The Dialect of the West of England Particularly Somersetshire

Inin. s. Onion.

Ire. s. Iron.

Ire-gare. s. See GARE.

Ise. pron. I. See UTCHY, [West of the Parret].

Ist. [i long]. s. East.

Istard. [i long]. adv. Eastward.

It. adv. Yet, [pronouced both it and _eet>]. see

N'eet.

J.

Jack-in-the-Lanthorn, Joan-in-the-Wad. s. The meteor usually called a Will with the Wisp.

Ignis Fatuus.-Arising from ignition of phosphorus from rotten leaves and decayed vegetable matters.

Jaunders. s. The jaundice.

To Jee. v. n. To go on well together; see To GEE.

Jif'fey. s. A short time: an instant.

Jist. adv. Just.

Jitch, Jitchy. adj. Such.

Jod. s. The letter J.

Jorum. s. A large jug, bowl, &c., full of something to be eaten or drank.

To Jot. v. a. To disturb in writing; to strike the elbow.

K.

The sound K is often displaced by substituting qu, as for coat, corn, corner, cost; quoat or (qu?t) quoin, quiner, quost.

Keck'er. s. The windpipe; the trachea.

Keep. s. A basket, applied only to large baskets.

To Keeve. v. a. To put the wort in a keeve for some time to ferment.

Keeve. s. A large tub or vessel used in brewing. A mashing- tub is sometimes called a keeve.

Kef'fel. s. A bad and worn out horse.

To Kern. v. n. To turn from blossom to fruit: the process of turning from blossom to fruit is called kerning.

Kex, Kexy. s. The dry stalks of some plants, such as Cows- parsley and Hemlock, are called Kexies. As dry as a kexy is a common simile.

Kill. s. A Kiln.

Kil'ter. s. Money.

King'bow, or rather, a-kingbow. adv. Kimbo.

Chaucer has this word kenebow, which is, perhaps, the true one-a kenebow, implying a bow with a keen or sharp angle.

"He set his arms in kenebow."

CHAUCER, Second Merchant's Tale.

Or place the arms a-Kingbow, may be to place them in a consequential manner of commanding, like a king.

Kir'cher. s. The midriff; the diaphragm.

Kirsmas. s. Christmas.

Kirsen. v. a. To Christen.

[These two words are instances of the change of place of certain letters, particularly r.]

Kit. s. A tribe; a collection; a gang.

Kit'tle, Kittle-smock. s. A smock frock.

Knack-kneed. adj. In-kneed; having the knees so grown that they strike [knock] against each other.

Knot'tlins. s. pl. The intestines of a pig or calf prepared for food by being tied in knots and afterwards boiled.

I think Chaucer sometimes uses iche as a dissyllable; vide his Poems passim. Ch'am, is I am, that is, ich am; ch'ill, is I will, ich will. See Shakespeare's King Lear, Act IV., Scene IV. What is very remarkable, and which confirms me greatly in the opinion which I here state, upon examining the first folio edition of Shakespeare, at the London Institution, I find that ch is printed, in one instance, with a mark of elision before it thus, 'ch, a proof that the i in iche was sometimes dropped in a common and rapid pronunciation.

In short, this mark of elision ought always so to have been printed, which would, most probably, have prevented the conjectures which have been hazarded upon the origin of the mean- of such words chudd, chill, and cham. It is singular enough that Shakespeare has the ch for iche I, and Ise for I, within the distance of a few lines in the passage above alluded to, in King Lear. But, perhaps, not more singular than that in Somersetshire may, at the present time, be heard for the pronoun I, Utchy, or iché, and Ise. In the Western parts of Somersetshire, as well as in Devonshire, Ise is now used very generally for I. The Germans of the present day pronounce, I understand, their ich sometimes as it is pronounced in the West, Ise, which is the sound we give to frozen water, ice. See Miss Ham's letter, towards the conclusion of this work.

[The V is often substituted for f, as vor, for, veo, few, &c.]

Vage, Vaze. s. A voyage; but more commonly applied to the distance employed to increase the intensity of motion or action from a given point.

To Vang. v. a. To receive; to earn.

Varden. s. Farthing.

Vare. s. A species of weasel.

To Vare. v. n. To bring forth young: applied to pigs and some other animals.

Var'miut. s. A vermin.

Vaught. part. Fetched.

Vur vaught, And dear a-bought.

(i.e.) Far-fetched, and dear bought.

Vawth. s. A bank of dung or earth prepared for manure.

To Vay. v. n. To succeed; to turn out well; to go. This word is, most probably, derived from vais, part of the French verb aller, to go.

It don't vay; it does not go on well. To Vaze. v. n. To move about a room, or a house, so as to agitate the air.

Veel'vare. s. A fieldfare.

Veel. s. A field; corn land unenclosed.

To Veel. v. To feel.

Yeel'd. part. Felt.

Vell. s. The salted stomach of a calf used for making cheese; a membrane.

Ve?. adj. Few, little.

Ver'di, Ver'dit. s. Opinion.

To Ves'sy. v. n. When two or more persons read verses alternately, they are said to vessy.

Ves'ter. s. A pin or wire to point out the letters to children to read; a fescue.

Vi?r. s. Fire. Some of our old writers make this word of two syllables: "Fy-er."

Vin'e. v. Find.

Vine. adj. Fine.

Vin'ned. adj. Mouldy; humoursome; affected.

Vist, Vice. s. [i long.] The Fist.

Vitious. adj. Spiteful; revengeful.

Vitten. s. See Fitten.

Vit'ty. adv. Properly, aptly.

Vlare. v. n. To burn wildly; to flare.

Vle?r. s. A flea.

Vlan'nin. s. Flannel.

Vleng'd. part. Flung.

Vloth'er. s. Incoherent talk; nonsense.

Voc'ating. part. Going about from place to place in an idle manner. From voco, Latin. The verb to voc'ate, to go about from place to place in an idle manner, is also occasionally used.

Voke. s. Folk.

To Vol'ly. v. a. To follow.

Vol'lier. s. Something which follows; a follower.

Voo?th. adv. Forth; out. To goo voo?th, is to go out.

To Voo?se. v. a. To force.

Vorad. adv. adj. Forward.

Vor'n. pron. For him.

Voreright. adj. Blunt; candidly rude.

Voun. Found.

Vouse. adj. Strong, nervous, forward.

Vro?st. s. Frost.

To Vug. v. a. To strike with the elbow.

Vug. s. A thrust or blow with the elbow.

Vur. adv. Far.

Vur'der. adv. Farther.

Vurdest. adv. Farthest.

Vur'voo?th. adv. Far-forth.

Vust. adj. First.

W.

To Wal'lup. v. a. To beat. Walnut. s. The double large walnut. The ordinary walnuts are called French nuts_.

To Wam'mel, To Wamble. v. n. To move to and fro in an irregular and awkward manner; to move out of a regular course or motion.

Applied chiefly to mechanical operations.

War. interj. Beware! take care! War-whing! Take care of yourself.

War. v. This is used for the preterite of the verb to be, in almost all the persons, as I war, he war, we war, &c.

To Ward. v. n. To wade.

To Warnt. To Warnd. a. To warrant.

Wash-dish, s. The bird called wagtail.

To Way-zalt. v. n. [To weigh salt.] To play at the game of wayzaltin. See the next article.

Way-zaltin. s. A game, or exercise, in which two persons stand back to back, with their arms interlaced, and lift each other up alternately.

Weepy. adj. Abounding with springs; moist.

Well-apaid. adj. Appeased; satisfied.

Well-at-ease, Well-at-eased. adj. Hearty. healthy.

Wetshod. adj. Wet in the feet.

Wev'et. s. A spider'_s._web.

To Whack. v. a. To beat with violence.

Whack. s. A loud blow.

Whatsomiver. pron. Whatsoever.

Whaur. adv. Where.

To Whec'ker. v. n. To laugh in a low vulgar manner; to neigh.

Where. adv. Whether.

Wherewi'. s. Property, estate; money.

Whim. s. Home.

Whing. s. Wing.

Whipper-snapper. adj. Active, nimble, sharp.

Whipswhile. s. A short time; the time between the strokes of a whip.

Whir'ra. See WORRA.

Whister-twister. s. A smart blow on the side of the head.

To Whiv'er. v. n. To hover.

Whiz'bird. s. A term of reproach.

To Whop. v.a. To strike with heavy blows.

Whop. s. A heavy blow.

Who'say, or Hoosay. s. A wandering report; an observation of no weight.

Whot. adj. Hot.

Whun. adv. When.

Wi'. With ye.

Wid'ver. s. A widower.

Willy. s. A term applied to baskets of various sizes, but generally to those holding about a bushel. So called from their being made commonly of willow: sometimes called also willy-basket.

To Wim. v. a. To winnow. Wim-sheet, Wimmin-sheet. s.

A sheet upon which corn is winnowed.

Wimmin-dust. s. Chaff.

Win'dor. s. A window.

Wine. s. Wind.

With'er. pron. Other.

With'erguess. adj. Different.

With'y-wine. s. The plant bindweed: convolvulus.

Witt. adj. Fit.

With'erwise. adj. Otherwise.

Wock. s. Oak.

Wocks. s. pl. The cards called clubs; most probably from having the shape of an oak leaf: oaks.

Wont. s. A Mole.

Wont-heave, s. A mole-hill.

Wont-snap, s. A mole-trap.

Wont-wriggle, s. The sinuous path made by moles under ground.

Wood-quist. s. A wood-pigeon.

Wordle. s. World. [Transposition of l and d.]

Wor'ra. s. A small round moveable nut or pinion, with grooves in it, and having a hole in its centre, through which the end of a round stick or spill may be thrust. The spill and worra are attached to the common spinning-wheel, which, with those and the turn-string, form the apparatus for spinning wool, &c. Most probably this word, as well as whir'on, is used for whir, to turn round rapidly with a noise.

Wrassly. Wrestle.

To Wride. v. n. To spread abroad; to expand.

Wriggle. s. Any narrow, sinuous hole.

Wrine. s. A mark occasioned by wringing cloth, or by folding it in an irregular manner.

Wring, s. A. Press. A cyder-wring, a cyder-press.

To Wrumple. v. a. To discompose: to rumple.

Wrumple. s. A rumple.

Wust. adj. Worst.

Y.

Yack'er. s. An acre.

Yal. s. Ale.

Yaller. adj. Yellow.

Yal'house. s. An ale-house.

Yap'ern. s. An apron.

Yarly. adj. Early.

Yarm. s. Arm.

Yarth. s. Earth.

Yel. s. An eel.

Yel-spear. s. An instrument for catching eels.

Yes. s. An earthworm.

Yezy. adj. Easy.

Yokes. s. pl. Hiccups.

Yourn. pron. Yours.

Z.

See the observations which precede the letter S, relative to the change of that letter to Z.

Za. adv. So.

Za. v. Say.

Zat. adj. Soft.

Za'tenfare. adj. Softish: applied to the intellect_s._

To Zam. v. a. To heat for some time over the fire, but not to boil.

Zam'zod, Zam'zodden. adj. Any thing heated for a long time time in a low heat so as to be in part spoiled, is said to be zamzodden.

Conjecture, in etymology, may be always busy. It is not improbable that this word is a compound of semi, Latin, half; and to seethe, to boil: so that Zamzodden will then mean, literally, half-boiled.

Zand. s. Sand.

Zandy. adj. Sandy.

Zand-tot. s. A sand-hill.

To Zee. v. a. pret. and part. Zid, Zeed. To see.

Zee?d. s. Seed. Zee?d-lip. See SEED-LIP.

Zel. pron. Self.

Zen'vy. s. Wild mustard.

The true etymology will be seen at once in sénevé, French, from sinapi, Latin, contracted and corrupted into Zenvy, Somersetian.

Zil'ker. See SILKER.

Zim, Zim'd. v. Seem, seemed.

Zitch. adj. Such.

Zoo?p. s. Soap.

Zog. s. Soft, boggy land; moist land.

Zog'gy. adj. Boggy; wet.

Zoon'er. adv. Rather.

To Zound, To Zoun'dy. v. n. To swoon.

To Zuf'fy. v. n. See TO SUFFY.

Zug'gers! ' This is a word, like others of the same class, the precise meaning of which it is not easy to define. I dare say it is a composition of two, or more words, greatly corrupted in pronunciation.

Zull. s. The instrument used for ploughing land; a plough.

Zum. pron. Some.

Zum'met. pron. Somewhat; something.

Zunz. adv. Since.

To Zwail. v. n. To move about with the arms extended, and up and down.

To Zwang. v. n. and v. n. To swing; to move to and fro.

Zwang. s. A swing.

To Zwell. v. a. To swell; to swallow. See TO SWELL.

Zwird. s. Sword.

Zwod'der. s. A drowsy and stupid state of body or mind.

Derived, most probably, from sudor, Latin, a sweat.

POEMS AND OTHER PIECES EXEMPLIFYING THE DIALECT OF THE

County of Somersetshire.

Notwithstanding the Author has endeavoured, in the Observations on the Dialects of the West, and in The Glossary, to obviate the difficulties under which strangers to the dialect of Somersetshire may, very possibly, labour in the perusal of the following Poems, it may be, perhaps, useful here to remind the reader, that many mere inversions of sound, and differences in pronunciation, are not noted in the Glossary. That it did not appear necessary to explain such words as_ wine, wind; za, say; qut, coat; bwile, boil; hoss, horse; hirches, riches; and many others, which it is presumed the context, the Observations, or the Glossary, will sufficiently explain. The Author, therefore, trusts, that by a careful attention to these, the reader will soon become au fait at the interpretation of these West-country LIDDENS.

GOOD BWYE TA THEE COT!

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha das o' my childhood Glaw'd bright as tha zun in a mornin o' ma; When tha dumbledores hummin, craup out o' tha cobwall, An' shakin ther whings, tha vleed voo?th an' awa. [Footnote: The humble-bee, bombilius major, or dumbledore, makes holes very commonly in mud walls, in which it deposits a kind of farina: in this bee will be found, on dissection, a considerable portion of honey, although it never deposits any.]

Good bwye ta the Cot!-on thy drashel, a-ma-be,

I niver naw moor sholl my voot again zet;

Tha jessamy awver thy porch zweetly bloomin,

Whauriver I goo, I sholl niver vorget.

Tha rawzes, tha lillies, that blaw in tha borders-

The gilawfers, too, that I us'd ta behawld-

Tha trees, wi' tha honeyzucks ranglin all awver,

I always sholl think o' nif I shood be awld.

Tha tutties that oten I pick'd on a zunday,

And stickt in my qut-tha war thawted za fine:

Aw how sholl I tell o'm-vor all pirty maidens

When I pass'd 'em look'd back-ther smill rawze on tha wine.

Good bwye ta thee Ash! which my Father beforne me,

A planted, wi' pleasure, tha da I was born;

Za, oolt thou drap a tear when I cease to behawld thee,

An wander awa droo tha wordle vorlorn.

Good bwye ta thee Tree! an thy cawld shade in zummer;

Thy apples, aw who ool be lotted ta shake?

When tha wine, mangst thy boughs sifes at Milemas in sorrow,

Za oolt thou sife for me, or one wild wish awake?

Good bwye ye dun Elves! who, on whings made o'leather,

Still roun my poorch whiver an' whiver at night;

Aw ma naw hord-horted, unveelin disturber,

Destray your snug nests, an your pla by moonlight.

Good bwye ta thee Bower!-ta thy moss an thy ivy-

To tha flowers that aroun thee all blossomin graw;

When I'm gwon, oolt thou grieve?-bit 'tis foolish to ax it;

What is ther that's shower in this wordle belaw?

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur my mother za thoughtvul,

As zumtimes she war droo er care vor us all,

Er lessins wi' kindness, wi' tenderness gid us;

An ax'd, war she dead, what ood us bevall.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha nightingale's music,

In tha midnight o' Ma-time, rawze loud on the ear;

Whaur tha colley awak'd, wi' tha zun, an a zingin

A went, wi' tha dirsh, in a voice vull and clear.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! I must goo ta tha city.

Whaur, I'm tawld, that the smawk makes it dork at noon da;

Bit nif it is true, I'm afeard that I always

And iver sholl thenk on tha cot thatch'd wi' stra.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! there is One that rains awver,

An watches tha wordle, wi' wisdom divine;

Than why shood I mang, wi' tha many, my ma-bes;

Bin there's readship in Him, an to him I resign.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! shood I niver behauld thee

Again; still I thank thee vor all that is past!

Thy friendly ruf shelter'd-while mother watch'd awver.

An haw'd vor my comfort vrom vust unto last.

Good bwye ta thee Cot; vor the time ma be longful

Beforn I on thy drashall again zet my eye;

Thy tutties ool blossom, an daver an blossom

Again and again-zaw good bwye, an good bwye!

FANNY FEAR

The melancholy incident related in the following story, actually occurred a few years ago at Shapwick.

Good Gennel-vawk! an if you please

To lissen to my storry,

A ma-be 'tis a jitch a one,

Ool make ye zummet zorry.

'Tis not a hoozay tale of grief,

A put wi' ort together,

That where you cry, or where you laugh,

Da matter not a veather;

Bit 'tis a tale vor sartin true,

Wi' readship be it spawken;

I knaw it all, begummers! well,

By tale, eese, an by tawken.

The maid's right name war FANNY FEAR,

A tidy body lookin;

An she cood brew, and she cood bake,

An dumplins bwile, and skimmer cake;

An all the like o' cookin.

Upon a Zunday aternoon,

Beforne the door a stanin,

To zee er chubby cheaks za hird,

An whitist lilies roun 'em spird,

A damas rawze her han in,

Ood do your hort good; an er eyes,

Dork, vull, an bright, an sporklin;

Tha country lads could not goo by,

Bit look tha must-she iver shy,

Ood blish-tha timid lorklin!

Her dame war to her desperd kind;

She knaw'd er well dezarvin:

She gid her good advice an claws,

At which she niver toss'd her naws,

As zum ool, thawf pon starvin.

She oten yarly upp'd to goo

A milkin o' tha dairy;

The meads ring'd loudly wi' er zong;

Aw how she birshed the grass along,

As lissom as a vairy!

She war as happy as a prince;

Naw princess moor o' pleasure

When well-at-eased cood iver veel;

She ly'd her head upon her peel,

An vound athin a treasure.

There war a dessent comly youth,

Who took'd to her a likin;

An when a don'd in zunday claws,

You'd thenk en zummet I suppaws,

A look'd so desperd strikin.

His vace war like a zummer da,

When all the birds be zingin;

Smiles an good nature dimplin stood,

An moor besides, an all za good,

Much pleasant promise bringin.

Now Jan war sawber, and afeard

Nif he in haste shood morry,

That he mid long repent thereof;

An zo a thwart 'twar best not, thawf

To sta mid make en zorry.

Jan oten pass'd the happy door,

There Fanny stood a scrubbin;

An Fanny hired hiz pleasant voice,

An thawt-"An if she had er choice!"

An veel'd athin a drubbin.

Bit Jan did'n hulder long iz thawts;

Vor thorough iv'ry cranny,

Hirn'd of iz Lort tha warm hird tide;

An a cood na moor iz veelins bide,

Bit tell 'em must to Fanny.

To Fanny, than, one Whitsun eve,

A tawld er how a lov'd er;

Naw dove, a zed to er cood be

Moor faithvul than to her ood he;

His hort had long appruv'd er.

Wi' timourous blishin, Fanny zed,

"A maid mist not believe ye;

Vor men ool tell ther lovin tale,

And awver seely maids prevail-

Bit I dwont like ta grieve ye:

Vor nif za be you now za true-

That you've for I a fancy:

(Aw Jan! I dwont veel desperd well,

An what's tha caze, I cannot tell),

You'll za na moor to Nancy."

Twar zaw begin'd their zweetortin;

Boo?th still liv'd in their places;

Zometimes tha met bezides tha stile;

Wi' pleasant look an tender smile

Gaz'd in each wither's faces.

In spreng-time oten on tha nap

Ood Jan and Fanny linger;

An when war voo?s'd to za "good bwye,"

Ood meet again, wi' draps in eye,

While haup ood pwint er vinger.

Zo pass'd tha das-tha moons awa,

An haup still whiver'd nigh;

Nif Fanny's dreams high pleasures vill,

Of her Jan's thawts the lidden still,

An oten too the zigh.

Bit still Jan had not got wherewi'

To venter eet to morry;

Alas-a-da! when poor vawk love,

How much restraint how many pruv;

How zick zum an how zorry.

Aw you who live in houzen grate,

An wherewi' much possessin,

You knaw not, ma-be, care not you,

What pangs jitch tender horts pursue,

How grate nor how distressin.

Jan sar'd a varmer vour long years,

An now iz haups da brighten:

A gennelman of high degree

Choos'd en iz hunsman vor to be;

His Fanny's hort da lighten!

"Now, Fan," zed he, "nif I da live,

Nex zummer thee bist mine;

Sir John ool gee me wauges good,

Ama-be too zum vi?r ood!"

His Fan's dork eyes did shine.

"To haw vor thee, my Fan," a cried,

"I iver sholl delight;

Thawf I be poor, 'tool be my pride

To ha my Fan vor a buxom bride-

My lidden da an night."

A took er gently in iz orms

An kiss'd er za zweetly too;

His Fan, vor jay, not a word cood speak,

Bit a big roun tear rawl'd down er cheak,

It zimm'd as thawf er hort ood break-

She cood hordly thenk it true.

To zee our hunsman goo abroad,

His houns behind en volly;

His tossel'd cap-his whip's smort smack,

His hoss a prancin wi' tha crack,

His whissle, horn, an holler, back!

Ood cure all malancholy.

It happ'd on a dork an wintry night,

Tha stormy wine a blawin;

Tha houns made a naise an a dismal yell;

Jitch as zum vawk za da death vaurtell,

The cattle loud war lawin.

Tha hunsman wakid an down a went;

A thawt ta keep 'em quiet;

A niver stopped izzel ta dress,

Bit a went in iz shirt vor readiness

A voun a dirdful riot.

Bit all thic night a did not come back;

All night tha dogs did raur;

In tha mornin tha look'd on tha kannel stwons

An zeed 'em cover'd wi' gaur an bwons,

The vlesh all vrom 'em a taur.

His head war left-the head o' Jan

Who lov'd hiz Fanny za well;

An a bizzy gossip, as gossips be

Who've work o' ther awn bit vrom it vlee,

To Fanny went ta tell.

She hirn'd, she vleed ta meet tha man

Who corr'd er dear Jan's head:

An when she zeed en all blood an gaur,

She drapp'd down speechless jist avaur,

As thauf she had bin dead.

Poor Fanny com'd ta erzel again,

Bit her senses left her vor iver!

An all she zed, ba da or night-

Vor sleep it left her eye-lids quite-

War, "why did he goo in the cawld ta shiver?-

Niver, O Jan! sholl I zee the, niver!"

[Footnote: See a letter by Edward Band, on this subject, in the prose pieces.]

JERRRY NUTTY; OR THE MAN OF MORK.

Awa wi' all yer tales o' grief,

An dismal storry writin;

A ma-be zumthin I ma zing

Ool be as much delightin.

Zumtime agoo, bevaur tha moors

War tin'd in, lived at Mork

One JERRY NUTTY-spry a war;

A upp'd avaur the lork.

Iz vather in a little cot

Liv'd, auver-right tha moor,

An thaw a kipt a vlock o' geese,

A war a thoughted poor.

A niver teach'd tha cris-cross-lain

Ta any of his bways,

An Jerry, mangst the rest o'm, did

Not much appruv his ways.

Vor Jerry zumtimes went ta church

Ta hire tha Pason preach,

An thawt what pity that ta read

Izzel a cood'n teach.

Vor than, a zunday aternoon,

Tha Bible, or good book

Would be companion vit vor'm all

Who choos'd therein ta look.

Bit Jerry than tha naise o' geese

Bit little moor could hire;

An daly goose-aggs ta pick up

Droo-out tha moor did tire.

A ?ten look'd upon tha hills

An stickle mountains roun,

An wished izzel upon their taps:

What zights a ood be bóun!

Bit what did moo?st iz fancy strick

War Glassenberry Torr:

A always zeed it when tha zun

Gleam'd wi' tha mornin stor.

O' Well's grate church a ?ten hired,

Iz fancy war awake;

An zaw a thawt that zoon a ood

A journey ta it make.

An Glassenberry's Torr, an Thorn

The hawly blowth of which

A hired from one and tother too;

Tha like war never jitch!

Bit moor o' this I need not za,

Vor off went Jerry Nutty,

In hiz right hon a wakin stick,

An in hiz qut a tutty.

Now, lock-y-zee! in whimly dress

Trudg'd chearful Jerry on;

Bit on tha moor not vur a went-

A made a zudden ston.

Which wa ta goo a cood not thenk,

Vor there war many a wa;

A put upright iz walking stick;

A vall'd ta tha zon o' da.

Ta tha suthard than iz wa a took

Athert tha turfy moors,

An zoon o' blissom Cuzziton,

[Footnote: Cossington.]

A pass'd tha cottage doors.

Tha maidens o' tha cottages,

Not us'd strange vawk to zee,

Com'd voo?th and stood avaur tha door;

Jer wonder'd what cood be.

Zum smil'd, zum whecker'd, zum o'm blish'd.

"Od dang it!" Jerry zed,

"What do tha think that I be like?"

An nodded to 'm iz head.

"Which is tha wa to Glassenberry?

I've hired tha hawly thorn

War zet there by zum hawly hons

Zoon ater Christ war born;

An I've a mine ta zee it too,

An o' tha blowth ta take."

"An how can you, a seely man,

Jitch seely journey make?

"What! dwont ye knaw that now about

It is the midst o' June?

Tha hawly thorn at Kirsmas blaws-

You be zix months too zoon.

Goo whim again, yea gawky! goo!"

Zaw zed a damsel vair

As dewy mornin late in Ma;

An Jerry wide did stare.

"Lord Miss!" zed he, "I niver thawt,

O' Kirsmas!-while I've shoes,

To goo back now I be zet out,

Is what I sholl not choose.

I'll zee the Torr an hawly thorn,

An Glassenberry too;

An, nif you'll put me in tha wa,

I'll gee grate thanks ta you."

Goo droo thic veel an up thic lane,

An take tha lift hon path,

Than droo Miss Crossman's backzid strait,

Ool bring ye up ta Wrath.

Now mine, whaur you do turn again

At varmer Veal's long yacker,

Cloo?se whaur Jan Lide, tha cobler, lives

Who makes tha best o' tacker;

You mist turn short behine tha house

An goo right droo tha shord,

An than you'll pass a zummer lodge,

A builded by tha lord.

Tha turnpick than is jist belaw,

An Cock-hill strait avaur ye."

Za Jerry doff'd his hat an bow'd,

An thank'd er vor er storry.

Bit moor o' this I need not za,

Vor off went Jerry Nutty;

In his right hand a wakin stick,

An in hiz qut a tutty.

Bit I vorgot to za that Jer

A zatchel wi' en took

To hauld zum bird an cheese ta ate;-

Iz drink war o' tha brook.

Za when a got upon Cock-hill

Upon a linch a zawt;

The zun had climmer'd up tha sky;

A voun it very hot.

An, as iz stomick war za good,

A made a horty meal;

An werry war wi' wakin, zaw

A sleepid zoon did veel.

That blessed power o' bamy sleep,

Which auver ivery sense

Da wi' wild whiverin whings extend

A happy influence;

Now auver Jerry Nutty drow'd

Er lissom mantle wide;

An down a drapp'd in zweetest zleep,

Iz zatchel by iz zide.

Not all tha nasty stouts could wake

En vrom iz happy zleep,

Nor emmets thick, nor vlies that buz,

An on iz hons da creep.

Naw dreams a had; or nif a had

Moo?st pleasant dreams war tha:

O' geese an goose-aggs, ducks and jitch;

Or Mally, vur awa,

Zum gennelmen war dreavin by

In a gilded cawch za ga;

Tha zeed en lyin down asleep;

Tha bid the cawchman sta.

Tha ball'd tha hoop'd-a niver wak'd;

Naw houzen there war handy;

Zed one o'm, "Nif you like, my bways,

"We'll ha a little randy!"

"Jist put en zatly in tha cawch

An dreav en ta Bejwater;

An as we all can't g'in wi'n here,

I'll come mysel zoon ater."

Twar done at once: vor norn o'm car'd

A stra vor wine or weather;

Than gently rawl'd the cawch along,

As zat as any veather.

Bit Jerry snaur'd za loud, tha naise

Tha gennelmen did gally;

Tha'd haf a mind ta turn en out;

A war dreamin o' his Mally!

It war the morkit da as rawl'd

Tha cawch athin Bejwater;

Tha drauv tip ta the Crown-Inn door,

Ther Ma-game man com'd ater.

"Here Maester Water! Lock-y-zee!

A-ma-be you mid thenk

Thic mon a snauren in tha cawch

Is auvercome wi' drenk.

Bit 'tis not not jitchy theng we knaw;

A is a cunjerin mon,

Vor on Cock-hill we vound en ly'd

Iz stick stif in his hon.

Iz vace war cover'd thick wi' vlies

An bloody stouts a plenty;

Nif he'd o pumple voot bezide,

An a brumstick vor'n to zit ascride,

O' wizards a mid be thawt tha pride,

Amangst a kit o' twenty."

"Lord zur! an why d'ye bring en here

To gally all tha people?

Why zuggers! nif we frunt en than,

He'll auver-dro tha steeple.

I bag ye, zur, to take en voo?th;

There! how iz teeth da chatter;

Lawk zur! vor Christ-look there again!

A'll witchify Bejwater!"

Tha gennelman stood by an smiled

To zee tha bussle risin:

Yor zoon, droo-out tha morkit wide

Tha news wor gwon saprisin.

An round about tha cawch tha dring'd-

Tha countryman and townsman;

An young an awld, an man an maid-

Wi' now an tan, an here an there,

Amang tha crowd to gape an stare,

A doctor and a gownsman.

Jitch naise an bother wakid zoon

Poor hormless Jerry Nutty,

A look'd astunn'd;-a cood'n speak!

An daver'd war iz tutty.

A niver in his life avaur

'ad been athin Bejwater;

A thawt, an if a war alive,

That zummet war tha matter.

Tha houzen cling'd together zaw!

Tha gennelmen an ladies!

Tha blacksmith's, brazier's hammers too!

An smauk whauriver trade is.

Bit how a com'd athin a cawch

A war amaz'd at thenkin;

A thawt, vor sartin, a must be

A auvercome wi' drenkin.

Tha ax'd en nif a'd please to g'out

An ta tha yalhouse g'in;

Bit tha zo cloo?se about en dring'd

A cood'n goo athin.

Ta g'under 'em or g'auver 'em

A try'd booath grate and small;

Bit g'under, g'auver, g'in, or g'out,

A cood'n than at all.

"Lord bless ye! gennel-vawk!" zed he,

I'm come to Glassenberry

To zee tha Torr an Hawly Thorn;

What makes ye look za merry?"

"Why mister wizard? dwont ye knaw,

The?se town is call'd Bejwater!"

Cried out a whipper-snapper man:

Tha all bust out in laughter.

"I be'nt a wizard, zur!" a zed;

"Bit I'm a little titch'd; [Footnote: Touched.]

"Or, witherwise, you mid well thenk

I'm, zure anow, bewitch'd!"

Thaw Jerry war, vor all tha wordle,

Like very zel o' quiet,

A veel'd iz blood ta bwile athin

At jitchy zort o' riot;

Za out a jump'd amangst 'em all!

A made a desperd bussle;

Zum hirn'd awa-zum made a ston;

Wi' zum a had a tussle.

Iz stick now sar'd 'em justice good;

It war a tough groun ash;

Upon ther heads a pla'd awa,

An round about did drash.

Tha belg'd, tha raur'd, tha scamper'd all.

A zoon voun rum ta stoory;

A thawt a'd be reveng'd at once,

Athout a judge or jury.

An, thaw a brawk navy-body's bwons,

A gid zum bloody nawzes;

Tha pirty maids war fainty too;

Hirn'd vrom ther cheaks tha rawzes.

Thinks he, me gennelmen! when nex

I goo to Glassenbery,

Yea shant ha jitch a rig wi' I,

Nor at my cost be merry.

Zaw, havin clear'd izzel a wa.

Right whim went Jerry Nutty;

A flourished roun iz wakin stick;

An vleng'd awa iz tutty.

A LEGEND OF GLASTONBURY.

[First Printed in "Graphic Illustrator, p. 124.]

I cannot do better than introduce here "A Legend of Glastonbury," made up, not from books, but from oral tradition once very prevalent in and near Glastonbury, 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 ater Christ war born,

Here a planted war by Arimathé,

Thic Joseph that com'd auver sea,

An planted Kirstianity.

Tha za 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 bevall,

A cried aloud "Now, weary all!"

Tha staff het budded an het grew,

An at Kirsmas bloom'd tha whol da droo.

An still het blooms at Kirsmas bright,

But best tha za 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 ?ten 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 awa 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 tha rawd,

Athout much tak, together.

Not vur tha 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 tha 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 lad 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.

Tha cust, tha swaur, tha dreaten'd too,

An ater Mr. Guy

Tha gallop'd all; 'twar niver-tha-near:

Hiz hoss along did vly.

Auver downs, droo dales, awa a went,

'Twar da-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 awa-

It gawld g'lore contain'd!

Nif Mr. Guy war hirch avaur,

A now war hircher still:

Tha plunder o' tha highwamen

Hiz coffers went ta vill.

In safety Mr. Guy rawd whim;

A ?ten 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 larv? 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 tha Lunnun call;-

Tha Tower an tha Pork

Ha boo?th a got a Rookery,

Althaw tha han't a Lork.

I zeng not o' jitch Rookeries,

Jitch plazen, pump or banners;

Bit town-berd Rooks, vor all that, ha,

I warnt ye, curious manners.

My zong is o' a Rookery

My Father's cot bezide,

Avaur, years ater, I war born

'Twar long tha porish pride.

Tha elms look'd up like giants tall

Ther branchy yarms aspread;

An green plumes wavin wi' tha wine,

Made ga each lofty head.

Ta dra 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, cloo?se by tha trees,

Its stickle coose on slid,

Whaur yells an trout an wither fish

Mid ?tentimes be zid.

Tha rooks voun this a pleasant place-

A whim ther young ta rear;

An I a ?ten pleas'd a bin

Ta watch 'em droo tha year.

'Tis on tha da 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 za,

(Naw readship in't I put)

That nif tha did'n shut tha, rooks

Tha'd zoon desert tha trees!

Wise vawk! Thic reason vor ther SPOORT

Gee tha mid nif tha please!

Still zeng I o' tha Rookery,

Vor years it war tha pride

Of all tha place, bit 'twor ta I

A zumthin moor bezide.

A hired tha Rooks avaur I upp'd;

I hired 'em droo tha da;

I hired ther young while gittin flush

An ginnin jist ta ca.

I hired 'em when my mother gid

Er lessins kind ta I,

In jitch a wa when I war young,

That I war fit ta cry.

I hired 'em at tha cottage door,

When mornin, in tha spreng,

Wak'd voo?th in youth an beauty too,

An birds beginn'd ta zeng.

I hired 'em in tha winter-time

When, roustin vur awa,

Tha visited tha Rookery

A whiverin by da.

My childhood, youth, and manood too,

My Father's cot recall

Thic Rookery. Bit I mist now

Tell what it did bevall.

'Twar Ma-time-heavy vi' tha nests

War laden all tha trees;

An to an fraw, wi' creekin loud,

Tha 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, all awa

War zweept into tha water

An zaw war spwiled tha Rookery

Vor iver and iver ater.

I visited my Father's cot:

Tha Rooks war all a gwon;

Whaur stood tha trees in lofty pride

I zid there norra one.

My Father's cot war desolate;

An all look'd wild, vorlorn;

Tha Ash war stunted that war zet

Tha da that I war born.

My Father, Mother, Rooks, all gwon!

My Charlotte an my Lizzy!-

Tha gorden wi' tha tutties too!-

Jitch thawts why be za bizzy!-

Behawld tha wa 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."

Moo?st plazen ha their customs

Ther manners an ther men;

We too a got our customs,

Our manners and our men.

He who a bin ta Huntspill Fayer

Or Highbridge-Pawlet Revel-

Or Burtle Sassions, whaur tha pla

Zumtimes tha very devil,

Mist mine once a man well

That war a call'd TOM GOOL;

Zum thawt en mazed, while withers thawt

En moor a knave than fool.

At all tha fayers an revels too

TOM GOOL war shower ta be,

A takin vlother vast awa,-

A hoopin who bit he.

Vor' all that a had a zoort o' wit

That zet tha vawk a laughin;

An moo?st o' that, when ho tha yal

Ad at tha fayer 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 of our country.

[The MS. song was never, that I am aware of, discovered

after my relative's death.-Editor, J. K. J.]]

An nif yon han'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, all prizes!

A waiter-knife-or scissis sheer-

A splat o' pins-put in my dear!-

Whitechapel nills all 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 pa vor't. Luck, Luck in tha bag! all 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 single-sticks,

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.

Mam,

I da thenk you'll smile at thee?zam 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-ma-be, I mid not be afeard ta za zummet ta you that you, mam 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 da ta zing a zong: now I dwont much like zum o' tha zongs that I hired thic night at squire Reevs's when we made an end o' Ha-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 zat anow, bit, vor all that, I war looking vor tha moril, mam. Zo, when I cum'd whim, I tawld our Pall, that you axt I ta zing: an I war zorry aterward that I did'n, bin you be always zo desperd good ta poor vowk. Bit I thawt, a-ma-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, mam, nif you please, I a zent tha zong. I haup you'll vorgee me.

Mam, your humble sarvant,

TEDDY BAND.

ZONG.

I have a cot o' Cob-wall

Roun which tha ivy clims;

My Pally at tha night-vall

Er crappin vi?r 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,

Calls all tha birds abroad;

An wrans an robin-riddicks,

Tell all 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 das be vine,

I drenk tha sporklin cider,

An wish naw wither wine.

How zweet tha smill o' clawver,

How zweet tha smill o' ha;

How zweet is haulsom labour, ^

Bit zweeter Pall than tha.

An who d'ye thenk I envy?-

Tha nawbles o' tha land?

Tha 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 always a thawt it desperd odd, that dogs should be keept in a kannel, and keept a hungered too, zaw that tha mid be moor eager to hunt thic poor little theng called 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 tha da hire tha yell o' tha houns tha'll not vorgit Fanny Fear; a-ma-be tha 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 wa-

Tha Porish o'ten called,-a girt bell sheep

Or two that lead the rest an quiet keep-

Put voo?th ther hons iz coose to sta,

Which made en quite unruly.

A went, of coose, ta Visitation

Ta be sworn in;-an than 'twar nation

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 all a copper varden!"

Tha church war durty.-Wevets here

Hang'd danglin vrom tha ruf; an there

Tha plaisterin shaw'd a crazy wall;

Tha altar-piece war dim and dowsty too,

That Peter's maricle tha 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 small.

'Twar time vor zum one ta renew 'em all.

I've tawld o' wevets-zum o'm odd enow;

Tha look'd tha colour of a dork dun cow,

An like a skin war stratched across tha corners;

Tha knitters o' tha porish tak'd o knittin

Stocking wi' 'em!-Bit aw, how unbevittin

All tak 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 walls once moor look'd bright.

Tha Painter, fags, a war a Plummer

An Glazier too,

Put voo?th his powers,

(His workin made naw little scummer!)

In zentences, in flourishes, and flowers.

Tha chancel, church and all 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 altar piece wi' Peter war now naw libel

Upon tha church,

Which boo?th athin an, tower an all, athout

Look'd like a well-dressed maid in pride about;

Tha walls rejaic'd wi' texts took vrom tha Bible.

Bit vor all that, tha left en in tha lurch; I bag your pardon.

I mean, of all tha expense tha ood'n pa a varden.

Jitch zweepin, birshin, paintin, scrubbin;

Tha tuts ad niver jitch a drubbin;

Jitch white-washin and jitch brought gwain

A power of money-Tha Painter's bill

Made of itzel a pirty pill,

Ta zwell which all o'm tried in vain!

Ther stomicks turn'd, ther drawts were norry; [Footnote: Narrow]

Jitch gillded pills tha cood'n corry.

An when our young churchwarden ax'd em why,

Tha 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 call'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 Layer gid en bad advice;

A-ma-be saw; jitch vawk ben't always nice.

Layers o' advice be seltimes misers

Nif there's wherewi' ta pa;

Or, witherwise, good bwye ta Layers an tha La.

A Vestry than at last war cried-

A Vestry's power let no?ne 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

Repairation.

A grate noration,

A nation naise tha nawtice made,

About tha cost ta be defray'd

Vor tha church's repairation.

Tha Vestry met, all naise an bother;

One ood'n wait ta hire tha tuther.

When tha war tir'd o' jitch a gabble,

Ta bal na moor not one war yable,

A man, a little zatenfare,

Got up hiz verdi ta delcare.

Now Soce, zed he, why we be gwain

Ta meet in Vestry here in vain.

Let's come to some determination,

An not tak all 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 cloo?se 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 zatenfare,

An all tha Vestry wide did stare!

Bit Soce, zed he again, I niver zeed

Money brought gwain zaw bad. What need

War ther tha altar-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,

Tha all, wi one accord,

At tha little zatenfare's word,

Agreed, that, not one varden,

By Rate,

Should be collected vor tha late Repairation

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 moo?st about

Tha zea an all 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 all about tha stake-hangs

Tha zalmon 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, 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 always 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' all fish a cood tell;

Who bit he amangst tha Fishermen-

A always bear'd tha bell.

Tommy Came ad hired o' Players,

Bit niver zeed 'em pla;

Tha war actin at Bejwater;

There a went wi' Sally Da.

When tha curtain first draw'd up, than

Sapriz'd war Tommy Came;

A'd haf a mine ta him awa,

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 ater lookin on zumtime,

Ta understand did strive;

There now, zed he, I'll gee my woth

[Footnote: Oath.]

That tha 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-lain;

I haup that't word'n quite in vain!

'Twar her who teach'd me vust ta read

Jitch little words as beef an bread;

An I da thenk 'twar her that, ater,

Lorn'd I ta read tha single zater.

Poor Mary ?ten 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-ma-be's past.-It must be zaw;-

There's nothin stable here belaw!

O' Mary-all 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 za na moor-zaw, fore well! [Footnote: Fare ye well.]

HANNAH VERRIOR.

Tha za I'm maz'd,-my Husband's dead,

My chile, (hush! hush! Lord love er face!)

Tha pit-hawl had at Milemas, when

Tha put me in the?ze poo?t-hawl place.

Tha za I'm maz'd.-I veel-I thenk--

I tak-I ate, an oten drenk.-

Tha thenk, a-ma-be, zumtimes, peel-

An gee me stra vor bed an peel!

Tha za I'm maz'd.-Hush! Babby, dear!

Tha shan't come to er!-niver fear!

Tha za thy Father's dead!-Naw, naw!

A'll niver die while I'm belaw.

Tha za I'm maz'd.-Why dwont you speak?

Fie James!-or else my hort ool break!-

James is not dead! nor Babby!-naw!

Tha'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 all be zingers,

We like, wi' enk, ta dye our vingers;

Bit moo?st 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 ball

Once vrighten'd Lady Drake an all;-

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 waters raur-

In Banwell's cave-on Loxton hill-

At Clifton ga-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 flants 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 da and harras near:

The zun upon the waters drode

Girt sheets of light as on a rode;

From zultry he?t the cattle hirn'd

To shade or water as to firnd:

Men, too, in yarly aternoon

Doft'd quick ther cloaths and dash'd in zoon

To thic deep river, whaur the trout,

In all ther prankin, plad about;

And yels wi' zilver skins war zid,

While gudgeons droo the water slid,

Wi' carp sumtimes and wither fish

Avoordon many a dainty dish.

Whaur elvers too in spring time plad,

[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 water 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 the?ze 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 ?' 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 all 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 tha be gwon and I, o' all

O'm left to za what did bevall.

Zo, nif zo be you like, why I

To tell the storry now ool try.

Thic _Evans_had 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 waters bland,

Or zwimmin wi' a ma?ster hand.

We youngsters dree, the youngest I,

To zee the zwimmers all 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 da to bless!

A dog' too, faithful to his ma?ster

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 allès 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, all

That zeed what Blanscue did bevall.-

Athout one sign, or naise, or cry,

Or shriek, or splash, or groan, or sigh!

Could zitch a zwimmer ever die

In water?-Yet we gaz'd in vain

Upon thic bright and water 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 water 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 all,

We wish'd to goo an zum one call;

But Evans carelissly thus spoke-

"Oh, Cox is up the river gone,

Vor sartain ool be back anon;-

He talk'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 water 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 appear-

Het floated in the water clear!

Bolt upright war he, and his hair,

That pruv'd he sartainly war there,

Zwimm'd on the water!-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,

Call out, at once, vor father's men?

(Tha war at work vor'n very near

A mendin the old Highbridge pier,)

A did'n call, but 'mus'd our fear-

"A hundred vawk ool zoon be here!"

A zed.-We gid the hue and cry!

And zoon a boo?t wi' men did vly!

But twar all 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 all

Tha 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 Ma,

Of whom a-ma-bi I mid za

Zumthin hereater:

What tha 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 all that sholl thee?ze 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 ?ten, ?ten 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 moo?st whun Brue war deep and clear,

And Lammas da an harras near;-

Whun zummer vleng'd his light abroad,-

The zun in all his glory rawd;

How beautiful mid be the da

A zumthin allès zim'd to za,

"Whar whing! the water'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 the?ze Dedication;

I write, I haup I dwon't offend.

Bin I be proud ta call You FRIEND.

I here ston voo?th, aloo?n 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, ma-be, tha ool hire

Zooner than zater vrom a lyre.

Za that, thy m?ester's pleas'd ta blaw 'em,

An haups in time tha'll come ta knaw 'em;

An nif zaw be tha'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, ma?ster 'tis zaw cawld, I can't work wi' tha tacker at all; I've a brawk it ten times I'm shower ta da- 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, the?ze 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 tha war gwain ta wimmy, ond that tha 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 za or do ta Hester, than?

Jan Lide.-Why, Hester, a ma-be, war zummet ta blame too: vor she war one o'm, d'ye zee, that rawd Skimmerton-thic ma game that frunted zum o' tha gennel-vawk. Tha zed 'twar time to a done wi'jitch litter, or jitch stuff, or I dwon knaw what tha call'd it; bit tha war a frunted wi' Hester about it: an I zed nif tha war a frunted wi' Hester, tha 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 wa 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 tha?-

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 the?ze zumrner. I shall be out amangst ye. I'll goo wi' ta mawy, an ta ha-makin, an ta reapy-I'll come ater, an zet up tha stitches vor ye, Thomas. An if I da sta till Milemas, I'll goo ta Matthews fayer wi'. Thomas, ave ye had any zenvy the?ze 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 tak- -da zeem za naatal. We a had zum zenvy-an tha ten yacres be a haind-a'll be maw'd in veo das-you'll come an ha-maky, o'nt ye?- -eese, I knaw you ool-an I da knaw whool goo a ha-makin wi', too -ah, she's a zweet maid-I dwon't wonder at ye at all, Maester Jimmy-Lord bless ye, an love ye boo?th.

Jimmy.-Thomas, you a liv'd a long time wi' Father, an' I dwont like ta chide ye, bit nif you da tak o' Miss Cox in thic fashion, I knaw she on't like it, naw moor sholl I. Miss Cox, Thomas, Miss Cox ool, a-ma-be, goo a ha-makin wi' I, as she a done avaur now; bit Sally, Miss Cox, Thomas, I wish you'd za 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 takin about.- Be tha thissles skeer'd in tha twenty yacres, Thomas?-aw, tha be. Well, I sholl be glad when tha ten yacres be a mawed-an when we da make an end o' ha-corrin, I'll dance wi' Sally Cox.

Thomas Came.-There, Maester Jimmy! 'tword'n I that tak'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 wake ye. Now, Billy there's a good bway! Ston still there, an mine what I da za 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 a little a-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-all in one lidden-hum, hum, hum,-You'll niver lorn ta read well thic fashion.-Here, Pal, read the?ze 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 za 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 always zed that Pason Tuttle's grandater 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 all 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.-The?zamy here be by vur tha best.-There is a moril ta moo?st o'm; an tha be pirty bezides.-Now, Miss, please ta read thic- Tha Notorious Glutton.-Pal Came! turn tha glass! dwon't ye zee tha zond is all hirnd out;-you'll sta in school tha longer for't nif you dwon't mine it.-Now, all o' ye be quiet ta hire Miss Whitin read.-There now! what d'ye za 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 vo?th.

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 the distance. It should be stated, too, that Larence is the name usually given in Somersetshire to that imaginary being which presides over the IDLE. Perhaps it may also be useful to state here that the word Idlelon is more than a provincialism, and should be in our dictionaries.

During the latter part of the Soliloquy Farmer Tidball arrives behind the bank, and hearing poor Ben's discourse with himself, interrupts his musings in the manner described hereafter. It is the history of an occurrence in real life, and at the place mentioned. The writer knew Farmer Tidball personally, and has often heard the story from his wife.

SOLILOQUY

"Larence! why doos'n let I up? Oot let I up?" Naw, I be sleapid, I can't let thee up eet.-"Now, Lareuce! do let I up. There! bimeby maester'll come, an a'll be?t I athin a ninch o' me life; do let I up!"-Naw I wunt.

"Larence! I bag o'ee, do ee let I, up! D'ye zee! Tha shee-ape be all a breakin droo tha hadge inta tha vivean-twenty yacres; an Former Haggit'll goo ta La wi'n, an I sholl be kill'd. -Naw I wun't- 'tis zaw whot: bezides I hant a had my nap out. "Larence! I da za, thee bist a bad un! Oot thee hire what I da za? Come now an let I scooce wi'. Lord a massy upon me! Larence, whys'n thee let I up?" Caz I wunt. What! muss'n I ha an hour like wither vawk ta ate my bird an cheese? I do za I wunt; and zaw 'tis niver-tha-near to keep on.

"Maester tawl'd I, nif I wer a good bway, a'd gee I iz awld wasket; an I'm shower, nif a da come an vine I here, an tha shee-ape a brawk inta tha vive-an-twenty yacres, a'll vleng't awa vust! Larence, do ee, do ee let I up! Ool ee, do ee!"-Naw, I tell ee I wunt.

"There's one o' tha sheep 'pon iz back in tha gripe, an a can't turn auver! I mis g'in ta tha groun an g'out to'n, an git'n out. There's another in tha ditch! a'll be a buddled! There's a gird'l o' trouble wi' shee-ape! Larence; cass'n thee let I goo. I'll gee thee a ha peny nif oot let me."-Naw I can't let thee goo eet.

"Maester'll be shower to come an catch me! Larence! doose thee hire? I da za, oot let me up. I zeed Farmer Haggit zoon ater I upt, an a zed, nif a voun one o' my shee-ape in tha vive-an-twenty yacres, a'd drash I za long as a cood ston auver me, an wi' a groun ash' too! There! Zum o'm be a gwon droo tha vive-an-twenty yacres inta tha drauve: tha'll zoon hirn vur anow. Tha'll be poun'd. Larence! I'll gee thee a penny nif oot let I up." Naw I wunt.

"Thic not sheep ha got tha shab! Dame tawl'd I whun I upt ta-da ta mine tha shab-water; I sholl pick it in whun I da goo whim. I vorgot it! Maester war desperd cross, an I war glad ta git out o' tha langth o' iz tongue. I da hate zitch cross vawk! Larence! what, oot niver let I up? There! zum o' tha shee-ape be gwon into Leek- beds; an zum o'm be in Hounlake; dree or vour o'm be gwon za vur as Slow-wa; the ditches be, menny o'm za dry 'tis all now rangel common! There! I'll gee thee dree ha pence ta let I goo." Why, thee hass'n bin here an hour, an vor what shood I let thee goo? I da za, lie still!

"Larence! why doos'n let I up? There! zim ta I, I da hire thic pirty maid, Fanny o' Primmer Hill, a chidin bin I be a lyin here while tha shee-ape be gwain droo thic shord an tuther shord; zum o'm, a-ma-be, be a drown'd! Larence; doose thee thenk I can bear tha betwitten o' thic pirty maid? She, tha Primrawse o' Primmer-hill; tha Lily o' tha level; tha gawl-cup o' tha mead; tha zweetist honeyzuckle in tha garden; tha yarly vilet; tha rawse o' rawses; tha pirty pollyantice! Whun I seed er last, she zed, "Ben, do ee mind tha sheeape, an tha yeos an lams, an than zumbody ool mine you." Wi'that she gid me a beautiful spreg o' jessamy, jist a pickt vrom tha poorch,-tha smill war za zweet.

"Larence! I mus goo! I ool goo. You mus let I up. I ont sta here na

longer! Maester'll be shower ta come an drash me. There, Larence!

I'll gee tuther penny, an that's ivry vard'n I a got. Oot let

I goo?" Naw, I mis ha a penny moor.

"Larence! do let I up! Creeplin Philip'll be shower ta catch me! Thic cockygee! I dwont like en. at all; a's za rough, an za zoür. An Will Popham too, ta betwite me about tha maid: a call'd er a ratheripe Lady-buddick. I dwont mislike tha name at all, thawf I dwont care vor'n a stra, nor a read moo?te; nor thatite o' a pin! What da tha call he? Why, tha upright man, cas a da ston upright; let'n; an let'n wrassly too: I dwont like zitch hoss-plas, nor singel-stick nuther; nor _cock- squailin'; nor menny wither ma-games that Will Popham da volly. I'd rather zitin tha poorch, wi' tha jessamy ranglin roun it, and hire Fanny zeng. Oot let I up, Larence?"-Naw, I tell ee I ont athout a penny moor.

"Rawzey Pink, too, an Nanny Dubby axed I about Fanny. What bisniss ad tha ta up wi't? I dwont like norn'om? Girnin Jan too shawed iz teeth an put in his verdi.-I-wish thee?ze vawk ood mine ther awn consarns an let I an Fanny aloo?ne.

"Larence! doose thee me?n to let I goo?"-Eese, nif thee't gee me tuther penny.-"Why I han't a got a vard'n moor; oot let I up!"- -_Not athout tha penny.-"Now Larence! doo ee, bin I liant naw moor money. I a bin here moor than an hoür; whaur tha yeos an lams an all tha tuthermy sheep be now I dwon' know.-Creeplin Philip[Footnote: Even remote districts in the country have their satirists, and would-be-wits; and Huntspill, the place alluded to in the Soliloquy, was, about half a century ago, much pestered with them. Scarcely a person of any note escaped a pariah libel, and even servants were not excepted. For instance:-Creeplin Philip, (that is "creeplin," because he walked lamely,) was Farmer Tidball himself; and his servant, William Popham, was the upright man. Girnin Jan is Grinning John.] ool gee me a lirropin shower anow! There!-I da thenk I hired zummet or zumbody auver tha wall."-

"Here, d-n thee! I'll gee tha tuther penny, an zummet besides!" exclaimed Farmer Tidball, leaping down the bank, with a stout sliver of a crab-tree in his hand.-The sequel may be easily imagined.

Nanny Dubby, Sally Clink,

Long Josias an Raway Pink,

-Girnin Jan,

Creeplin Philip and the upright man.

TWO DISSERTATIONS ON SOME OF THE ANGLO-SAXON PRONOUNS.

BY JAMES JENKINGS.

(From the Graphic Illustrator.)

No. 1.-I, IC, ICH, ICHE, UTCHY, ISE, C', CH', CHE, CH'AM, CH'UD,

CH'LL.

Until recently few writers on the English Language, have devoted much attention to the origin of our first personal pronoun I, concluding perhaps that it would be sufficient to state that it is derived from the Anglo-Saxon ic. No pains seem to have been taken to explain the connexion which ic, ich, and iche have with Ise, c', ch', che', and their combinations in such words as ch'am, ch'ud, ch'ill, &c. Hence we have been led to believe that such contractions are the vulgar corruptions of an ignorant and, consequently, unlettered people. That the great portion of the early Anglo-Saxons were an unlettered people, and that the rural population were particularly unlettered, and hence for the most part ignorant, we may readily admit; and even at the present time, many districts in the west will be found pretty amply besprinkled with that unlettered ignorance for which many of our forefathers were distinguished. But an enquiry into the origin and use of our provincial words will prove, that even our unlettered population have been guided by certain rules in their use of an energetic language. Hence it will be seen on inquiry that many of the words supposed to be vulgarisms, and vulgar and capricious contractions are no more so than many of our own words in daily use; as to the Anglo-Saxon contractions of ch'am, ch'ud, and ch'ill, they will be found equally consistent with our own common contractions of can't, won't, he'll, you'll, &c., &c. in our present polished dialect.

Whether, however, our western dialects will be more dignified by an Anglo-Saxon pedigree I do not know; those who delight in tracing descents through a long line of ancestors up to one primitive original ought to be pleased with the literary genealogist, who demonstrates that many of our provincial words and contractions have an origin more remote, and in their estimation of course, must be more legitimate than a mere slip from the parent stock, as our personal pronoun, I, unquestionably is.

As to the term "barbarous," Mr. Horace Smith, the author of "Walter Colyton," assures me that many of his friends call what he has introduced of the Somerset Dialect in Walter Colyton, "barbarous."-Now, I should like to learn in what its barbarity consists. The plain truth after all is, that those who are unwilling to take the trouble to understand any language, or any dialect of any language, with which they are previously unacquainted, generally consider such new language or such dialect barbarous; and to them it doubtless appears so. What induces our metropolitan literati, those at least who are, or affect to be the arbitri elegantiarum among them, to consider the Scotch dialect in another light? Simply because such able writers, as Allan Ramsay, Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, and others, have chosen to employ it for the expression of their thoughts. Let similar able writers employ our Western Dialect in a similar way, and I doubt not the result. And why should not our Western dialects be so employed? If novelty and amusement, to say the least for such writings, be advantageous to our literature, surely novelty and amusement might be conveyed in the dialect of the West as well as of the North. Besides these advantages, it cannot be improper to observe that occasional visits to the well-heads of our language, (and many of these will be found in the West of England) will add to the perfection of our polished idiom itself. The West may be considered the last strong hold of the Anglo-Saxon in this country.

I observed, in very early life, that some of my father's servants, who were natives of the Southern parts of the county of Somerset, almost invariably employed the word utchy for I. Subsequent reflection convinced me that this word, utchy, was the Anglo-Saxon iche, used as a dissyllable ichè, as the Westphalians, (descendants of the Anglo- Saxons,) down to this day in their Low German (Westphalian) dialect say, "Ikke" for "ich." How or when this change in the pronunciation of the word, from one to two syllables, took place in in this country it is difficult to determine; but on reference to the works of Chaucer, there is, I think, reason to conclude that iche is used sometimes in that poet's works as a dissyllable.

Having discovered that utchy was the Anglo-Saxon iche, there was no difficulty in appropriating 'che, 'c', and ch' to the same root; hence, as far as concerned iche in its literal sounds, a good deal seemed unravelled; but how could we account for ise, and ees, used so commonly for I in the western parts of Somersetshire, as well as in Devonshire? In the first folio edition of tlie works of Shakspeare the ch is printed, in one instance, with a mark of elision before it thus, 'ch, a proof that the I in iche was sometimes dropped in a common and rapid pronunciation; and a proof too, that, we, the descendants of the Anglo-Saxons, have chosen the initial letter only of that pronoun, which initial letter the Anglo-Saxons had in very many instances discarded!

It is singular enough that Shakspeare has the 'ch for iche, I, and ise, for I, within the distance of a few lines, in King Lear, Act IV. scene 6. But perhaps not more singular than that, in Somersetshire at the present time, may be heard for the pronoun I, utchy or ichè, 'ch, and ise. To the absence originally of general literary information, and to the very recent rise of the study of grammatical analysis, are these anomalies and irregularities to be attributed.

We see, therefore, that 'ch'ud, ch'am, and 'ch'ill, are simply the Anglo-Saxon ich, contracted and combined with the respective verbs would, am, and will; that the 'c' and 'ch', as quoted in the lines given by Miss Ham, are contracts for the Anglo-Saxon iche or I, and nothing else. It may be also observed, that in more than one modern work containing specimens of the dialect of Scotland and the North of England, and in, I believe, some of Sir Walter Scott's novels, the word ise is employed, so that the auxiliary verb will or shall is designed to be included in that word; and the printing or it thus, I'se, indicates that it is so designed to be employed. Now, if this be a copy of the living dialect of Scotland (which I beg leave respectfully to doubt), it is a "barbarism" which the Somerset dialect does not possess. The ise in the west is simply a pronoun and nothing else; it is, however, often accompanied by a contracted verb, as ise'll for I will.

In concluding these observations on the first personal pronoun it may be added, that the object of the writer has been to state facts, without the accompaniment of that learning which is by some persons deemed so essential in inquiries of this kind. The best learning is that which conveys to us a knowledge of facts. Should any one be disposed to convince himself of the correctness of the data here laid before him, by researches among our old authors, as well as from living in the west, there is no doubt as to the result to which lie must come. Perhaps, however, it may be useful to quote one or two specimens of our more early Anglo- Saxon, to prove their analogy to the present dialect in Somersetshire.

The first specimen is from Robert of Gloucester, who lived in the time of Henry II., that is, towards the latter end of the twelfth century; it is quoted by Drayton, in the notes to his Pulyolbion, song xvii.

"The meste wo that here vel bi King Henry's days,

In this lond, icholle beginne to tell yuf ich may."

Vel, for fell, the preterite of to fall, is precisely the sound given to the same word at the present time in Somersetshire. We see that icholle, for I shall, follows the same rule as the contracts 'ch'ud, 'ch'am, and 'ch'ill. It is very remarkable that sholl, for shall, is almost invariably employed in Somersetshire, at the present time. Yuf I am disposed to consider a corruption or mistake for gyf (give), that is, if, the meaning and origin of which have been long ago settled by Horne Tooke in his Purley.

The next specimen is assuredly of a much more modern date; though quoted by Mr Dibdin, in his Metrical History of England, as from an old ballad.

"Ch'ill tell thee what, good fellow,

Before the vriars went hence,

A bushel of the best wheate

Was zold for vourteen pence,

And vorty egges a penny,

That were both good and new,

And this che say myself have seene,

And yet I am no Jew."

With a very few alterations, indeed, these lines would become the South Somerset of the present day.

No. II.-ER, EN, A-IT HET-THEEAZE, THEEAZAM, THIZZAM-THIC,

THILK-TWORDM-WORDN-ZINO.

There are in Somersetshire (besides that particular, portion in the southern parts of the country in which the Anglo-Saxon iche or utchy and its contracts prevail) two distinct and very different dialects, the boundaries of which are strongly marked by the River Parret. To the east and north of that river, and of the town of Bridgewater, a dialect is used which is essentially, (even now) the dialect of all the peasantry of not only that part of Somersetshire, but of Dorsetshire, Wiltshire, Gloucestershire, Hampshire, Surrey, Sussex, and Kent; and even in the suburban village of Lewisham, will be found many striking remains of it. There can be no doubt that this dialect was some centuries ago the language of the inhabitants of all the south and of much of the west portion of our island; but it is in its greatest purity[Footnote: Among other innumerable proofs that Somersetshire is one of the strongholds of our old Anglo-Saxon, are the sounds which are there generally given to the vowels A and E. A has, for the most part, the same sound as we give to that letter in the word father in our polished dialect: in the words tall, call, ball, and vall (fall), &c., it is thus pronounced. The E has the sound which we give in our polished dialect to the a in pane, cane, &c., both which sounds, it may be observed, are even now given to these letters on the Continent, in very many places, particularly in Holland and in Germany. The name of Dr. Gall, the founder of the science of phrenology, is pronounced Gall, as we of the west pronounce tall, ball, &c.] and most abundant in the county of Somerset. No sooner, however, do we cross the Parret and proceed from Combwich [Footnote: Pronounced Cummidge. We here see the disposition in our language to convert wich into idge; as Dulwich and Greenwich often pronounced by the vulgar Dullidge, Greenidge.] to Cannington (three miles from Bridgewater) than another dialect becomes strikingly apparent. Here we have no more of the zees, the hires, the veels, and the walks, and a numerous et c?tera, which we find in the eastern portion of the county, in the third person singular of the verbs, but instead we have he zeeth, he sees, he veel'th, he feels, he walk'th, he walks, and so on through the whole range of the similar part of every verb. This is of itself a strong and distinguishing characteristic; but this dialect has many more; one is the very different sounds given to almost every word which is employed, and which thus strongly characterize the persons who use them. [Footnote: I cannot pretend to account for this very singular and marked distinction in our western dialects; the fact, however, is so; and it may be added, too, that there can be no doubt both these dialects are the children of our Anglo-Saxon parent.]

Another is that er for he in the nominative case is most commonly employed; thus for, he said he would not, is used Er zad er ood'n-Er ont goor, for, he will not go, &c.

Again ise or ees, for I is also common. Many other peculiarities and contractions in this dialect are to a stranger not a little puzzling; and if we proceed so far westward as the confines of Exmoor, they are, to a plain Englishman, very often unintelligible. Her or rather hare is most always used instead of the nominative she. Har'th a dood it, she has done it; Hare zad har'd do't. She said she would do it. This dialect pervades, not only the western portion of Somersetshire, but the whole of Devonshire. As my observations in these papers apply chiefly to the dialect east of the Parret, it is not necessary to proceed further in our present course; yet as er is also occasionally used instead of he in that dialect it becomes useful to point out its different application in the two portions of the county. In the eastern part it is used very rarely if ever in the beginning of sentences; but frequently thus: A did, did er? He did, did he? Wordn er gwain? Was he not going? Ool er goo? will he go?

We may here advert to the common corruption, I suppose I must call it, of a for he used so generally in the west. As a zed a'd do it for, lie said he would do it. Shakespeare has given this form of the pronoun in the speeches of many of his low characters which, of course, strikingly demonstrates its then very general use among the vulgar; but it is in his works usually printed with a comma thus 'a, to show, probably that it is a corrupt enunciation of he. This comma is, however, very likely an addition by some editor.

Another form of the third personal pronoun employed only in the objective case is found in the west, namely en for him, as a zid en or, rather more commonly, a zid'n, he saw him. Many cases however, occur in which en is fully heard; as gee't to en, give it to him. It is remarkable that Congreve, in his comedy of "Love for Love" has given to Ben the Sailor in that piece many expressions found in the west. "Thof he be my father I an't bound prentice to en." It should be noted here that he be is rarely if ever heard in the west, but he's or he is. We be, you be, and tha be are nevertheless very common. Er, employed as above, is beyond question aboriginal Saxon; en has been probably adopted as being more euphonious than him. [Footnote: I have not met with en for him in any of our more early writers; and I am therefore disposed to consider it as of comparatively modern introduction, and one among the very few changes in language introduced by the yeomanry, a class of persons less disposed to changes of any kind than any other in society, arising, doubtless, from their isolated position. It must be admitted, nevertheless, that this change if occasionally adopted in our polished dialect would afford an agreeable variety by no means unmusical. In conversation with a very learned Grecian on this subject, he seemed to consider because the learned are constantly, and sometimes very capriciously, introducing new words into our language, that such words as en might be introduced for similar reasons, namely, mere fancy or caprice; on this subject I greatly differ from him: our aboriginal Saxon population has never corrupted our language nor destroyed its energetic character half so much as the mere classical scholar. Hence the necessity, in order to a complete knowledge of our mother tongue, that we should study the Anglo-Saxon still found in the provinces.

Het for it is still also common amongst the peasantry. In early Saxon writers, it was usually written hit, sometimes hyt.

"Als hit in heaven y-doe,

Evar in yearth beene it also."

Metrical Lord's Prayer of 1160.

Of thee?ze, used as a demonstrative pronoun, both in the singular and plural, for this and these, it maybe observed, as well as of the pronunciation of many other words in the west, that we have no letters or combination of letters which, express exactly the sounds there given to such words. Thee?ze is here marked as a dissyllable, but although it is sometimes decidedly two syllables, its sounds are not always thus apparent in Somerset enunciation. What is more remarkable in this world, is its equal application to the singular and the plural. Thus we say thee?ze man and the?ze men. But in the plural are also employed other forms of the same pronoun, namely thee?zam, thee?zamy and thizzum. This last word is, of course, decidedly the Anglo-Saxon eissum. In the west we say therefore thee?zam here, thee?zamy here, and thizzam here for these, or these here; and sometimes without the pleonastic and unnecessary here.

For the demonstrative those of our polished dialect them, or themmy, and often them there or themmy there are the usual synonyms; as, gee I themmy there shoes; that is, give me those shoes. The objective pronoun me, is very sparingly employed indeed-I, in general supplying its place as in the preceding sentence: to this barbarism in the name of my native dialect, I must plead guilty!- if barbarism our metropolitan critics shall be pleased to term it. [Footnote: By the way I must just retort upon our polished dialect, that it has gone over to the other extreme in avoidance of the I, using me in many sentences where I ought most decidedly to be employed. It was me [Footnote: I am aware that some of our lexicographers have attempted a defence of this solecism by deriving it from the French c'est moi; but, I think it is from their affected dislike of direct egotism; and that, whenever they can, they avoid the I in order that they might not be thought at once vulgar and egotistic!] is constantly dinned in our ears for it was I: as well as indeed one word more, although not a pronoun, this is, the almost constant use in London of the verb to lay for the verb to lie, and ketch for catch. If we at head-quarters commit such blunders can we wonder at our provincial detachments falling into similar errors? none certainly more gross than this!]

Thic is in the Somersetshire dialect (namely that to which I have particularly directed my attention and which prevails on the east side of the Parret) invariably employed for that. Thic house, that house; thic man, that man: in the west of the county it is thiky, or thecky. Sometimes thic has the force and meaning of a personal pronoun, as:

Catch and scrabble

Thic that's yable:-

Catch and scramble

He who's able.

Again, thic that dont like it mid leave it,-he who does not like it may leave it. It should be noted that th in all the pronouns above mentioned has the obtuse sound as heard in then and this and not the thin sound as heard in both, thin, and many other words of our polished dialect. Chaucer employed the pronoun thic very often, but he spells it thilk; he does not appear, however, to have always restricted it to the meaning implied in our that and to the present Somerset thic. Spenser has also employed thilk in his Shepherd's Calendar several times.

"Seest not thilk same hawthorn stud How bragly it begins to bud

And utter his tender head?" "Our blonket leveries been all too sad

For thilk same season, when all is yclad With pleasance."

I cannot conclude without a few observations on three very remarkable Somersetshire words, namely twordn, wordn, and zino. They are living evidences of the contractions with which that dialect very much abounds.

Twordn means it was not; and is composed of three words, namely it, wor, and not; wor is the past tense, or, as it is sometimes called, the preterite of the verb to be, in the third person singular; [Footnote: It should be observed here that was is rather uncommon among the Somersetshire peasantry-wor, or war, being there the synonyms; thus Spenser in his 'Shepherd's Calendar.'"

"The kid,-

Asked the cause of his great distress,

And also who

and whence that he wer

You say he was there, and I say that a wordn;

You say that 'twas he, and I tell you that twordn;

You ask, will he go? I reply, not as I know;

You say that he will, and _I_must say, no,

Zino!]

and such is the indistinctness with which the sound of the vowel in were is commonly expressed in Somersetshire, that wor, wer, or war, will nearly alike convey it, the sound of the e being rarely if ever long; twordn is therefore composed, as stated, of three words; but it will be asked what business has the d in it? To this it may be replied that d and t are, as is well known, often converted in our language the one into the other; but by far the most frequently d is converted into t. Here, however, the t is not only converted into d, but instead of being placed after n, as analogy requires thus, twornt, it is placed before it for euphony I dare say. Such is the analysis of this singular and, if not euphonious, most certainly expressive word.

Wordn admits of a similar explanation; but this word is composed of two words only, war and not; instead of wornt, which analogy requires, a d is placed before n for a similar reason that the d is placed before n in twordn, namely for euphony; wordn is decidedly another of the forcible words.

Wordn fir gwain?-was he not going, may compete with any language for its energetic brevity.

Zino, has the force and application of an interjection, and has sufficient of the ore rotundo to appear a classical dissyllable; its origin is, however, simply the contract of, as I know, and it is usually preceeded in Somersetshire by no. Thus, ool er do it? no, zino! I thawt a oodn. Will he do it? no, as I know! I thought he would not. These words, Twordn, Wordn, and Zino, may be thus exemplified:

CONCLUDING OBSERVATIONS.

I cannot, perhaps, better close this work, than by presenting to the reader the observations of Miss HAM, (a Somersetshire lady of no mean talents), in a letter to me on these dialects.

The lines, of which I desired a copy, contain an exemplification of the use of utchy or ichè, used contractedly [see UTCHY in the Glossary] by the inhabitants of the South of Somersetshire, one of the strongholds, as I conceive, of the Anglo-Saxon dialect.

In our polished dialect, the lines quoted by Miss HAM, may be thus rendered-

Bread and cheese I have had,

What I had I have eaten,

More I would [have eaten if] I had [had] it.

If the contradictions be supplied they will stand thus:-

Bread and cheese ichè have a had

That ichè had ichè have a eat

More ichè would ichè had it.

CLIFTON, Jan. 30, 1825

Sir:

I have certainly great pleasure in complying with your request, although I fear that any communication it is in my power to make, will be of little use to you in your curious work on the West Country dialect. The lines you desire are these:

Bread and cheese 'e' have a had,

That 'e' had 'e' have a eat,

More 'ch wou'd 'e' had it.

Sounds which, from association no doubt, carry with them to my ear the idea of great vulgarity: but which might have a very different effect on that of an unprejudiced hearer, when dignified by an Anglo-Saxon pedigree. The Scotch dialect, now become quite classical with us, might, perhaps, labour under the same disadvantage amongst those who hear it spoken by the vulgar only.

Although I am a native of Somersetshire, I have resided very little in that county since my childhood, and, in my occasional visits since, have had little intercourse with the aborigines. I recollect, however, two or three words, which you might not, perhaps, have met with. One of them of which I have traditionary knowledge, being, I believe, now quite obsolete. Pitisanquint was used in reply to an inquiry after the health of a person, and was, I understand, equivalent to pretty well, or so so. The word Lamiger, which signifies an invalid, I have no doubt you have met with. When any one forbodes bad weather, or any disaster, it is very common to say Don't ye housenee. Here you have the verbal termination, which you remarked was so common in the West, and which I cannot help thinking might have been originally vised as a sort of diminutive, and that to milkee, signified to milk a little.

As my knowledge of these few words is merely oral, I cannot answer for the orthography; I have endeavoured to go as near the sound as possible, and I only wish it were in my power to make some communication more worth your attention. As it is, I have only my best wishes to offer for the success of your truly original work.

I am, Sir, your most obedient,

Elizabeth Ham.

I have only one or two remarks to add to those of Miss Ham in the preceding letter.

It will be seen, by reference to the exemplifications of the dialect, that occasional pleonasm will be found in it, as well as, very often, extraordinary contraction. I have adone, I have a had, are examples of the first; and 'tword'n, gup, g'under, banehond, &c. [see Banehond in the Glossary] are examples of the last. Pitisanquint appears to me to be simply a contracted and corrupted mode of expressing Piteous and quaint, [See Pitis in the Glossary.]

Don't ye houseenee is Do not stay in your houses. But the implied meaning is, be active; do your best to provide for the bad weather which portends. In Somersetshire, most of the colloquial and idiomatic expressions have more or less relation to agriculture, agricultural occupations, or to the most common concerns of life, hence such expressions have, in process of time, become figurative. Thus, don't ye housenee, would be readily applied to rouse a person to activity, in order that he may prevent or obviate any approaching or portending evil.

I am still of opinion; indeed I may say, I am quite sure, that the verbal terminations, sewy, Tcnitty, &c., have no relation to diminution in the district East of the Parret.

Upon the whole, it is evident that considerable care and circumspection are necessary in committing to paper the signs of the sounds of a language, of which we have no accredited examples, nor established criterion. In making collections of this work, I have not failed to bear this constantly in mind.