A Witch

There's thik wold hag, Moll Brown, look zee, jus' past!I wish the ugly sly wold witchWould tumble over into ditch;I woulden pull her out not very vast.No, no. I don't think she's a bit belied,No, she's a witch, aye, Molly's evil-eyed.Vor I do know o' many a-withren blightA-cast on vo'k by Molly's mutter'd spite;She did, woone time, a dreadvul deael o' harmTo Farmer Gruff's vo'k, down at Lower Farm.Vor there, woone day, they happened to offend her,An' not a little to their sorrow,Because they woulden gi'e or lend herZome'hat she come to bag or borrow;An' zoo, they soon began to vindThat she'd agone an' left behindHer evil wish that had such pow'r,That she did meaeke their milk an' eaele turn zour,An' addle all the aggs their vowls did lay;They coulden vetch the butter in the churn,An' all the cheese begun to turnAll back ageaen to curds an' whey;The little pigs, a-runnen wi' the zow,Did zicken, zomehow, noobody know'd how,An' vall, an' turn their snouts toward the sky.An' only gi'e woone little grunt, and die;An' all the little ducks an' chickenWer death-struck out in yard a-pickenTheir bits o' food, an' vell upon their head,An' flapp'd their little wings an' drapp'd down dead.They coulden fat the calves, they woulden thrive;They coulden seaeve their lambs alive;Their sheep wer all a-coath'd, or gi'ed noo wool;The hosses vell away to skin an' bwones,An' got so weak they coulden pullA half a peck o' stwones:The dog got dead-alive an' drowsy,The cat vell zick an' woulden mousy;An' every time the vo'k went up to bed,They wer a-hag-rod till they wer half dead.They us'd to keep her out o' house, 'tis true,A-nailen up at door a hosses shoe;An' I've a-heaerd the farmer's wife did tryTo dawk a needle or a pinIn drough her wold hard wither'd skin,An' draw her blood, a-comen by:But she could never vetch a drap,For pins would ply an' needless snapAgeaen her skin; an' that, in coo'se,Did meaeke the hag bewitch em woo'se.

To own it. Why, who woulden do the seaeme?We shant goo on lik' this long, I can tell ye.Bread is so high an' wages be so low,That, after worken lik' a hoss, you know,A man can't eaern enough to vill his belly.

Ah! well! Now there, d'ye know, if I wer sureThat theaesem men would gi'e me work to doAll drough the year, an' always pay me mworeThan I'm a-eaernen now, I'd jein em too.If I wer sure they'd bring down things so cheap,That what mid buy a pound o' mutton nowWould buy the hinder quarters, or the sheep,Or what wull buy a pig would buy a cow:In short, if they could meaeke a shillen gooIn market just so vur as two,Why then, d'ye know, I'd be their man;But, hang it! I don't think they can.

Why ees they can, though you don't know't,An' theaesem men can meaeke it clear.Why vu'st they'd zend up members ev'ry yearTo Parli'ment, an' ev'ry man would vote;Vor if a fellow midden be a squier,He mid be just so fit to vote, an' gooTo meaeke the laws at Lon'on, too,As many that do hold their noses higher.Why shoulden fellows meaeke good laws an' speechesA-dressed in fusti'n cwoats an' cord'roy breeches?Or why should hooks an' shovels, zives an' axes,Keep any man vrom voten o' the taxes?An' when the poor've a-got a sheaereIn meaeken laws, they'll teaeke good ceaereTo meaeke some good woones vor the poor.Do stan' by reason, John; becauseThe men that be to meaeke the laws,Will meaeke em vor theirzelves, you mid be sure.

Aye, aye. But we would have a better planO' voten, than the woone we got. A man,As things be now, d'ye know, can't goo an' voteAgeaen another man, but he must know't.We'll have a box an' balls, vor voten menTo pop their hands 'ithin, d'ye know; an' then,If woone don't happen vor to lik' a man,He'll drop a little black ball vrom his han',An' zend en hwome ageaen. He woon't be ledTo choose a man to teaeke away his bread.

But if a man you midden like to 'front,Should chance to call upon ye, Tom, zome day,An' ax ye vor your vote, what could ye zay?Why if you woulden answer, or should gruntOr bark, he'd know you'd meaen "I won't."To promise woone a vote an' not to gi'e't,Is but to be a liar an' a cheat.An' then, bezides, when he did count the balls,An' vind white promises a-turn'd half black;Why then he'd think the voters all a packO' rogues together,--ev'ry woone o'm false.An' if he had the power, very soonPerhaps he'd vall upon em, ev'ry woone.The times be pinchen me, so well as you,But I can't tell what ever they can do.

But, Thomas, you can't meaekeA man pay mwore away than he can teaeke.If you do meaeke en gi'e, to till a vield,So much ageaen as what the groun' do yield,He'll shut out farmen--or he'll be a goose--An' goo an' put his money out to use.Wages be low because the hands be plenty;They mid be higher if the hands wer skenty.Leaebour, the seaeme's the produce o' the yield,Do zell at market price--jist what 'till yield.Thou wouldsten gi'e a zixpence, I do guess,Vor zix fresh aggs, if zix did zell for less.If theaesem vo'k could come an' meaeke mwore lands,If they could teaeke wold England in their handsAn' stratch it out jist twice so big ageaen,They'd be a-doen some'hat vor us then.

But if they wer a-zent to Parli'mentTo meaeke the laws, dost know, as I've a-zaid,They'd knock the corn-laws on the head;An' then the landlards must let down their rent,An' we should very soon have cheaper bread:Farmers would gi'e less money vor their lands.

Aye, zoo they mid, an' prices mid be low'rVor what their land would yield; an' zoo their handsWould be jist where they wer avore.An' if theaese men wer all to hold together,They coulden meaeke new laws to change the weather!They ben't so mighty as to think o' frightenenThe vrost an' rain, the thunder an' the lightenen!An' as vor me, I don't know what to thinkO' them there fine, big-talken, cunnen,Strange men, a-comen down vrom Lon'on.Why they don't stint theirzelves, but eat an' drinkThe best at public-house where they do stay;They don't work gratis, they do get their pay.They woulden pinch theirzelves to do us good,Nor gi'e their money vor to buy us food.D'ye think, if we should meet em in the streetZome day in Lon'on, they would stand a treat?

They be a-paid, because they be a-zentBy corn-law vo'k that be the poor man's friends,To tell us all how we mid gain our ends,A-zenden peaepers up to Parli'ment.

Ah! teaeke ceaere how dost trust em. Dost thou knowThe funny feaeble o' the pig an' crow?Woone time a crow begun to strut an' hopAbout some groun' that men'd a-been a-drillenWi' barley or some wheat, in hopes o' villenWi' good fresh corn his empty crop.But lik' a thief, he didden like the painsO' worken hard to get en a vew grains;Zoo while the sleeky rogue wer there a-hunten,Wi' little luck, vor corns that mid be voundA-pecken vor, he heaerd a pig a-gruntenJust tother zide o' hedge, in tother ground."Ah!" thought the cunnen rogue, an' gi'ed a hop,"Ah! that's the way vor me to vill my crop;Aye, that's the plan, if nothen don't defeaet it.If I can get thik pig to bring his snoutIn here a bit an' turn the barley out,Why, hang it! I shall only have to eat it."Wi' that he vled up straight upon a woak,An' bowen, lik' a man at hustens, spoke:"My friend," zaid he, "that's poorish liven vor yeIn thik there leaeze. Why I be very zorryTo zee how they hard-hearted vo'k do sarve ye.You can't live there. Why! do they meaen to starve ye?""Ees," zaid the pig, a-grunten, "ees;What wi' the hosses an' the geese,There's only docks an' thissles here to chaw.Instead o' liven well on good warm straw,I got to grub out here, where I can't pickEnough to meaeke me half an ounce o' flick.""Well," zaid the crow, "d'ye know, if you'll stan' that,You mussen think, my friend, o' getten fat.D'ye want some better keep? Vor if you do,Why, as a friend, I be a-come to tell ye,That if you'll come an' jus' get droughTheaese gap up here, why you mid vill your belly.Why, they've a-been a-drillen corn, d'ye know,In theaese here piece o' groun' below;An' if you'll just put in your snout,An' run en up along a drill,Why, hang it! you mid grub it out,An' eat, an' eat your vill.Their idden any fear that vo'k mid come,Vor all the men be jist a-gone in hwome."The pig, believen ev'ry single wordThat wer a-twold en by the cunnen birdWer only vor his good, an' that 'twer true,Just gi'ed a grunt, an' bundled drough,An' het his nose, wi' all his might an' main,Right up a drill, a-routen up the grain;An' as the cunnen crow did gi'e a cawA-praisen [=o]'n, oh! he did veel so proud!An' work'd, an' blow'd, an' toss'd, an' ploughedThe while the cunnen crow did vill his maw.An' after worken till his bwonesDid eaeche, he soon begun to veelThat he should never get a meal,Unless he dined on dirt an' stwones."Well," zaid the crow, "why don't ye eat?""Eat what, I wonder!" zaid the heaeiry plougher.A-brislen up an' looken rather zour;"I don't think dirt an' flints be any treat.""Well," zaid the crow, "why you be blind.What! don't ye zee how thick the corn do lieAmong the dirt? An' don't ye zee how IDo pick up all that you do leaeve behind?I'm zorry that your bill should be so snubby.""No," zaid the pig, "methinks that I do zeeMy bill will do uncommon well vor thee,Vor thine wull peck, an' mine wull grubby."An' just wi' this a-zaid by mister FlickTo mister Crow, wold John the farmer's manCome up, a-zwingen in his han'A good long knotty stick,An' laid it on, wi' all his might,The poor pig's vlitches, left an' right;While mister Crow, that talk'd so fineO' friendship, left the pig behine,An' vled away upon a distant tree,Vor pigs can only grub, but crows can vlee.

Aye, thik there teaele mid do vor childern's books:But you wull vind it hardish for yeTo frighten me, John, wi' a storryO' silly pigs an' cunnen rooks.If we be grubben pigs, why then, I s'pose,The farmers an' the girt woones be the crows.

'Tis very odd there idden any friendTo poor-vo'k hereabout, but men mus' comeTo do us good away from tother endOv England! Han't we any frien's near hwome?I mus' zay, Thomas, that 'tis rather oddThat strangers should become so very civil,--That ouer vo'k be childern o' the Devil,An' other vo'k be all the vo'k o' God!If we've a-got a friend at all,Why who can tell--I'm sure thou cassen--But that the squier, or the pa'son,Mid be our friend, Tom, after all?The times be hard, 'tis true! an' they that gotHis blessens, shoulden let theirzelves vorgetHow 'tis where the vo'k do never zetA bit o' meat within their rusty pot.The man a-zitten in his easy chairTo flesh, an' vowl, an' vish, should try to speaereThe poor theaese times, a little vrom his store;An' if he don't, why sin is at his door.

Ah! we won't look to that; we'll have our right,--If not by feaeir meaens, then we wull by might.We'll meaeke times better vor us; we'll be freeOv other vo'k an' others' charity.

Ah! I do think you mid as well be quiet;You'll meaeke things wo'se, i'-ma'-be, by a riot.You'll get into a mess, Tom, I'm afeaerd;You'll goo vor wool, an' then come hwome a-sheaer'd.

The primrwose in the sheaede do blow,The cowslip in the zun,The thyme upon the down do grow,The clote where streams do run;An' where do pretty maidens growAn' blow, but where the tow'rDo rise among the bricken tuns,In Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you could zee their comely gait,An' pretty feaeces' smiles,A-trippen on so light o' waight,An' steppen off the stiles;A-gwain to church, as bells do swingAn' ring 'ithin the tow'r,You'd own the pretty maidens' pleaeceIs Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you vrom Wimborne took your road,To Stower or Paladore,An' all the farmers' housen show'dTheir daughters at the door;You'd cry to bachelors at hwome--"Here, come: 'ithin an hourYou'll vind ten maidens to your mind,In Blackmwore by the Stour."

An' if you look'd 'ithin their door,To zee em in their pleaece,A-doen housework up avoreTheir smilen mother's feaece;You'd cry--"Why, if a man would wiveAn' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r,Then let en look en out a wifeIn Blackmwore by the Stour."

As I upon my road did passA school-house back in May,There out upon the beaeten grassWer maidens at their play;An' as the pretty souls did tweilAn' smile, I cried, "The flow'rO' beauty, then, is still in budIn Blackmwore by the Stour."