Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Stwonèn Pworch
THE STWONÈN PWORCH
A new house! Ees, indeed! a small
Straïght, upstart thing, that, after all,
Do teäke in only half the groun’
The wold woone did avore ’twer down;
Wi’ little windows straïght an’ flat,
Not big enough to zun a-cat,
An’ dealèn door a-meäde so thin,
A puff o’ wind would blow en in,
Where woone do vind a thing to knock
So small’s the hammer ov a clock,
That wull but meäke a little click
About so loud’s a clock do tick!
Gi’e me the wold house, wi’ the wide
An’ lofty-lo’ted rooms inside;
An’ wi’ the stwonfèn pworch avore
The naïl-bestudded woaken door,
That had a knocker very little
Less to handle than a bittle,
That het a blow that vied so loud
Drough house as thunder drough a cloud,
An’ meäde the dog behind the door
Growl out so deep’s a bull do roar.
In all the house, o’ young an’ wold,
There werden woone but could a-twold
When he’d noo wish to seek abrode
Mwore jaÿ than thik wold pworch bestow’d!
For there, when yollow evenèn shed
His light ageän the elem’s head,
An’ gnots did whiver in the zun,
An’ uncle’s work wer all a-done,
His whiffs o’ meltèn smoke did roll
Above his bendèn pipe’s white bowl,
While he did chat, or, zittèn dumb,
Injaÿ his thoughts as they did come.
An’ Jimmy, wi’ his crowd below
His chin, did dreve his nimble bow
In tuèns vor to meäke us spring
A-reelèn, or in zongs to zing,
An’ there, between the dark an’ light,
Zot Poll by Willy’s zide at night
A-whisp’rèn, while her eyes did zwim
In jaÿ avore the twilight dim;
An’ when (to know if she wer near)
Aunt call’d, did cry, “Ees, mother; here.”
No, no; I woulden gi’e thee thanks
Vor fine white walls an’ vloors o’ planks,
Nor doors a-païnted up so fine.
If I’d a wold grey house o’ mine,
Gi’e me vor all it should be small,
A stwonèn pworch instead ō’t all.