the lofty ground where livèn veet an' tongues did sound, at feäir, bezide your bloomèn feäce, the pertiest in all the pleäce, as you did look, wi' eyes as blue as yonder southern hills in view, vrom paladore--o polly dear, wi' you up there, how merry then wer i at feäir. since vu'st i trod thik steep hill-zide my grievèn soul 'v a-been a-tried wi' païn, an' loss o' worldly geär, an' souls a-gone i wanted near; but you be here to goo up still, an' look to blackmwore vrom the hill o' paladore. zoo, polly dear, we'll goo up there, an' spend an hour or two at feäir. the wold brown meäre's a-brought vrom grass, an' rubb'd an' cwomb'd so bright as glass; an' now we'll hitch her in, an' start to feäir upon the new green cart, an' teäke our little poll between our zides, as proud's a little queen, to paladore. aye, poll a dear, vor now 'tis feäir, an' she's a longèn to goo there. while paladore, on watch, do straïn her eyes to blackmwore's blue-hill'd pläin, while duncliffe is the traveller's mark, or cloty stour's a-rollèn dark; or while our bells do call, vor greäce, the vo'k avore their seävior's feäce, mid paladore, an' poll a dear, vor ever know o' peäce an' plenty down below. the beäten path. the beäten path where vo'k do meet a-comèn on vrom vur an' near; how many errands had the veet that wore en out along so clear! where eegrass bleädes be green in meäd, where bennets up the leäze be brown, an' where the timber bridge do leäd athirt the cloty brook to town, along the path by mile an' mile, athirt the yield, an' brook, an' stile, there runnèn childern's hearty laugh do come an' vlee along--win' swift: the wold man's glossy-knobbèd staff 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; another's jaÿ's behind his back. there woone his vu'st long mile do tread, an' woone the last ov all his track. an' woone mid end a hopevul road, 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. in tweilsome hardships, year by year, he drough the worold wander'd wide, still bent, in mind, both vur an' near 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, 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 to be a-kept in darksome sleep, until the good ageän do rise a-jaÿ to souls they left to weep. the rwose wer doust that bound her brow; 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 along the leäzes beäten track. ruth a-ridèn. ov all the roads that ever bridge did bear athirt a river's feäce, or ho'ses up an' down the ridge did wear to doust at ev'ry peäce, 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 to bluest hills ov all the sky; if there, avore the dusk o' night, the evenèn zun, a-sheenèn bright, would pay 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, 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, a-ridèn over dell an' hill; i'd zet wi' pride her litty tooe 'ithin a stirrup, sheenèn new, an' leäve all other jaÿs to goo 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 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 sof'ly 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. beauty undecked. the grass mid sheen when wat'ry beäds o' dew do glitter on the meäds, an' thorns be bright when quiv'rèn studs o' raïn do hang upon their buds- as jewels be a-meäde by art to zet the plaïnest vo'k off smart. but sheäkèn ivy on its tree, an' low-bough'd laurel at our knee, be bright all daÿ, without the gleäre, o' drops that duller leäves mid weär- as jeäne is feäir to look upon in plaïnest gear that she can don. my love is good. my love is good, my love is feäir, she's comely to behold, o, in ev'rything that she do wear, altho' 'tis new or wold, o. my heart do leäp to see her walk, so straïght do step her veet, o, my tongue is dum' to hear her talk, her vaïce do sound so sweet, o. the flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green do bear but vew, so good an' true. when she do zit, then she do seem the feäirest to my zight, o, till she do stan' an' i do deem, she's feäirest at her height, o. an' she do seem 'ithin a room the feäirest on a floor, o, till i ageän do zee her bloom still feäirer out o' door, o. where flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green do bear but vew, so good an' true. an' when the deäisies be a-press'd below her vootsteps waïght, o, do seem as if she look'd the best ov all in walkèn gaït, o. till i do zee her zit upright behind the ho'ses neck, o, a-holdèn wi' the raïn so tight his tossèn head in check, o, where flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green do bear but vew, so good an' true. i wish i had my own free land to keep a ho'se to ride, o, i wish i had a ho'se in hand to ride en at her zide, o. vor if i wer as high in rank as any duke or lord, o, or had the goold the richest bank can shovel from his horde, o, i'd love her still, if even then she wer a leäser in a glen. heedless o' my love. oh! i vu'st know'd o' my true love, as the bright moon up above, though her brightness wer my pleasure, she wer heedless o' my love. tho' 'twer all gaÿ to my eyes, where her feäir feäce did arise, she noo mwore thought upon my thoughts, than the high moon in the skies. oh! i vu'st heärd her a-zingèn, as a sweet bird on a tree, though her zingèn wer my pleasure, 'twer noo zong she zung to me. though her sweet vaïce that wer nigh, meäde my wild heart to beat high, she noo mwore thought upon my thoughts, than the birds would passers by. oh! i vu'st know'd her a-weepèn, as a raïn-dimm'd mornèn sky, though her teär-draps dimm'd her blushes, they wer noo draps i could dry. ev'ry bright tear that did roll, wer a keen païn to my soul, but noo heärt's pang she did then veel, wer vor my words to console. but the wold times be a-vanish'd, an' my true love is my bride. an' her kind heart have a-meäde her. as an angel at my zide; i've her best smiles that mid plaÿ, i've her me'th when she is gaÿ, when her tear-draps be a-rollèn, i can now wipe em awaÿ. the do'set militia. 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,[d] an' mrs bingham,[e] 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, 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, an' han't a-drown'd his wits in beer, an' han't a-been in any hobbles. 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." jeäne hart, that's joey duntley's chaïce, do praise en up wi' her sweet vaïce, 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' brag o' joe 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, an' all the corporals, and all the band a-plaÿèn up their notes, an' all the men vrom vur an' near we'll gi'e em all a hearty cheer. an' then another cheerèn still vor mrs bingham, off o' drill. [footnote d: poundbury, dorchester, the drill ground.] [footnote e: the colonel's wife, who opened a room with a coffee-stall, and entertainments for the men off drill.] a do'set sale. with a mistake. (_thomas and mr auctioneer._) _t._ well here, then, mister auctioneer, be theäse the virs, i bought, out here? _a._ the firs, the fir-poles, you bought? who? 'twas _furze_, not _firs_, i sold to you. _t._ i bid vor _virs_, and not vor _vuzzen_, vor vir-poles, as i thought, two dozen. _a._ two dozen faggots, and i took your bidding for them. here's the book. _t._ i wont have what i diddèn buy. i don't want _vuzzen_, now. not i. why _firs_ an' _furze_ do sound the seäme. why don't ye gi'e a thing his neäme? aye, _firs_ and _furze_! why, who can tell which 'tis that you do meän to zell? no, no, be kind enough to call em _virs_, and _vuzzen_, then, that's all. don't ceäre. at the feäst, i do mind very well, all the vo'ks wer a-took in a happerèn storm, but we chaps took the maïdens, an' kept em wi' clokes under shelter, all dry an' all warm; an' to my lot vell jeäne, that's my bride, that did titter, a-hung at my zide; zaid her aunt, "why the vo'k 'ull talk finely o' you," an', cried she, "i don't ceäre if they do." when the time o' the feäst wer ageän a-come round, an' the vo'k wer a-gather'd woonce mwore, why she guess'd if she went there, she'd soon be a-vound an' a-took seäfely hwome to her door. zaid her mother, "'tis sure to be wet." zaid her cousin, "'t'ull raïn by zunzet." zaid her aunt, "why the clouds there do look black an' blue," an' zaid she, "i don't ceäre if they do." an' at last, when she own'd i mid meäke her my bride, vor to help me, an' sheäre all my lot, an' wi' faïthvulness keep all her life at my zide, though my waÿ mid be happy or not. zaid her naïghbours, "why wedlock's a clog, an' a wife's a-tied up lik' a dog." zaid her aunt, "you'll vind trials enough vor to rue," an', zaid she, "i don't ceäre if i do." * * * * * now she's married, an' still in the midst ov her tweils she's as happy's the daylight is long, she do goo out abroad wi' her feäce vull o' smiles, an' do work in the house wi' a zong. an', zays woone, "she don't grieve, you can tell." zays another, "why, don't she look well!" zays her aunt, "why the young vo'k do envy you two," an', zays she, "i don't ceäre if they do." now vor me i can zing in my business abrode, though the storm do beät down on my poll, there's a wife-brighten'd vier at the end o' my road, an' her love vor the jaÿ o' my soul. out o' door i wi' rogues mid be tried: out o' door be brow-beäten wi' pride; men mid scowl out o' door, if my wife is but true- let em scowl, "i don't ceäre if they do." changes. by time's a-brought the mornèn light, by time the light do weäne; by time's a-brought the young man's might, by time his might do weäne; the winter snow do whitèn grass, the zummer flow'rs do brightèn grass, vor zome things we do lose wi' païn, we've mwore that mid be jaÿ to gaïn, an' my dear life do seem the seäme while at my zide there still do bide your welcome feäce an' hwomely neäme. wï' ev'ry day that woonce come on i had to choose a jaÿ, wi' many that be since a-gone i had to lose a jaÿ. drough longsome years a-wanderèn, drough lwonesome rest a-ponderèn, woone peaceful daytime wer a-bro't to heal the heart another smote; but my dear life do seem the seäme while i can hear, a-soundèn near, your answ'rèn vaïce an' long-call'd neäme. an' oh! that hope, when life do dawn, should rise to light our waÿ, an' then, wi' weänèn het withdrawn, should soon benight our waÿ. whatever mid beval me still, wherever chance mid call me still, though leäte my evenèn tweil mid cease, an' though my night mid lose its peace, my life will seem to me the seäme while you do sheäre my daily ceäre, an' answer to your long-call'd neäme. kindness. good meäster collins heärd woone day a man a-talkèn, that did zay it woulden answer to be kind, he thought, to vo'k o' grov'lèn mind, 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 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, 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 upon the woak-trees' moon-bright bark. there in the lewth, below the hill, the nightèngeäle, wi' ringèn bill, do zing among the soft-aïr'd groves, while up below the house's oves the maïd, a-lookèn vrom her room drough window, in her youthvul bloom, do listen, wi' white ears among her glossy heäirlocks, to the zong. if, then, the while the moon do lïght 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, shall all his feäce be kept behind the dark-brow'd hills to leäve us blind?" withstanders. when weakness now do strive wi' might in struggles ov an e'thly trial, might mid overcome the right, an' truth be turn'd by might's denial; withstanders we ha' mwost to feär, if selfishness do wring us here, be souls a-holdèn in their hand, the might an' riches o' the land. but when the wicked, now so strong, shall stan' vor judgment, peäle as ashes, by the souls that rued their wrong, wi' tears a-hangèn on their lashes- then wïthstanders they shall deäre the leäst ov all to meet wi' there, mid be the helpless souls that now below their wrongvul might mid bow. sweet childern o' the dead, bereft ov all their goods by guile an' forgèn; souls o' driven sleäves that left their weäry limbs a-mark'd by scourgèn; they that god ha' call'd to die vor truth ageän the worold's lie, an' they that groan'd an' cried in vaïn, a-bound by foes' unrighteous chaïn. the maïd that selfish craft led on to sin, an' left wi' hope a-blighted; starvèn workmen, thin an' wan, wi' hopeless leäbour ill requited; souls a-wrong'd, an' call'd to vill wi' dread, the men that us'd em ill. when might shall yield to right as pliant as a dwarf avore a giant. when there, at last, the good shall glow in starbright bodies lik' their seäviour, vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show, the marks o' man's unkind beheäviour: wi' speechless tongue, an' burnèn cheak, the strong shall bow avore the weäk, an' vind that helplessness, wi' right, is strong beyond all e'thly might. daniel dwithen, the wise chap. dan dwithen wer the chap to show his naïghbours mwore than they did know, vor he could zee, wi' half a thought, what zome could hardly be a-taught; an' he had never any doubt whatever 'twer, but he did know't, an' had a-reach'd the bottom o't, or soon could meäke it out. wi' narrow feäce, an' nose so thin that light a'most shone drough the skin, as he did talk, wi' his red peäir o' lips, an' his vull eyes did steäre, what nippy looks friend daniel wore, an' how he smiled as he did bring such reasons vor to clear a thing, as dather'd vo'k the mwore! when woonce there come along the road at night, zome show-vo'k, wi' a lwoad ov half the wild outlandïsh things that crawl'd, or went wi' veet, or wings; their elephant, to stratch his knees, walk'd up the road-zide turf, an' left his tracks a-zunk wi' all his heft as big's a vinny cheese. an' zoo next mornèn zome vo'k vound the girt round tracks upon the ground, an' view'd em all wi' stedvast eyes, an' wi' their vingers spann'd their size, an' took their depth below the brink: an' whether they mid be the tracks o' things wi' witches on their backs, or what, they coulden think. at last friend dan come up, an' brought his wit to help their dizzy thought, an' lookèn on an' off the ea'th, he cried, a-drawèn a vull breath, why, i do know; what, can't ye zee 't? i'll bet a shillèn 'twer a deer broke out o' park, an' sprung on here, wi' quoits upon his veet. turnèn things off. upzides wi' polly! no, he'd vind that poll would soon leäve him behind. to turn things off! oh! she's too quick to be a-caught by ev'ry trick. woone day our jimmy stole down steäirs on merry polly unaweäres, the while her nimble tongue did run a-tellèn, all alive wi' fun, to sister anne, how simon heäre did hanker after her at feäir. "he left," cried polly, "cousin jeäne, an' kept wi' us all down the leäne, an' which way ever we did leäd he vollow'd over hill an' meäd; an' wi' his head o' shaggy heäir, an' sleek brown cwoat that he do weäre, an' collar that did reach so high 's his two red ears, or perty nigh, he swung his täil, wi' steps o' pride, back right an' left, vrom zide to zide, a-walkèn on, wi' heavy strides a half behind, an' half upzides." "who's that?" cried jimmy, all agog; an' thought he had her now han'-pat, "that's simon heäre," but no, "who's that?" cried she at woonce, "why uncle's dog, wi' what have you a-been misled i wonder. tell me what i zaid." woone evenèn as she zot bezide the wall the ranglèn vine do hide, a-prattlèn on, as she did zend her needle, at her vinger's end. on drough the work she had in hand, zome bran-new thing that she'd a-plann'd, jim overheärd her talk ageän o' robin hine, ov ivy leäne, "oh! no, what he!" she cried in scorn, "i wouldèn gie a penny vor'n; the best ov him's outzide in view; his cwoat is gaÿ enough, 'tis true, but then the wold vo'k didden bring en up to know a single thing, an' as vor zingèn,--what do seem his zingèn's nothèn but a scream." "so ho!" cried jim, "who's that, then, meäry, that you be now a-talkèn o'?" he thought to catch her then, but, no, cried polly, "oh! why jeäne's caneäry, wi' what have you a-been misled, i wonder. tell me what i zaid." the giants in treädes. gramfer's feäble. (_how the steam engine come about._) _vier, aïr, e'th, water_, wer a-meäde good workers, each o'm in his treäde, an' _aïr_ an' _water_, wer a-match vor woone another in a mill; the giant _water_ at a hatch, an' _aïr_ on the windmill hill. zoo then, when _water_ had a-meäde zome money, _äir_ begrudg'd his treäde, an' come by, unaweäres woone night, an' vound en at his own mill-head, an' cast upon en, iron-tight, an icy cwoat so stiff as lead. an' there he wer so good as dead vor grindèn any corn vor bread. then _water_ cried to _vier_, "alack! look, here be i, so stiff's a log, thik fellor _aïr_ do keep me back vrom grindèn. i can't wag a cog. if i, dear _vier_, did ever souse your nimble body on a house, when you wer on your merry pranks wi' thatch or refters, beams or planks, vorgi'e me, do, in pity's neäme, vor 'twerden i that wer to bleäme, i never wagg'd, though i be'nt cringèn, till men did dreve me wi' their engine. do zet me free vrom theäse cwold jacket, vor i myzelf shall never crack it." "well come," cried _vier_, "my vo'k ha' meäde an engine that 'ull work your treäde. if _e'th_ is only in the mood, while i do work, to gi'e me food, i'll help ye, an' i'll meäke your skill a match vor mister _aïr's_ wold mill." "what food," cried _e'th_, "'ull suit your bwoard?" "oh! trust me, i ben't over nice," cried _vier_, "an' i can eat a slice ov any thing you can avword." "i've lots," cried _e'th_, "ov coal an' wood." "ah! that's the stuff," cried _vier_, "that's good." zoo _vier_ at woonce to _water_ cried, "here, _water_, here, you get inside o' theäse girt bwoiler. then i'll show how i can help ye down below, an' when my work shall woonce begin you'll be a thousand times so strong, an' be a thousand times so long an' big as when you vu'st got in. an' i wull meäke, as sure as death, thik fellor _aïr_ to vind me breath, an' you shall grind, an' pull, an' dreve, an' zaw, an' drash, an' pump, an' heave, an' get vrom _aïr_, in time, i'll lay a pound, the drevèn ships at sea." an' zoo 'tis good to zee that might wull help a man a-wrong'd, to right. the little worold. my hwome wer on the timber'd ground o' duncombe, wi' the hills a-bound: where vew from other peärts did come, an' vew did travel vur from hwome, an' small the worold i did know; but then, what had it to bestow but fanny deäne so good an' feäir? 'twer wide enough if she wer there. in our deep hollow where the zun did eärly leäve the smoky tun, an' all the meäds a-growèn dim, below the hill wi' zunny rim; oh! small the land the hills did bound, but there did walk upon the ground young fanny deäne so good an' feäir: 'twer wide enough if she wer there. o' leäte upon the misty plaïn i staÿ'd vor shelter vrom the raïn, where sharp-leav'd ashès' heads did twist in hufflèn wind, an' driftèn mist, an' small the worold i could zee; but then it had below the tree my fanny deäne so good an' feäir: 'twer wide enough if she wer there. an' i've a house wi' thatchen ridge, below the elems by the bridge: wi' small-peän'd windows, that do look upon a knap, an' ramblèn brook; an' small's my house, my ruf is low, but then who mid it have to show but fanny deäne so good an' feäir? 'tis fine enough if peace is there. bad news. i do mind when there broke bitter tidèns, woone day, on their ears, an' their souls wer a-smote wi' a stroke as the lightnèn do vall on the woak, an' the things that wer bright all around em seem'd dim drough their tears. then unheeded wer things in their vingers, their grief wer their all. all unheeded wer zongs o' the birds, all unheeded the child's perty words, all unheeded the kitten a-rollèn the white-threaded ball. oh! vor their minds the daylight around em had nothèn to show. though it brighten'd their tears as they vell, an' did sheen on their lips that did tell, in their vaïces all thrillèn an' mwoansome, o' nothèn but woe. but they vound that, by heavenly mercy, the news werden true; an' they shook, wi' low laughter, as quick as a drum when his blows do vall thick, an' wer eärnest in words o' thanksgivèn, vor mercies anew. the turnstile. ah! sad wer we as we did peäce the wold church road, wi' downcast feäce, the while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep above our child a-left asleep, wer now a-zingèn all alive wi' tother bells to meäke the vive. but up at woone pleäce we come by, 'twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry: on steän-cliff road, 'ithin the drong, up where, as vo'k do pass along, the turnèn stile, a-païnted white, do sheen by day an' show by night. vor always there, as we did goo to church, thik stile did let us drough, wi' spreadèn eärms that wheel'd to guide us each in turn to tother zide. an' vu'st ov all the traïn he took my wife, wi' winsome gaït an' look; an' then zent on my little maïd, a-skippèn onward, overjaÿ'd to reach ageän the pleäce o' pride, her comely mother's left han' zide. an' then, a-wheelèn roun', he took on me, 'ithin his third white nook. an' in the fourth, a-sheäkèn wild, he zent us on our giddy child. but eesterday he guided slow my downcast jenny, vull o' woe, an' then my little maïd in black, a-walkèn softly on her track; an' after he'd a-turn'd ageän, to let me goo along the leäne, he had noo little bwoy to vill his last white eärms, an' they stood still. the better vor zeèn o' you. 'twer good what meäster collins spoke o' spite to two poor spitevul vo'k, when woone twold tother o' the two "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 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, or cool the het ov anger's tongue: or bless, or help, or gi'e, or lend; or to the friendless stand a friend, an' zoo that all could tell en true, "i be never the better vor zeèn o' you." oh! no, mid all o's try to spend 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 striver's weakness, cheerèn hopeless grievers' meekness, meäkèn friends at every meetèn, veel the happier vor their greetèn; zoo that vew could tell us true, "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 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." pity. good meäster collins! aye, how mild he spoke woone day o' mercy to zome cruel vo'k. "no, no. have mercy on a helpless head, an' don't be cruel to a zoul," he zaid. "when babylon's king woonce cast 'ithin the viery furnace, in his spite, the vetter'd souls whose only sin wer praÿer to the god o' might, he vound a fourth, 'ithout a neäme, a-walkèn wi' em in the fleäme. an' zoo, whenever we mid hurt, vrom spite, or vrom disdaïn, a brother's soul, or meäke en smert wi' keen an' needless païn, another that we midden know is always wi' en in his woe. vor you do know our lord ha' cried, "by faïth my bretheren do bide in me the livèn vine, as branches in a livèn tree; whatever you've a-done to mine is all a-done to me. oh! when the new-born child, the e'th's new guest, do lie an' heave his little breast, in pillow'd sleep, wi' sweetest breath o' sinless days drough rwosy lips a-drawn; then, if a han' can smite en in his dawn o' life to darksome death, oh! where can pity ever vwold her wings o' swiftness vrom their holy flight, to leäve a heart o' flesh an' blood so cwold at such a touchèn zight? an' zoo mid meek-soul'd pity still be zent to check our evil will, an' keep the helpless soul from woe, an' hold the hardened heart vrom sin. vor they that can but mercy show shall all their father's mercy win." john bloom in lon'on. (_all true._) john bloom he wer a jolly soul, a grinder o' the best o' meal, bezide a river that did roll, vrom week to week, to push his wheel. his flour wer all a-meäde o' wheat; an' fit for bread that vo'k mid eat; vor he would starve avore he'd cheat. "'tis pure," woone woman cried; "aye, sure," woone mwore replied; "you'll vind it nice. buy woonce, buy twice," cried worthy bloom the miller. athirt the chest he wer so wide as two or dree ov me or you. an' wider still vrom zide to zide, an' i do think still thicker drough. vall down, he coulden, he did lie when he wer up on-zide so high as up on-end or perty nigh. "meäke room," woone naïghbour cried; "'tis bloom," woone mwore replied; "good morn t'ye all, bwoth girt an' small," cried worthy bloom the miller. noo stings o' conscience ever broke his rest, a-twitèn o'n wi' wrong, zoo he did sleep till mornèn broke, an' birds did call en wi' their zong. but he did love a harmless joke, an' love his evenèn whiff o' smoke, a-zittèn in his cheäir o' woak. "your cup," his daughter cried; "vill'd up," his wife replied; "aye, aye; a drap avore my nap," cried worthy bloom the miller. when lon'on vok did meäke a show o' their girt glassen house woone year, an' people went, bwoth high an' low, to zee the zight, vrom vur an' near, "o well," cried bloom, "why i've a right so well's the rest to zee the zight; i'll goo, an' teäke the raïl outright." "your feäre," the booker cried; "there, there," good bloom replied; "why this june het do meäke woone zweat," cried worthy bloom the miller, then up the guard did whissle sh'ill, an' then the engine pank'd a-blast, an' rottled on so loud's a mill, avore the traïn, vrom slow to vast. an' oh! at last how they did spank by cuttèn deep, an' high-cast bank the while their iron ho'se did pank. "do whizzy," woone o'm cried; "i'm dizzy," woone replied; "aye, here's the road to hawl a lwoad," cried worthy bloom the miller. in lon'on john zent out to call a tidy trap, that he mid ride to zee the glassen house, an' all the lot o' things a-stow'd inside. "here, boots, come here," cried he, "i'll dab a sixpence in your han' to nab down street a tidy little cab." "a feäre," the boots then cried; "i'm there," the man replied. "the glassen pleäce, your quickest peäce," cried worthy bloom the miller. the steps went down wi' rottlèn slap, the zwingèn door went open wide: wide? no; vor when the worthy chap stepp'd up to teäke his pleäce inside, breast-foremost, he wer twice too wide vor thik there door. an' then he tried to edge in woone an' tother zide. "'twont do," the drever cried; "can't goo," good bloom replied; "that you should bring theäse vooty thing!" cried worthy bloom the miller. "come," cried the drever. "pay your feäre you'll teäke up all my time, good man." "well," answer'd bloom, "to meäke that square, you teäke up me, then, if you can." "i come at call," the man did nod. "what then?" cried bloom, "i han't a-rod, an' can't in thik there hodmadod." "girt lump," the drever cried; "small stump," good bloom replied; "a little mite, to meäke so light, o' jolly bloom the miller." "you'd best be off now perty quick," cried bloom. "an' vind a lighter lwoad, or else i'll vetch my voot, an' kick the vooty thing athirt the road." "who is the man?" they cried, "meäke room," "a halfstarv'd do'set man," cried bloom; "you be?" another cried; "hee! hee!" woone mwore replied. "aye, shrunk so thin, to bwone an' skin," cried worthy bloom the miller. a lot o' maïdens a-runnèn the vields.[f] "come on. be sprack, a-laggèn back." "oh! be there any cows to hook?" "lauk she's afraïd, a silly maïd," 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 as good as they; so nice." "look here. theäse boughs be all but blue wi' snags." "oh! gi'e me down a vew." "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." (_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." "oh! here's an ugly crawlèn thing, a sneäke." "a slooworm; he wont sting." "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 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, a-crawlèn all about." "what bird is that, o harken, hush. how sweetly he do zing." "a nightingeäle." "la! no, a drush." "oh! here's a funny thing." "oh! how the bull do hook, an' bleäre, an' fling the dirt." "oh! wont he come athirt?" "no, he's beyond the brook." "o lauk! a hornet rose up clwose avore my nose." "oh! what wer that so white rush'd out o' thik tree's top?" "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?" "o no, teäke ceäre, why 'tis a shrow." "be sure don't let en come an' run athirt your shoe he'll meäke your voot so numb that you wont veel a tooe."[g] "oh! what wer that so loud a-rumblèn?" "why a clap o' thunder. here's a cloud o' raïn. i veel a drap." "a thunderstorm. do raïn. run hwome wi' might an' main." "hee! hee! oh! there's a drop a-trïckled down my back. hee! hee!" "my head's as wet's a mop." "oh! thunder," "there's a crack. oh! oh!" "oh! i've a-got the stitch, oh!" "oh! i've a-lost my shoe, oh!" "there's fanny into ditch, oh!" "i'm wet all drough an' drough, oh!" [footnote f: the idea, though but little of the substance, of this poem, will be found in a little italian poem called _caccia_, written by franco sacchetti.] [footnote g: the folklore is, that if a shrew-mouse run over a person's foot, it will lame him.] * * * * * a list of some dorset words with a few hints on dorset word-shapes. the main sounds. 1. _ee_ in beet. 2. _e_ in dorset (a sound between 1 and 3.) 3. _a_ in mate. 4. _i_ in birth. 5. _a_ in father. 6. _aw_ in awe. 7. _o_ in dote. 8. _oo_ in rood. in dorset words which are forms of book-english ones, the dorset words differ from the others mainly by grimm's law, that "likes shift into likes," and i have given a few hints by which the putting of an english heading for the dorset one will give the english word. if the reader is posed by _dreaten_, he may try for _dr_, _thr_, which will bring out _threaten_. see _dr_ under _d_. a. _a_ in father, and _au_ in daughter are, in "blackmore," often _a_ = 3. so king alfred gives a legacy to his _yldsta dehter_--oldest daehter. _a_ is a fore-eking to participles of a fore time, as _a-vound_; also for the anglo-saxon _an_, _in_ or _on_, as _a-huntèn_ for _an huntunge_. _aï_, _aÿ_ (5, 1), maïd, maÿ. (_note_--the numbers (as 5, 1) refer to the foregiven table.) _ag_, often for _eg_, as bag, agg, beg, egg. _anewst_, _anighst_, very near, or nearly. _a'r a_, ever a, as. _a'r a dog_, ever a dog. _amper_, pus. _a'r'n_, e'er a one. _a-stooded_ (as a waggon), with wheels sunk fast into rotten ground. _a-stogged_, _a-stocked_, with feet stuck fast in clay. _a-strout_, stiff stretched. _a-thirt_, athwart (_th_ soft). _a-vore_, afore, before. _ax_, ask. _axan_, ashes (of fire). _a-zew_, dry, milkless. b. _backbran' (brand)_, _backbron' (brond)_, a big brand or block of wood put on the back of the fire. _ballywrag_, scold. _bandy_, a long stick with a bent end to beat abroad cow-dung. _barken_, _barton_, a stack-yard or cow yard. _bavèn_, a faggot of long brushwood. _beä'nhan'_ (1, 3, 5), bear in hand, uphold or maintain, as an opinion or otherwise. _beät_ (1, 4), _up_, to beat one's way up. _bennets_, flower-stalks of grass. _be'th_, birth. _bibber_, to shake with cold. [this is a friesic and not an anglo-saxon form of the word, and halbertsma, in his "lexicon frisicum," gives it, among others, as a token that frisians came into wessex with the saxons. _see_ eltrot.] _bissen_, thou bist not. _bittle_, a beetle. _blatch_, black stuff; smut. _blather_, a bladder. _bleäre_ (1, 3), to low as a cow. _blind-buck o' davy_, blindman's buff. _bloodywarrior_, the ruddy stock gilliflower. _blooèns_, blossoms. _blooth_, blossom in the main. _bluevinny_, blue mouldy. _brack_, a breach. "neither brack nor crack in it." _bran'_, a brand. _brantèn_, brazen-faced. _bring-gwaïn_ (bring-going), to bring one on his way. _brocks_, broken pieces (as of food). _bron'_, a brand. _bruckly_, _bruckle_, brittle. _bundle_, to bound off; go away quickly. _bu'st_, burst. c. _caddle_, a muddle; a puzzling plight amid untoward things, such that a man knows not what to do first. _car_, to carry. _cassen_, _casn_, canst not. _chanker_, a wide chink. _charlick_, _charlock_, field-mustard; _sinapis arvensis_. _charm_, a noise as of many voices. _choor_, _a chare_, a (weekly) job as of house work. _chuck_, to throw underhanded to a point, or for a catch. _clack_, _clacker_, a bird-clacker; a bird-boy's clacking tool, to fray away birds; also the tongue. _clavy_, _clavy-bwoard_, the mantel-shelf. _clèden_, cleavers, goosegrass; _galium aparine._ _clips_, to clasp. _clitty_, clingy. _clocks_, ornaments on the ankles of stockings. _clom'_, clomb, climbed. _clote_, the yellow water-lily; _nuphar lutea_. _clout_, a blow with the flat hand. _clum_, to handle clumsily. _cluster o' vive_ (cluster of five), the fist or hand with its five fingers; wording taken from a cluster of nuts. _cockle_, _cuckle_, the bur of the burdock. _cockleshell_, snail shell. _colepexy_, to glean the few apples left on the tree after intaking. _coll_ (7), to embrace the neck. _conker_, the hip, or hep; the fruit of the briar. _cothe_, _coath_ (_th_ soft), a disease of sheep, the plaice or flook, a flat worm _distoma nepaticum_ in the stomach. _cou'den_, could not. _coussen_, _coossen_, _coosn_, couldest not. _craze_, to crack a little. _critch_, a big pitcher. _crock_, an iron cooking-pot. _croodle_, to crow softly. _croop_, _croopy-down_, to bend down the body; to stoop very low. _crope_, crept. _crowshell_, shell of the fresh-water mussel, as taken out of the river for food by crows. _cubby-hole_, _cubby-house_, between the father's knees. _culver_, the wood pigeon. _cutty_, _cut_, the kittywren. _cweïn_, _cwoïn_, (4, 1) coin. _cwoffer_ (8, 4, 4), a coffer. d. _dadder_, _dather_, _dudder_, to maze or bewilder. _dag_, _childag_, a chilblain. _dake_, to ding or push forth. _daps_, the very likeness, as that of a cast from the same mould. _dather_, see _dadder_. _dent_, a dint. _dewberry_, a big kind of blackberry. _dibs_, coins; but truly, the small knee bones of a sheep used in the game of dibs. _didden (didn)_, did not. _do_, the _o_, when not under a strain of voice, is (4) as _e_ in 'the man' or as _e_ in the french _le_. _dod_, a dump. _dogs_, andirons. _don_, to put on. _doust_, dust. _dr_ for _thr_ in some words, as drash, thresh. _drashel_, threshold. _dreaten_, threaten. _dree_, three. _dringe_, _drunge_, to throng; push as in a throng. _droat_, throat. _drong_, throng; also a narrow way. _drough_, through. _drow_, throw. _drub_, throb. _drush_, thrush. _drust_, thrust. _drean_, _drène_ (2), to drawl. _drève_ (2), drive. _duck_, a darkening, dusk. _dumbledore_, the humble bee. _dummet_, dusk. _dunch_, dull of hearing, or mind. _dunch-nettle_, the dead nettle, _lamium_. _dunch-pudden_, pudding of bare dough. _dungpot_, a dungcart. _dunt_, to blunten as an edge or pain. _durns_, the side posts of a door. e. long itself alone has mostly the dorset sound (2.) _eä_ (1, 4) for _ea_, with the _a_ unsounded as lead, mead, leäd, meäd. _eä_ (1, 3) for the long _a_, 3, as in lade, made, leäde, meäde. _ea_ of one sound (2) as meat. _e_ is put in before s after st, as nestes, nests, vistes, fists. the two sundry soundings of _ea_ 2 and 3 do not go by our spelling _ea_ for both, but have come from earlier forms of the words. after a roof letter it may stay as it is, a roof letter, as madden, madd'n; rotten, rott'n. so with _en_ for him, tell en, tell'n. the _en_ sometimes at the end of words means not, as bisse'n, bist not; coust'en, cous'n, could'st not; i didd'n, i did not; diss'n, didst not; hadd'n, had not; muss'n, must not; midd'n, mid not; should'n, should not; 'tis'n, 'tis not; would'n, would not. _en_--not _èn_--in dorset, as well as in book english, as an ending of some kinds of words often, in running talk, loses the _e_, and in some cases shifts into a sound of the kind of the one close before it. after a lip-letter it becomes a lip-letter _m_, as rub en, rub-him; rub'n, rub'm; oven, ov'm; open, op'n op'm, in dorset mostly oben, ob'n, ob'm. so after _f'_, deafen, deaf'n, deaf m, heaven, heav'n, heav'm, in dorset sometimes heab'm. zeven, zeb'n, zeb'm. after a throat-letter it becomes a throat one, _ng_, as token, tok'n, tok'ng. _[=e]_ (2). _eegrass_, aftermath. _eltrot_, eltroot, cowparsley (_myrrhis_). [elt is freisic, robustus, vegetus, as cowparsley is among other kinds.] _see_ bibber. _emmet_, an ant. _emmetbut_, an anthill. _en_, him; a.-saxon, _hine_. _èn_, for ing, zingèn, singing. _eve_, to become wet as a cold stone floor from thickened steam in some weather. _evet_, eft, newt. _exe_, an axle. f. _fakket_, a faggot. _fall_, autumn; to fall down is _vall_. _faÿ_ (5, 1) to speed, succeed. _feäst_ (1, 4), a village wake or festival; _festa_. _flag_, a water plant. _flinders_, flying pieces of a body smashed; "hit it all to flinders." _flounce_, a flying fall as into water. _flout_, a flinging, or blow of one. _flush_, fledged. _footy_, unhandily little. g. _gally_, to frighten, fray. _gee_, _jee_, to go, fit, speed. _giddygander_, the meadow orchis. _gil'cup_, gilt cup, the buttercup. _girt_, great. _gl[=e]ne_ (2), to smile sneeringly. _glutch_, to swallow. _gnang_, to mock one with jaw waggings, and noisy sounds. _gnot_, a gnat. _goo_, go. _goocoo flower_, _cardamine pratensis_. _goodnow_, goodn'er, good neighbour; my good friend; "no, no; not i, goodnow;" "no, no; not i, my good friend." _goolden chain_, the laburnum. _gout_, an underground gutter. _grægle_, _greygle_, the wild hyacinth, _hyacinthus nonscriptus_. _gramfer_, grandfather. _ground-ash_, an ash stick that springs from the ground, and so is tough; "ground the pick," to put the stem of it on the ground, to raise a pitch of hay. _gwoad_ (8, 4), a goad. h. _hacker_, a hoe. _hagrod_, hagridden in sleep, if not under the nightmare. _haïn_ (5, 1), to fence in ground or shut up a field for mowing. _ha'me_, see _hau'm_. _hangèn_, sloping ground. _hansel_, _handsel_, a hand gift. _hansel_, _handsel_, to use a new thing for the first time. _happer_, to hop up as hailstones or rain-drops from ground or pavement in a hard storm, or as down-shaken apples; to fall so hard as to hop up at falling. _haps_, a hasp. _ha'skim_, halfskim cheese of milk skimmed only once. _hassen_, hast not. _haum_, _haulm_, _hulm_, the hollow stalks of plants. _teätie haum_ potatoe stalks. _hatch_, a low wicket or half door. _haÿmeäkèn_, haymaking. the steps of haymaking by hand, in the rich meadow lands of blackmore, ere machines were brought into the field, were these:--the grass being mown, and laying in _swath_ it was (1) _tedded_, spread evenly over the ground; (2) it was _turned_ to dry the under side; (3) it was in the evening raked up into _rollers_, each roller of the grass of the stretch of one rake, and the rollers were sometimes put up into hay cocks; (4) in the morning the rollers were cast abroad into _pa'sels_ (parcels) or broad lists, with clear ground between each two; (5) the parcels were turned, and when dry they were pushed up into _weäles_ (weales) or long ridges, and, with a fear of rain, the weäles were put up into _pooks_, or big peaked heaps; the waggon (often called the _plow_) came along between two weäles or rows of pooks, with two loaders, and a pitcher on each side pitched up to them the hay of his side, while two women raked after plow, or raked up the leavings of the pitchers, who stepped back from time to time to take it from them. _hazen_, to forebode. _hazzle_, hazel. _heal_ (2), hide, to cover. _heal pease_, to hoe up the earth on them. _heän_ (1, 4), a haft, handle. _heft_, weight. _herence_, hence. _here right_, here on the spot, etc. _het_, heat, also a heat in running. _het_, to hit. _heth_, a hearth, a heath. _hick_, to hop on one leg. _hidelock_, _hidlock_, a hiding place. "he is in hidelock." he is absconded. _hidybuck_, hide-and-seek, the game. _hile of sheaves_, ten, 4 against 4 in a ridge, and 1 at each end. _ho_, to feel misgiving care. _hodmadod_, a little dod or dump; in some parts of england a snail. _holm_, ho'me, holly. _hook_, to gore as a cow. _honeyzuck_, honeysuckle. _ho'se-tinger_, the dragon-fly, _libellula_. _horse_ does not mean a horse, but is an adjective meaning coarse or big of its kind, as in horse-radish, or horse-chesnut; most likely the old form of the word gave name to the horse as the big beast where there was not an elephant or other greater one. the dragon-fly is, in some parts called the "tanging ether" or tanging adder, from _tang_, a long thin body, and a sting. very few dorset folk believe that the dragon-fly stings horses any more than that the horse eats horse-brambles or horse-mushrooms. _hud_, a pod, a hood-like thing. _ho'se_, hoss, a board on which a ditcher may stand in a wet ditch. _huddick_ (hoodock), a fingerstall. _hull_, a pod, a hollow thing. _humbuz_, a notched strip of lath, swung round on a string, and humming or buzzing. _humstrum_, a rude, home made musical instrument, now given up. j. _jack-o'-lent_, a man-like scarecrow. the true jack-o'-lent was, as we learn from taylor, the water poet, a ragged, lean-like figure which went as a token of lent, in olden times, in lent processions. _jist_, just. _jut_, to nudge or jog quickly. k. _kag_, a keg. _kapple cow_, a cow with a white muzzle. _kern_, to grow into fruit. _ketch_, _katch_, to thicken or harden from thinness, as melted fat. _kecks_, _kex_, a stem of the hemlock or cowparsley. _keys_, (2), the seed vessels of the sycamore. _kid_, a pod, as of the pea. _kittyboots_, low uplaced boots, a little more than ancle high. _knap_, a hillock, a head, or knob, (2.) a knob-like bud, as of the potatoe. "the teäties be out in knap." l. _läiter_ (5, 1), one run of laying of a hen. _leän_ (1, 4), to lean. _leäne_ (1, 3), a lane. _leäse_ (1, 4), to glean. _leäse_ (1, 4), _leäze_, an unmown field, stocked through the spring and summer. _leer_, _leery_, empty. _lence_, a loan, a lending. _levers_, _livers_, the corn flag. _lew_, sheltered from cold wind. _lewth_, lewness. _libbets_, loose-hanging rags. _limber_, limp. _linch_, _linchet_, a ledge on a hill-side. _litsome_, lightsome, gay. _litty_, light and brisk of body. _lo't_ (7), loft, an upper floor. _lowl_, to loll loosely. _lumper_, a loose step. m. _maesh_ (2), _mesh_, (blackmore) moss, also a hole or run of a hare, fox, or other wild animal. _mammet_, an image, scarecrow. _marrels_, _merrels_, the game of nine men's morris. _mawn_, m[=a]n, (5) a kind of basket. _meäden_ (1, 4), stinking chamomile. _ment_ (2), to imitate, be like. _m[=e]sh_, (2) moss. _mid_, might. _miff_, a slight feud, a tiff. _min_ (2), observe. you must know. _mither ho_, come hither. a call to a horse on the road. _moot_, the bottom and roots of a felled tree. _more_, a root, taproot. _muggy_, misty, damp (weather). n. _na'r a_, never a (man). _nar'n_, never a one. _n'eet_, not yet. _n[=e]sh_ (2), soft. _nesthooden_, a hooding over a bird's nest, as a wren's. _netlèns_, a food of a pig's inwards tied in knots. _never'stide_, never at all. _nicky_, a very small fagot of sticks. _nïppy_, hungry, catchy. _nitch_, a big fagot of wood; a load; a fagot of wood which custom allows a hedger to carry home at night. _not_ (hnot or knot), hornless. _nother_, neither (adverb). _nunch_, a nog or knob of food. _nut_ (of a wheel), the stock or nave. o. _o'_, of. _o'm_ (2), of em, them. _o'n_ (2), of him. _o's_ (2), of us. _orts_, leavings of hay put out in little heaps in the fields for the cows. _over-right_, opposite. _oves_, eaves. p. _paladore_, a traditional name of shaftesbury, the british _caer paladr_, said by british history to have been founded by _rhun paladr-bras_, 'rhun of the stout spear.' _pank_, pant. _par_, to shut up close; confine. _parrick_, a small enclosed field; a paddock--but paddock was an old word for a toad or frog. _pa'sels_, parcels. _see_ haÿmeäkèn. _peärt_ (1, 4), pert; lively. _peaze_, _peeze_ (2), to ooze. _peewit_, the lapwing. _pitch._ _see_ haÿmeäkèn. _plesh_, (2) _plush_ (a hedge), to lay it. to cut the stems half off and peg them down on the bank where they sprout upward. to plush, shear, and trim a hedge are sundry handlings of it. _plim_, to swell up. _plock_, a hard block of wood. _plow_, a waggon, often so called. the plough or plow for ploughing is the zull. _plounce_, a strong plunge. _pluffy_, plump. _pont_, to hit a fish or fruit, so as to bring on a rotting. _pooks._ _see_ haÿmeäkèn. _popple_, a pebble. _praïse_ (5, 1), prize, to put forth or tell to others a pain or ailing. "i had a risèn on my eärm, but i didden praïse it," say anything about it. _pummy_, pomice. _ps_ for _sp_ in clasp, claps; hasp, haps; wasp, waps. q. _quaer_, queer. _quag_, a quaking bog. _quar_, a quarry. _quarrel_, a square window pane. _quid_, a cud. _quirk_, to grunt with the breath without the voice. r. _r_, at the head of a word, is strongly breathed, as _hr_ in anglo-saxon, as _hhrong_, the rong of a ladder. _r_ is given in dorset by a rolling of the tongue back under the roof. for _or_, as an ending sometimes given before a free breathing, or _h_, try _ow_,--_hollor_, hollow. _r_ before _s_, _st_, and _th_ often goes out, as bu'st, burst; ve'ss, verse; be'th, birth; cu'st, curst; fwo'ce, force; me'th, mirth. _raft_, to rouse, excite. _rake_, to reek. _ram_, _rammish_, rank of smell. _rammil_, raw milk (cheese), of unskimmed milk. _ramsclaws_, the creeping crowfoot. _ranunculus repens._ _randy_, a merry uproar or meeting. _rangle_, to range or reach about. _rathe_, early; whence rather. _ratch_, to stretch. _readship_, criterion, counsel. _reämes_, (1, 3), skeleton, frame. _reän_ (1, 4), to reach in greedily in eating. _reäves_, a frame of little rongs on the side of a waggon. _reed_ (2), wheat hulm drawn for thatching. _reely_, to dance a reel. _reem_, to stretch, broaden. _rick_, a stack. _rig_, to climb about. _rivel_, shrivel; to wrinkle up. _robin hood_, the red campion. _roller_ (6, 4). _see_ haÿmeäkèn. a roller was also a little roll of wool from the card of a woolcomber. _rottlepenny_, the yellow rattle. _rhinanthus crista-galli._ _rouet_, a rough tuft of grass. s. _sammy_, soft, a soft head; simpleton. _sar_, to serve or give food to (cattle). _sarch_, to search. _scote_, to shoot along fast in running. _scrag_, a crooked branch of a tree. _scraggle_, to screw scramly about (of a man), to screw the limbs scramly as from rheumatism. _scram_, distorted, awry. _scroff_, bits of small wood or chips, as from windfalls or hedge plushing. _scroop_, to skreak lowly as new shoes or a gate hinge. _scud_, a sudden or short down-shooting of rain, a shower. _scwo'ce_, chop or exchange. _settle_, a long bench with a high planken back. _shard_, a small gap in a hedge. _sharps_, shafts of a waggon. _shatten_, shalt not. _shroud_ (trees), to cut off branches. _sheeted cow_, with a broad white band round her body. _shoulden (shoodn)_, should not. _shrow_, _sh'ow_, _sh'ow-crop_, the shrew mouse. _skim_, _skimmy_, grass; to cut off rank tuffs, or rouets. _slaït_, (5, 1) _slite_, a slade, or sheep run. _slent_, a tear in clothes. _slidder_, to slide about. _slim_, sly. _sloo_, sloe. _slooworm_, the slow-worm. _smame_, to smear. _smeech_, a cloud of dust. _smert_, to smart; pain. _snabble_, to snap up quickly. _snags_, small pea-big sloes, also stumps. _sneäd_ (1, 4), a scythe stem. _snoatch_, to breathe loudly through the nose. _snoff_, a snuff of a candle. _sock_, a short loud sigh. _spur (dung)_, to cast it abroad. _squaïl_ (5, 1), to fling something at a bird or ought else. _squot_, to flatten by a blow. _sowel_, _zowel_, a hurdle stake. _sparbill_, _sparrabill_, a kind of shoe nail. _spars_, forked sticks used in thatching. _speäker_ (1 4), a long spike of wood to bear the hedger's nitch on his shoulder. _spears_, _speers_, the stalks of reed grass. _spik_, spike, lavender. _sprack_, active. _sprethe_ (2), to chap as of the skin, from cold. _spry_, springy in leaping, or limb work. _staddle_, a bed or frame for ricks. _staïd_ (5, 1), steady, oldish. _stannèns_, stalls in a fair or market. _steän_ (1, 4) (a road), to lay it in stone. _steärt_ (1, 4), a tail or outsticking thing. _stout_, the cowfly, _tabanus_. _stitch_ (of corn), a conical pile of sheaves. _strawèn_, a strewing. all the potatoes of one mother potatoe. _strawmote_, a straw or stalk. _strent_, a long slent or tear. _streech_, an outstretching (as of a rake in raking); a-strout stretched out stiffly like frozen linen. _stubbard_, a kind of apple. _stunpoll_ (7), stone head, blockhead; also an old tree almost dead. t. _th_ is soft (as _th_ in thee), as a heading of these words:- thatch, thief, thik, thimble, thin, think, thumb. _tack_, a shelf on a wall. _taffle_, to tangle, as grass or corn beaten down by storms. _taït_, to play at see-saw. _tamy_ (3, 1), _tammy_ (5, 1), tough, that may be drawn out in strings, as rich toasted cheese. _teäve_, (1, 3), to reach about strongly as in work or a struggle. _teery_, _tewly_, weak of growth. _tewly_, weakly. _theäse_, this or these. _theasum_ (1, 4), these. _tidden (tidn)_, it is not. _tilty_, touchy, irritable. _timmersome_, restless. _tine_, to kindle, also to fence in ground. _tistytosty_, a toss ball of cowslip blooms. _to-year_, this year (as to-day.) _tranter_, a common carrier. _trendel_, a shallow tub. _tump_, a little mound. _tun_, the top of the chimney above the roof ridge. _tut_ (work), piecework. _tutty_, a nosegay. _tweil_, (4, 1) toil. _twite_, to twit reproach. u. _unheal_, uncover, unroof. v. _v_ is taken for _f_ as the heading of some purely english words, as vall, fall, vind, find. _veag_, _v[=e]g_ (2), a strong fit of anger. _vern_, fern. _ve'se_, vess, a verse. _vinny cheese_, cheese with fen or blue-mould. _vitty_, nice in appearance. _vlanker_, a flake of fire. _vlee_, fly. _vo'k_, folk. _vooty_, unhandily little. _vuz_, _vuzzen_, furze, gorse. w. _wo_ (8, 4), for the long o, 7, as bwold, bold; cwold, cold. _wag_, to stir. _wagwanton_, quaking grass. _weäse_, (1, 4) a pad or wreath for the head under a milkpail. _weäle_ (1, 3), a ridge of dried hay; see _haÿmeäkèn_. _welshnut_, a walnut. _werden_, were not or was not. _wevet_, a spider's web. _whindlèn_, weakly, small of growth. _whicker_, to neigh. _whiver_, to hover, quiver. _whog_, go off; to a horse. _whur_, to fling overhanded. _wi'_, with. _widdicks_, withes or small brushwood. _wink_, a winch; crank of a well. _withwind_, the bindweed, _wont_, a mole. _wops_, wasp. _ps_, not _sp_, in anglo-saxon, and now in holstein. _wotshed_, _wetshod_, wet-footed. _wride_, to spread out in growth. _wride_, the set of stems or stalks from one root or grain of corn. _writh_, a small wreath of tough wands, to link hurdles to the sowels (stakes). _wrix_, wreathed or wattle work, as a fence. y. _yop_, yelp. z. _z_ for _s_ as a heading of some, not all, pure saxon words, nor [or?] for _s_ of inbrought foreign words. _zand_, sand. _zennit_, _zennight_, seven night; "this day zennit." _zew, azew_, milkless. _zoo_, so. _zive_, a scythe. _zull_ a plough to plough ground. _zwath_, a swath. * * * * * _turnbull & spears, printers._ * * * * * transcriber's note: toc: 423 corrected to 243 page 137: replaced missing end-quote. page 194: replaced missing end-quote. page 197: changed jäy to jaÿ. page 235: replaced two periods with commas. page 243: restored title: bleäke's house in blackmwore. page 297: replaced missing end-quote. page 350: changed jäy to jaÿ. page 432: changed däy to daÿ. page 444: replaced missing end-quote. index: added missing stops to e, f, g, h. realigned 'scote' alphabetically. 