Page:Barnes (1879) Poems of rural life in the Dorset dialect (combined).djvu/469

Rh

he wer a jolly soul, &emsp;A grinder o’ the best o’ meal, Bezide a river that did roll, &emsp;Vrom week to week, to push his wheel. His flour wer all a-meäde o’ wheat; An’ fit for bread that vo’k mid eat; Vor he would starve avore he’d cheat. “&thinsp;’Tis pure,” woone woman cried; “Aye, sure,” woone mwore replied; “You’ll vind it nice. Buy woonce, buy twice,” Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

Athirt the chest he wer so wide &emsp;As two or dree ov me or you. An’ wider still vrom zide to zide, &emsp;An’ I do think still thicker drough. Vall down, he coulden, he did lie When he wer up on-zide so high As up on-end or perty nigh. “Meäke room,” woone naïghbour cried; “&thinsp;’Tis Bloom,” woone mwore replied; “Good morn t’ye all, bwoth girt an’ small,” Cried worthy Bloom the miller.

Noo stings o’ conscience ever broke &emsp;His rest, a-twitèn o’n wi’ wrong, Zoo he did sleep till mornèn broke, &emsp;An’ birds did call en wi’ their zong. But he did love a harmless joke, An’ love his evenèn whiff o’ smoke, A-zittèn in his cheäir o’ woak.