THE YEAR-CLOCK

We zot bezide the leafy wall,
Upon the bench at evenfall,
While aunt led off our minds wrom ceare
Wi' veairy teales, I can't tell where,
An' vound us woone among her stock
O' feables, o' the gert Year-clock.
His feace wer blue's the zummer skies,
An' wide's the zight o'looken eyes,
For hands, a zun wi' glowen feace,
An' pealer moon wi' swifter peace,
Did wheel by stars o' twinklen light,
By bright-wall'd day, an' dark-treed night;
An' down upon the high-sky'd land,
A'reachen wide, on either hand,
Wer hill an' dell, wi' win'-sway'd trees,
An' lights a'zweepen over seas,
An' gleamen cliffs, an' bright-wall'd tow'rs,
Wi' sheades a-marken on the hours;
An' as the feace, a-rollen round,
Brought comely sheapes along the ground,
The Spring did come in winsome steate
Below a glowen rainbow geate;
An' fan wi' air a-blowen weak,
Her glossy heair, an' rwosy cheak,
As she did shed vrom open hand,
The leapen zeed on vurrow'd land;
The while the rook, wi' heasty flight,
A-floaten in the glowen light,
Did bear avore her glossy breast
A stick to build her lofty nest,
An' strong-limbed Tweil, wi' steady hands,
Did guide along the vallow lands
The heavy zull, wi' bright-shear'd beam,
Avore the weary oxen-team.
Wi' Spring a-gone there come behind
Sweet Zummer, jay on ev'ry mind,
Wi' feace a-beamen to beguile
Our weary souls ov ev'ry tweil,
While birds did warble in the dell,
In softest air o' sweetest smell;
An' she, so winsome-feair did vwold
Her comely limbs in green an' goold,
An' wear a rwosy wreath, wi' studs
O' berries green, an' new-born buds,
A-fring'd in colours vier-bright,
Wi' sheapes o'buttervlies in flight.
When Summer went, the next ov all
Did come the sheape o' brown-feac'd Fall,
A-smile in a comely gown
O'green, a-shot wi' yollow-brown,
A-border'd wi' a goolden stripe
O'fringe, a-meade o' corn-ears ripe,
An' up agean her comely zide,
Upon her rounded earm, did ride
A pretty basket, all a-twin'd
O' slender stems wi' leaves an' rind,
A-vill'd wi' fruit the trees did shed,
All ripe, in purple, goold an' red;
An' busy Leabor there did come
A-zingen zongs ov harvest hwome,
An' red-ear'd dogs did briskly run
Roun' cheervul Leisure, wi' his gun,
Or stan' an' mark, wi' stedvast zight,
The speckled pa'tridge rise in flight.
An' next agean to mild-feac'd Fall
Did come peale Winter, last ov all,
A-benden down, in thoughtvul mood,
Her head 'ithin a snow-white hood,
A-deck'd wi' icy-jewels bright,
An' cwold as twinklen stars o' night;
An' there were weary Leabor, slack
O' veet to keep her vrozen track,
A-looken off, wi' wistful eyes,
To reefs o'smoke, that there did rise
A-melten to the peale-feac'd zun,
Above the houses' lofty tun.
An' there the gert Year-clock did goo
By day an' night, vor ever true,
Wi' mighty wheels a-rollen round
'Ithout a beat, 'ithout a sound.

WOAK HILL

When sycamore leaves wer a-spreaden,
   Green-ruddy in hedges,
Bezide the red doust o' the ridges,
   A-dried at Woak Hill,

I packed up my goods all a-sheenen
   Wi' long years o' handlen,
On dousty red wheels ov a waggon,
   To ride at Woak Hill.

The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellen
   I then wer a-leaven
Had shelter'd the sleek head o' Meary,
   My bride at Woak Hill.

But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall
   'S a-lost vrom the vlooren:
Too soon vor my joy an' my childern,
   She died at Woak Hill.

But still I do think that, in soul,
   She do hover about us-
To ho vor her motherless childern,
   Her pride at Woak Hill.

Zoo-lest she should tell me hereafter
   I stole off 'ithout her,
An' left her, uncall'd at house-ridden,
   To bide at Woak Hill,

I call'd herso fondly, wi' lippens
   All soundless to others,
An' took her wi' air-reachen hand
   To my zide at Woak Hill.

On the road I did look round, a-talken
   To light at my shoulder,
An' then led her in at the door-way,
   Miles wide vrom Woak Hill.

An' that's why vo'k thought, vor a season,
   My mind wer a-wandren
Wi' sorrow, when I wer so sorely
   A-tried at Woak Hill.

But no-that my Meary mid never
   Behold herself slighted,
I wanted to think that I guided
   My guide vrom Woak Hill.

THE CHILD AN' THE MOWERS

O AYE! they had woone child bezide,
An' a finer your eyes never met,
Twer a dear little fellow that died
In the summer that come wi' such het;
By the mowers, too thoughtless in fun,
He wer then a-zent off vrom our eyes,
Vrom the light ov the dew-dryen zun,-
Aye! vrom days under the blue-hollow'd skies.

He went out to the mowers in meade,
When the zun wer a-rose to his height,
An' the men wer a-swingen the snead,
Wi' their earms in white sleeves, left an' right;
An' out there, as they rested at noon,
O! they drench'd en vrom eale-horns too deep,
Till his thoughts wer a-drown'd in a swoon;
Aye! his life wer a-smother'd in sleep.

Then they laid en there-right on the ground,
On a grass-heap, a-zweltren wi'het,
Wi' his heair all a-wetted around
His young feace, wi' the big drops o' zweat;
In his little left palm he'd a-zet,
Wi' his right hand, his vore-finger's tip;
As vor zome-hat he woulden vorget,-
Aye! zome thought that he woulden let slip.

Then they took en in hwome to his bed,
An' he rose vrom his pillow noo mwore,
Vor the curls on his sleek little head
To be blown by the wind out o' door.
Vor he died while the hay russled grey
On the staddle so leately begun:
Lik' the mown grass a-dried by the day,-
Aye! the zwath-flow'r's a-killed by the zun.

WOONE SMILE MWORE

O! Meary, when the zun went down,
 Woone night in spring, wi' viry rim,
Behind the knap wi' woody crown,
 An' left your smilen feace so dim;
Your little sister there, inside,
 Wi' bellows on her little knee,
Did blow the vire, a-glearen wide
 Drough window-peanes, that I could zee,-
As you did stan' wi' me, avore
The house, a-pearten,-woone smile mwore.

The chatt'ren birds, a-risen high,
 An' zinken low, did swiftly vlee
Vrom shrinken moss, a-growen dry,
 Upon the leanen apple tree.
An' there the dog, a-whippen wide
 His low-bow'd tail, an' comen near,
Did fondly lay agean your zide,
 His coal-black nose an' russet ear;
To win what I'd a-won avore,
Vrom your gay feace, his woone smile mwore.

An' while your mother bustled sprack,
 A-getten supper out in hall,
An' cast her sheade, a-whiv'ren black
 Avore the vire, upon the wall;
Your brother come, wi' easy peace,
 In drough the slammen geate, along
The path, wi' healthy-bloomen feace,
 A-whis'len sh'ill his last new zong:
An' when he come avore the door,
He met vrom you his woone smile mwore.

Now you that wer the daughter there,
 Be mother on a husband's vloor,
An' mid ye meet wi' less o' ceare
 Than what your hearty mother bore;
An' if abroad I have to rue
 The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed,
Mid I come hwome to sheare wi' you
 What's needvul free o' pinchen need;
An' vind that you ha' still in store,
My evenen meal, an' woone smile mwore.

THE TURNSTILE

Ah! sad wer we as we did peace
the wold church road, wi' downcast feace,
the while the bells, that mwoaned so deep
above our child a-left asleep,
wer now a-zingen all alive
wi' t'other bells to meake the vive.
But up at woone pleace we come by,
t'wer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry--
on Stean-cliff road, 'ithin the drong,
up where, as vo'k do pass along,
the turnen stile, a-painted white,
do sheen by day an' show by night.
Vor always there, as we did goo
to church, thik stile did let us drough,
wi' spreaden arms that wheeled to guide
us each in turn to t'other zide.
An' vu'st ov all the train he took
my wife, wi' winsome gait an' look:
An' then zent on my little maid,
a-skippen onward, overjay'd
to reach agean the pleace o' pride,
her comely mother's left han' zide.
An' then, a-wheelen roun', he took
on me, 'ithin his third white nook.
An' in the fourth, a sheaken wild,
he zent us on our giddy child.
But eesterday he guided slow
my downcast Jenny, vull o' woe,
an' then my little maid in black,
a-walken softly on her track.
An' after he'd a-turned agean
to let me goo along the leane,
he had noo little bwoy to vill
his last white earms, an' they stood still.

VIELDS BY WATERVALLS

When our downcast looks be smileless,
 Under others' wrongs an' slightens,
When our daily deeds be guileless,
 An' do meet unkind requitens,
You can meake us zome amends
Vor wrongs o' foes, an' slights o' friends;-
O flow'ry-gleaded, timber-sheaded
Vields by flowen watervalls!

Here be softest airs a'blowen
 Drough the boughs, wi'zingen drushes,
Up above the streams, a-flowen
 Under willows, on by rushes.
Here below the bright-zunned sky
The dew-bespangled flow'rs do dry,
In woody-zided, stream-divided
Vields by flowen watervalls.

Waters, wi' their giddy rollens;
 Breezes wi' their playsome wooens;
Here do heal, in soft consolens,
 Hearts-a-wrung wi' man's wrong doens.
Day do come to us as gay
As to king ov widest sway,
In deaisy-whiten'd, gil'cup-brightened
Vields by flowen watervalls.

Zome feair buds mid outlive blightens,
 Zome sweet hopes mid outlive sorrow,
A'ter days of wrongs an' slightens
 There mid break a happy morrow.
We mid have noo ea'thly love;
But God's love-tokens vrom above
Here mid meet us, here mid greet us,
In the vields by watervalls.


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