Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Guy Faux's Night
GUY FAUX’S NIGHT.
Guy Faux’s night, dost know, we chaps,
A-putten on our woldest traps,
Went up the highest o’ the knaps,
An’ meäde up such a vier!
An’ thou an’ Tom wer all we miss’d,
Vor if a sarpent had a-hiss’d
Among the rest in thy sprack vist,
Our fun ’d a-been the higher.
We chaps at hwome, an’ Will our cousin,
Took up a half a lwoad o’ vuzzen;
An’ burn’d a barrel wi’ a dozen
O’ faggots, till above en
The fleämes, arisèn up so high
’S the tun, did snap, an’ roar, an’ ply,
Lik’ vier in an’ oven.
An’ zome wi’ hissèn squibs did run,
To paÿ off zome what they’d a-done,
An’ let em off so loud’s a gun
Ageän their smokèn polls;
An’ zome did stir their nimble pags
Wi’ crackers in between their lags,
While zome did burn their cwoats to rags,
Or wes’cots out in holes.
An’ zome o’m’s heads lost half their locks,
An’ zome o’m got their white smock-frocks
Jist fit to vill the tinder-box,
Wi’ half the backs o’m off;
An’ Dick, that all o’m vell upon,
Vound woone flap ov his cwoat-taïl gone,
An’ tother jist a-hangèn on,
A-zweal’d so black’s a snoff.