Page:Barnes (1879) Poems of rural life in the Dorset dialect (combined).djvu/293

Rh An’ rangle on, wi’ flutt’rèn leaves, Below the houses’ thatchen eaves. An’ drough a lawn a-spread avore The windows, an’ the pworchèd door, A path do wind ’ithin a hatch, A-vastèn’d wi’ a clickèn latch, An’ there up over ruf an’ tun, Do stan’ the smooth-wall’d church o’ stwone, Wi’ carvèd windows, thin an’ tall, A-reachèn up the lofty wall; An’ battlements, a-stannèn round The tower, ninety veet vrom ground, Vrom where a teäp’rèn speer do spring So high’s the mornèn lark do zing. Zoo I do zay ’tis wo’th woone’s while To beät the doust a good six mile, To zee the pleäce the squier plann’d At Brookwell, now a-meäde by hand.

good Meäster Gwillet, that you mid ha’ know’d, War a-bred up at Coomb, an’ went little abroad; An’ if he got in among strangers, he velt His poor heart in a twitter, an’ ready to melt; Or if, by ill luck, in his rambles, he met Wi’ zome maïdens a·titt’rèn, he burn’d wi’ a het, That shot all drough the lim’s o’n, an’ left a cwold zweat, &emsp;&emsp;The poor little chap wer so shy, &emsp;&emsp;He wer ready to drap, an’ to die.

But at last ’twer the lot o’ the poor little man To vall deeply in love, as the best ov us can; An’ ’twer noo easy task vor a shy man to tell Sich a dazzlèn feäir maïd that he loved her so well;