Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect - Barnes William

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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.

      [page 14]

      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'

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