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 glēne.
John
A yelpèn lout.
Early Plaÿmeäte
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.