Page:Barnes (1879) Poems of rural life in the Dorset dialect (combined).djvu/146

130 No, I be’nt much a-feär’d. If vo’k don’t strive To over-reach me while they be alive, I don’t much think the dead wull ha’ the will To come back here to do me any ill. An’ I’ve a-been about all night, d’ye know, Vrom candle-lightèn till the cock did crow; But never met wi’ nothèn bad enough To be much wo’se than what I be myzuf; Though I, lik’ others, have a-heärd vo’k zay The girt house is a-haunted, night an’ day.

Aye; I do mind woone winter ’twer a-zaid The farmer’s vo’k could hardly sleep a-bed, They heärd at night such scuffèns an’ such jumpèns, Such ugly naïses an’ such rottlèn thumpèns.

Aye, I do mind I heard his son, young Sammy, Tell how the chairs did dance an’ doors did slammy; He stood to it—though zome vo’k woulden heed en— He didden only hear the ghost, but zeed en; An’, hang me! if I han’t a’most a-shook, To hear en tell what ugly sheäpes it took. Did zometimes come vull six veet high, or higher, In white, he zaid, wi’ eyes lik’ coals o’ vier; An’ zometimes, wi’ a feäce so peale as milk, A smileless leädy, all a-deck’d in silk. His heäir, he zaid, did use to stand upright, So stiff’s a bunch o’ rushes, wi’ his fright.

An’ then you know that zome’hat is a-zeed Down there in leäne, an’ over in the meäd, A-comèn zometimes lik’ a slinkèn hound, Or rollèn lik’ a vleece along the ground.