Part 29 (1/2)

Good bwye ye dun Elves! who, on whings made o'leather, Still roun my poorch whiver an' whiver at night; Aw ma naw hord-horted, unveelin disturber, Destray your snug nests, an your pla by moonlight.

Good bwye ta thee Bower!--ta thy moss an thy ivy-- To tha flowers that aroun thee all blossomin graw; When I'm gwon, oolt thou grieve?--bit 'tis foolish to ax it; What is ther that's shower in this wordle belaw?

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur my mother za thoughtvul, As zumtimes she war droo er care vor us all, Er lessins wi' kindness, wi' tenderness gid us; An ax'd, war she dead, what ood us bevall.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha nightingale's music, In tha midnight o' Ma-time, rawze loud on the ear; Whaur tha colley awak'd, wi' tha zun, an a zingin A went, wi' tha dirsh, in a voice vull and clear.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! I must goo ta tha city.

Whaur, I'm tawld, that the smawk makes it dork at noon da; Bit nif it is true, I'm afeard that I always And iver sholl thenk on tha cot thatch'd wi' stra.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! there is One that rains awver, An watches tha wordle, wi' wisdom divine; Than why shood I mang, wi' tha many, my ma-bes; Bin there's reads.h.i.+p in Him, an to him I resign.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! shood I niver behauld thee Again; still I thank thee vor all that is past!

Thy friendly ruf shelter'd--while mother watch'd awver.

An haw'd vor my comfort vrom vust unto last.

Good bwye ta thee Cot; vor the time ma be longful Beforn I on thy drashall again zet my eye; Thy tutties ool blossom, an daver an blossom Again and again--zaw good bwye, an good bwye!

f.a.n.n.y FEAR

The melancholy incident related in the following story, actually occurred a few years ago at Shapwick.

Good Gennel-vawk! an if you please To lissen to my storry, A ma-be 'tis a jitch a one, Ool make ye zummet zorry.

'Tis not a hoozay tale of grief, A put wi' ort together, That where you cry, or where you laugh, Da matter not a veather;

Bit 'tis a tale vor sartin true, Wi' reads.h.i.+p be it spawken; I knaw it all, begummers! well, By tale, eese, an by tawken.

The maid's right name war f.a.n.n.y FEAR, A tidy body lookin; An she cood brew, and she cood bake, An dumplins bwile, and skimmer cake; An all the like o' cookin.

Upon a Zunday aternoon, Beforne the door a stanin, To zee er chubby cheaks za hird, An whitist lilies roun 'em spird, A damas rawze her han in,

Ood do your hort good; an er eyes, Dork, vull, an bright, an sporklin; Tha country lads could not goo by, Bit look tha must--she iver shy, Ood blish--tha timid lorklin!

Her dame war to her desperd kind; She knaw'd er well dezarvin: She gid her good advice an claws, At which she niver toss'd her naws, As zum ool, thawf pon starvin.

She oten yarly upp'd to goo A milkin o' tha dairy; The meads ring'd loudly wi' er zong; Aw how she birshed the gra.s.s along, As lissom as a vairy!

She war as happy as a prince; Naw princess moor o' pleasure When well-at-eased cood iver veel; She ly'd her head upon her peel, An vound athin a treasure.

There war a dessent comly youth, Who took'd to her a likin; An when a don'd in zunday claws, You'd thenk en zummet I suppaws, A look'd so desperd strikin.

His vace war like a zummer da, When all the birds be zingin; Smiles an good nature dimplin stood, An moor besides, an all za good, Much pleasant promise bringin.

Now Jan war sawber, and afeard Nif he in haste shood morry, That he mid long repent thereof; An zo a thwart 'twar best not, thawf To sta mid make en zorry.

Jan oten pa.s.s'd the happy door, There f.a.n.n.y stood a scrubbin; An f.a.n.n.y hired hiz pleasant voice, An thawt--”An if she had er choice!”

An veel'd athin a drubbin.