The Dialect of the West of England; Particularly Somersetshire, James Jennings [e textbook reader .txt] 📗

which had formerly one of the richest Abbeys in England; the ruins are still attractive.

 

Who hath not hir’d o’ Avalon? [Footnote: “The Isle of ancient Avelon.”—Drayton.] ‘Twar talked o’ much an long agon,— Tha wonders o’ tha Holy Thorn, Tha “wich, zoon âter Christ war born, Here a planted war by Arimathé, Thic Joseph that com’d auver sea, An planted Kirstianity. Thâ zâ that whun a landed vust, (Zich plazen war in God’s own trust) A stuck iz staff into tha groun An auver iz shoulder lookin roun, Whatever mid iz lot bevâll, A cried aloud “Now, weary all!” Tha staff het budded an het grew, An at Kirsmas bloom’d tha whol dâ droo. An still het blooms at Kirsmas bright, But best thâ zâ at dork midnight, A pruf o’ this nif pruf you will. Iz voun in tha name o’ Weary-all-hill! Let tell Pumparles or lazy Brue. That what iz tauld iz vor sartin true!

[“The story of the Holy Thorn was a long time credited by the vulgar and credulous. There is a species of White Thorn which blossoms about Christmas; it is well known to naturalists so as to excite no surprise.”]

 

MR. GUY.

 

The incident on which this story is founded, occurred in the early part of the last century; hence the allusion to making a will before making a journey to the metropolis.

 

Mr. Guywar a gennelman O’ Huntspill, well knawn As a grazier, a hirch one, Wi’ lons o’ hiz awn.

A ôten went ta Lunnun Hiz cattle vor ta zill; All tha horses that a rawd Niver minded hadge or hill.

A war afeard o’ naw one; A niver made hiz will, Like wither vawk, avaur a went His cattle vor ta zill.

One time a’d bin ta Lunnun An zawld iz cattle well; A brought awâ a power o’ gawld, As I’ve a hired tell.

As late at night a rawd along All droo a unket ood, A ooman rawze vrom off tha groun An right avaur en stood:

She look’d za pitis Mr. Guy At once hiz hoss’s pace Stapt short, a wonderin how, at night, She com’d in jitch a place.

A little trunk war in her hon; She zim’d vur gwon wi’ chile. She ax’d en nif a’d take her up And cor her a veo mile.

Mr. Guy, a man o’ veelin For a ooman in distress, Than took er up behind en: A cood’n do na less.

A corr’d er trunk avaur en, An by hiz belt o’ leather A bid er hawld vast; on thâ rawd, Athout much tâk, together.

Not vur thâ went avaur she gid A whissle loud an long; Which Mr. Guy, thawt very strange; Er voice too zim’d za strong!

She’d lost er dog, she zed; an than Another whissle blaw’d, That stortled Mr. Guy;—a stapt Hiz hoss upon tha rawd.

Goo on, zed she; bit Mr. Guy Zum rig beginn’d ta fear: Vor voices rawze upon tha wine, An zim’d a comin near.

Again thâ rawd along; again She whissled. Mr. Guy Whipt out hiz knife an cut tha belt, Then push’d er off!—Vor why?

Tha ooman he took up behine, Begummers, war a man! Tha rubbers zaw ad lâd ther plots Our grazier to trepan.

I shall not stap ta tell what zed Tha man in ooman’s clawze; Bit he, and all o’m jist behine, War what you mid suppawze.

Thâ cust, thâ swaur, thâ dreaten’d too, An ater Mr. Guy Thâ gallop’d all; ‘twar niver-tha-near: Hiz hoss along did vly.

Auver downs, droo dales, awâ a went, ‘Twar dâ-light now amawst, Till at an inn a stapt, at last, Ta thenk what he’d a lost.

A lost?—why, nothin—but hiz belt!— A zummet moor ad gain’d: Thic little trunk a corr’d awâ— It gawld g’lore contain’d!

Nif Mr. Guy war hirch avaur, A now war hircher still: Tha plunder o’ tha highwâmen Hiz coffers went ta vill.

In sâfety Mr. Guy rawd whim; A ôten tawld tha storry. Ta meet wi’ jitch a rig myzel I shood’n, soce, be zorry.

 

THE ROOKERY.

 

The rook, corvus frugilegus, is a bird of considerable intelligence, and is, besides, extremely useful in destroying large quantities of worms and larvæ of destructive insects. It will, it is true, if not watched, pick out, after they are dibbled, both pease and beans from the holes with a precision truly astonishing: a very moderate degree of care is, however, sufficient to prevent this evil, which is greatly overbalanced by the positive good which it effects in the destruction of insects. It is a remarkable fact, and not, perhaps, generally known, that this bird rarely roosts at the rookery, except for a few months during the period of incubation, and rearing its young. In the winter season it more commonly takes flights of no ordinary length, to roost on the trees of some remote and sequestered wood. The Elm is its favorite, on which it usually builds; but such is its attachment to locality that since the incident alluded to in the following Poem took place the Rooks have, many of them, built in fir trees at a little distance from their former habitation. The habits of the Rook are well worthy the attention of all who delight in the study of Natural History.

 

My zong is o’ tha ROOKERY, Not jitch as I a zeed On stunted trees wi’ leaves a veo, A very veo indeed,

In thic girt place thâ Lunnun câll;— Tha Tower an tha Pork Hâ booäth a got a Rookery, Althaw thâ han’t a Lork.

I zeng not o’ jitch Rookeries, Jitch plazen, pump or banners; Bit town-berd Rooks, vor âll that, hâ, I warnt ye, curious manners.

My zong is o’ a Rookery My Father’s cot bezide, Avaur, years âter, I war born ‘Twar long tha porish pride.

Tha elms look’d up like giants tâll Ther branchy yarms aspread; An green plumes wavin wi’ tha wine, Made gâ each lofty head.

Ta drâ tha pectur out—ther war At distance, zid between Tha trees, a thatch’d Form-house, an geese A cacklin on tha green.

A river, too, clooäse by tha trees, Its stickle coose on slid, Whaur yells an trout an wither fish Mid ôtentimes be zid.

Tha rooks voun this a pleasant place— A whim ther young ta rear; An I a ôten pleas’d a bin Ta wâtch ‘em droo tha year.

‘Tis on tha dâ o’ Valentine Or there or thereabout, Tha rooks da vast begin ta build, An cawin, make a rout.

Bit aw! when May’s a come, ta zee Ther young tha gunner’s shut Vor SPOORT, an bin, as zum da zâ, (Naw readship in’t I put)

That nif thâ did’n shut tha, rooks Thâ‘d zoon desert tha trees! Wise vawk! Thic reason vor ther SPOORT Gee thâ mid nif thâ please!

Still zeng I o’ tha Rookery, Vor years it war tha pride Of all thâ place, bit ‘twor ta I A zumthin moor bezide.

A hired tha Rooks avaur I upp’d; I hired ‘em droo tha dâ; I hired ther young while gittin flush An ginnin jist ta câ.

I hired ‘em when my mother gid Er lessins kind ta I, In jitch a wâ when I war young, That I war fit ta cry.

I hired ‘em at tha cottage door, When mornin, in tha spreng, Wâk’d vooäth in youth an beauty too, An birds beginn’d ta zeng.

I hired ‘em in tha winter-time When, roustin vur awâ, Thâ visited tha Rookery A whiverin by dâ.

My childhood, youth, and manood too, My Father’s cot recâll Thic Rookery. Bit I mist now Tell what it did bevâll.

‘Twar Mâ-time—heavy vi’ tha nests War laden âll tha trees; An to an fraw, wi’ creekin loud, Thâ sway’d ta iv’ry breeze.

One night tha wine—a thundrin wine, Jitch as war hired o’ nivor, Blaw’d two o’ thic girt giant trees Flat down into tha river.

Nests, aggs, an young uns, âll awâ War zweept into tha wâter An zaw war spwiled tha Rookery Vor iver and iver âter.

I visited my Father’s cot: Tha Rooks war âll a gwon; Whaur stood tha trees in lofty pride I zid there norra one.

My Father’s cot war desolate; An âll look’d wild, vorlorn; Tha Ash war stunted that war zet Tha dâ that I war born.

My Father, Mother, Rooks, âll gwon! My Charlotte an my Lizzy!— Tha gorden wi’ tha tutties too!— Jitch thawts why be za bizzy!—

Behawld tha wâ o’ human thengs! Rooks, lofty trees, an Friends— A kill’d, taur up, like leaves drap off!— Zaw feaver’d bein ends.

 

TOM GOOL, AND LUCK IN THA BAG.

 

“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.”

Mooäst plazen hâ their customs Ther manners an ther men; We too a got our customs, Our manners and our men.

He who a bin ta Huntspill Fâyer Or Highbridge—Pawlet Revel— Or Burtle Sassions, whaur thâ plâ Zumtimes tha very devil,

Mist mine once a man well That war a câll’d TOM GOOL; Zum thawt en mazed, while withers thawt En moor a knave than fool.

At all tha fâyers an revels too TOM GOOL war shower ta be, A tâkin vlother vast awâ,— A hoopin who bit he.

Vor’ âll that a had a zoort o’ wit That zet tha vawk a laughin; An mooäst o’ that, when ho tha yal Ad at tha fâyer bin quaffin.

A corr’d a kit o’ pedlar’s waur, Like awld Joannah Martin; [Footnote: This Lady, who was for many years known in Somersetshire as an itinerant dealer in earthenware, rags, &c., and occasionally a fortune-teller, died a few years since at Huntspill, where she had resided for the greater part of a century. She was extremely illiterate, so much so, as not to be able to write, and, I think, could scarcely read. She lived for some years in a house belonging to my father, and while a boy, I was very often her gratuitous amanuensis, in writing letters for her to her children. She possessed, however, considerable shrewdness, energy, and perseverance, and amassed property to the amount of several hundred pounds. She had three husbands; the name of the first was, I believe, Gool or Gould, a relation of Thomas Gool, the subject of the above Poem; the name of the second was Martin, of the third Pain; but as the last lived a short time only after having married her, she always continued to be called Joannah Martin.

Joannah was first brought into public notice by the Rev. Mr. WARNER, in his Walks through the Western Counties, published in 1800, in which work will be found a lively and interesting description of her; but she often said that she should wish me to write her life, as I was, of course, more intimately acquainted with it than any casual inquirer could possibly be. An additional notice of Joannah was inserted by me in the Monthly Magazine, for Nov. 1816, page 310. I had among my papers, the original song composed by her, which I copied from her dictation many years ago,—the only, copy in existence; I regret that I cannot lay my hand upon it; as it contains much of the Somersetshire idiom. I have more than once heard her sing this song, which was satirical, and related to the conduct of a female, one of her neighbours, who had become a thief.

Such was JOANNAH MARTIN, a woman whose name (had she moved in a sphere where her original talents could have been improved by education,) might have been added to the list of distinguished female worthies