Page:Barnes (1879) Poems of rural life in the Dorset dialect (combined).djvu/108

92 An’ zome big apple, Jimmy flung To squaïl me, gi’ed me sich a crack; But very shortly his ear rung, Wi’ woone I zent to paÿ en back. An’ after we’d a-had our squaïls, Poor Tom, a-jumpèn in a bag, Wer pinch’d by all the maïden’s naïls, An’ rolled down into hwome-groun’ quag.

An’ then they carr’d our Fan all roun’, ’Ithin a mawn, till zome girt stump Upset en over on the groun’, An’ drow’d her out along-straïght, plump. An’ in the cider-house we zot Upon the windlass Poll an’ Nan, An’ spun ’em roun’ till they wer got So giddy that they coulden stan’.

, let’s stroll down so vur’s the poun’, Avore the sparklèn zun is down: The zummer’s gone, an’ days so feäir As theäse be now a-gettèn reäre. The night, wi’ mwore than daylight’s sheäre &emsp;O’ wat’ry sky, do wet wi’ dew &emsp;The ee-grass up above woone’s shoe, &emsp;&emsp;An’ meäple leaves be yollow.

The last hot doust, above the road, An’ vu’st dead leaves ha’ been a-blow’d By plaÿsome win’s where spring did spread The blossoms that the zummer shed; An’ near blue sloos an’ conkers red &emsp;The evenèn zun, a zettèn soon, &emsp;Do leäve a-quiv’rèn to the moon, &emsp;&emsp;The meäple leaves so yollow.