Part 12 Poems Of Rural Life In The Dorset Dialect

Part 12

'Tis merry when the brawny men Do come to reap it down, O, Where glossy red the poppy head 'S among the stalks so brown, O.

'Tis merry while the wheat's in hile, Or when, by hill or hollow, The leazers thick do stoop to pick The ears so ripe an' yollow.

A-HAULEN O' THE CORN.

Ah! yesterday, you know, we carr'd The piece o' corn in Zidelen Plot, An' work'd about it pretty hard, An' vound the weather pretty hot.

'Twer all a-tied an' zet upright In tidy hile o' Monday night; Zoo yesterday in afternoon We zet, in earnest, ev'ry woone A-haulen o' the corn.

The hosses, wi' the het an' lwoad, Did froth, an' zw.a.n.g vrom zide to zide, A-gwan along the dousty road, An' seem'd as if they would a-died.

An' wi' my collar all undone, An' neck a-burnen wi' the zun, I got, wi' work, an' doust, an' het, So dry at last, I coulden spet, A-haulen o' the corn.

At uncle's orcha'd, gwan along, I begged some apples, vor to quench My drith, o' Poll that wer among The trees: but she, a saucy wench, Toss'd over hedge some crabs vor fun.

I squal'd her, though, an' meade her run; An' zoo she gie'd me, vor a treat, A lot o' stubberds vor to eat.

A-haulen o' the corn.

An' up at rick, Jeane took the flagon, An' gi'ed us out zome eale; an' then I carr'd her out upon the waggon, Wi' bread an' cheese to gi'e the men.

An' there, vor fun, we dress'd her head Wi' nodden poppies bright an' red, As we wer catchen vrom our laps, Below a woak, our bits an' draps, A-haulen o' the corn.

HARVEST HWOME.

_The vu'st peart. The Supper._

Since we wer striplens naghbour John, The good wold merry times be gone: But we do like to think upon What we've a-zeed an' done.

When I wer up a hardish lad, At harvest hwome the work-vo'k had Sich suppers, they wer jumpen mad Wi' feasten an' wi' fun.

At uncle's, I do mind, woone year, I zeed a vill o' hearty cheer; Fat beef an' pudden, eale an' beer, Vor ev'ry workman's crop An' after they'd a-gie'd G.o.d thanks, They all zot down, in two long ranks, Along a teable-bwoard o' planks, Wi' uncle at the top.

An' there, in platters, big and brown, Wer red fat beacon, an' a roun'

O' beef wi' gravy that would drown A little rwoasten pig; Wi' beans an' teaties vull a zack, An' cabbage that would meake a stack, An' puddens brown, a-speckled black Wi' figs, so big's my wig.

An' uncle, wi' his elbows out, Did carve, an' meake the gravy spout; An' aunt did gi'e the mugs about A-frothen to the brim.

Pleates werden then ov e'then ware, They ate off pewter, that would bear A knock; or wooden trenchers, square, Wi' zalt-holes at the rim.

An' zoo they munch'd their hearty cheer, An' dipp'd their beards in frothy-beer, An' laugh'd, an' jok'd--they couldden hear What woone another zaid.

An' all o'm drink'd, wi' woone accword, The wold vo'k's health: an' beat the bwoard, An' swung their earms about, an' roar'd, Enough to crack woone's head.

HARVEST HWOME.

_Second Peart. What they did after Supper._

Zoo after supper wer a-done, They clear'd the teables, an' begun To have a little bit o' fun, As long as they mid stop.

The wold woones took their pipes to smoke, An' tell their teales, an' laugh an' joke, A-looken at the younger vo'k, That got up vor a hop.

Woone screap'd away, wi' merry grin, A fiddle stuck below his chin; An' woone o'm took the rollen pin, An' beat the fryen pan.

An' tothers, dancen to the soun', Went in an' out, an' droo an' roun', An' kick'd, an' beat the tuen down, A-laughen, mad an' man.

An' then a mad, all up tip-tooe, Vell down; an' woone o'm wi' his shoe Slit down her pocket-hole in two, Vrom top a-most to bottom.

An' when they had a-danc'd enough, They got a-plaen blindman's buff, An' sard the madens pretty rough, When woonce they had a-got em.

An' zome did drink, an' laugh, an' roar, An' lots o' teales they had in store, O' things that happen'd years avore To them, or vo'k they know'd.

An' zome did joke, an' zome did zing, An' meake the girt wold kitchen ring; Till uncle's c.o.c.k, wi' flappen wing, Stratch'd out his neck an' crow'd.

A ZONG OV HARVEST HWOME.

The ground is clear. There's nar a ear O' stannen corn a-left out now, Vor win' to blow or ran to drow; 'Tis all up seafe in barn or mow.

Here's health to them that plough'd an' zow'd; Here's health to them that reap'd an' mow'd, An' them that had to pitch an' lwoad, Or tip the rick at Harvest Hwome.