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.

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!

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 ō't,

Not yet a while, you mid be sure ō'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.

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.

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.

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.

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 drēve 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-plēsh'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.

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.

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!

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.

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,

ill 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.

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.

^* "To bring woone gwaïn,"—to bring one going;

to bring one on his way.

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.

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.

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!

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!

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 nēsh 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!

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I'd keep myzelf from parish, I'd be bound,

If I could get a little patch o' ground.

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.

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.

I thought you mid be out wi' Jemmy Bleäke,

An' why be out wi' him, vor goodness' seäke?

You walk'd o' Zunday evenèn wi'n, d'ye know,

You went vrom church a-hitch'd up in his eärm.

Well, if I did, that werden any harm.

Lauk! that is zome'at to teäke notice o'.

He took ye roun' the middle at the stile,

An' kiss'd ye twice 'ithin the ha'f a mile.

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.

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!

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.

Well, if girt Jemmy have a-won your heart,

We'd better break the coortship off, an' peärt.

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.

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.

Now goo away, you crabbed jealous chap!

You shan't kiss me,—you shan't! I'll gi' ye a slap.

Then you look smilèn; don't you pout an' toss

Your head so much, an' look so very cross.

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.

Then don't you zay that I be jealous, 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.

Then good night, Fanny!

Come out a-bit to-morrow evenèn, can ye?

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.

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

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.

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?