Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect - Barnes William

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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

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      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,

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