Aye, thik there teäle mid do vor childern's books: But you wull vind it hardish for ye To frighten me, John, wi' a storry O' silly pigs an' cunnèn rooks. If we be grubbèn pigs, why then, I s'pose, The farmers an' the girt woones be the crows.
'Tis very odd there idden any friend To poor-vo'k hereabout, but men mus' come To do us good away from tother end Ov England! Han't we any frien's near hwome? I mus' zay, Thomas, that 'tis rather odd That strangers should become so very civil,-- That ouer vo'k be childern o' the Devil, An' other vo'k be all the vo'k o' God! If we've a-got a friend at all, Why who can tell--I'm sure thou cassen-- But that the squier, or the pa'son, Mid be our friend, Tom, after all? The times be hard, 'tis true! an' they that got His blessèns, shoulden let theirzelves vorget How 'tis where the vo'k do never zet A bit o' meat within their rusty pot. The man a-zittèn in his easy chair To flesh, an' vowl, an' vish, should try to speäre The poor theäse times, a little vrom his store; An' if he don't, why sin is at his door.
Ah! we won't look to that; we'll have our right,-- If not by feäir meäns, then we wull by might. We'll meäke times better vor us; we'll be free Ov other vo'k an' others' charity.
Ah! I do think you mid as well be quiet; You'll meäke things wo'se, i'-ma'-be, by a riot. You'll get into a mess, Tom, I'm afeärd; You'll goo vor wool, an' then come hwome a-sheär'd.
The primrwose in the sheäde do blow, The cowslip in the zun, The thyme upon the down do grow, The clote where streams do run; An' where do pretty maïdens 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 gaït, An' prettÿ feäces' smiles, A-trippèn on so light o' waïght, An' steppèn off the stiles; A-gwaïn to church, as bells do swing An' ring 'ithin the tow'r, You'd own the pretty maïdens' pleäce Is Blackmwore by the Stour.
If you vrom Wimborne took your road, To Stower or Paladore, An' all the farmers' housen show'd Their daughters at the door; You'd cry to bachelors at hwome-- "Here, come: 'ithin an hour You'll vind ten maïdens to your mind, In Blackmwore by the Stour."
An' if you look'd 'ithin their door, To zee em in their pleäce, A-doèn housework up avore Their smilèn mother's feäce; 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."