# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Eclogue:—The Best Man in the Vield

Eclogue.
THE BEST MAN IN THE VIELD.
Sam and Bob.
SAM.
That’s slowish work, Bob. What’st a-been about? Thy pookèn don’t goo on not over sprack. Why I’ve a-pook’d my weäle, lo’k zee, clear out, An’ here I be ageän a-turnèn back.
BOB.
I’ll work wi’ thee then, Sammy, any day, At any work dost like to teäke me at, Vor any money thou dost like to lay. Now, Mister Sammy, what dost think o’ that? My weäle is nearly twice so big as thine, Or else, I warnt, I shouldden be behin’.
SAM.
Ah! hang thee. Bob! don’t tell sich whoppèn lies. My weale’s the biggest, if do come to size. ’Tis jist the seäme whatever bist about; Why, when dost goo a-teddèn grass, you sloth, Another hand’s a-fwo’c’d to teäke thy zwath, An’ ted a half way back to help thee out; An’ then a-reäkèn rollers, bist so slack, Dost keep the very bwoys an’ women back. An’ if dost think that thou canst challenge I At any thing,—then, Bob, we’ll teäke a pick a-piece, An’ woonce theäse zummer, goo an’ try To meäke a rick a-piece. ​A rick o’ thine wull look a little funny,
When thou’st a-done en, I’ll bet any money.
BOB.
You noggerhead! last year thou meäd’st a rick, An’ then we had to trig en wi’ a stick. An’ what did John that tipp’d en zay? Why zaid He stood a-top o’en all the while in dread, A-thinkèn that avore he should a-done en He’d tumble over slap wi’ him upon en.
SAM.
You yoppèn dog! I warnt I meäde my rick So well’s thou meäd’st thy lwoad o’ haÿ last week. They hadden got a hundred yards to haul en, An’ then they vound ’twer best to have en boun’, Vor if they hadden, ’twould a-tumbl’d down; An’ after that I zeed en all but vallèn, An’ trigg’d en up wi’ woone o’m’s pitchèn pick, To zee if I could meäke en ride to rick; An’ when they had the dumpy heap unboun’, He vell to pieces flat upon the groun’.
BOB.
Do shut thy lyèn chops! What dosten mind Thy pitchèn to me out in Gully-plot, A-meäkèn o’ me waït (wast zoo behind) A half an hour vor ev’ry pitch I got? An’ how didst groun’ thy pick? an’ how didst quirk To get en up on end? Why hadst hard work To rise a pitch that wer about so big ’S a goodish crow’s nest, or a wold man’s wig! Why bist so weak, dost know, as any roller: Zome o’ the women vo’k will beat thee hollor.
SAM.
You snub-nos’d flopperchops! I pitch’d so quick, That thou dost know thou hadst a hardish job To teäke in all the pitches off my pick; An’ dissèn zee me groun’ en, nother, Bob. An’ thou bist stronger, thou dost think, than I? Girt bandy-lags! I jist should like to try. We’ll goo, if thou dost like, an’ jist zee which Can heave the mwost, or car the biggest nitch.
BOB.
There, Sam, do meäke me zick to hear thy braggèn! Why bissen strong enough to car a flagon.
SAM.
You grinnèn fool! why I’d zet thee a-blowèn, If thou wast wi’ me vor a day a-mowèn. I’d wear my cwoat, an’ thou midst pull thy rags off, An’ then in half a zwath I’d mow thy lags off.
BOB.
Thee mow wi’ me! Why coossen keep up wi’ me: Why bissèn fit to goo a-vield to skimmy, Or mow down docks an’ thistles! Why I’ll bet A shillèn, Samel, that thou cassen whet.
SAM.
Now don’t thee zay much mwore than what’st a-zaid, Or else I’ll knock thee down, heels over head.
BOB.
Thou knock me down, indeed! Why cassen gi’e A blow half hard enough to kill a bee.
SAM.
Well, thou shalt veel upon thy chops and snout.
BOB.
Come on, then. Samel; jist let’s have woone bout.