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,—*
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!
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?