Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Eclogue:—John jealous
Eclogue.
JOHN, JEALOUS AT SHROTON FEÄIR.
Jeäne; her Brother; John, her Sweetheart; and Racketèn Joe.
JEÄNE.
I’m thankvul I be out o’ that
Thick crowd, an’ not asquot quite flat.
That ever we should plunge in where the vo’k do drunge
So tight’s the cheese-wring on the veät!
I’ve sca’ce a thing a-left in pleäce.
’Tis all a-tore vrom pin an’ leäce.
My bonnet’s like a wad, a-beät up to a dod,
An’ all my heäir’s about my feäce.
HER BROTHER.
Here, come an’ zit out here a bit,
An’ put yourzelf to rights.
JOHN.
No, Jeäne; no, no! Now you don’t show
The very wo’st o’ plights.
HER BROTHER.
Come, come, there’s little harm adone;
Your hoops be out so roun’s the zun.
JOHN.
An’ there’s your bonnet back in sheäpe.
HER BROTHER.
An’ there’s your pin, and there’s your ceäpe.
JOHN.
An’ there your curls do match, an’ there
’S the vittiest maïd in all the feäir.
JEÄNE.
Now look, an’ tell us who’s a-spied
Vrom Sturminster, or Manston zide.
HER BROTHER.
There’s rantèn Joe! How he do stalk,
An’ zwang his whip, an’ laugh, an’ talk!
JOHN.
An’ how his head do wag, avore his steppèn lag.
Jist like a pigeon’s in a walk!
HER BROTHER.
Heigh! there, then, Joey, ben’t we proud
JEÄNE.
He can’t hear you among the crowd.
HER BROTHER.
Why, no, the thunder peals do drown the sound o’ wheels.
His own pipe is a-pitched too loud.
What, you here too?
RACKETÈN JOE.
Yes, Sir, to you.
All o’ me that’s a-left.
JEÄNE.
A body plump’s a goodish lump
Where reämes ha’ such a heft.
JOHN.
Who lost his crown a-racèn?
RACKETÈN JOE.
Who?
Zome silly chap abackèn you.
Well, now, an’ how do vo’k treat Jeäne?
JEÄNE.
Why not wi’ feärèns.
RACKETÈN JOE.
What d’ye mean,
When I’ve a-brought ye such a bunch
O’ theäse nice ginger-nuts to crunch?
An’ here, John, here! you teäke a vew.
JOHN.
No, keep em all vor Jeane an’ you!
RACKETÈN JOE.
Well, Jeäne, an’ when d’ye meän to come
An’ call on me, then, up at hwome.
You han’t a-come athirt, since I’d my voot a-hurt,
A-slippèn vrom the tree I clomb.
JEÄNE.
Well, if so be that you be stout
On voot ageän, you’ll vind me out.
JOHN.
Aye, better chaps woont goo, not many steps vor you,
If you do hawk yourzelf about.
RACKETÈN JOE.
Wull John, come too?
JOHN.
No, thanks to you.
Two’s company, dree’s nwone.
HER BROTHER.
There don’t be stung by his mad tongue,
’Tis nothèn else but fun.
JEÄNE.
There, what d’ye think o’ my new ceäpe?
JOHN.
Why, think that ’tis an ugly sheäpe.
JEÄNE.
Then you should buy me, now theäse feäir,
A mwore becomèn woone to wear.
JOHN.
I buy your ceäpe! No; Joe wull screäpe
Up dibs enough to buy your ceäpe.
As things do look, to meäke you fine
Is long Joe’s business mwore than mine.
JEÄNE.
Lauk, John, the mwore that you do pout
The mwore he’ll glēne.
JOHN.
A yelpèn lout.