Page:Barnes (1879) Poems of rural life in the Dorset dialect (combined).djvu/356

340 The path, wi’ healthy-bloomèn feäce, &emsp;A-whis’lèn shrill his last new zong; An’ when he come avore the door, He met vrom you his woone smile mwore.

Now you that war the daughter there, &emsp;Be mother on a husband’s vloor, An’ mid ye meet wi’ less o’ ceäre &emsp;Than what your hearty mother bore; An’ if abroad I have to rue &emsp;The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed, Mid I come hwome to sheäre wi’ you &emsp;What’s needvul free o’ pinchèn need: An’ vind that you ha’ still in store, My evenèn meal, an’ woone smile mwore.

the tow’r an’ churchyard wall, &emsp;Out nearly overright our door, A tongue ov wind did always call &emsp;Whatever we did call avore. The vaïce did mock our neämes, our cheers, &emsp;Our merry laughs, our hands’ loud claps, An’ mother’s call “Come, come, my dears” &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;—my dears; &emsp;Or “Do as I do bid, bad chaps” &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;—bad chaps.

An’ when o’ Zundays on the green, &emsp;In frocks an’ cwoats as gaÿ as new, We walk’d wi’ shoes a-meäde to sheen &emsp;So black an’ bright’s a vull-ripe slooe