AVORE the time when zuns went down

On zummer's green a-turn'd to brown,

When sheädes o’ swaÿèn wheat-eärs vell shadows

Upon the scarlet pimpernel;

The while you still mid goo, an’ vind might

'Ithin the geärden's mossy wall,

Sweet blossoms, low or risèn tall,

To meäke a tutty to your mind, nosegay

In churchyard heav'd, wi’ grassy breast,

The greäve-mound ov a beäby's rest.

An’ when a high day broke, to call

A throng 'ithin the churchyard wall,

The mother brought, wi’ thoughtvul mind,

The feäirest buds her eyes could vind,

To trim the little greäve, an’ show

To other souls her love an’ loss,

An’ meäde a Seävior's little cross

O’ brightest flow'rs that then did blow, bloom

A-droppèn tears a-sheenèn bright, shining

Among the dew, in mornèn light.

An’ woone sweet bud her han’ did pleäce one

Up where did droop the Seävior's feäce;

An’ two she zet a-bloomèn bright,

Where reach'd His hands o’ left an’ right;

Two mwore feäir blossoms, crimson dyed,

Did mark the pleäces ov his veet,

An’ woone did lie, a-smellèn sweet,

Up where the spear did wound the zide

Ov Him that is the life ov all

Greäve sleepers, whether big or small.

The mother that in faïth could zee

The Seävior on the high cross tree

Mid be a-vound a-grievèn sore, might

But not to grieve vor evermwore,

Vor He shall show her faïthvul mind,

His chaïce is all that she should choose,

An’ love that here do grieve to lose,

Shall be, above, a jaÿ to vind, joy

Wi’ Him that evermwore shall keep

The souls that He do lay asleep.

AFTER many long years had a-run,

The while I wer a-gone vrom the pleäce,

I come back to the vields, where the zun

Ov her childhood did show me her feäce.

There her father, years wolder, did stoop. older

An’ her brother, wer now a-grow'd staïd, mature

An’ the apple tree lower did droop.

Out in the orcha'd where we had a-plaÿ'd,

There wer zome things a-seemèn the seäme,

But Meäry's a-married awaÿ.

There wer two little childern a-zent,

Wi’ a message to me, oh! so feäir

As the mother that they did zoo ment, so take after

When in childhood she plaÿ'd wi’ me there.

Zoo they twold me that if I would come so

Down to Coomb, I should zee a wold friend, old

Vor a plaÿmeäte o’ mine wer at hwome,

An’ would staÿ till another week's end.

At the dear pworchèd door, could I dare

To zee Meäry a-married awaÿ!

On the flower-not, now all a-trod flower-bed

Stwony hard, the green grass wer a-spread,

An’ the long-slighted woodbine did nod

Vrom the wall, wi’ a loose-hangèn head.

An’ the martin's clay nest wer a-hung

Up below the brown oves, in the dry, eaves

An’ the rooks had a-rock'd broods o’ young

On the elems below the Maÿ sky;

But the bud on the bed, coulden bide,

Wi’ young Meäry a-married awaÿ.

There the copse-wood, a-grow'd to a height,

Wer a-vell'd, an’ the primrwose in blooth, bloom

Among chips on the ground a-turn'd white,

Wer a-quiv'rèn, all beäre ov his lewth. bare, shelter

The green moss wer a-spread on the thatch,

That I left yollow reed, an’ avore

The small green, there did swing a new hatch, wicket-gate

Vor to let me walk into the door.

Oh! the rook did still rock o'er the rick,

But wi’ Meäry a-married awaÿ.

I WENT hwome in the dead o’ the night,

When the vields wer all empty o’ vo'k, folk

An’ the tuns at their cool-winded height chimney-tops

Wer all dark, an’ all cwold 'ithout smoke;

An’ the heads o’ the trees that I pass'd

Wer a-swaÿèn wi’ low-ruslèn sound,

An’ the doust wer a-whirl'd wi’ the blast, dust

Aye, a smeech wi’ the wind on the ground. thick dust

Then I come by the young widow's hatch, wicket-gate

Down below the wold elem's tall head, old

But noo vinger did lift up the latch,

Vor the vo'k wer so still as the dead;

But inside, to a tree a-meäde vast, fast

Wer the childern's light swing, a-hung low,

An’ a-rock'd by the brisk-blowèn blast,

Aye, a-swung by the win’ to an’ fro.

Vor the childern, wi’ pillow-borne head,

Had vorgotten their swing on the lawn,

An’ their father, asleep wi’ the dead,

Had vorgotten his work at the dawn;

An’ their mother, a vew stilly hours, quiet

Had vorgotten where he sleept so sound,

Where the wind wer a-sheäkèn the flow'rs, shaking

Aye, the blast the feäir buds on the ground.

Oh! the moon, wi’ his peäle lighted skies,

Have his sorrowless sleepers below.

But by day to the zun they must rise

To their true lives o’ tweil an’ ov ho. toil, care

Then the childern wull rise to their fun,

An’ their mother mwore sorrow to veel,

While the aïr is a-warm'd by the zun,

Aye, the win’ by the day's vi'ry wheel.

A HAPPY day, a happy year,

A zummer Zunday, dazzlèn clear,

I went athirt vrom Lea to Noke, across

To goo to church wi’ Fanny's vo'k: folk

The sky o’ blue did only show

A cloud or two, so white as snow,

An’ aïr did swaÿ, wi’ softest strokes,

The eltrot roun’ the dark-bough'd woaks. cow-parsley, oaks

O day o’ rest when bells do toll!

O day a-blest to ev'ry soul!

How sweet the zwells o’ Zunday bells.

An’ on the cowslip-knap at Creech, hillock

Below the grove o’ steätely beech,

I heärd two tow'rs a-cheemèn clear, chiming

Vrom woone I went, to woone drew near, one

As they did call, by flow'ry ground,

The bright-shod veet vrom housen round,

A-drownèn wi’ their holy call,

The goocoo an’ the water-vall. cuckoo

Die off, O bells o’ my dear pleäce,

Ring out, O bells avore my feäce,

Vull sweet your zwells, O ding-dong bells.

Ah! then vor things that time did bring

My kinsvo'k, Lea had bells to ring; kinsfolk

An’ then, ageän, vor what bevell

My wife's, why Noke church had a bell;

But soon wi’ hopevul lives a-bound

In woone, we had woone tower's sound,

Vor our high jaÿs all vive bells rung, joys

Our losses had woone iron tongue.

Oh! ring all round, an’ never mwoän

So deep an’ slow woone bell alwone,

Vor sweet your swells o’ vive clear bells.

AH! mam! you woonce come here the while once

The zun, long years agoo, did shed

His het upon the wheat in hile, heat, stook2

Wi’ yollow hau'm an’ ears o’ red, stalk

Wi’ little shoes too thin vor walks

Upon the scratchèn stubble-stalks;

You hardly reach'd wi’ glossy head,

The vore wheel's top o’ dousty red. dusty

How time's a-vled! How years do vlee! flown by, fly

An’ there you went an’ zot inzide sat

A hile, in aïr a-streamèn cool,

As if 'ithin a room, vull wide

An’ high, you zot to guide an’ rule.

You leäz'd about the stubbly land, gleaned

An’ soon vill'd up your small left hand

Wi’ ruddy ears your right hand vound,

An’ traïl'd the stalks along the ground.

How time's a-gone! How years do goo!

Then in the waggon you did teäke

A ride, an’ as the wheels vell down

Vrom ridge to vurrow, they did sheäke

On your small head your poppy crown,

An’ now your little maïd, a dear, daughter

Your childhood's very daps, is here, spitting image

Zoo let her staÿ, that her young feäce so

Mid put a former year in pleäce.

“CAN all be still, when win's do blow?

Look down the grove an’ zee

The boughs a-swingèn on the tree,

An’ beäten weäves below.

Zee how the tweilèn vo'k do bend toiling folk

Upon their windward track,

Wi’ ev'ry string, an’ garment's end,

A-flutt'rèn at their back,”

I cried, wi’ sorrow sore a-tried,

An’ hung, wi’ Jenny at my zide,

My head upon my breast.

Wi’ strokes o’ grief so hard to bear,

'Tis hard vor souls to rest.

Can all be dull, when zuns do glow?

Oh! no; look down the grove,

Where zides o’ trees be bright above;

An’ weäves do sheen below; shine

An’ neäked stems o’ wood in hedge

Do gleäm in streäks o’ light,

An’ rocks do gleäre upon the ledge

O’ yonder zunny height,

“No, Jeäne, wi’ trials now withdrawn,

Lik’ darkness at a happy dawn,”

I cried, “Noo mwore despair;

Wi’ our lost peace ageän a-vound,

'Tis wrong to harbour ceäre.”

This is the third volume in a series that sets out to provide a phonemic transcript and an audio recording of each poem in Barnes's three collections of Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect.

The individual volumes in the series are not designed to be critical editions: they do not contain variant readings from different versions of the poems or detailed notes on matters of linguistic, literary, social, historical, or biographical interest. The aim is simply to provide a self-contained, uncluttered, and reader-friendly text, which may be read on-screen or on the page, with marginal glosses for any words or phrases that might cause difficulty, together with audio recordings that may be freely audited online.

In addition to the many kind friends whose help is acknowledged in the Pronunciation Guide from which this series derives I wish particularly to thank John Emerson, Director of the University of Adelaide Press, and his staff, for their unshakeable patience and their staunch support.

THE Frome, wi’ ever-water'd brink,

Do run where shelvèn hills do zink: sloping

Wi’ housen all a-cluster'd roun’

The parish tow'rs below the down.

An’ now, vor woonce, at leäst, ov all once

The pleäcen where the stream do vall,

There's woone that zome to-day mid vind, one, may

Wi’ things a-suited to their mind.

An’ that's out where the Fancy Feäir

Is on at Maïden Newton.

An’ vo'k, a-smarten'd up, wull hop folk

Out here, as ev'ry traïn do stop,

Vrom up the line, a longish ride,

An’ down along the river-zide.

An’ zome do beät, wi’ heels an’ tooes,

The leänes an’ paths, in nimble shoes,

An’ bring, bezides, a biggish knot,

Ov all their childern that can trot,

A-vlockèn where the Fancy Feäir

Is here at Maïden Newton.

If you should goo, to-day, avore

A Chilfrome house or Downfrome door,

Or Frampton's park-zide row, or look

Drough quiet Wraxall's slopy nook, through

Or elbow-streeted Catt'stock, down

By Castlehill's cwold-winded crown,

An’ zee if vo'k be all at hwome,

You'd vind em out—they be a-come

Out hither, where the Fancy Feäir

Is on at Maïden Newton.

Come, young men, come, an’ here you'll vind

A gift to please a maïden's mind;

Come, husbands, here be gifts to please

Your wives, an’ meäke em smile vor days;

Come, so's, an’ buy at Fancy Feäir

A keepseäke vor your friends elsewhere;

You can't but stop an’ spend a cwein

Wi’ leädies that ha’ goods so fine;

An’ all to meäke, vor childern's seäke,

The School at Maïden Newton.

COME here an’ zit a while below

Theäse tower, grey and ivy-bound, this

In sheäde, the while the zun do glow

So hot upon the flow'ry ground;

An’ winds in flight,

Do briskly smite

The blossoms bright, upon the gleäde,

But never stir the sleepèn sheäde.

As when you stood upon the brink

O’ yonder brook, wi’ back-zunn'd head,

Your zunny-grounded sheäde did zink shadow

Upon the water's grav'lly bed,

Where weäves could zweep

Away, or keep,

The gravel heap that they'd a-meäde,

But never wash awaÿ the sheäde.

An’ zoo, when you can woonce vulvil so, once fulfil

What's feäir, a-tried by heaven's light,

Why never fear that evil will

Can meäke a wrong o’ your good right.

The right wull stand,

Vor all man's hand,

Till streams on zand, an’ wind in gleädes,

Can zweep awaÿ the zuncast sheädes.

LET me work, but mid noo tie may

Hold me vrom the oben sky,

When zummer winds, in plaÿsome flight,

Do blow on vields in noon-day light,

Or ruslèn trees, in twilight night.

Sweet's a stroll,

By flow'ry knowl, or blue-feäc'd pool

That zummer win's do ruffle cool.

When the moon's broad light do vill

Plaïns, a-sheenèn down the hill; shining

A-glitterèn on window glass,

O then, while zummer win's do pass

The rippled brook, an’ swaÿèn grass,

Sweet's a walk,

Where we do talk, wi’ feäces bright,

In whispers in the peacevul night.

When the swaÿèn men do mow

Flow'ry grass, wi’ zweepèn blow,

In het a-most enough to dry heat

The flat-spread clote-leaf that do lie yellow water-lily

Upon the stream a-stealèn by,

Sweet's their rest,

Upon the breast o’ knap or mound hillock

Out where the goocoo's vaïce do sound. cuckoo's

Where the sleek-heäir'd maïd do zit

Out o’ door to zew or knit,

Below the elem where the spring

's a-runnèn, an’ the road do bring

The people by to hear her zing,

On the green,

Where she's a-zeen, an’ she can zee,

O gaÿ is she below the tree.

Come, O zummer wind, an’ bring

Sounds o’ birds as they do zing,

An’ bring the smell o’ bloomèn maÿ,

An’ bring the smell o’ new-mow'd haÿ;

Come fan my feäce as I do straÿ,

Fan the heäir

O’ Jessie feäir; fan her cool,

By the weäves o’ stream or pool.

ABOVE the leafless hazzle-wride hazel-clump

The wind-drove raïn did quickly vall,

An’ on the meäple's ribby zide

Did hang the raïn-drop's quiv'rèn ball;

Out where the brook o’ foamy yollow

Roll'd along the meäd's deep hollow,

An’ noo birds wer out to beät,

Wi’ flappèn wings, the vleèn wet flying

O’ zunless clouds on flow'rless ground.

How time do bring the seasons round!

The moss, a-beät vrom trees, did lie

Upon the ground in ashen droves, ash-wood

An’ western wind did huffle high, blow in gusts

Above the sheds’ quick-drippèn oves. eaves

An’ where the ruslèn straw did sound

So dry, a-shelter'd in the lew, shelter

I staïed alwone, an’ weather-bound,

An’ thought on times, long years agoo,

Wi’ water-floods on flow'rless ground.

How time do bring the seasons round!

We then, in childhood plaÿ, did seem

In work o’ men to teäke a peärt,

A-drevèn on our wild bwoy team, driving

Or lwoadèn o’ the tiny cart.

Or, on our little refters, spread

The zedgen ruf above our head, roof of sedges

But coulden tell, as now we can,

Where each would goo to tweil a man. toil

O jaÿs a-lost, an’ jaÿs a-vound, joys

How Providence do bring things round!

Where woonce along the sky o’ blue once

The zun went roun’ his longsome bow, arc

An’ brighten'd, to my soul, the view

About our little farm below,

There I did plaÿ the merry geäme,

Wi’ childern ev'ry holitide,

But coulden tell the vaïce or neäme

That time would vind to be my bride.

O hwome a-left, O wife a-vound,

How Providence do bring things round!

An’ when I took my manhood's pleäce,

A husband to a wife's true vow,

I never thought by neäme or feäce

O’ childern that be round me now.

An’ now they all do grow vrom small,

Drough life's feäir sheäpes to big an’ tall, through

I still be blind to God's good plan,

To pleäce em out as wife, or man.

O thread o’ love by God unwound,

How He in time do bring things round!

WITH A MISTAKE

(Thomas and Mr Auctioneer.)

T. Well here, then, Mister auctioneer,

Be theäse the virs, I bought, out here? these

A. The firs, the fir-poles, you bought? Who?

'Twas furze, not firs, I sold to you.

T. I bid vor virs, and not vor vuzzen, furzes

Vor vir-poles, as I thought, two dozen.

A. Two dozen faggots, and I took

Your bidding for them. Here's the book.

T. I wont have what I diddèn buy.

I don't want vuzzen, now. Not I.

Why firs an furze do sound the seäme.

Why don't ye gi'e a thing his neäme? give

Aye, firs and furze! Why, who can tell

Which 'tis that you do meän to zell?

No, no, be kind enough to call

Em virs, and vuzzen, then, that's all.

WELL, you mid keep the town an’ street, may

Wi’ grassless stwones to beät your veet,

An’ zunless windows where your brows

Be never cooled by swaÿèn boughs;

An’ let me end, as I begun,

My days in oben aïr an’ zun,

Where zummer win's a-blowèn sweet,

Wi’ blooth o’ trees as white's a sheet; blossom

Or swaÿèn boughs, a-bendèn low

Wi’ rip'nèn apples in a row,

An’ we a-risèn rathe do meet early

The bright'nèn dawn wi’ dewy veet,

An’ leäve, at night, the vootless groves,

To rest 'ithin our thatchen oves. eaves

An’ here our childern still do bruise

The deäisy buds wi’ tiny shoes,

As we did meet avore em, free

Vrom ceäre, in plaÿ below the tree.

An’ there in me'th their lively eyes mirth

Do glissen to the zunny skies,

As aïr do blow, wi’ leäzy peäce

To cool, in sheäde, their burnèn feäce.

Where leaves o’ spreadèn docks do hide

The zawpit's timber-lwoaded zide,

An’ trees do lie, wi’ scraggy limbs,

Among the deäisy's crimson rims.

An’ they, so proud, wi’ eärms a-spread arms

To keep their balance good, do tread

Wi’ ceäreful steps o’ tiny zoles

The narrow zides o’ trees an’ poles.

An’ zoo I'll leäve vor your light veet so

The peävement o’ the zunless street,

While I do end, as I begun,

My days in oben aïr an’ zun.

THE gather'd clouds, a-hangèn low,

Do meäke the woody ridge look dim;

An’ raïn-vill'd streams do brisker flow,

Arisèn higher to their brim.

In the tree, vrom lim’ to lim’,

Leaves do drop

Vrom the top, all slowly down,

Yollow, to the gloomy groun’.

The rick's a-tipp'd an’ weather-brown'd, rain-proofed

An’ thatch'd wi’ zedge a-dried an’ dead;

An’ orcha'd apples, red half round,

Have all a-happer'd down, a-shed dropped heavily

Underneath the trees’ wide head.

Ladders long,

Rong by rong, to clim’ the tall rung, climb

Trees, be hung upon the wall.

The crumpled leaves be now a-shed

In mornèn winds a-blowèn keen;

When they wer green the moss wer dead,

Now they be dead the moss is green.

Low the evenèn zun do sheen shine

By the boughs,

Where the cows do swing their taïls

Over the merry milkers’ païls.

John; William; William's Bwoy; and William's Maïd at Feäir

son, daughter

JOHN

Zoo here be your childern, a-sheärèn so, sharing

Your feäir-day, an’ each wi’ a feäirèn. gift bought at the fair

WILLIAM

Aye, well, there's noo peace ‘ithout comèn

To stannèn an’ show, in the zummer. stall

JOHN

An’ how is your Jeäne? still as merry

As ever, wi’ cheäks lik’ a cherry?

WILLIAM

Still merry, but beauty's as feädesome

's the raïn's glowèn bow in the zummer. rainbow

JOHN

Well now, I do hope we shall vind ye

Come soon, wi’ your childern behind ye,

To Stowe, while o’ bwoth zides o’ hedges,

The zunsheen do glow in the zummer. sunshine

WILLIAM

Well, aye, when the mowèn is over,

An’ ee-grass do whiten wi’ clover. grass regrown after mowing

A man's a-tired out, vor much walken,

The while he do mow in the zummer.

WILLIAM's BWOY son

I'll goo, an’ we'll zet up a wicket,

An’ have a good innèns at cricket;

An’ teäke a good plounce in the water, plunge

Where clote-leaves do grow in the zummer. yellow water-lily

WILLIAM's MAÏD daughter

I'll goo, an’ we'll plaÿ “Thread the needle”

Or “Huntèn the slipper,” or wheedle

Young Jemmy to fiddle, an’ reely

So brisk to an’ fro in the zummer.

JOHN

An’ Jeäne. Mind you don't come ‘ithout her,

My wife is a-thinkèn about her;

At our house she'll find she's as welcome

's the rwose that do blow in the zummer.

ABOUT the tow'r an’ churchyard wall,

Out nearly overright our door, opposite

A tongue ov wind did always call

Whatever we did call avore.

The vaïce did mock our neämes, our cheers, mimic

Our merry laughs, our hands’ loud claps,

An’ mother's call “Come, come, my dears”

—my dears;

Or “Do as I do bid, bad chaps”

—bad chaps.

An’ when o’ Zundays on the green,

In frocks an’ cwoats as gaÿ as new,

We walk'd wi’ shoes a-meäde to sheen shine

So black an’ bright's a vull-ripe slooe sloe

We then did hear the tongue ov aïr

A-mockèn mother's vaïce so thin,

“Come, now the bell do goo vor praÿ'r”

—vor praÿ'r;

“'Tis time to goo to church; come in”

—come in.

The night when little Anne, that died,

Begun to zickèn, back in Maÿ,

An’ she, at dusk ov evenèn-tide,

Wer out wi’ others at their plaÿ,

Within the churchyard that do keep

Her little bed, the vaïce o’ thin

Dark aïr, mock'd mother's call “To sleep”

—to sleep;

“'Tis bed time now, my love, come in”

— come in.

An’ when our Jeäne come out so smart

A-married, an’ we help'd her in

To Henry's newly-païnted cart,

The while the wheels begun to spin,

An’ her gaÿ nods, vor all she smil'd,

Did sheäke a tear-drop vrom each eye,

The vaïce mock'd mother's call, “Dear child” mimicked

—dear child;

“God bless ye evermwore; good bye”

—good bye.

IN stillness we ha’ words to hear,

An’ sheäpes to zee in darkest night,

An’ tongues a-lost can haïl us near,

An’ souls a-gone can smile in zight;

When Fancy now do wander back

To years a-spent, an’ bring to mind

Zome happy tide a-left behind

In weästèn life's slow-beätèn track. wasting

When feädèn leaves do drip wi’ raïn, fading

Our thoughts can ramble in the dry;

When Winter win’ do zweep the plaïn

We still can have a zunny sky.

Vor though our limbs be winter-wrung,

We still can zee, wi’ Fancy's eyes,

The brightest looks ov e'th an’ skies, earth

That we did know when we wer young.

In païn our thoughts can pass to eäse,

In work our souls can be at plaÿ,

An’ leäve behind the chilly leäse meadow

Vor warm-aïr'd meäds o’ new mow'd haÿ,

When we do vlee in Fancy's flight fly

Vrom daily ills avore our feäce,

An’ linger in zome happy pleäce

Ov me'th an’ smiles, an’ warmth an’ light.