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NORTHERN FARMER.

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| 'T isn them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steals,

Them as 'as coats to their backs an' taäkes their regular meäls.

Noä, but it 's them as niver knaws wheer a meäl 's to be 'ad. [loomp is bad. Taäke my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a

Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a bean a laäzy lot,

Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got.

Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leästwaäys 'is munny was 'id. [good un, 'e did. But 'e tued an' moil'd 'issén dead, an' 'e died a

Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck comes out by the 'ill !

Feyther run up to the farm, an' I runs up to the mill;

An' I'll run up to the brig, an' that thou 'll live

to see;

[land to thee. And if thou marries a good un I'll leave the

Thim 's my noätions, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick ;

But if thou marries a bad un, I'll leave the land to Dick.

Coom oop, proputty, proputty-that 's what I 'ears 'im saäy

Proputty, proputty, proputty-canter an' canter awady.

COME not, when I am dead,

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, [save. To trample round my fallen head, And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; But thou, go by.

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime

I care no longer, being all unblest:
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
And I desire to rest.

Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lic;
Go by, go by.

BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill: But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

WILLIAM BARNES.

WILLIAM BARNES was born in Dorsetshire | in 1810. His father was a farmer. With but limited educational advantages, he acquired a surprising amount of learning, especially on philological subjects. He taught school for some years in his native county, but took orders, and became curate of Whitcombe in 1847 and rector of Winterbourn Came in 1862. He has published a "Grammar of the Dorset Dia

IN THE DORSET DIALECT.

BLACKMWORE MAIDENS.

THE primrwose in the sheade do blow,
The cowslip in the zun,

The thyme upon the down do grow,
The clote where streams do run;
An' where do pretty maidens grow
An' blow, but where the tow'r
Do rise among the bricken tuns,
In Blackmwore by the Stour?

If you could zee their comely gait,
An' pretty feaces' smiles,
A-trippen on so light o' waight,
An' steppen off the stiles;
A-gwain to church, as bells do swing
An' ring within the tow'r,

You'd own the pretty maidens' pleace
Is Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you vrom Wimborne took your road,
To Stower or Paladore,

An' all the farmers' housen show'd
Their daeters at the door;

You'd cry to bachelors at hwome-
"Here, come: 'ithin an hour

You'll vind ten maidens to your mind,
In Blackmwere by the Stour."

An' if you looked 'ithin their door,
To zee 'em in their pleace,
A-doen housework up avore
Their smilen mother's feace;

You'd cry-" Why, if a man would wive
An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r,
Then let en look en out a wife
In Blackmwore by the Stour."

As I upon my road did pass
A school-house back in May,
There out upon the beaten grass
Wer maidens at their play;

lect," a "Philological Grammar," which involves a comparison of more than sixty languages, "Tiev; or, a View of the Roots and Stems of the English as a Teutonic Tongue," an "Anglo-Sax on Dialectus," "Views of Labor and Gold," and a treatise on linear perspective. In 1864 he published" Poems of Rural Life, in the Dorset Dialect," and in 1868 "Poems of Rural Lite, in Common English."

An' as the pretty souls did twile An' smile, I cried, "The flow 'r O' beauty, then, is still in bud In Blackmwore by the Stour."

DAY'S WORK A-DONE.

AND Oh! the jay our rest did yield,
At evenen by the mossy wall,
When we'd a-work'd all day a-vield,
While zummer zuns did rise an' vall
As there a-letten
Goo all fretten,

An' vorgetten all our twiles,
We zot among our childern's smiles.

An' under skies that glitter'd white,
The while our smoke, arisen blue,
Did melt in aier, out o' zight,
Above the trees that kept us low;
Wer birds a-zingen,
Tongues a-ringen,
Childern springen, vull o' jay,
A-finishen the day in play.

An' back behine, a-stannen tall,
The cliff did feace the western light;
Avore us wer the water-fall,
A-rottlen loud, an' foamen white.
An' leaves did quiver,
Gnots did whiver,

By the river, where the pool,
In evenen air did glissen cool.

An' there the childern, runnen wide,

Did play their geames along the grove, Vor though 'twer ouer jay to bide A-zot at rest, 'twer theirs to move. The while my smilen

Jeane, beguilen,

All my twilen, wi' her ceare, Did call me to my evenen feare.

THE MOTHERLESS CHILD.

THE MOTHERLESS CHILD.

THE zun wer zet back t'other night,
But in the zetten pleace
The clouds, a-redden'd by his light,
Still glow'd avore my feace.
An' I've a-lost my Meary's smile,
I thought; but still I have her chile,
Zoo lik' her, that my eyes can treace
The mother's in her daeter's feace.

O little feace so near to me,

An' lik' thy mother's gone; why need I zae, Sweet night cloud, wi' the glow o' my lost dae, Thy looks be always dear to me?

The zun wer zet another night;
But, by the moon on high,

He still did zend us back his light
Below a cwolder sky.

My Meary's in a better land,

I thought, but still her chile's at hand,

An' in her chile she 'll zend me on

Her love, though she herself 's a-gone.
O little chile so near to me,

An' lik' thy mother gone; why need I zae,
Sweet moon, the messenger vrom my lost dae,
Thy looks be always dear to me?

FAETHERHOOD.

LET en zit, wi' his dog an' his cat,

Wi' ther noses a-turn'd to the vire,
An' have all that a man should desire;
But ther idden much readship in that.
Whether vo'k mid have childern or no,

Wou'dden meake mighty odds in the main; They do bring us mwore jay wi' mwore ho,

An' wi mwore we've less jay wi' less pain.
We be all lik' a zull's idle sheare out,
An' shall rust out, unless we do wear out,
Lik' do-nothen, rue-nothen,
Dead alive dumps.

As vor me, why my life idden bound
To my own heart alwone, among men ;
I do live in myzelf, and agean
In the lives o' my childern all round:
I do live wi' my bwoy in his play,

An' agean wi' my maid in her zongs;
An' my heart is a-stirr'd wi' ther jay,

An' would burn at the zight o' ther wrongs.

I ha' nine lives, an' zoo if a haef
O'm do cry, why the rest o'm mid laef
All so playvully, jayvully,
Happy wi' hope.

T'other night I come hwome a long road,
When the weather did sting an' did vreeze;
An' the snow-vor the dae had a-snow'd-
Wer avroze on the boughs o' the trees;
An' my tooes an' my vingers wer num',
An' my veet wer as lumpy as logs,
An' my ears wer so red's a cock's cwom';
An' my nose wer so cwold as a dog's';
But as soon's I got hwome I vorgot
Where my limbs wer a-cwold or wer hot,
When wi' loud cries an' proud cries
They coll'd me so cwold.

Vor the vu'st that I happen'd to meet

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Come to pull my gertcwoat vrom my earm, An' another did rub my feace warm, An' another hot-slipper'd my veet; While ther mother did cast on a stick, Vor to keep the red vier alive, An' they all come so busy an' thick

As the bees vlee-en into ther hive, An' they meade me so happy an' proud, That my heart could ha' crow'd out a-loud; They did twile zoo, an' zmile zoo, An' coll'd me so cwold.

As I zot wi' my teacup, at rest,

Ther I pull'd out the tays I did bring;
Men a-kicken, a wagg'd wi' a string,
An' goggle-ey'd dolls to be drest;
An' oh! vrom the childern there sprung

Such a charm when they handled ther tays,
That vor pleasure the bigger oones wrung
Ther two hands at the zight o' ther jays;
As the bwoys' bigger vaices vell in
Wi' the maidens a-titteren thin,
An' ther dancen an' prancen,
An' little mouth'd laefs.

Though 'tis hard stripes to breed 'em all up, If I'm only a-blest from above,

They'll make me amends wi' ther love, Vor ther pillor, ther pleate, an' ther cup; Though I shall be never a-spwil'd

Wi' the sarvice that money can buy; Still the hands ov a wife an' a child

Be the blessens ov low or ov high; An' if ther be mouths to be fed, He that zent 'em can zend me ther bread, An' will smile on the chile

That's a-new on the knee.

MEARY WEDDED.

THE zun can zink, the stars mid rise,
An' woods be green to sheenen skies;
The cock mid crow to mornen light,
An' workvo'k zing to vallen night;
The birds mid whissle on the spray,
An' childern leap in merry play,
But ours is now a lifeless pleace,
Vor we've a-lost a smilen face-

Young Meary Mead o' merry mood,
Vor she's a-woo'd an' wedded.

The dog that oonce wer glad to bear
Her fondlen vingers down his heair,
Do lean his head agean the vloor,
To watch, wi' heavy eyes, the door;
An' men she zent so happy hwome,
O' Zadderdaes, do seem to come
To door, wi' downcast hearts, to miss
Wi' smiles below the clematis,

Young Meary Mead o' merry mood,
Vor she 's a-woo'd an' wedded.
When they do drae the evenen blind,
An' when the evenen light 's a-tin'd,
The cheerless vire do drow a gleare
O' light agean her empty chair;

An' wordless gaps do now meake thin
Their talk where oonce her vaice come in.
Zoo Iwonesome is her empty pleace,
An' blest the house that ha' the feace
O' Meary Mead o' merry mood,
Now she 's a-woo'd an' wedded.

The day she left her facther's he'th,
Though sad, wer kept a day o' me'th,
Au' dry-wheel'd waggons' empty beds
Wer left 'ithin the tree-screen'd sheds;
An' ail the hosses, at their ease,
Went snorten up the flow'ry lease,
But oone,
the smartest for the road,
That pull'd away the dearest Iwoad-
Young Meary Mead o' merry mood,
That wer a-woo'd and wedded.

THE STWONEN BWOY UPON THE PILLAR.

Wr' smokeless tuns and empty halls,
An' moss a-clingen to the walls,
In ev'ry wind the lofty tow'rs

Do teake the zun, an' bear the show'rs;
An' there, 'ithin a geat a-hung,
But vassen'd up, an' never swung,
Upon the pillar, all alwone,

Do stan' the little bwoy o' stwone;
The seame's a poppy, ling' ren on
Vorseaken, when the wheat 's a-gone.
An' there, then, wi' his bow let slack,
An' little quiver at his back,
Droo het an' wet, the little chile
Vrom day to day do stan' an' smile,
When vu'st the light, a-risen weak,
At break o' dae, do smite his cheak,
Or while at noon the leafy bough
Do cast a sheade athirt his brow,
Or when at night the warm-breath'd cows
Do sleep by moon-belighted boughs;
An' there the while the rooks do bring
Their scroff to build their nest in spring,
Or zwallows in the zummer dae
Do cling their little huts o' clay,
'Ithin the rainless sheades, below
The steadvast arches' mossy bow.
Or when, in fall, the woak do shed
The leaves a-wither'd vrom his head,
An' western win's, a-blowen cool,
Do dreve 'em out athirt the pool,
Or winter's clouds do gather dark,
An' wet wi' rain the elem's bark,
You'll zee his perty smile betwixt
His little sheade-mark'd lips a-fix'd;
As there his little sheape do bide
Droo dae an' night, an' time an' tide,
An' never change his size or dress,
Nor awvergrow his prettiness.
But, oh! thik child that we do vind
In childhood still, do call to mind
A little bwoy a-call'd by death,
Long years agoo, vrom our sad he'th;
An' I, in thought, can zee en dim
The seame in feace, the seame in lim','
My heair mid whiten as the snow,
My limbs grow weak, my step wear slow,

My droopen head mid slowly vall
Above the han'-staff's glossy ball,
An' eet, vor all a wid'nen span
Ov years, mid change a liven man,
My little chile do still appear
To me wi' all his childhood's gear,
'Ithout a beard upon his chin,
'Ithout a wrinkle in his skin,
A-liven on, a chile the seame

In look, an' sheape, an' size, an' neame.

THE SLANTEN LIGHT O' FALL.

Au! Jeane, my maid, I stood to you,
When you wer' cristen'd, small an' light,
Wi' tiny earms o' red an' blue,

A-hangen in your robe o' white.
We brought ye to the hallow'd stwone,
Vor Christ to teake ye vor his own,
When harvest-work wer' all a-done,
An' time brought round October zun-
The slanten light o' Fall.

An' I can mind the wind wer' rough,

An' gather'd clouds, but brought noo storms, An' you wer' nessled warm enough,

'Ithin your smilen mother's earms.
The whindlen grass did quiver light,
Among the stubble, feaded white,
An' if at times the zunlight broke
Upon the groun', or on the vo'k,

'T wer' slanten light o' Fall.

An' when we brought ye droo the door O' Knapton Church, a child o' greace, There cluster'd roun' a'most a score

O' vo'k to zee your tiny feace. An' there we all did veel so proud, To zee an op'nen in the cloud, An' then a stream o' light break droo, A-sheenen brightly down on you—

The slanten light o' Fall.

But now your time 's a-come to stan'
In church a-blushen at my zide,
The while a bridegroom vrom my han'
Ha' took ye vor his faithvul bride.
Your Christian neame we gi'd ye here,
When Fall did cool the western year;
An' now, agean, we brought ye droo
The doorway, wi' your surneame new,
In slanten light o' Fall.

An' zoo vur, Jeane, your life is feair,

An' God ha' been your steadvast friend, An' mid ye have more jay than ceare,

Vor ever, till your journey's end.
An' I've a-watch'd ye on wi' pride,
But now I soon mus' leave your zide,
Vor you ha' still life's spring-tide zun,
But my life, Jeane, is now a-run
To slanten light o' Fall.

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WHEN evening is closing in all round,

And winds in the dark-boughed timber sound,
The flame of my candle, dazzling bright,
May shine full clear-full clear may shine,
But never can show my child to sight.

And warm is the bank, where boughs are still,
On timber below the windward hill,
But now, in the stead of summer hay,
Dead leaves are cast-are cast dead leaves,
Where lately I saw my child at play.

And oh! could I see, as may be known
To angels, my little maid full grown,
As time would have made her, woman tall,
If she had lived-if lived had she,
And not have died now, so young and small.

Do children that go to heaven play?
Are young that were gay in heaven gay?
Are old people bowed by weakening time,
In heaven bowed-all bowed in heaven?
Or else are they all in blissful prime?

Yes, blest with all blessings are the blest,
Their lowest of good's above our best,
So show me the highest soul you can
In shape and mind-in mind and shape
Yet far above him is heaven's man.

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