Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Hay Meäken—Nunchen Time

by William Barnes

HAY MEAKEN—NUNCHEN TIME.

Anne an’ John a-ta’kèn o’t.

A. Back here, but now, the jobber John
  Come by, an’ cried, “Well done, zing on,
  I thought as I come down the hill,
  An’ heärd your zongs a-ringèn sh’ill,
  Who woudden like to come, an’ fling
  A peäir o’ prongs where you did zing?”

J. Aye, aye, he woudden vind it plaÿ.
  To work all day a-meakèn haÿ,
  Or pitchèn o’t, to eärms a-spread
  By lwoaders, yards above his head,
  ’T’ud meäke en wipe his drippèn brow.

A. Or else a-reäken after plow.

J. Or workèn, wi’ his nimble pick,
  A-stiffled wi’ the haÿ, at rick.

A. Our Company would suit en best,
  When we do teäke our bit o’ rest,
  At nunch, a-gather’d here below
  The sheäde theäse wide-bough’d woak do drow,
  Where hissèn froth mid rise, an’ float
  In horns o’ eäle, to wet his droat.

J. Aye, if his zwellèn han’ could drag
  A meat-slice vrom his dinner bag.
  ’T’ud meäke the busy little chap
  Look rather glum, to zee his lap
  Wi’ all his meal ov woone dry croust,
  An’ vinny cheese so dry as doust.

A. Well, I don’t grumble at my food,
  ’Tis wholesome, John, an’ zoo ’tis good.

J. Whose reäke is that a-lyèn there?
  Do look a bit the woo’se vor wear.

A. Oh! I mus’ get the man to meäke
  A tooth or two vor thik wold reäke,
  ’Tis leäbour lost to strik a stroke
  Wi’ him, wi’ half his teeth a-broke.

J. I should ha’ thought your han’ too fine
  To break your reäke, if I broke mine.

A. The ramsclaws thin’d his wooden gum
  O’ two teeth here, an’ here were zome
  That broke when I did reäke a patch
  O’ groun’ wi’ Jimmy, vor a match:
  An’ here’s a gap ov woone or two
  A-broke by Simon’s clumsy shoe,
  An’ when I gi’ed his poll a poke,
  Vor better luck, another broke.
  In what a veag have you a-swung
  Your pick, though, John? His stem’s a-sprung.

J. When I an’ Simon had a het
  O’ pookèn, yonder, vor a bet,
  The prongs o’n gi’ed a tump a poke,
  An’ then I vound the stem a-broke,
  But they do meäke the stems o’ picks
  O’ stuff so brittle as a kicks.

A. There’s poor wold Jeäne, wi’ wrinkled skin,
  A-tellèn, wi’ her peakèd chin,
  Zome teäle ov her young days, poor soul.
  Do meäke the young-woones smile. ’Tis droll.
  What is it? Stop, an’ let’s goo near.
  I do like theäse wold teäles. Let’s hear.