Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Wayfeärèn
WAYFEAREN.
The sky wer clear, the zunsheen glow’d
On droopèn flowers drough the day,
As I did beät the dousty road
Vrom hinder hills, a-feädèn gray;
Drough hollows up the hills,
Vrom knaps along by mills,
Vrom mills by churches tow’rs, wi’ bells
That twold the hours to woody dells.
An’ when the windèn road do guide
The thirsty vootman where mid flow
The water vrom a rock bezide
His vootsteps, in a sheenèn bow;
The hand a-hollow’d up
Do beät a goolden cup,
To catch an’ drink it, bright an’ cool,
A-vallèn light ’ithin the pool.
Zoo when, at last, I hung my head
Wi’ thirsty lips a-burnèn dry,
I come bezide a river-bed
Where water flow’d so blue’s the sky;
An’ there I meäde me up
O’ coltsvoot leaf a cup,
Where water vrom his lip o’ gray,
Wer sweet to sip thik burnèn day.
But when our work is right, a jaÿ
Do come to bless us in its traïn,
An’ hardships ha’ zome good to paÿ
The thoughtvul soul vor all their païn:
The het do sweetèn sheäde,
An’ weary lim’s ha’ meäde
A bed o’ slumber, still an’ sound,
By woody hill or grassy mound.
An’ while I zot in sweet delaÿ
Below an elem on a hill,
Where boughs a-halfway up did swaÿ
In sheädes o’ lim’s above em still,
An’ blue sky show’d between
The flutt’rèn leäves o’ green;
I woulden gi’e that gloom an’ sheäde
Vor any room that wealth ha’ meäde.
But oh! that vo’k that have the roads
Where weary-vooted souls do pass,
Would leäve bezide the stwone vor lwoads,
A little strip vor zummer grass;
That when the stwones do bruise
An’ burn an’ gall our tooes,
We then mid cool our veet on beds
O’ wild-thyme sweet, or deäisy-heads.