Eclogue.

That's slowish work, Bob. What'st a-been about? Thy pookèn don't goo on not over sprack. Why I've a-pook'd my weäle, lo'k zee, clear out, An' here I be ageän a-turnèn back.

I'll work wi' thee then, Sammy, any day, At any work dost like to teäke me at, Vor any money thou dost like to lay. Now, Mister Sammy, what dost think o' that? My weäle is nearly twice so big as thine, Or else, I warnt, I shouldden be behin'.

Ah! hang thee, Bob! don't tell sich whoppèn lies. My weäle's the biggest, if do come to size. 'Tis jist the seäme whatever bist about; Why, when dost goo a-teddèn grass, you sloth, Another hand's a-fwo'c'd to teäke thy zwath, An' ted a half way back to help thee out; An' then a-reäkèn rollers, bist so slack, Dost keep the very bwoys an' women back. An' if dost think that thou canst challenge I At any thing,—then, Bob, we'll teäke a pick a-piece, An' woonce theäse zummer, goo an' try To meäke a rick a-piece. [page 55] A rick o' thine wull look a little funny, When thou'st a-done en, I'll bet any money.

You noggerhead! last year thou meäd'st a rick, An' then we had to trig en wi' a stick. An' what did John that tipp'd en zay? Why zaid He stood a-top o'en all the while in dread, A-thinkèn that avore he should a-done en He'd tumble over slap wi' him upon en.

You yoppèn dog! I warnt I meäde my rick So well's thou meäd'st thy lwoad o' haÿ last week. They hadden got a hundred yards to haul en, An' then they vound 'twer best to have en boun', Vor if they hadden, 'twould a-tumbl'd down; An' after that I zeed en all but vallèn, An' trigg'd en up wi' woone o'm's pitchèn pick, To zee if I could meäke en ride to rick; An' when they had the dumpy heap unboun', He vell to pieces flat upon the groun'.

Do shut thy lyèn chops! What dosten mind Thy pitchèn to me out in Gully-plot, A-meäkèn o' me waït (wast zoo behind) A half an hour vor ev'ry pitch I got? An' how didst groun' thy pick? an' how didst quirk To get en up on end? Why hadst hard work To rise a pitch that wer about so big 'S a goodish crow's nest, or a wold man's wig! Why bist so weak, dost know, as any roller: Zome o' the women vo'k will beät thee hollor.

You snub-nos'd flopperchops! I pitch'd so quick, That thou dost know thou hadst a hardish job To teäke in all the pitches off my pick; An' dissèn zee me groun' en, nother, Bob. An' thou bist stronger, thou dost think, than I? Girt bandy-lags! I jist should like to try. We'll goo, if thou dost like, an' jist zee which Can heave the mwost, or car the biggest nitch.

There, Sam, do meäke me zick to hear thy braggèn! Why bissen strong enough to car a flagon.

You grinnèn fool! why I'd zet thee a-blowèn, If thou wast wi' me vor a day a-mowèn. I'd wear my cwoat, an' thou midst pull thy rags off, An' then in half a zwath I'd mow thy lags off.

Thee mow wi' me! Why coossen keep up wi' me: Why bissèn fit to goo a-vield to skimmy, Or mow down docks an' thistles! Why I'll bet A shillèn, Samel, that thou cassen whet.

Now don't thee zay much mwore than what'st a-zaid, Or else I'll knock thee down, heels over head.

Thou knock me down, indeed! Why cassen gi'e A blow half hard enough to kill a bee.

Well, thou shalt veel upon thy chops and snout.

Come on, then, Samel; jist let's have woone bout.

When we in mornèn had a-drow'd The grass or russlèn haÿ abrode, The lit'some maïdens an' the chaps, Wi' bits o' nunchèns in their laps, Did all zit down upon the knaps Up there, in under hedge, below The highest elem o' the row, Where we did keep our flagon. There we could zee green vields at hand, Avore a hunderd on beyand, An' rows o' trees in hedges roun' Green meäds, an' zummerleäzes brown, An' thorns upon the zunny down, While aïer, vrom the rockèn zedge In brook, did come along the hedge, Where we did keep our flagon. There laughèn chaps did try in plaÿ To bury maïdens up in haÿ, As gigglèn maïdens tried to roll The chaps down into zome deep hole, Or sting wi' nettles woone o'm's poll; While John did hele out each his drap O' eäle or cider, in his lap Where he did keep the flagon. Woone day there spun a whirlwind by Where Jenny's clothes wer out to dry; An' off vled frocks, a'most a-catch'd By smock-frocks wi' their sleeves outstratch'd, An' caps a-frill'd an' eäperns patch'd; [page 58] An' she a-steärèn in a fright, Wer glad enough to zee em light Where we did keep our flagon. An' when white clover wer a-sprung Among the eegrass, green an' young, An' elder-flowers wer a-spread Among the rwosen white an' red, An' honeyzucks wi' hangèn head,— O' Zunday evenèns we did zit To look all roun' the grounds a bit, Where we'd a-kept our flagon.

His aunt an' uncle,—ah! the kind Wold souls be often in my mind: A better couple never stood In shoes, an' vew be voun' so good. She cheer'd the work-vo'k in theïr tweils Wi' timely bits an' draps, an' smiles; An' he païd all o'm at week's end, Their money down to goo an' spend. In zummer, when week's end come roun' The haÿ-meäkers did come vrom groun', An' all zit down, wi' weary bwones, Within the yard a-peäved wi' stwones, Along avore the peäles, between The yard a-steän'd an' open green. There women zot wi' bare-neck'd chaps, An' maïdens wi' their sleeves an' flaps To screen vrom het their eärms an' polls. An' men wi' beards so black as coals: [page 59] Girt stocky Jim, an' lanky John, An' poor wold Betty dead an' gone; An' cleän-grown Tom so spry an' strong, An' Liz the best to pitch a zong, That now ha' nearly half a score O' childern zwarmèn at her door; An' whindlen Ann, that cried wi' fear To hear the thunder when 'twer near,— A zickly maïd, so peäle's the moon, That voun' her zun goo down at noon; An' blushèn Jeäne so shy an' meek, That seldom let us hear her speak, That wer a-coorted an' undone By Farmer Woodley's woldest son; An' after she'd a-been vorzook, Wer voun' a-drown'd in Longmeäd brook. An' zoo, when he'd a-been all roun', An' païd em all their wages down, She us'd to bring vor all, by teäle A cup o' cider or ov eäle, An' then a tutty meäde o' lots O' blossoms vrom her flower-nots, To wear in bands an' button-holes At church, an' in their evenèn strolls. The pea that rangled to the oves, An' columbines an' pinks an' cloves, Sweet rwosen vrom the prickly tree, An' jilliflow'rs, an' jessamy; An' short-liv'd pinies, that do shed Their leaves upon a eärly bed. She didden put in honeyzuck: She'd nwone, she zaïd, that she could pluck Avore wild honeyzucks, a-vound In ev'ry hedge ov ev'ry ground. [page 60] Zoo maïd an' woman, bwoy an' man, Went off, while zunzet aïr did fan Their merry zunburnt feäzen; zome Down leäne, an' zome drough parrocks hwome. Ah! who can tell, that ha'nt a-vound, The sweets o' week's-end comèn round! When Zadurday do bring woone's mind The day that's all our own to spend Wi' God an' wi' an e'thly friend. The worold's girt vo'k, wi' the best O' worldly goods mid be a-blest; But Zunday is the poor man's peärt, To seäve his soul an' cheer his heart.

When sheädes do vall into ev'ry hollow, An' reach vrom trees half athirt the groun'; An' banks an' walls be a-lookèn yollow, That be a-turn'd to the zun gwaïn down; Drough haÿ in cock, O, We all do vlock, O, Along our road vrom the meäd a-mow'd. An' when the last swaÿèn lwoad's a-started Up hill so slow to the lofty rick, Then we so weary but merry-hearted, Do shoulder each ō's a reäke an' pick, Wi' empty flagon, Behind the waggon, To teäke our road vrom the meäd a-mow'd. When church is out, an' we all so slowly About the knap be a-spreadèn wide, [page 61] How gaÿ the paths be where we do strolly Along the leäne an' the hedge's zide; But nwone's a voun', O, Up hill or down, O, So gaÿ's the road drough the meäd a-mow'd. An' when the visher do come, a-drowèn His flutt'ren line over bleädy zedge, Drough groun's wi' red thissle-heads a-blowèn, An' watchèn o't by the water's edge; Then he do love, O, The best to rove, O, Along his road drough the meäd a-mow'd.

The drevèn scud that overcast The zummer sky is all a-past, An' softer aïr, a-blowèn drough The quiv'rèn boughs, do sheäke the vew Last raïn drops off the leaves lik' dew; An' peäviers, now a-gettèn dry, Do steam below the zunny sky That's now so vast a-cleärèn. The sheädes that wer a-lost below The stormy cloud, ageän do show Their mockèn sheäpes below the light; An' house-walls be a-lookèn white, An' vo'k do stir woonce mwore in zight, An' busy birds upon the wing Do whiver roun' the boughs an' zing, To zee the sky a-clearèn. Below the hill's an ash; below The ash, white elder-flow'rs do blow: [page 62] Below the elder is a bed O' robinhoods o' blushèn red; An' there, wi' nunches all a-spread, The haÿ-meäkers, wi' each a cup O' drink, do smile to zee hold up The raïn, an' sky a-cleärèn. 'Mid blushèn maïdens, wi' their zong, Still draw their white-stemm'd reäkes among The long-back'd weäles an' new-meäde pooks, By brown-stemm'd trees an' cloty brooks; But have noo call to spweil their looks By work, that God could never meäke Their weaker han's to underteäke, Though skies mid be a-cleärèn. 'Tis wrong vor women's han's to clips The zull an' reap-hook, speädes an' whips; An' men abroad, should leäve, by right, Woone faïthful heart at hwome to light Their bit o' vier up at night, An' hang upon the hedge to dry Their snow-white linen, when the sky In winter is a-cleärèn.

When vu'st along theäse road vrom mill, I zeed ye hwome all up the hill, The poplar tree, so straïght an' tall, Did rustle by the watervall; An' in the leäze the cows wer all A-lyèn down to teäke their rest An' slowly zunk towárd the west The evenèn star o' zummer. [page 63] In parrock there the haÿ did lie In weäle below the elems, dry; An' up in hwome-groun' Jim, that know'd We all should come along thik road, D a-tied the grass in knots that drow'd Poor Poll, a-watchèn in the West Woone brighter star than all the rest,— The evenèn star o' zummer. The stars that still do zet an' rise, Did sheen in our forefather's eyes; They glitter'd to the vu'st men's zight, The last will have em in their night; But who can vind em half so bright As I thought thik peäle star above My smilèn Jeäne, my zweet vu'st love, The evenèn star o' zummer. How sweet's the mornèn fresh an' new, Wi' sparklèn brooks an' glitt'rèn dew; How sweet's the noon wi' sheädes a-drow'd Upon the groun' but leätely mow'd, An' bloomèn flowers all abrode; But sweeter still, as I do clim', Theäse woody hill in evenèn dim 'S the evenèn star o' zummer.

O zummer clote! when the brook's a-glidèn So slow an' smooth down his zedgy bed, Upon thy broad leaves so seäfe a-ridèn The water's top wi' thy yollow head, By alder's heads, O, An' bulrush beds, O. Thou then dost float, goolden zummer clote! [page 64] The grey-bough'd withy's a-leänèn lowly Above the water thy leaves do hide; The bendèn bulrush, a-swaÿèn slowly, Do skirt in zummer thy river's zide; An' perch in shoals, O, Do vill the holes, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote! Oh! when thy brook-drinkèn flow'r's a-blowèn, The burnèn zummer's a-zettèn in; The time o' greenness, the time o' mowèn, When in the haÿ-vield, wi' zunburnt skin, The vo'k do drink, O, Upon the brink, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote! Wi' eärms a-spreadèn, an' cheäks a-blowèn, How proud wer I when I vu'st could zwim Athirt the pleäce where thou bist a-growèn, Wi' thy long more vrom the bottom dim; While cows, knee-high, O, In brook, wer nigh, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote! Ov all the brooks drough the meäds a-windèn, Ov all the meäds by a river's brim, There's nwone so feäir o' my own heart's vindèn, As where the maïdens do zee thee swim, An' stan' to teäke, O, Wi' long-stemm'd reäke, O, Thy flow'r afloat, goolden zummer clote!

I got two vields, an' I don't ceäre What squire mid have a bigger sheäre. My little zummer-leäze do stratch All down the hangèn, to a patch O' meäd between a hedge an' rank Ov elems, an' a river bank. Where yollow clotes, in spreadèn beds O' floatèn leaves, do lift their heads By bendèn bulrushes an' zedge A-swaÿèn at the water's edge, Below the withy that do spread Athirt the brook his grey-leav'd head. An' eltrot flowers, milky white, Do catch the slantèn evenèn light; An' in the meäple boughs, along The hedge, do ring the blackbird's zong; Or in the day, a-vleèn drough The leafy trees, the whoa'se gookoo Do zing to mowers that do zet Their zives on end, an' stan' to whet. From my wold house among the trees A leäne do goo along the leäze O' yollow gravel, down between Two mossy banks vor ever green. An' trees, a-hangèn overhead, Do hide a trinklèn gully-bed, A-cover'd by a bridge vor hoss Or man a-voot to come across. Zoo wi' my hwomestead, I don't ceäre What squire mid have a bigger sheäre!

Ah! yesterday, d'ye know, I voun' Tom Dumpy's cwoat an' smock-frock, down Below the pollard out in groun'; An' zoo I slyly stole An' took the smock-frock up, an' tack'd The sleeves an' collar up, an' pack'd Zome nice sharp stwones, all fresh a-crack'd 'Ithin each pocket-hole. An' in the evenèn, when he shut Off work, an' come an' donn'd his cwoat, Their edges gi'ed en sich a cut, How we did stan' an' laugh! An' when the smock-frock I'd a-zow'd Kept back his head an' hands, he drow'd Hizzelf about, an' teäv'd, an' blow'd, Lik' any up-tied calf. Then in a veag away he flung His frock, an' after me he sprung, An' mutter'd out sich dreats, an' wrung His vist up sich a size! But I, a-runnèn, turn'd an' drow'd Some doust, a-pick'd up vrom the road, Back at en wi' the wind, that blow'd It right into his eyes. An' he did blink, an' vow he'd catch Me zomehow yet, an' be my match. But I wer nearly down to hatch Avore he got vur on; An' up in chammer, nearly dead Wi' runnèn, lik' a cat I vled, An' out o' window put my head To zee if he wer gone. [page 67] An' there he wer, a-prowlèn roun' Upon the green; an' I look'd down An' told en that I hoped he voun' He mussen think to peck Upon a body zoo, nor whip The meäre to drow me off, nor tip Me out o' cart ageän, nor slip Cut hoss-heäir down my neck.

Sweet Be'mi'ster, that bist a-bound By green an' woody hills all round, Wi' hedges, reachèn up between A thousan' vields o' zummer green, Where elems' lofty heads do drow Their sheädes vor haÿ-meakers below, An' wild hedge-flow'rs do charm the souls O' maïdens in their evenèn strolls. When I o' Zunday nights wi' Jeäne Do saunter drough a vield or leäne, Where elder-blossoms be a-spread Above the eltrot's milk-white head, An' flow'rs o' blackberries do blow Upon the brembles, white as snow, To be outdone avore my zight By Jeän's gaÿ frock o' dazzlèn white; Oh! then there's nothèn that's 'ithout Thy hills that I do ho about,— Noo bigger pleäce, noo gaÿer town, Beyond thy sweet bells' dyèn soun', As they do ring, or strike the hour, At evenèn vrom thy wold red tow'r. No: shelter still my head, an' keep My bwones when I do vall asleep.

As I wer out in meäd last week, A-thatchèn o' my little rick, There green young ee-grass, ankle-high, Did sheen below the cloudless sky; An' over hedge in tother groun', Among the bennets dry an' brown, My dun wold meäre, wi' neck a-freed Vrom Zummer work, did snort an' veed; An' in the sheäde o' leafy boughs, My vew wold ragged-cwoated cows Did rub their zides upon the raïls, Or switch em wi' their heäiry taïls. An' as the mornèn zun rose high Above my mossy roof clwose by, The blue smoke curreled up between The lofty trees o' feädèn green: A zight that's touchèn when do show A busy wife is down below, A-workèn hard to cheer woone's tweil Wi' her best feäre, an' better smile. Mid women still in wedlock's yoke Zend up, wi' love, their own blue smoke, An' husbands vind their bwoards a-spread By faïthvul hands when I be dead, An' noo good men in ouer land Think lightly o' the weddèn band. True happiness do bide alwone Wi' them that ha' their own he'th-stwone To gather wi' their childern roun', A-smilèn at the worold's frown. [page 69] My bwoys, that brought me thatch an' spars, Wer down a-taïtèn on the bars, Or zot a-cuttèn wi' a knife, Dry eltrot-roots to meäke a fife; Or drevèn woone another round The rick upon the grassy ground. An', as the aïer vrom the west Did fan my burnèn feäce an' breast, An' hoppèn birds, wi' twitt'rèn beaks, Did show their sheenèn spots an' streaks, Then, wi' my heart a-vill'd wi' love An' thankvulness to God above, I didden think ov anything That I begrudg'd o' lord or king; Vor I ha' round me, vur or near, The mwost to love an' nwone to fear, An' zoo can walk in any pleäce, An' look the best man in the feäce. What good do come to eächèn heads, O' lièn down in silken beds? Or what's a coach, if woone do pine To zee woone's naïghbour's twice so fine? Contentment is a constant feäst, He's richest that do want the leäst.

Avore we went a-milkèn, vive Or six o's here wer all alive A-teäkèn bees that zwarm'd vrom hive; An' we'd sich work to catch The hummèn rogues, they led us sich A dance all over hedge an' ditch; An' then at last where should they pitch, But up in uncle's thatch? [page 70] Dick rung a sheep-bell in his han'; Liz beät a cannister, an' Nan Did bang the little fryèn-pan Wi' thick an' thumpèn blows; An' Tom went on, a-carrèn roun' A bee-pot up upon his crown, Wi' all his edge a-reachèn down Avore his eyes an' nose. An' woone girt bee, wi' spitevul hum, Stung Dicky's lip, an' meäde it come All up amost so big's a plum; An' zome, a-vleèn on, Got all roun' Liz, an' meäde her hop An' scream, a-twirlèn lik' a top, An' spring away right backward, flop Down into barken pon': An' Nan' gi'ed Tom a roguish twitch Upon a bank, an' meäde en pitch Right down, head-voremost, into ditch,— Tom coulden zee a wink. An' when the zwarm wer seäfe an' sound In mother's bit o' bee-pot ground, She meäde us up a treat all round O' sillibub to drink.

As I wer readèn ov a stwone In Grenley church-yard all alwone, A little maïd ran up, wi' pride To zee me there, an' push'd a-zide A bunch o' bennets that did hide A verse her father, as she zaïd, Put up above her mother's head, To tell how much he loved her: [page 71] The verse wer short, but very good, I stood an' larn'd en where I stood:— "Mid God, dear Meäry, gi'e me greäce To vind, lik' thee, a better pleäce, Where I woonce mwore mid zee thy feäce; An' bring thy childern up to know His word, that they mid come an' show Thy soul how much I lov'd thee." "Where's father, then," I zaid, "my chile?" "Dead too," she answer'd wi' a smile; "An' I an' brother Jim do bide At Betty White's, o' tother zide O' road." "Mid He, my chile," I cried, "That's father to the fatherless, Become thy father now, an' bless, An' keep, an' leäd, an' love thee." Though she've a-lost, I thought, so much, Still He don't let the thoughts o't touch Her litsome heart by day or night; An' zoo, if we could teäke it right, Do show He'll meäke his burdens light To weaker souls, an' that his smile Is sweet upon a harmless chile, When they be dead that lov'd it.

Come out to the parrock, come out to the tree, The maïdens an' chaps be a-waïtèn vor thee; There's Jim wi' his fiddle to plaÿ us some reels, Come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels. Come, all the long grass is a-mow'd an' a-carr'd, An' the turf is so smooth as a bwoard an' so hard; [page 72] There's a bank to zit down, when y'ave danced a reel drough, An' a tree over head vor to keep off the dew. There be rwoses an' honeyzucks hangèn among The bushes, to put in thy weäst; an' the zong O' the nightingeäle's heärd in the hedges all roun'; An' I'll get thee a glow-worm to stick in thy gown. There's Meäry so modest, an' Jenny so smart, An' Mag that do love a good rompse to her heart; There's Joe at the mill that do zing funny zongs, An' short-lagged Dick, too, a-waggèn his prongs. Zoo come to the parrock, come out to the tree, The maïdens an' chaps be a-waïtèn vor thee; There's Jim wi' his fiddle to plaÿ us some reels,— Come out along wi' us, an' fling up thy heels.