Page:Barnes (1879) Poems of rural life in the Dorset dialect (combined).djvu/336

320 Though he mid hold ’ithin his hands The zwarmèn vo’k o’ many lands; Or goo in drough the iron-geäte Avore the house o’ lofty steäte; Or reach the miser that do smile A-buildèn up his goolden pile; &emsp;Or else mid smite the lowly, That have noo pow’r to loose or bind Another’s body, or his mind, But only hands to help mankind. If there is rest ’ithin the breast, &emsp;’Tis where the heart is holy.

, a sad life his wife must ha’ led, Vor so snappish he’s leätely a-come, That there’s nothèn but anger or dread Where he is, abroad or at hwome; He do wreak all his spite on the bwones O’ whatever do vlee, or do crawl; He do quarrel wi’ stocks, an’ wi’ stwones, An’ the rain, if do hold up or vall; There is nothèn vrom mornèn till night Do come right to Gruffmoody Grim.

Woone night, in his anger, he zwore At the vier, that didden burn free: An’ he het zome o’t out on the vloor, Vor a vlanker it cast on his knee. Then he kicked it vor burnèn the child, An’ het it among the cat’s heaïrs; An’ then beät the cat, a-run wild, Wi’ a spark on her back up the steaïrs: Vor even the vier an’ fleäme Be to bleäme wi’ Gruffmoody Grim.