The Dialect of the West of England; Particularly Somersetshire - James Jennings (book recommendations based on other books txt) 📗

[The MS. song was never, that I am aware of, discovered after my relative’s death.—Editor, J. K. J.]] An nif yon hân’t a hired o’ her, You zumtime sholl vor sartin.

“Luck, Luck in tha Bag!” TOM, cried “Put in and try yer fortin; Come try yer luck in tha lucky bag; You’ll git a prize vor sartin.

All prizes, norra blank, Norra blank, âll prizes! A waiter—knife—or scissis sheer— A splat o’ pins—put in my dear!— Whitechapel nills âll sizes.

Luck, Luck in tha Bag!—only a penny vor a venter—you mid get, a-ma-be, a girt prize—a Rawman waiter!—I can avoord it as cheep as thic that stawl it—I a bote it ta trust, an niver intend to pâ vor’t. Luck, Luck in tha bag! âll prizes; norra blank!

Luck, Luck in tha Bag! Good Luck! Put in an try yer fortin; Come, try yer luck in tha lucky bag! You’ll git a prize vor sartin.

Come, niver mine tha singlesticks, Tha whoppin or tha stickler, You dwon’t want now a brawken head, “Nor jitchy zoort o’ tickler!

Now Lady! yer prize is—‘A SNUFF-BOX,’ A treble-japann’d Pontypool! You’ll shower come again ta my luck in tha bag, Or niver trust me—TOMMY GOOL.

Luck, Luck in tha bag! Good Luck! Put in an try yer fortin; Come, try yer luck in tha lucky bag! You’ll git a prize for sartin!

TEDDY BAND.

“The short and simple annals of the poor.” GRAY.

Miss Hanson to Miss Mortimer. Ashcot, July 21st.

My Dear Jane.

Will you do me the favour to amuse yourself and your friends with the enclosed epistle? it is certainly an original—written in the dialect of the County. You will easily understand it, and, I do not doubt, the “moril” too.

Edward Band, or as he is more commonly called here, Teddy Band, is a poor, but honest and industrious cottager, but I am, nevertheless, disposed to think that “if ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise.”

My dear Jane, affectionately yours,

MARIA HANSON.

Teddy Band to Miss Hanson.

Mâm,

I da thenk you’ll smile at theeäzam here veo lains that I write ta you, bin I be naw scholard; vor vather coud’n avoord ta put I ta school. Bit nif you’ll vorgee me vor my bauldniss, a-mâ-be, I mid not be afeard ta zâ zummet ta you that you, mâm yourzell mid like ta hire. Bit how be I ta knaw that? I knaw that you be a goodhorted Lady, an da like ta zee poor vawk well-at-eased an happy. You axt I tother dâ ta zing a zong: now I dwont much like zum o’ thâ zongs that I hired thic night at squire Reevs’s when we made an end o’ Hâ-corrin: vor, zim ta I, there war naw moril to ‘em. I like zongs wi’ a moril to ‘em. Tha nawtes, ta be shower, war zât anow, bit, vor âll that, I war looking vor tha moril, mâm. Zo, when I cum’d whim, I tawld our Pall, that you axt I ta zing: an I war zorry âterward that I did’n, bin you be âlways zo desperd good ta poor vowk. Bit I thawt, a-mâ-be, you mid be angry wi’ my country lidden. Why Teddy, zed Pall, dwontye zend Miss Hanson thic zong which ye made yerzel; I thenk ther is a moril in thic. An zo, mâm, nif you please, I a zent tha zong. I haup you’ll vorgee me.

Mâm, your humble sarvant,

TEDDY BAND.

ZONG.

I have a cot o’ Cobwâll Roun which tha ivy clims; My Pally at tha night-vâll Er crappin viër trims.

A comin vrom tha plow-veel I zee tha blankers rise, Wi’ blue smauk cloudy curlin, An whivering up tha skies.

When tha winter wines be crousty, An snaws dreav vast along, I hurry whim—tha door tine, An cheer er wi’ a zong.

When spreng, adresst in tutties, Câlls âll tha birds abroad; An wrans an robin-riddicks, Tell âll the cares o’ God,

I zit bezides my cot-door After my work is done, While Pally, bizzy knittin, Looks at tha zottin zun.

When zummertime is passin, An narras dâs be vine, I drenk tha sporklin cider, An wish naw wither wine.

How zweet tha smill o’ clawver, How zweet tha smill o’ hâ; How zweet is haulsom labour, ^ Bit zweeter Pall than thâ.

An who d’ye thenk I envy?— Tha nawbles o’ tha land? Thâ can’t be moor than happy, An that is Teddy Band.

Mister Ginnins;

I a red thic ballet o’ yourn called Fanny Fear, an, zim ta I, there’s naw moril to it. Nif zaw be you da thenk zo well o’t, I’ll gee one.

I dwont want to frunt any ov the gennelmen o’ tha country, bit I âlways a thawt it desperd odd, that dogs should be keept in a kannel, and keept a hungered too, zaw that thâ mid be moor eager to hunt thic poor little theng câlled a hare. I dwon’ naw, bit I da thenk, nif I war a gennelman, that I’d vine better spoort than huntin; bezides, zim ta I ‘tis desperd wicked to hunt animals vor one’s spoort. Now, jitch a horrid blanscue as what happened at Shapick, niver could a bin but vor tha hungry houns. I haup that gennelmen ool thenk o’t oten; an when thâ da hire tha yell o’ tha houns thâ‘ll not vorgit Fanny Fear; a-mâ-be thâ mid be zummet tha wiser an better vor’t; I’m shower jitch a storry desarves ta be remimbered. This is the moril.

I am, sur, your sarvant,

TEDDY BAND.

THE CHURCHWARDEN.

Upon a time, naw matter whaur, Jitch plazen there be many a scaur In Zummerzet’s girt gorden; (Ive hir’d ‘twar handy ta tha zea, Not vur vrom whaur tha zantots be) There liv’d a young churchwarden.

A zim’d delighted when put in. An zaw a thawt a ood begin Ta do hiz office duly: Bit zum o’m, girt vawk in ther wâ— Tha Porish o’ten câlled,—a girt bell sheep Or two that lead the rest an quiet keep— Put vooäth ther hons iz coose to stâ, Which made en quite unruly.

A went, of coose, ta Visitâtion Ta be sworn in;—an than ‘twar nâtion Hord that a man his power should doubt,— An moor—ta try ta turn en out! “Naw, Naw!” exclaim’d our young churchwarden, I dwon’t care vor ye âll a copper varden!”

Tha church war durty.—Wevets here Hang’d danglin vrom tha ruf; an there Tha plaisterin shaw’d a crazy wâll;

Tha âltar-piece war dim and dowsty too, That Peter’s maricle thâ scase cood view. Tha Ten Commandments nawbody cood rade; [Footnote: Read] Tha Lord’s Prayer ad nuthin in’t bit “Brade;” [Footnote: Bread] Nor had tha Creed A lain or letter parfit, grate or smâll. ‘Twar time vor zum one ta renew ‘em âll.

I’ve tawld o’ wevets—zum o’m odd enow; Thâ look’d tha colour of a dork dun cow, An like a skin war stratched across tha corners; Tha knitters o’ tha porish tâk’d o knittin Stocking wi’ ‘em!—Bit aw, how unbevittin All tâk like this!—aw fie, tha wicked scorners!

Ta work went tha Churchwarden; wevets tummel’d Down by tha bushel, an tha pride o’ dowst war hummel’d. Tha wâlls once moor look’d bright. Tha Painter, fags, a war a Plummer An Glazier too, Put vooäth his powers, (His workin made naw little scummer!) In zentences, in flourishes, and flowers. Tha chancel, church and âll look’d new, An war well suited to avoord delight.

Tha Ten Commandments glitter’d wi’ tha vornish; Compleat now, tha Lord’s Prayer, what cood tornish.

As vor tha Creed ‘twar made bran new Vrom top ta bottom; I tell ye true! Tha âltar piece wi’ Peter war now naw libel Upon tha church, Which booäth athin an, tower an all, athout Look’d like a well-dressed maid in pride about; Tha walls rejâic’d wi’ texts took vrom tha Bible. Bit vor all that, thâ left en in tha lurch; I bag your pardon. I mean, of âll tha expense thâ ood’n pâ a varden.

Jitch zweepin, birshin, paintin, scrubbin; Tha tuts ad niver jitch a drubbin; Jitch white-washin and jitch brought gwâin A power of money—Tha Painter’s bill Made of itzel a pirty pill, Ta zwell which âll o’m tried in vain! Ther stomicks turn’d, ther drawts were norry; [Footnote: Narrow] Jitch gillded pills thâ cood’n corry. An when our young churchwarden ax’d em why, Thâ laugh’d at en, an zed, ther drawts war dry.

Tha keeper o’ tha church war wrong; (Churchwarden still the burden o’ my zong) A should at vust A câll’d a Vestry: vor ‘tis hord ta trust To Porish generasity; an zaw A voun it: I dwon’ knaw

Whaur or who war his advisers; Zum zed a Lâyer gid en bad advice; A-mâ-be saw; jitch vawk ben’t always nice. Lâyers o’ advice be seltimes misers Nif there’s wherewi’ ta pâ; Or, witherwise, good bwye ta Lâyers an tha Lâ.

A Vestry than at last war cried— A Vestry’s power let noäne deride— When tha church war auver tha clork bal’d out, Aw eese! aw eese! aw eese! All wonder’d what cood be about, An stratch’d ther necks like a vlock o’ geese; Why—_ta make a Rate Vor tha church’s late Repairâtion_. A grate norâtion, A nâtion naise tha nawtice made, About tha cost ta be defray’d Vor tha church’s repairâtion.

Tha Vestry met, âll naise an bother; One ood’n wait ta hire tha tuther. When thâ war tir’d o’ jitch a gabble, Ta bâl na moor not one war yable, A man, a little zâtenfare, Got up hiz verdi ta delcare. Now Soce, zed he, why we be gwâin Ta meet in Vestry here in vâin.

Let’s come to some determination, An not tâk âll in jitch a fashion. Let’s zee tha ‘counts. A snatch’d tha book Vrom tha Churchwarden in’t ta look. Tha, book war chain’d clooäse to his wrist; A gid en slily jitch a twist! That the young Churchwarden loud raur’d out, “You’ll break my yarm!—what be about?”

Tha man a little zâtenfare, An âll tha Vestry wide did stare! Bit Soce, zed he again, I niver zeed Money brought gwâin zaw bad. What need War ther tha âltar-piece ta titch? What good war paintin, vornishin, an jitch? What good war’t vor’n ta mend Tha Ten Commandments?—Why did he Mell o’ tha Lord’s Prayer? Lockyzee! Ther war naw need To mell or make wi’ thic awld Creed. I’m zorry vor’n; eesse zorry as a friend; Bit can’t conzent our wherewi’ zaw ta spend,

Thâ âll, wi one accord, At tha little zâtenfare’s word, Agreed, that, not one varden, By Rate, Should be collected vor tha late Repairâtion Of tha church by tha young Churchwarden.

THE FISHERMAN AND THE PLAYERS.

Now who is ther that han’t a hir’d O’ one young TOM CAME? A Fisherman of Huntspill, An a well-knawn name.

A knaw’d much moor o’ fishin Than many vawk bezides; An a knaw’d much moor than mooäst about Tha zea an âll tha tides.

A knaw’d well how ta make buts, An hullies too an jitch, An up an down tha river whaur Tha best place vor ta pitch.

A knaw’d âll about tha stake-hangs Tha zâlmon vor ta catch;— Tha pitchin an tha dippin net,— Tha Slime an tha Mud-Batch. [Footnote: Two islands well known in the River Parret, near its mouth. Several words will be found in this Poem which I have not placed in the Glossary, because they seem too local and technical to deserve a place there: they shall be here explained,

To Pitch, v.n. To fish with a boat and a pitchin-net in a proper position across the current so that the fish may be caught.

Pitchin-net. s. A large triangular net attached to two poles, and used with a boat for the purpose,