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

chiefly, of catching salmon.—The fishing boats in the Parret, are flat-bottomed, in length about seventeen feet, about four feet and a half wide, and pointed at both ends: they are easily managed by one person, and rarely, if ever, known to overturn.

Dippen-net. s. A small net somewhat semicircular, and attached to two round sticks for sides, and a long pole for a handle. It is used for the purpose of dipping salmon and some other fish, as the shad, out of water.

Gad. s. A long pole, having an iron point to it, so that it may be easily thrust into the ground. Two gads are used for each boats. Their uses are to keep the boat steady across the current in order that the net may be in a proper position.]

A handled too iz gads well His paddle and iz oor; [Footnote: Oar.] A war âlways bawld an fearless— A, when upon tha Goor. [Footnote: The Gore. Dangerous sands so called, at the mouth of the River Parret, in the Bristol Channel.]

O’ heerins, sprats, an porpuses— O’ âll fish a cood tell; Who bit he amangst tha Fishermen— A âlways bear’d tha bell.

Tommy Came ad hired o’ Plâyers, Bit niver zeed ‘em plâ; Thâ war actin at Bejwâter; There a went wi’ Sally Dâ.

When tha curtain first drâw’d up, than Sapriz’d war Tommy Came; A’d hâf a mine ta him awâ, Bit stapp’d vor very shame.

Tha vust act bein auver Tha zecond jist begun, Tommy Came still wonder’d grately, Ta him it war naw fun.

Zaw âter lookin on zumtime, Ta understand did strive; There now, zed he, I’ll gee my woth [Footnote: Oath.] That thâ be all alive!

 

MARY RAMSEY’S CRUTCH.

 

I zeng o’ Mary Ramsey’s Crutch! “Thic little theng!”—Why ‘tis’n much It’s true, but still I like ta touch Tha cap o’ Mary Ramsey’s Crutch! She zed, wheniver she shood die, Er little crutch she’d gee ta I. Did Mary love me? eese a b’leeve. She died—a veo vor her did grieve,— An but a veo—vor Mary awld, Outliv’d er friends, or voun ‘em cawld. Thic crutch I had—I ha it still, An port wi’t wont—nor niver will. O’ her I lorn’d tha cris-cross-lâin; I haup that’t word’n quite in vâin! ‘Twar her who teach’d me vust ta read Jitch little words as beef an bread; An I da thenk ‘twar her that, âter, Lorn’d I ta read tha single zâter. Poor Mary ôten used ta tell O’ das a past that pleas’d er well; An mangst tha rest war zum o’ jay When I look’d up a little bway. She zed I war a good one too, An lorn’d my book athout tha rue. [Footnote: This Lady, when her scholars neglected their duty, or behaved ill, rubbed their fingers with the leaves of rue!] Poor Mary’s gwon!—a longful time Zunz now!—er little scholard’s prime A-mâ-be’s past.—It must be zaw;— There’s nothin stable here belaw! O’ Mary—âll left is—er crutch! An thaw a gift, an ‘tword’n much ‘Tis true, still I da like ta touch Tha cap o’ Mary Ramsey’s Crutch! That I lov’d Mary, this ool tell. I’ll zâ na moor—zaw, fore well! [Footnote: Fare ye well.]

 

HANNAH VERRIOR.

 

Tha zâ I’m maz’d,—my Husband’s dead, My chile, (hush! hush! Lord love er face!) Tha pit-hawl had at Milemas, when Thâ put me in theäze pooät-hawl place.

Thâ zâ I’m maz’d.—I veel—I thenk– I tâk—I ate, an oten drenk.— Tha thenk, a-mâ-be, zumtimes, peel— An gee me stra vor bed an peel!

Thâ zâ I’m maz’d.—Hush! Babby, dear! Thâ shan’t come to er!—niver fear! Thâ zâ thy Father’s dead!—Naw, naw! A’ll niver die while I’m belaw.

Thâ zâ I’m maz’d.—Why dwont you speak? Fie James!—or else my hort ool break!— James is not dead! nor Babby!—naw! Thâ‘ll niver die while I’m belaw!

 

REMEMBRANCE.

 

An shall I drap tha Reed—an shall I, Athout one nawte about my SALLY? Althaw we Pawets âll be zingers, We like, wi’ enk, ta dye our vingers; Bit mooäst we like in vess ta pruv That we remimber those we love. Sim-like-it than, that I should iver Vorgit my SALLY.—Niver, niver! Vor, while I’ve wander’d in tha West— At mornin tide—at evenin rest— On Quantock’s hills—in Mendip’s vales— On Parret’s banks—in zight o’ Wales— In thic awld mansion whaur tha bâll Once vrighten’d Lady Drake an âll;— When wi’ tha Ladies o’ thic dell Whaur witches spird ther ‘ticin spell— [Footnote: COMBE SYDENHAM, the residence of my Friend, GEORGE NOTLEY, Esq. The history of the Magic Ball, as it has been called, is now pretty generally known, and therefore need not be here repeated.] Amangst tha rocks on Watchet shaur When did tha wine an wâters raur— In Banwell’s cave—on Loxton hill— At Clifton gâ—at Rickford rill— In Compton ood—in Hartree coom— At Crispin’s cot wi’ little room;— At Upton—Lansdown’s lofty brow— At Bath, whaur pleasure flânts enow; At Trowbridge, whaur by Friendship’s heed, I blaw’d again my silent Reed, An there enjay’d, wi’ quiet, rest, Jitch recollections o’ tha West; Whauriver stapp’d my voot along I thawt o’ HER.—Here ends my zong.

 

DOCTOR COX; A BLANSCUE.

(First printed in the Graphic Illustrator.)

 

The catastrophe described in the following sketch, occurred near Highbridge, in Somersetshire, about the year 1779.—Mr. or Doctor Cox, as surgeons are usually called in the west, was the only medical resident at Huntspill, and in actual practice for many miles around that village. The conduct of Mr. Robert Evans, the friend and associate of Cox, can only be accounted for by one of those unfortunate infatuations to which the minds of some are sometimes liable. Had an immediate alarm been given when we children first discovered that Cox was missing, he might, probably, have been saved. The real cause of his death was, a too great abstraction of heat from the body; as the water was fresh and still, and of considerable depth, and, under the surface, much beneath the usual temperature of the human body. This fact ought to be a lesson to those who bathe in still and deep fresh water; and to warn them to continue only a short time in such a cold medium. [Footnote: Various efforts to restore the suspended animation of Cox, such as shaking him, rolling him on a cask, attempts to get out the water which it was then presumed had got into the stomach or the lungs, or both, in the drowning; strewing salt over the body, and many other equally ineffectual and improper methods to restore the circulation were, I believe, pursued. Instead of which, had the body been laid in a natural position, and the lost heat gradually administered, by the application of warm frictions, a warm bed, &c., how easily in all probability, would animation have been restored!]

The BRUE war bright, and deep and clear; [Footnote: The reader must not suppose that the river Brue, is generally a clear stream, or always rapid. I have elsewhere called it “lazy Brue.” It is sometimes, at and above the floodgates at Highbridge, when they are not closed by the tide, a rapid stream; but through the moors, generally, its course is slow. In the summertime, and at the period to which allusion is made, the floodgates were closed.] And Lammas dâ and harras near: The zun upon the waters drode Girt sheets of light as on a rode; From zultry heät the cattle hirn’d To shade or water as to firnd: Men, too, in yarly âternoon Doft’d quick ther cloaths and dash’d in zoon To thic deep river, whaur the trout, In all ther prankin, plâd about; And yels wi’ zilver skins war zid, While gudgeons droo the wâter slid, Wi’ carp sumtimes and wither fish Avoordon many a dainty dish. Whaur elvers too in spring time plâd, [Footnote: Young eels are called elvers in Somersetshire. Walton, in his Angler, says, “Young eels, in the Severn, are called yelvers.” In what part of the country through which the Severn passes they are called yelvers we are not told in Walton’s book; as eels are called, in Somersetshere, yels, analogy seems to require yelvers for their young; but I never heard them so called. The elvers used to be obtained from the salt-water side of the bridge.] And pailvuls mid o’ them be had. The wâter cold—the zunshine bright, To zwiminers than what high delight! ‘Tis long agwon whun youth and I Wish’d creepin Time would rise and vly— A, half a hundred years an moor Zunz I a trod theäze earthly vloor! I zed, the face o’ Brue war bright; Time smil’d too in thic zummer light. Wi’ Hope bezide en promising A wordle o’ fancies wild ö’ whing. I mine too than one lowering cloud That zim’d to wrop us like a shroud; The death het war o’ Doctor Cox— To thenk o’t now the storry shocks! Vor âll the country vur and near Shod than vor’n many a horty tear. The Doctor like a duck could zwim; No fear o’ drownin daver’d him! The pectur now I zim I zee! I wish I could liet’s likeness gee! His Son, my brother John, myzel, Or Evans, mid the storry tell; But thâ be gwon and I, o’ âll O’m left to zâ what did bevâll. Zo, nif zo be you like, why I To tell the storry now ool try.

Thic Evanshad a coward core And fear’d to venter vrom the shore; While to an vro, an vur an near, And now an tan did Cox appear In dalliance with the wâters bland, Or zwimmin wi’ a maëster hand. We youngsters dree, the youngest I, To zee the zwimmers âll stood by Upon the green bonk o’ the Brue Jist whaur a stook let water droo: A quiet time of joyousness Zim’d vor a space thic dâ to bless! A dog’ too, faithful to his maëster War there, and mang’d wi’ the disaster— Vigo, ah well I mine his name! A Newvoun-lond and very tame! But Evans only war to blame: He âllès paddled near the shore Wi’ timid hon and coward core; While Doctor Cox div’d, zwim’d at ease Like fishes in the zummer seas; Or as the skaiters on the ice In winin circles wild and nice Yet in a moment he war gwon, The wonderment of ivry one: That is, we dree and Evans, âll That zeed what Blanscue did bevâll.— Athout one sign, or naise, or cry, Or shriek, or splash, or groan, or sigh! Could zitch a zwimmer ever die In wâter?—Yet we gaz’d in vain Upon thic bright and wâter plain: All smooth and calm—no ripple gave One token of the zwimmer’s grave! We hir’d en not, we zeed en not!— The glassy wâter zim’d a blot? While Evans, he of coward core, Still paddled as he did bevore! At length our fears our silence broke,— Young as we war, and children âll, We wish’d to goo an zum one câll; But Evans carelissly thus spoke— “Oh, Cox is up the river gone, Vor sartain ool be back anon;— He tâlk’d o’ cyder, zed he’d g’up To Stole’s an drenk a horty cup!” [Footnote: Mr. Stole resided near Newbridge, about a mile from the spot where the accident occurred; he was somewhat famous for his cyder.] Conjecture anty as the wine! And zoon did he het’s faleshood vine.

John Cox took up his father’s cloaths— Poor fellow! he beginn’d to cry! Than, Evans vrom the wâter rose; “A hunderd vawk’ll come bimeby,” A zed; whun, short way vrom the shore. We zeed, what zeed we not avore, The head of Doctor Cox