Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Fatherhood
FATHERHOOD.
Let en zit, wi’ his dog an’ his cat,
Wi’ their noses a-turn’d to the vier,
An’ have all that a man should desire;
But there idden much reädship in that.
Whether vo’k mid have childern or no,
Wou’dden meäke mighty odds in the maïn;
They do bring us mwore jaÿ wi’ mwore ho,
An’ wi’ nwone we’ve less jaÿ wi’ less païn.
We be all lik’ a zull’s idle sheäre out,
An’ shall rust out, unless we do wear out,
Lik’ do-nothèn, rue-nothèn,
Dead alive dumps.
As vor me, why my life idden bound
To my own heart alwone, among men;
I do live in myzelf, an’ ageän
In the lives o’ my childern all round:
I do live wi’ my bwoy in his plaÿ,
An’ ageän wi’ my maïd in her zongs;
An’ my heart is a-stirr’d wi’ their jaÿ,
An’ would burn at the zight o’ their wrongs.
I ha’ nine lives, an’ zoo if a half
O’m do cry, why the rest o’m mid laugh
All so plaÿvully, jaÿvully,
Happy wi’ hope.
Tother night I come hwome a long road,
When the weather did sting an’ did vreeze;
An’ the snow—vor the day had a-snow’d—
Wer avroze on the boughs o’ the trees;
An’ my tooes an’ my vingers wer num’,
An’ my veet wer so lumpy as logs,
An’ my ears wer so red’s a cock’s cwom’;
An’ my nose wer so cwold as a dog’s;
But so soon’s I got hwome I vorgot
Where my limbs wer a-cwold or wer hot,
When wi’ loud cries an’ proud cries
They coll’d me so cwold.
Vor the vu’st that I happen’d to meet
Come to pull my girtcwoat vrom my eärm,
An’ another did rub my feäce warm,
An’ another hot-slipper’d my veet;
While their mother did cast on a stick,
Vor to keep the red vier alive;
An’ they all come so busy an’ thick
As the bees vlee-èn into their hive,
An’ they meäde me so happy an’ proud,
That my heart could ha’ crow’d out a-loud;
They did tweil zoo, an’ smile zoo,
An’ coll me so cwold.
As I zot wi’ my teacup, at rest,
There I pull’d out the taÿs I did bring;
Men a-kickèn, a-wagg’d wi’ a string,
An’ goggle-ey’d dolls to be drest;
An’ oh! vrom the childern there sprung
Such a charm when they handled their taÿs,
That vor pleasure the bigger woones wrung
Their two hands at the zight o’ their jaÿs;
As the bwoys’ bigger vaïces vell in
Wi’ the maïdens a-titterèn thin,
An’ their dancèn an’ prancèn,
An’ little mouth’s laughs.
Though ’tis hard stripes to breed em all up,
If I’m only a-blest vrom above,
They’ll meäke me amends wi’ their love,
Vor their pillow, their pleäte, an’ their cup;
Though I shall be never a-spweil’d
Wi’ the sarvice that money can buy;
Still the hands ov a wife an’ a child
Be the blessèns ov low or ov high;
An’ if there be mouths to be ved,
He that zent em can zend me their bread,
An’ will smile on the chile
That’s a-new on the knee.