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

appear— Het floated in the wâter clear! Bolt upright war he, and his hair, That pruv’d he sartainly war there, Zwimm’d on the wâter!—Evans than, The stupid’st of a stupid man, Call’d Vigo—pointed to that head— In Vigo dash’d—_Cox was not dead_! But seiz’d the dog’s lag—helt en vast! One struggle, an het war the last! Ah! well do I remember it— That struggle I sholl ne’er forgit! Vigo was frightened and withdrew; The body zink’d at once vrom view.

Did Evans, gallid Evans then, Câll out, at once, vor father’s men? (Thâ war at work vor’n very near A mendin the old Highbridge pier,) A did’n câll, but ‘mus’d our fear— “A hundred vawk ool zoon be here!” A zed.—We gid the hue and cry! And zoon a booät wi’ men did vly! But twar âll auver! Cox war voun Not at the bottom lyin down, But up aneen, as jist avore We zeed en floatin nigh the shore.

But death ‘ad done his wust—not âll Thâ did could life’s last spork recall. Zo Doctor Cox went out o’ life A vine, a, and as honsom mon, As zun hath iver shin’d upon; A left a family—a wife, Two sons—one_dater_, As beautiful as lovely Mâ, Of whom a-mâ-bi I mid za Zumthin hereâter: What thâ veel’d now I sholl not tell— My hort athin me ‘gins to zwell! Reflection here mid try in vain, Wither particulars to gain, Evans zim’d all like one possest; Imagination! tell the rest!

 

L’ENVOY.

 

To âll that sholl theeäze storry read, The Truth must vor it chiefly plead; I gee not here a tale o’ ort, Nor snip-snap wit, nor lidden smort. But ôten, ôten by thie river, Have I a pass’d; yet niver, niver, Athout a thought o’ Doctor Cox— His dog—his death—his floatin locks! The mooäst whun Brue war deep and clear, And Lammas dâ an harras near;— Whun zummer vleng’d his light abroad,— The zun in all his glory rawd; How beautiful mid be the dâ A zumthin âllès zim’d to zâ, “Whar whing! the wâter’s deep an’ clear, But death mid be a lurkin near!”

 

A DEDICATION.

 

Thenk not, bin I ood be tha fashion, That I, ZIR, write theäze Dedicâtion; I write, I haup I dwon’t offend. Bin I be proud ta câll You FRIEND. I here ston vooäth, alooän unbidden To ‘muse you wi’ my country lidden;— Wi’ remlet’s o’ tha Saxon tongue That to our Gramfers did belong. Vor áll it is a little thing, Receave it—Friendship’s offering— Ta pruv, if pruf I need renew, That I esteem not lightly YOU.

 

THE FAREWELL.

 

A longful time zunz I this vust begun! One little tootin moor and I a done. “One little tootin moor!—Enough, Vor once, we’ve had o’ jitchy stuff; Thy lidden to a done ‘tis time! Jitch words war niver zeed in rhyme!” Vorgee me vor’m.—Goo little Reed! Aforn tha vawk an vor me plead: Thy wild nawtes, mâ-be, thâ ool hire Zooner than zâter vrom a lyre. Zâ that, thy mäester’s pleas’d ta blaw ‘em, An haups in time thâ‘ll come ta knaw ‘em; An nif zaw be thâ‘ll please ta hear A’ll gee zum moor another year. Ive nothin else jist now ta tell: Goo, little Reed, an than forwel!

 

FARMER BENNET AN JAN LIDE,

A DIALOGUE.

 

Farmer Bennet.— Jan! why dwon’t ye right my shoes?

Jan Lide.— Bin, maëster ‘tis zaw cawld, I can’t work wi’ tha tacker at âll; I’ve a brawk it ten times I’m shower ta dâ— da vreaze za hord. Why Hester hanged out a kittle-smock ta drowy, an in dree minits a war a vraur as stiff as a pawker; an I can’t avoord ta keep a good vier—I wish I cood—I’d zoon right your shoes and withers too—I’d zoon yarn [Footnote: Earn.] zum money, I warnt ye. Can’t ye vine zum work vor me, maester, theäze hord times—I’ll do any theng ta sar a penny.—I can drash—I can cleave brans—I can make spars—I can thatchy—I can shear ditch, an I can gripy too, bit da vreaze za hord. I can wimmy—I can messy or milky nif ther be need o’t. I ood’n mine dreavin plough or any theng.

Farmer Bennet.— I’ve a got nothing vor ye ta do, Jan; bit Mister Boord banchond ta I jist now that thâ war gwain ta wimmy, ond that thâ wanted zumbody ta help ‘em.

Jan Lide.—Aw, I’m glad o’t, I’ll him auver an zee where I can’t help ‘em; bit I han’t a bin athin tha drashel o’ Maester Boord’s door vor a longful time, bin I thawt that missis did’n use Hester well; but I dwon’t bear malice, an zaw I’ll goo.

Farmer Bennet.—What did Missis Boord zâ or do ta Hester, than?

Jan Lide.—Why, Hester, a mâ-be, war zummet ta blame too: vor she war one o’m, d’ye zee, that rawd Skimmerton—thic mâ game that frunted zum o’ tha gennel-vawk. Thâ zed ‘twar time to a done wi’jitch litter, or jitch stuff, or I dwon knaw what thâ call’d it; bit thâ war a frunted wi’ Hester about it: an I zed nif thâ war a frunted wi’ Hester, thâ mid be frunted wi’ I. This zet missis’s back up, an Hester han’t a bin a choorin there zunz. Bit ‘tis niver-the-near ta bear malice; and zaw I’ll goo auver an zee which wâ tha wine da blaw.

 

THOMAS CAME AN YOUNG MAESTER JIMMY.

 

Thomas Came.—Aw, Maester Jimmy! zaw you be a come whim vrom school. I thawt we shood niver zeenamoor. We’ve a mist ye iver zunz thic time, when we war at zea-wall, an cut aup tha girt porpus wi’ za many zalmon in hiz belly—zum o’m look’d vit ta eat as thaw tha wor a bwiled, did’n thâ?—

Jimmy.—Aw eese, Thomas; I da mine tha porpus; an I da mine tha udder, an tha milk o’n, too. I be a come whim, Thomas, an I dwon’t thenk I shall goo ta school again theäze zumrner. I shall be out amangst ye. I’ll goo wi’ ta mawy, an ta hâ-makin, an ta reapy—I’ll come âter, an zet up tha stitches vor ye, Thomas. An if I da stâ till Milemas, I’ll goo ta Matthews fayer wi’. Thomas, âve ye had any zenvy theäze year?—I zeed a gir’d’l o’t amangst tha wheat as I rawd along. Ave you bin down in ham, Thomas, o’ late—is thic groun, tha ten yacres, haind vor mawin?

Thomas Came.—Aw, Maester Jimmy! I da love ta hire you tâk- -da zeem za naatal. We a had zum zenvy—an tha ten yacres be a haind—a’ll be maw’d in veo dâs—you’ll come an hâ-maky, o’nt ye?- -eese, I knaw you ool—an I da knaw whool goo a hâ-makin wi’, too —ah, she’s a zweet maid—I dwon’t wonder at ye at âll, Maester Jimmy—Lord bless ye, an love ye booäth.

Jimmy.—Thomas, you a liv’d a long time wi’ Father, an’ I dwont like ta chide ye, bit nif you da tâk o’ Miss Cox in thic fashion, I knaw she on’t like it, naw moor sholl I. Miss Cox, Thomas, Miss Cox ool, a-mâ-be, goo a hâ-makin wi’ I, as she a done avaur now; bit Sally, Miss Cox, Thomas, I wish you’d zâ naw moor about er.—There now, Thomas, dwon’t ye zee—why shee’s by tha gate-shord! I haup she han’t a hird what we a bin a tâkin about.— Be tha thissles skeer’d in tha twenty yacres, Thomas?—aw, thâ be. Well, I sholl be glad when tha ten yacres be a mawed—an when we da make an end o’ hâ-corrin, I’ll dance wi’ Sally Cox.

Thomas Came.—There, Maester Jimmy! ‘tword’n I that tâk’d o’ Sally Cox!

 

MARY RAMSEY,

_A MONOLOGUE,

To er Scholards_.

 

Commether [Footnote: Come hither.] Billy Chubb, an breng tha hornen book. Gee me tha vester in tha windor, you Pal Came!—what! be a sleepid—I’ll wâke ye. Now, Billy there’s a good bway! Ston still there, an mine what I da zâ to ye, an whaur I da pwint.—Now;—cris-cross, [Footnote: The cris, in this compound, and in cris-cross-lain, is very often, indeed most commonly, pronounced Kirs.] girt â little â—b—c—d.—That’s right Billy; you’ll zoon lorn tha cris-cross-lain—you’ll zoon auvergit Bobby Jiffry—you’ll zoon be a scholard.—A’s a pirty chubby bway—Lord love’n!

Now, Pal Came! you come an vessy wi’ yer zister. —There! tha forrels o’ tha book be a brawk; why dwon’t ye take moor care o’m?—Now, read;—Het Came! why d’ye drean zaw?—_hum, hum, hum_;—you da make a naise like a spinnin turn, or a dumbledore—âll in one lidden—_hum, hum, hum,_—You’ll niver lorn ta read well thic fashion.—Here, Pal, read theäze vesses vor yer zister. There now, Het, you mine how yerzister da read, not hum, hum, hum.—Eese you ool, ool ye?—I tell ye, you must, or I’ll rub zum rue auver yer hons:—what d’ye thenk o’t!—There, be gwon you Het, an dwon’t ye come anuost yer zister ta vessy wi’ er till you a got yer lessin moor parfit, or I’ll gee zummet you on’t ax me vor. Pally, you tell yer Gramfer Palmer that I da zâ Hetty Came shood lorn ta knitty; an a shood buy zum knittin nills and wusterd vor er; an a shood git er zum nills and dird, vor er to lorn to zawy too.

Now Miss Whitin, tha dunces be a gwon, let I hire how pirty you can read.—I âlways zed that Pâson Tuttle’s grandâter ood lorn er book well.—Now, Miss, what ha ye a got there? Valentine an Orson.—A pirty storry, bit I be afeard there’s naw moril to it.—What be âll tha tuthermy books you a got by yer goodhussey there in tha basket? Gee’s-zee-‘em,[Footnote: Let me see them. This is a singular expression, and is thus to be analysed; Give us to see them.] nif you please, Miss Polly.—Tha Zeven Champions—_Goody Two Shoes_—_Pawems vor Infant minds_.—Theäzamy here be by vur tha best.—There is a moril ta mooäst o’m; an thâ be pirty bezides.—Now, Miss, please ta read thic— Tha Notorious Glutton.—_Pal Came!_ turn tha glass! dwon’t ye zee tha zond is âll hirnd out;—you’ll stâ in school tha longer for’t nif you dwon’t mine it.—Now, âll o’ ye be quiet ta hire Miss Whitin read.—There now! what d’ye zâ ta jitch radin as that?—There, d’ye hire, Het Came! she dwon’t drean—_hum, hum, hum_.—I shood like ta hire er vessy wi’ zum o’ ye; bit your bad radin ood spwile her good.

OUT O’ BOOKS!

All the childern goo voäth.

 

SOLILOQUY OF BEN BOND,

THE IDLETON.

(_First printed in the Graphic Illustrator_.)

 

Ben Bond was one of those sons of Idleness whom ignorance and want of occupation in a secluded country village too often produce. He was a comely lad, aged sixteen, employed by Farmer Tidball, a querulous and suspicious old man, tto look after a large flock o sheep.—The scene of his Soliloquy may be thus described.

A green sunny bank, on which the body may agreeably repose, called the Sea Wall; on the sea side was an extensive common called the Wath, and adjoining to it was another called the Island, both were occasionally overflowed by the tide. On the other side of the bank were rich enclosed pastures, suitable for fattening the finest cattle. Into these inclosures many of Ben Bond’s charge were frequently disposed to stray. The season was June, the time mid-day, and the western breezes came over the sea, a short distance from which our scene lay, at once cool, grateful, refreshing, and playful. The rushing Parret, with its ever shifting sands, was also heard in