Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect. Barnes William
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Название: Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect
Автор: Barnes William
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 4057664584052
isbn:
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,
[page 22]
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!
[page 23]
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, 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!
[page 24]
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' СКАЧАТЬ