Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Scud
THE SCUD.
Aye, aye, the leäne wi’ flow’ry zides
A-kept so lew, by hazzle-wrides,
Wi’ beds o’ grægles out in bloom,
Below the timber’s windless gloon
An’ geäte that I’ve a-swung,
An’ rod as he’s a-hung,
When I wer young, in Woakley Coomb.
’Twer there at feäst we all did pass
The evenèn on the leänezide grass,
Out where the geäte do let us drough,
Below the woak-trees in the lew,
In merry geämes an’ fun
That meäde us skip an’ run,
Wi’ burnèn zun, an’ sky o’ blue.
But still there come a scud that drove
The titt’rèn maïdens vrom the grove;
An’ there a-left wer flow’ry mound,
’Ithout a vaïce, ’ithout a sound,
Unless the aïr did blow,
Drough ruslèn leaves, an’ drow,
The raïn drops low, upon the ground.
I linger’d there an’ miss’d the naïse;
I linger’d there an’ miss’d our jaÿs;
I miss’d woone soul beyond the rest;
The maïd that I do like the best.
Vor where her vaïce is gaÿ
An’ where her smiles do plaÿ,
There’s always jaÿ vor ev’ry breast.
Vor zome vo’k out abroad ha’ me’th.
But nwone at hwome bezide the he’th;
An’ zome ha’ smiles vor strangers’ view:
An’ frowns vor kith an’ kin to rue;
But her sweet vaïce do vall,
Wi’ kindly words to all,
Both big an’ small, the whole day drough.
An’ when the evenèn sky wer peäle,
We heärd the warblèn nightèngeäle,
A-drawèn out his lwonesome zong,
In windèn music down the drong;
An’ Jenny vrom her he’th,
Come out, though not in me’th,
But held her breath, to hear his zong
Then, while the bird wi’ oben bill
Did warble on, her vaïce wer still;
An’ as she stood avore me, bound
In stillness to the flow’ry mound,
“The bird’s a jaÿ to zome,”
I thought, “but when he’s dum,
Her vaïce will come, wi’ sweeter sound.”