OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Fields)/To a Malignant Critic

TO A MALIGNANT CRITIC.
* Rail at him, brave spirit! surround him with foes!
* The wolf's at his door, and there's none to defend;
* He's as "poor as a crow;" give him lustier blows,
* And don't be alarmed, for he hasn't a friend.
* Now twirl your red steel in the wound you have made,—
* His wife lies a-dying, his children are dead;
* He'll soon be alone, man, so don't be afraid,
* But give him a thrust that will keep down his head.
* He hasn't a sixpence to buy his wife's shroud,
* He "writes for a living," so stab him again!
* Raise a laugh, as he timidly shrinks from the crowd,
* And hunt him like blood-hound, most valiant of men!
* </noinclude>Ha! finished at last;—there he hangs; cut him down;
* "A fine manly forehead!" I hear you exclaim;—
* Now choose your next victim, to tickle the town,
* And your heart-pointed pen shall reap plenty of fame!
# Poems (Follen)

POEMS.
POEMS
BY
MRS. FOLLEN,
AUTHOR Of "married LIFE," "SKEPTIC ," "WELL-SPENT HOUR," &c. &c.
BOSTON: WILLIAM CROSBY & COMPANY.
1839.
TO THE FRIENDS,
WHOSE AFFECTION HAS CALLED FORTH MOST OF THESE POEMS,
THIS LITTLE VOLUME
IS
DEDICATED.
CONTENTS.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems (Holford)

POEMS.
By MISS HOLFORD,
AUTHOR OF WALLACE, OR THE FIGHT OF FALKIRK.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN.
1811.
J. M'Creery, Printer,
Black-Horse-Court, Fleet-Street,
London.
CONTENTS.
J. M'Creery, Printer,
Black-Horse-Court, Fleet-Street,
London.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems (Hoffman)/Within the Vale

Note: The table of contents seems to have substituted veil for its homonym vale
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/A-Haulèn o' the Corn

A-HAULEN O’ THE CORN.
Ah! yesterday, you know, we carr’d
 The piece o’ corn in Zidelèn Plot, An’ work’d about it pretty hard,  An’ vound the weather pretty hot. ’Twer all a-tied an’ zet upright In tidy hile o’ Monday night; Zoo yesterday in afternoon We zet, in eärnest, ev’ry woone  A-haulèn o’ the corn.
The hosses, wi’ the het an’ lwoad,  Did froth, an’ zwang vrom zide to zide, A-gwaïn along the dousty road,  An’ seem’d as if they would a-died. An’ wi’ my collar all undone, An’ neck a-burnèn wi’ the zun, I got, wi’ work, an’ doust, an’ het, So dry at last, I coulden spet,  A-haulèn o’ the corn.
At uncle’s orcha’d, gwaïn along,  I begged some apples, vor to quench My drith, o’ Poll that wer among  The trees: but she, a saucy wench, Toss’d over hedge some crabs vor fun. I squaïl’d her, though, an’ meäde her run; An’ zoo she gie’d me, vor a treat, A lot o’ stubberds vor to eat.  A-haulèn o’ the corn.
An’ up at rick, Jeäne took the flagon,  An’ gi’ed us out zome eäle; an’ then I carr’d her out upon the waggon,  Wi’ bread an’ cheese to gi’e the men. ​An’ there, vor fun, we dress’d her head Wi’ noddèn poppies bright an’ red, As we wer catchèn vrom our laps, Below a woak, our bits an’ draps,  A-haulèn o’ the corn.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/A Bit o' Fun

A BIT O’ FUN.
We thought you woulden leäve us quite So soon as what you did last night; Our fun jist got up to a height  As you about got hwome. The friskèn chaps did skip about, An’ cou’se the maïdens in an’ out, A-meäkèn such a randy-rout,  You coulden hear a drum.
An’ Tom, a-springèn after Bet Blind-vwolded, whizz’d along, an’ het Poor Grammer’s zide, an’ overzet  Her chair, at blind-man’s buff; An’ she, poor soul, as she did vall, Did show her snags o’ teeth an’ squall, An’ what, she zaid, wer wo’se than all,  She shatter’d all her snuff.
An’ Bet, a-hoppèn back vor fear O’ Tom, struck uncle zomewhere near, An’ meäde his han’ spill all his beer  Right down her poll an’ back; An’ Joe, in middle o’ the din, Slipt out a bit, an’ soon come in Wi’ all below his dapper chin  A-jumpèn in a zack.
An’ in a twinklèn tother chaps Jist hung en to a crook wi’ straps, ​An’ meäde en bear the maïdens’ slaps,  An’ prickens wi’ a pin. An’ Jim, a-catchèn Poll, poor chap, In back-house in the dark, vell slap Athirt a tub o’ barm,—a trap  She set to catch en in.
An’ then we zot down out o’ breath, An’ meäde a circle roun’ the he’th, A-keepèn up our harmless me’th,  Till supper wer a-come. An’ after we’d a-had zome prog, All tother chaps begun to jog, Wi’ sticks to lick a thief or dog,  To zee the maïdens hwome.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/A Pleäce in Zight

A PLEÄCE IN ZIGHT.
As I at work do look aroun’ Upon the groun’ I have in view, To yonder hills that still do rise Avore the skies, wi’ backs o’ blue; ’Ithin the ridges that do vall An’ rise roun’ Blackmwore lik’ a wall, ’Tis yonder knap do teäke my zight Vrom dawn till night, the mwost ov all.
An’ there, in Maÿ, ’ithin the lewth O’ boughs in blooth, be sheädy walks, An’ cowslips up in yollow beds Do hang their heads on downy stalks; An’ if the weather should be feäir When I’ve a holiday to speäre, I’ll teäke the chance o’ gettèn drough An hour or two wi’ zome vo’k there.
An’ there I now can dimly zee The elem-tree upon the mound, An’ there meäke out the high-bough’d grove An’ narrow drove by Redcliff ground; An’ there by trees a-risèn tall, The glowèn zunlight now do vall, Wi’ shortest sheädes o’ middle day, Upon the gray wold house’s wall.
An’ I can zee avore the sky A-risèn high the churches speer, Wi’ bells that I do goo to swing, An’ like to ring, an’ like to hear; ​An’ if I’ve luck upon my zide, They bells shall sound bwoth loud an’ wide, A peal above they slopes o’ gray, Zome merry day wi’ Jeäne a bride.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/A Good Father

A GOOD FATHER.
No; mind thy father. When his tongue  Is keen, he’s still thy friend, John, Vor wolder vo’k should warn the young  How wickedness will end, John; An’ he do know a wicked youth  Would be thy manhood’s beäne, An’ zoo would bring thee back ageän  ’Ithin the ways o’ truth.
An’ mind en still when in the end  His leäbour’s all a-done, John, An’ let en vind a steadvast friend  In thee his thoughtvul son, John; Vor he did win what thou didst lack  Avore couldst work or stand,  An’ zoo, when time do num’ his hand,  Then paÿ his leäbour back.
An’ when his bwones be in the dust,  Then honour still his neäme, John; An’ as his godly soul wer just,  Let thine be voun’ the seäme, John. Be true, as he wer true, to men,  An’ love the laws o’ God;  Still tread the road that he’ve a-trod,  An’ live wi’ him ageän.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/A Lot o' Maïdens

A LOT O’ MAÏDENS A-RUNNÈN THE VIELDS.
“Come on. Be sprack, a-laggèn back.” “Oh! be there any cows to hook?” “Lauk she’s afraïd, a silly maïd,”  Cows? No, the cows be down by brook. “O here then, oh! here is a lot.” “A lot o’ what? what is it? what?” “Why blackberries, as thick  As ever they can stick.” “I’ve dewberries, oh! twice  As good as they; so nice.” “Look here. Theäse boughs be all but blue  Wi’ snags.”  “Oh! gi’e me down a vew.” “Come here, oh! do but look.” “What’s that? what is it now?” “Why nuts a-slippèn shell.” “Hee ! hee ! pull down the bough.” “I wish I had a crook.” “There zome o’m be a-vell.”  (One sings)  “I wish I was on Bimport Hill  I would zit down and cry my vill.” “Hee! hee! there’s Jenny zomewhere nigh,  A-zingèn that she’d like to cry.” ​ (Jenny sings)  “I would zit down and cry my vill  Until my tears would dreve a mill.” “Oh! here’s an ugly crawlèn thing,  A sneäke.” “A slooworm; he wont sting.” “Hee! hee! how she did squal an’ hop,  A-spinnèn roun’ so quick’s a top.” “Look here, oh! quick, be quick.” “What is it? what then? where?” “A rabbit.” “No, a heäre.” “Ooh! ooh! the thorns do prick,” “How he did scote along the ground  As if he wer avore a hound.” “Now mind the thistles.” “Hee, hee, hee,  Why they be knapweeds.” “No.” “They be.” “I’ve zome’hat in my shoe.” “Zit down, an’ sheäke it out.” “Oh! emmets, oh! ooh, ooh,  A-crawlèn all about.” “What bird is that, O harken, hush.  How sweetly he do zing.” “A nightingeäle.” “La! no, a drush.” “Oh! here’s a funny thing.” “Oh! how the bull do hook,  An’ bleäre, an’ fling the dirt.” “Oh! wont he come athirt?” “No, he’s beyond the brook.” “O lauk! a hornet rose  Up clwose avore my nose.” “Oh! what wer that so white Rush’d out o’ thik tree’s top?” “An owl.” “How I did hop,  How I do sheäke wi’ fright.” “A musheroom.” “O lau! ​ A twoadstool! Pwoison! Augh.” “What’s that, a mouse?”  “O no,  Teäke ceäre, why ’tis a shrow.” “Be sure dont let en come  An’ run athirt your shoe  He’ll meäke your voot so numb  That you wont veel a tooe.” “Oh! what wer that so loud  A-rumblèn?” “Why a clap  O’ thunder. Here’s a cloud  O’ raïn. I veel a drap.” “A thunderstorm. Do raïn.  Run hwome wi’ might an’ main.” “Hee! hee! oh! there’s a drop  A-trïckled down my back. Hee! hee!” “My head’s as wet’s a mop.” “Oh! thunder,” “there’s a crack. Oh! Oh!” “Oh! I’ve a-got the stitch, Oh!” “Oh! I’ve a-lost my shoe, Oh!” “There’s Fanny into ditch, Oh!” “I’m wet all drough an’ drough. Oh!”
* ↑ The idea, though but little of the substance, of this poem, will be found in a little Italian poem called Caccia, written by Franco Sacchetti.
* ↑ The folklore is, that if a shrew-mouse run over a person’s foot, it will lame him.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/A Wife a-praïs'd

A WIFE A-PRAÏS’D.
’Twer Maÿ, but ev’ry leaf wer dry All day below a sheenèn sky; The zun did glow wi’ yollow gleäre, An’ cowslips blow wi’ yollow gleäre, ​Wi’ grægles’ bells a-droopèn low, An’ bremble boughs a-stoopèn low; While culvers in the trees did coo  Above the vallèn dew.
An’ there, wi’ heäir o’ glossy black, Bezide your neck an’ down your back, You rambled gaÿ a-bloomèn feäir; By boughs o’ maÿ a-bloomèn feäir; An’ while the birds did twitter nigh, An’ water weäves did glitter nigh, You gather’d cowslips in the lew,  Below the vallèn dew.
An’ now, while you’ve a-been my bride As years o’ flow’rs ha’ bloom’d an’ died, Your smilèn feäce ha’ been my jaÿ; Your soul o’ greäce ha’ been my jaÿ; An’ wi’ my evenèn rest a-come, An’ zunsheen to the west a-come, I’m glad to teäke my road to you  Vrom vields o’ vallèn dew.
An’ when the raïn do wet the maÿ, A-bloomèn where we woonce did straÿ, An’ win’ do blow along so vast, An’ streams do flow along so vast; Ageän the storms so rough abroad, An’ angry tongues so gruff abroad, The love that I do meet vrom you  Is lik’ the vallèn dew.
An’ you be sprack’s a bee on wing, In search ov honey in the Spring: The dawn-red sky do meet ye up; The birds vu’st cry do meet ye up; ​An’ wi’ your feäce a-smilèn on,
An’ busy hands a-tweilèn on, You’ll vind zome useful work to do  Until the vallèn dew.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect

POEMS OF RURAL LIFE
IN THE DORSET DIALECT.
BY
WILLIAM BARNES.
LONDON: KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER & CO., Ltd.
The Rights of Translation and of Reproduction are Reserved.
TO THE READER.
Kind Reader,
Two of the three Collections of these Dorset Poems have been, for some time, out of print, and the whole of the three sets are now brought out in one volume.
I have little more to say for them, than that the writing of them as glimpses of life and landscape in Dorset, which often open to my memory and mindsight, has given me very much pleasure; and my happiness would be enhanced if I could believe that you would feel my sketches to be so truthful and pleasing as to give you even a small share of pleasure, such as that of the memories from which I have written them.
This edition has a list of such Dorset words as are found in the Poems, with some hints on Dorset word shapes, and I hope that they will be found a fully good key to the meanings of the verse.
Yours kindly,
W. BARNES.
CONTENTS.
FIRST COLLECTION.
SPRING.
PAGE
SUMMER.
FALL.
WINTER.
SUNDRY PIECES.
SECOND COLLECTION.
THIRD COLLECTION.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/A Do'set Sale

A DO’SET SALE
WITH A MISTAKE.
(Thomas and Mr Auctioneer.)
T.  Well here, then, Mister auctioneer,   Be theäse the virs, I bought, out here?
A.  The firs, the fir-poles, you bought? Who?   ’Twas furze, not firs, I sold to you.
T.  I bid vor virs, and not vor vuzzen,   Vor vir-poles, as I thought, two dozen.
A.  Two dozen faggots, and I took   Your bidding for them. Here’s the book.
T.  I wont have what I diddèn buy.   I don’t want vuzzen, now. Not I.   Why firs an’ furze do sound the seäme.   Why don’t ye gi’e a thing his neäme?   Ays, firs and furze! Why, who can tell   Which ’tis that you do meän to zell?   No, no, be kind enough to call   Em virs, and vuzzen, then, that’s all.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/A Father out an' Mother Hwome

A FATHER OUT, AN’ MOTHER HWOME.
The snow-white clouds did float on high In shoals avore the sheenèn sky, An’ runnèn weäves in pon’ did cheäse Each other on the water’s feäce, As hufflèn win’ did blow between The new-leav’d boughs o’ sheenèn green. An’ there, the while I walked along The path, drough leäze, above the drong, A little maïd, wi’ bloomèn feäce, Went on up hill wi’ nimble peäce, A-leänèn to the right-han’ zide, To car a basket that did ride, A-hangèn down, wi’ all his heft, Upon her elbow at her left. An’ yet she hardly seem’d to bruise The grass-bleädes wi’ her tiny shoes, That pass’d each other, left an’ right, In steps a’most too quick vor zight. But she’d a-left her mother’s door A-bearèn vrom her little store ​Her father’s welcome bit o’ food, Vhere he wer out at work in wood; An’ she wer bless’d wi’ mwore than zwome— A father out, an’ mother hwome.
An’ there, a-vell’d ’ithin the copse, Below the timber’s new-leav’d tops, Wer ashèn poles, a-castèn straïght, On primrwose beds, their langthy waïght; Below the yollow light, a-shed Drough boughs upon the vi’let’s head, By climèn ivy, that did reach, A sheenèn roun’ the dead-leav’d beech. An’ there her father zot, an’ meäde His hwomely meal bezide a gleäde; While she, a-croopèn down to ground, Did pull the flowers, where she vound The droopèn vi’let out in blooth, Or yollow primrwose in the lewth, That she mid car em proudly back, An’ zet em on her mother’s tack; Vor she wer bless’d wi’ mwore than zwome— A father out, an’ mother hwome. A father out, an’ mother hwome, Be blessèns soon a-lost by zome; A-lost by me, an’ zoo I pray’d They mid be speär’d the little maïd.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/A Snowy Night

A SNOWY NIGHT.
’Twer at night, an’ a keen win’ did blow  Vrom the east under peäle-twinklèn stars, All a-zweepèn along the white snow;  On the groun’, on the trees, on the bars, Vrom the hedge where the win’ russled drough,  There a light-russlèn snow-doust did vall; An’ noo pleäce wer a-vound that wer lew,  But the shed, or the ivy-hung wall.
Then I knock’d at the wold passage door  Wi’ the win’-driven snow on my locks; Till, a-comèn along the cwold vloor,  There my Jenny soon answer’d my knocks. Then the wind, by the door a-swung wide,  Flung some snow in her clear-bloomèn feäce, An’ she blink’d wi’ her head all a-zide,  An’ a-chucklèn, went back to her pleäce.
An’ in there, as we zot roun’ the brands,  Though the talkers wer mainly the men, Bloomèn Jeäne, wi’ her work in her hands,  Did put in a good word now an’ then. An’ when I took my leave, though so bleäk  Wer the weather, she went to the door, Wi’ a smile, an’ a blush on the cheäk  That the snow had a-smitten avore.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Gruffmoody Grim

GRUFFMOODY GRIM.
Aye, a sad life his wife must ha’ led, Vor so snappish he’s leätely a-come, That there’s nothèn but anger or dread Where he is, abroad or at hwome; He do wreak all his spite on the bwones O’ whatever do vlee, or do crawl; He do quarrel wi’ stocks, an’ wi’ stwones, An’ the rain, if do hold up or vall; There is nothèn vrom mornèn till night Do come right to Gruffmoody Grim.
Woone night, in his anger, he zwore At the vier, that didden burn free: An’ he het zome o’t out on the vloor, Vor a vlanker it cast on his knee. Then he kicked it vor burnèn the child, An’ het it among the cat’s heaïrs; An’ then beät the cat, a-run wild, Wi’ a spark on her back up the steaïrs: Vor even the vier an’ fleäme Be to bleäme wi’ Gruffmoody Grim.
​Then he snarl’d at the tea in his cup, Vor ’twer all a-got cwold in the pot, But ’twer woo’se when his wife vill’d it up Vrom the vier, vor ’twer then scaldèn hot; Then he growl’d that the bread wer sich stuff As noo hammer in parish could crack, An’ flung down the knife in a huff; Vor the edge o’n wer thicker’n the back. Vor beäkers an’ meäkers o’ tools Be all fools wi’ Gruffmoody Grim.
Oone day as he vish’d at the brook, He flung up, wi’ a quick-handed knack, His long line, an’ his high-vleèn hook Wer a-hitch’d in zome briars at his back. Then he zwore at the brembles, an’ prick’d His beäre hand, as he pull’d the hook free; An’ ageän, in a rage, as he kick’d At the briars, wer a-scratch’d on the knee. An’ he wish’d ev’ry bremble an’ briar Wer o’ vier, did Gruffmoody Grim.
Oh! he’s welcome, vor me, to breed dread Wherever his sheäde mid alight, An’ to live wi’ noo me’th round his head, An’ noo feäce wi’ a smile in his zight; But let vo’k be all merry an’ zing At the he’th where my own logs do burn, An’ let anger’s wild vist never swing In where I have a door on his durn; Vor I’ll be a happier man, While I can, than Gruffmoody Grim.
To zit down by the vier at night, Is my jaÿ—vor I woon’t call it pride,— Wi’ a brand on the bricks, all alight, An’ a pile o’ zome mwore at the zide. Then tell me o’ zome’hat that’s droll, ​An’ I’ll laugh till my two zides do eäche Or o’ naïghbours in sorrow o’ soul, An’ I’ll tweil all the night vor their seäke; An’ show that to teäke things amiss Idden bliss, to Gruffmoody Grim.
An’ then let my child clim’ my lag, An’ I’ll lift en, wi’ love, to my chin; Or my maïd come an’ coax me to bag Vor a frock, an’ a frock she shall win; Or, then if my wife do meäke light O’ whatever the bwoys mid ha’ broke, It wull seem but so small in my zight, As a leaf a-het down vrom a woak An’ not meäke me ceäper an’ froth Vull o’ wrath, lik’ Gruffmoody Grim.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Fifehead

FIFEHEAD.
’Twer where my fondest thoughts do light, At Fifehead, while we spent the night; The millwheel’s restèn rim wer dry, An’ houn’s held up their evenèn cry; An’ lofty, drough the midnight sky, Above the vo’k, wi’ heavy heads, Asleep upon their darksome beds, The stars wer all awake, John.
Noo birds o’ day wer out to spread Their wings above the gully’s bed, An’ darkness roun’ the elem-tree ’D a-still’d the charmy childern’s glee. All he’ths wer cwold but woone, where we Wer gaÿ, ’tis true, but gaÿ an’ wise, An’ laugh’d in light o’ maïden’s eyes. That glissen’d wide awake, John.
An’ when we all, lik’ loosen’d hounds, Broke out o’ doors, wi’ merry sounds, Our friends among the plaÿsome team, All brought us gwäin so vur’s the stream. But Jeäne, that there, below a gleam O’ light, watch’d woone o’s out o’ zight; Vor willènly, vor his “Good night,” She’d longer bide awake, John.
An’ while up Leighs we stepp’d along Our grassy path, wi’ joke an’ zong, There Plumber, wi’ its woody ground, O’ slopèn knaps a-screen’d around, Rose dim ’ithout a breath o’ sound, The wold abode o’ squiers a-gone, Though while they lay a-sleepèn on, Their stars wer still awake, John.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Glossary

A LIST
OF
SOME DORSET WORDS
WITH A FEW HINTS ON DORSET WORD-SHAPES.
THE MAIN SOUNDS.
1. ee in beet. 2. e in Dorset (a sound between 1 and 3.) 3. a in mate. 4. i in birth. 5. a in father. 6. aw in awe. 7. o dote. 8. oo in rood.
In Dorset words which are forms of book-English ones, the Dorset words differ from the others mainly by Grimm's law, that "likes shift into likes," and I have given a few hints by which the putting of an English heading for the Dorset one will give the English word. If the reader is posed by dreaten, he may try for dr, thr, which will bring out threaten See Dr under D.
A.
(Note—The numbers (as 5, 1) refer to the foregiven table.)
B.
[This is a Friesic and not an Anglo-Saxon form of the word, and Halbertsma, in his "Lexicon Frisicum" gives it, among others, as a token that Frisians came into Wessex with the Saxons. See Eltrot.]
"Neither brack nor crack in it."
C.
D.
E
ē (2).
F
G
H
The steps of haymaking by hand, in the rich meadow lands of Blackmore, ere machines were brought into the field, were these:—The grass being mown, and lying in swath, it was (1) tedded, spread evenly over the ground; (2) it was turned to dry the under side; (3) it was in the evening raked up into rollers, each roller of the grass of the stretch of one rake, and the rollers were sometimes put up into hay cocks; (4) in the morning the rollers were cast abroad into pa’sels (parcels) or broad lists, with clear ground between each two; (5) the parcels were turned, and when dry they were pushed up into weäles (weales) or long ridges, and, with a fear of rain, the weäles were put up pooks, or big peaked heaps; the waggon (often called the plow) came along between two weäles or rows of pooks, with two loaders, and a pitcher on each side pitched up to them the hay of his side, while two women raked after plow, or raked up the leavings of the pitchers, who stepped back from time to time to take it from them.
J.
The true Jack-o’-lent was, as we learn from Taylor, the water poet, a ragged, lean-like figure which went as a token of Lent, in olden times, in Lent processions.
K.
L.
M.
N.
O.
P.
To cut the stems half off and peg them down on the bank where they sprout upward.
To plush, shear, and trim a hedge are sundry handlings of it.
The plough or plow for ploughing is the Zull.
Q.
R.
A Roller vas also a little roll of wool from the card of a woolcomber.
S
T
U.
V
W
Y
Z
Turnbull & Spears, Printers.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Good Night

GOOD NIGHT.
While down the meäds wound slow,  Water vor green-wheel’d mills, Over the streams bright bow,  Win’ come vrom dark-back’d hills. Birds on the win’ shot along down steep Slopes, wi’ a swift-swung zweep. Dim weän’d the red streak’d west. Lim’-weary souls “Good-rest.”
​Up on the plough’d hill brow,  Still wer the zull’s wheel’d beam, Still wer the red-wheel’d plough,  Free o’ the strong limb’d team. Still wer the shop that the smith meäde ring, Dark where the sparks did spring; Low shot the zun’s last beams. Lim’-weary souls “Good dreams,”
Where I vrom dark bank-sheädes  Turn’d up the west hill road, Where all the green grass bleädes  Under the zunlight glow’d. Startled I met, as the zunbeams plaÿ’d Light, wi’ a zunsmote maïd, Come vor my day’s last zight. Zun-brighten’d maïd “Good night.”